Chapter Text
Seivarden woke suddenly, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling, her limbs paralyzed, fluid heavy in her lungs, choking for air but unable to force herself to move. There was a sense of horrifying deja-vu to the scene, but at the same time, a wrongness—fluid should be sliding out of her mouth now, she should be starting to feel her limbs, should be free from this crushing weight on her chest but nothing was changing-- and as she redirected her eyes away from the ceiling a scream welled up inside her, trapped just as she was. Sitting on her chest was the last Sword of Nathtas ancillary she could remember seeing, the one who had pushed her into the suspension pod. Only it was old, decaying, dried blood on the hairline and hands, flaking off onto Seivarden’s face, long, stringy hair that carried a suffocating, dead smell. The uniform was torn and crumbling, and the ancillary’s face was twisted into a smile that looked utterly wrong there, would have even if the face belonged to a human but on an ancillary was vastly more terrifying. The ancillary put its face very close to Seivarden’s, breathed across her nose.
“You haven’t really left me for dead, Captain,” it said, with a sneering tone no ancillary should have. “I’ll follow you wherever you go.”
Seivarden found her voice then, reconnected to her muscles, and screamed, the ghost on her chest vanishing as she thrashed frantically, almost involuntarily. Beyond her own yelling she could hear someone else, talking in an accent that she couldn't force her brain to slow down long enough to understand, and for long moments Seivarden was sure it was all happening again, that the last few years had been a cruel suspension dream and she would have to start all over, even farther this time from anyone who had ever known her or anything that has ever made sense. Something heavy and immovable was pinning her arms down and that made her panic more, trying to wrench herself free with a movement that made pain spike in her shoulders. The pressure vanished immediately and a voice cut through her fear.
“Lieutenant, stop moving and wake up now .”
The voice spoke in perfectly accented Radchaai, not a trace of foreign or even provincial diction. More than that, it was flat, uninflected except for the commanding stress on the final word-- the tone that a ship’s ancillary would use to alert an officer that something needed to be done, right now immediately. You didn't argue with that voice, and Seivarden went still instinctively. She realized that her eyes were closed now and, warily, opened them.
She was in their compartment on the ship taking them to Omaugh, and Breq was standing over her, bland and impassive as always. Seivarden’s fear receded in favor of overwhelming embarrassment.
“I apologize for holding you down,” Breq was saying, “but you were hurting yourself. Unfortunately I believe you hurt yourself further trying to get away from me. I won't try that again.” Breq, moving slowly and deliberately so that Seivarden could track every movement, probed Seivarden’s aching shoulders lightly with her fingertips. Seivarden scowled and pulled away, only now realizing that she had bruised her left arm and knee rather badly on the wall beside her bed. One knuckle on her left hand was split, but not deeply, oozing just a small trickle of blood. Breq pulled her hands away.
“They aren't dislocated, just strained. You'll be fine in the morning.” She walked back to her own bed, leaving Seivarden to curl tightly beneath her blanket, hugging her knees to her chest in hopes of banishing the still-lingering sensation of Ship, crushing her ribs with the weight of its ancillary, mocking and dead. She hadn't had a dream like that in years. The kef always let her sleep heavy and dreamless, more unconscious than truly asleep. She crossed her arms tightly, holding on to the ache in her shoulders and left arm as a grounding sensation, trying to push away the wistfulness that seized her at that thought. She should have stayed on Nilt. She should have died there.
The other ancillary voice was new, though, and she considered it, just to think of anything that didn't involve finding the nearest airlock and flinging herself out of it. It puzzled her somewhat, wasn't a voice she immediately recognized. Even more odd, it had addressed her as lieutenant, not captain, so couldn't be from her recurring Sword of Nathtas dream.
Amaat’s grace, Seivarden thought, half exasperation, half a prayer. I hope Justice of Toren isn't going to start haunting me too. That death-- for once-- hadn't been Seivarden's fault.