Author’s Disclaimer: "Battlestar Galactica," the characters, and situations depicted are the property of Ron Moore, David Eick, SciFi, R&D TV, Sky TV, and USA Cable Entertainment LLC. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes. Previously unrecognized characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. This site is in no way affiliated with "Battlestar Galactica," SciFi, or any representatives of the actors whose characters are involved.
Author’s Notes: This was written based on the 3rd prompt of round 6 over at even_angels_ on LiveJournal. My Roslin muse just grabbed me by the short and curlies and wouldn't let go until I got this out. It's been a while since I've written 3rd person POV, but it made an odd sort of sense in this piece…
Dedication: To my muses, who always manage to find a way to keep me on my toes.
by A. Magiluna Stormwriter
She traced her profile behind closed lids. Nothing more than a cursory inventory of what was there -- and what shouldn't be. What would never be again, if she had her choice in the matter.
It was an exhilarating sensation: this knowledge that she'd stared Death directly in the eyes…and told Him to frak off, in no uncertain terms.
No uncertain terms.
That was a lie in and of itself. Yes, she'd told the others that she didn't fear Death. She'd feared the wholly invasive, wasting cancer far more than stepping into the sticky web of Death. Death meant no longer hiding from the truths of her life.
Fingers curled protectively around once-desiccated flesh made whole again. A surge of irrational possessiveness had those fingers digging deeply into the resilient mound, sucking the oxygen from both lungs and room for several terrifying seconds that felt like hours.
Like she'd felt upon realized the truth (one of them -- she knew there were others) about Gaius Baltar. That instant on the threshold between breathing and never breathing again.
In that split second of clarity, that was when she feared Death. Not for herself. No, she couldn't be that selfish in that frame of time. She feared for her people: those lost and destitute souls she watched over. How could she leave them in the blood-drenched hands and soul of the most despicable Cylon sympathizer known to Mankind?
And then, that instant was gone. Death claimed its prize, flawed and unclean as it was. The part of her that was still sentient mourned the loss -- not of herself, but of Mankind.
It wasn't anything like she'd expected. There was no all-encompassing white light, no music, no throngs (or even scattered stragglers) of loved ones to greet her. There was only the sharp tang of Nothing -- deeper than the furthest voids of space.
Then unexpectedly that all disappeared. A child's soap bubble imploding on itself. Life reinstated with a searing jolt of Alive, lancing white-hot into every microscopic speck of her. It hurt to breathe, to feel; crushed by the agonizing weight of responsibility, of who and what she was, of a sacred vow to the gods.
The sudden rush of much-needed oxygen filling her lungs brought her back to the present. A quick downward glance showed the reddened crescents on otherwise relatively smooth skin. She released her breast almost guiltily, only to return that shaking hand to lightly trace the marks.
Watching her skin return to its former state was fascinating. Images of that same flesh ravaged by the insidious cancer superimposed themselves over the whole, healed current version.
She felt the sob building in the depths of her womb, gaining momentum and intensity as it overtook the entirety of her body. She trembled at the depths of emotions surging through her veins. The heady potency made her giddy like she hadn't been, even as a child. Always too serious for her own good. Perhaps this reprieve from Death's clutches (regardless of its Cylon origins) was reason enough to take back a part of that lost innocence of youth.
A chance to regain what was lost. To find the evidence to prove, once and for all, Gaius Baltar's unequivocal guilt and duplicity.
Her hands glided down the planes of her body again, reveling in the smooth fullness of both breasts.
Those were the stations of joy.