Disclaimers: Farscape characters and concept property of . . . uh . . . lessee . . . um, everyone but me. Original characters and story, however, are mine.
Spoilers: "Look at the Princess, Part 3." Rating: G.
Daddy's Little Girl
© 2000, Grace Macy
"I thought, 'Hey, I can leave. I can leave.'
But now I know that I was wrong,
'Cause I missed you.
I missed you."
I study her carefully as she comes into the Audience Room. I have seen her before, but it never meant what it does now. Now, I know the truth of who she is. I search her face for similarities, for a sign of the man so integral to both our lives. Are those eyes the same as his? Is her stance similar, or her smile? I can't tell. She's not close enough, and she hasn't smiled yet.
My heart beats a frantic rhythm in my chest, as if it wants to fly out from beneath my ribs to greet her itself. I tell it to remain where it is, and feel a measure of laughing pride that it obeys the command. She's almost to the dais now. She stops, executes a formal, perfect greeting. There is still no smile on her face. My heart feels heavier, as I wonder if she knows who I am.
"Princess," she greets me.
Then her eyes meet mine, and I see a glimmer of something deeper than polite respect. I smile in relief, in joy, and her lips twitch into the hint of a small smile. I turn to the attendants and guards on either side of me and make a small motion with my hand. "Leave us," I tell them, quietly but firmly.
For a moment, they look about to argue, but the moment quickly passes. They know me well enough by now to know how futile argument would be. I wait to speak until they have all cleared the doors, but my gaze remains on her, still studying, still hoping. As the last attendant closes the doors behind them, I allow myself a small breath of relaxation. She tilts her head slightly, regarding me with an inquiring expression. "There is no need for titles between us," I tell her.
"Not in private," she amends, reminding me of the compromise made long ago, before either of us were born.
I feel my heart catch in pain, and I nod. "Not in private," I confirm. I approach her, stepping down from the dais with a practiced, careful lifting of the hem of my dress. I feel impossibly clumsy now, faced with the stark majesty of her beauty, of her eyes as she regards me coolly. There is a wing of silver in her night-dark hair, the touch of the cycles showing at the corners of her eyes and mouth, announcing that this severity of expression is not the norm for her. They also announce that she is older than my mother . . . and yet, technically, younger. Just as I, technically, should be older than her.
I stop a few steps away from her, trying to control my voice in the way I have been taught. "I hope . . . I wish . . ." I stop, shake my head at the sudden loss of words. I find them again, regain some of my poise, and resort to the old, familiar courtliness. "I don't believe we were ever properly introduced." I extend my hand, sideways instead of palm down, inviting an equal grip instead of a royal salute. "I am Jonna."
She looks at me for a long moment, then grasps my hand in hers and shakes it. Her palm is cooler than my own, but the grip is firm. Warmth appears, finally, in her eyes and her smile. "Lyness," she returns. "It is a pleasure to meet you on equal terms after so long . . . sister."
I let out a sound that I know is half-laugh and half-sob, my eyes unexpectedly filling with tears. My childhood had been filled with every privilege one could imagine, but it had been lonely without any siblings. I smile at her and nod, speechless again. Finally, I say to her, "Walk with me? I think we both could use the benefit of some fresh air."
Lyness smiles. "What will your mother say?"
I shake my head. "My mother will be the one keeping the palace servants and guards quiet." My voice lowers and I tell her, "I have wanted this for so long . . ."
Unexpected, I see tears briefly shine in her eyes as well. "As have I," she murmurs.
We leave the Audience Room and walk down corridors to the garden doors. We walk in silence, as if both of us are too overwhelmed by this final, long-awaited honesty to dare break the spell too soon. It is only when we are on the garden path, passing an old, familiar tree, that I find the courage to speak again. "It was here, the first time I met you." I frown. "That is, the first time I remember meeting you."
"I had met you before. As a babe," Lyness answers gently. She smiles softly, looking at the tree with memories in her eyes. "But this was the first time we ever spoke."
I nod, finding the memory easily, fixing my mind on it as on a favorite holo-picture. "I was seven cycles old. I had been climbing that tree -- which I was definitely not supposed to do -- and I slipped. I thought for sure I was going to fall, but . . . you caught me." I look at her and find a soft, humorous smile on her lips as she remembers. Quietly, I tell her, "I knew at that moment that I could trust you with anything."
She raises an eyebrow. "Because I caught you?"
I smile. "Because you caught me. And because you never questioned why I had been climbing that tree. Because you never scolded me for it. Because, when the attendants finally came, you never told them what I'd been up to."
"It didn't seem something you'd want told."
I nod. "It wasn't. But I never had to ask, and you never requested anything in return."
It says a great deal, that last small statement. I can see it reflected in her eyes. She studies me in return for a moment, then shrugs, too lightly. "I . . ." She stops, seeming unsure what to say next. She doesn't have to say anything, I already know. But I want to hear it, need to, and she seems to know that in turn. She looks at me and says with a small smile, "You were my sister, whether you knew it or not. And I promised Dad I would look out for you when I could."
The words hit home in my heart, and I feel tears well up again. They have sisters of their own in Lyness' eyes. Hesitantly, I place my hand in hers, like a child with her mother . . . or her big sister. "Will you . . . will you tell me about him?"
Lyness smiles, and we sit on a nearby bench. And she tells me about her father. My father. Our father.
It seems so strange, still, to think of him that way. Tyno, Consort to Empress Katralla, who had been a father to me for so very long, will always be 'Father', but . . . but he is not John Crichton, for whom I was named. He is not the man whose DNA was used to give me life in my mother's womb, whose heart was broken when he knew he would never see me grow up.
