Chapter Text
My name is Aximili-Esgarrouth-Isthill. I have been on the planet known as Earth for approximately thirty of their planetary rotations. Thirty more rotations from now, I know I will be dead—unless I am rescued first.
Unless I am not the only survivor of the ambush the filthy Yeerks staged against my people. Unless I am not the only Andalite alive on this planet. Unless someone hears my call, and comes to save me.
I do not like having to call for help. As the younger brother of the great Prince Elfangor, I strive to live-up to my brother’s legend and yet know I never will. I do not like having to admit that I need someone to save me; do not like having to admit that I am not a great warrior capable of taking care of myself. As the youngest aristh on the GalaxyTree, I was seen and treated as a child rather than a warrior. That is why I was in the Dome when our ship was attacked, and why all I could do was float helplessly away as the rest of my people—as my brother—battled our enemy.
It is why I may be the only one left alive.
If I am, if there is no one who can hear my call, then I am going to die here.
I try and comfort myself with the thought that my brother would not be afraid, but it does little to help. My brother, were he here, would not meekly let himself drown under alien waves. My brother would find a way to survive and continue to fight. I ought to do the same—but I do not know how.
I hope someone comes. It is shameful to admit it, but I do not want to die.
So I call for help, and I wait.
And I wait…