presidentpythia: (tired in the light)
[personal profile] presidentpythia
Get me out of here, she'd pleaded, and Bill had done just that -- even shielding her from his own son when she'd refused to answer Lee's questions about her intention with regard to how to handle the Quorum.

He leaves her in his quarters eventually, once she's assured him she'll be fine, and goes back out somewhere, she presumes to CIC. Roslin doesn't care. Once he's gone, she goes to the shelf and takes down her copy of the Sacred Scrolls.

It falls open of its own accord to the pages of the Pythian Prophecy that Elosha had first told her of, so long ago.

And the Lords anointed a leader to guide the caravan of the heavens to their new homeland....

She's suddenly, viciously glad that Elosha is dead, that Billy Keikeya is dead, that so many of those who'd loved and trusted her are long dead and not here with the rest of them, left with the knowledge of the horrible desolation that's the death of all their hopes.

"You believe in that, right? You believe in the prophecies."

"I do. I very much do believe, Sam. With all my heart."

As tears begin to blur her vision, Roslin rips the first page out of the Scrolls, then the second, then the third. It doesn't take her long to find where Bill keeps his lighter.

One after another, each page falls into gritty ash that looks to her like the surface of Earth.

It seems fitting.

* * * * *

"Cottle told me that you missed your last doloxan treatment."

"I know."

Bill looks tired, she notes. He's still trying. It makes her heart ache, although distantly enough that she can ignore it.

"I didn't feel like going."

Physically, she feels better than she has in years, anyway. It's almost unfair.

"You can't mean to just lie down and quit," he tells her, halfway between an order and a plea.

She can't tell him the truth -- that the answer is yes, she means to do exactly that; that the sooner she dies, the sooner they can begin to follow someone else that they can trust -- so Roslin gives him a little smile and reaches to take his hand in hers. She squeezes his fingers once, then lets go.

"You were right, you know. We should have never left the Colonies behind," she says, and watches shock spread over his face. "You should never have taken my advice. So many people who died because of a fruitless series of visions..."


"Hush," Roslin interrupts. "Don't say it, Bill. Just... don't."

* * * * *

The tinny sound of the press conference crackles through the room. Roslin listens with one ear, focusing most of her attention on lining up her medications on the table, placing each beside the previous one with precise, deliberate care.

A thin smile tightens her lips as Zarek's flat 'No comment' echoes over the broadcast. It sounds like the press has gotten its collective teeth into the question of the proposed Cylon alliance. She hopes he likes being in the spotlight now that he's getting a real taste of what political responsibility means.

Perhaps that's not exactly fair, given what had happened on New Caprica and everything since as well, but it doesn't matter. It's not as though she's going to be giving him political advice -- or anyone else either, not even Lee. Not any more.

The thought reminds her, and she plunges her hand in her pocket and brings out a crumpled piece of paper. She sets it on the table next to the last of her medication and studies it once more, although she already knows it by heart.

Bill had been the one to bring her the message, which to all appearances had been received over Galactica's communications network and officially transcribed by Communications Officer Lt. Hoshi. She hadn't bothered to ask Bill if he'd recognized the name, but she's perfectly well aware that there's no 'Cordelia Vorkosigan' in the Fleet. The question is whether or not it matters.

So little does, these days.

The phone rings, startling her. Roslin spares it a single dismissive glance and ignores it even as it continues to shrill, turning her attention back to the line of medicines on the table and considering them instead.

With a sudden sharp sweep of her hand, she shoves the lot of them from the table into the trash bin. The message flutters down more slowly, finally coming to to rest atop the pile.

Roslin looks down at it all, then turns and walks away.
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presidentpythia: (Default)
Laura Roslin

January 2015

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