My parents, when they told me the truth of my heritage on my 13th birthday, saying that I was old enough now to understand to keep it a secret, did not have much to tell me of his history. They knew so very little, only that he had come to this galaxy through a spatial anomaly, that he was not Sebacean. It was not until I was 15 that they told me the other little truth: that the Sebacean trader who sometimes came to the palace, the woman whom I had, for some reason over the cycles, come to regard as a favorite visitor, was Crichton's other daughter. My sister.
I sit next to this sister-stranger now, and listen to the stories she has to tell. Some of them had been told to her by our father, or her mother and their friends, some of them were stories of her own experience. The laughter and the tears, the wonders and troubles of a life spent in space, the ties created between the crew of a living ship. The grief when a part of the family left or died. When parents died.
I find myself crying as she tells me of their deaths, of the days, weeks, cycles after they left her behind. I see the pain in her eyes even after these many cycles, and I feel it in my own heart. I cannot imagine losing Mother or Father, never seeing them again. I hold Lyness' hand tightly and murmur condolences. She smiles and assures me it's all right, and then asks for stories of my own, since she has only come to the planet every few years and never for very long.
I tell her, and we laugh, and cry, and rejoice in the simple pleasure of this contact. This time spent with a sister, as sisters. And after a long time of talking, she reaches into a pocket of her black jacket and pulls out a small disc. She tells me, "I've had this for . . . a long time. Your mother asked me to wait until you were ready, although I think she was more concerned with Tyno." Her eyes meet mine. She continues softly, "The image producer allowed Dad to see you as a child, though he would never meet you in reality. I thought . . . you deserve that same chance. And I know the DNA combination process nullified the possibility, so . . ."
My breath catches. For a long, long moment, my mind is completely blank. Words can find no purchase on that slope, so I just nod. Lyness smiles and extends her other hand. I take it and we stand, then head back into the palace.
* * *
I stand under the gleaming arch as Lyness places the disk inside the holo-creator. It contains images of John Crichton, and recordings of his voice; the program will extrapolate interaction from that. My heart beats far more fiercely than it did when Lyness stood at the foot of the dais. Finally, my sister catches my eye and nods. I try to prepare myself, and fail utterly.
He is tall and handsome, and his hair is short and blond, darker than my mother's. His smile is soft, genuine, bringing warmth into his eyes. And his eyes . . . his eyes are mine. I can feel tears spilling down my cheeks, but I don't care. My father is smiling at me, and for the first time I know what he looks like.
The moment stands still, and for a very long time I am speechless. He smiles at me, humor in his eyes, and I somehow think that I don't need to ever speak. But I do. I don't even need to force out the words; like the tears, they seem to spill out of me without the approval of my mind. My voice is small and hesitant, my throat tight. "Are you . . . my dad?"
What a stupid thing to say, and I don't know why I use Lyness' word for him, but it's the first -- only -- thing to make it through the stunned space of my mind. He just smiles, softly, gently, and nods. "Yeah," he answers.
His voice is soft, but slightly touched by huskiness, a bit deeper than Tyno's. Even though I know it is only a reproduction, there seems to be that same quality of emotion in his voice and eyes. Suddenly, in a way I have never experienced before in my nineteen cycles of life, not even with Father, or Mother, or Lyness . . . I feel connected to him. As if the near century of separation between us is nothing at all, and he truly is standing here before me, smiling at me as if we had never been apart.
I step towards him, look up into those blue eyes, my eyes, and the next words that pass my lips come with thought and sincerity. "I love you, Dad."
His smile is suddenly blinding, and there is joy and pain and regret all mixed together in his eyes. Perhaps this is not just an image after all; perhaps some part of his spirit is truly here with me now. He takes a step forward as well, and extends his arms towards me. I step into the embrace, feel arms that are impossibly real wrap around me, hold me securely against him, safe, warm . . . his. "I love you too, princess," he whispers, and for the first time it is not a title but a word full of love and strength and promise.
Then his grip relaxes and he steps back, still smiling down at me. He touches my chin lightly with his knuckles, and I smile. He looks to the side, straight at Lyness, but her back is turned. My heart feels the pain in hers, and my father's eyes once again show pain that is far too real for him to only be a hologram. He looks back at me and his smile is smaller, wistful, sad. He leans down and kisses my forehead, then pulls back and murmurs, "Take care of my little girl."
I look up at him and understand, fully and completely. My sister needs me, as much as I need her, if not more. I have Mother and Father, but she has no one now, except Pilot and Moya. I look at my father and smile softly, my heart full as it has never been before. "I will, Dad. I promise."
He looks at me for a long moment more, as if memorizing my features, and then looks again at Lyness. Then he steps back and his expression changes. I know it is not just a hologram, now, for I see something vital leave his eyes in the last moment before the image-projector shuts down. The joy and pain mix in my heart, becoming a gentle contentment and knowledge.
I step down from the archway and go to my sister, and slip my hand into hers. Lyness looks at me and I smile, seeing for the first time that our eyes are the same. Not in shape, or in color, but in spirit. We are our father's daughters, and we are together. That is enough.
As we leave the room, I feel my father's spirit smile.
The End
Author's Note: Upon reflection shortly after completing this work, I realized that the day I wrote it was the 7th anniversary of my father's passing. It seems appropriate then, although the story doesn't directly reflect this fact, that Daddy's Little Girl be dedicated to him. :) The quote used at the beginning of the story is from the song Stay, property of Lisa Loeb & Nine Stories, which kept my muse talking while writing this.
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Lorrellai@aol.com
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