Title: An Enemy's Love
Author: Karolyn Gray <kmgray3@aol.com>
ScifiBB/Chat Handle: Gray3
Rating: PG
Synopsis: John Crichton as remembered by a future enemy.
Type: Future AU? Vignette
Spoilers: None.
Archiving: Yes
Disclaimers: All Farscape names, characters and other related indicia are the property of Jim Henson Productions, Hallmark Entertainment, Nine Networks, the Scifi Channel and all associated parties. No copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Special thanks go out to Andy Rozman and Leontien for their efforts in beta reading this story.

An Enemy's Love
by Karolyn Gray
January 01, 2001

Was the man in the holo-image my friend? No. He was my enemy. My responsibility. My prisoner. I do not keep this image of him for pride or vanity. No, I keep it so that I may never forget the single most honorable creature I have ever known.

That sounds strange to you, coming from one such as myself. I can see the doubt in your eyes at my words. But it doesn't matter for it is the truth. And so long as I know the truth what does it matter what you think. But I digress....

Yes, I knew this man, this human. A pitiable being if there ever was one. Pathetic even. He was not particularly strong, nor intelligent, nor quick. But he had heart, compassion, and bravery. These are things that my species rarely even acknowledge as possible in those not of our kind. He possessed all of this and more, but it is his bravery I remember most.

I remember well the day he arrived here. His quiet, well defined defiance that he hid under the guise of meekness. My Commander chose him to be singled out, to become an example to those who dared disobey. I remember the beatings my Commander inflicted upon him, tortures that would have had any other being weeping with in microts. And yet he remained silent and aloof, as if all of this he had long ago accepted as his just fate.

He even remained silent when my Commander ordered him to his bed during the many nights that followed his arrival. It was done out of spite by my Commander, who found the concept of bedding a Sebacean pleasing. The fact that my Commander's conquest only appeared Sebacean seemed to matter little to my cruel superior. But the man did not complain; did not cry out at the acts my Commander inflicted upon him. Through it all he remained calm and placid, accepting whatever was meted out to him.

But it was during the work shifts that I noticed him most. As silently defiant as he was when around my kind, with the other prisoners he was equally silent with his compassion. At first none wanted anything to do with him. He looked Sebacean, after all, but in the end somehow, someway, one by one, they came to him. Looked to him to help them, comfort them, guide them, perhaps even to lead them.

He bled for them when punishment was demanded, always placing himself in harms way so that another would not face the pain I and others like me were capable of carrying out. At first his attitude enraged me. How could someone so worthy as he be willing to sacrifice for those who were not?

None of my comrades saw this but me and I dared not speak my mind. For such thoughts as these, you see, are treasonous amongst my people. A non-Scarran capable of such bravery? Such honor? Such dignity? Impossible. And yet here was evidence to the contrary.

Time passed, of course. Prisoners came and went. Guards came and went. Some died. Some were killed. In the end that doesn't really matter. All of them were just a way to note the passage of time. Finally, one day my Commander was transferred and I promoted to his position.

I could lie to you and say that I treated those under my charge better than my predecessor but you would not believe my words. I refuse to lie about my actions for I feel no shame in the manner in which I ran this facility. I did as my duty dictated. I refuse to lie so as not to stain the honor of his memory.

Along with this command came all of my predecessor's burdens. And pleasures. And this strange, quiet man fit both of these categories well. He was a pleasurable burden, at once defiant and submissive. Peaceful and yet I sensed a capacity for violence within him that had yet to be tapped. I could sense all this in the nights I ordered him to my bedchamber, but none more so than that very first night together and the very last time we shared ourselves.

I admit I found him rather attractive. How could I not with those strange blue eyes? Eyes that told me he knew everything I felt, everything I thought, every desire, wish, dream, and fear. I felt compelled to trust him, to do whatever I could to ease his life here.

And after a time, he shared himself willingly with me. It started slowly. A conversation here. A meal there. The occasional leniency for a minor breach in regulations. Slowly but steadily earning his trust until he shared his affection with me.

In the end it was all for naught.

The rebellion came. Bloody. Fierce. Savage. We slaughtered the rebellious prisoners by the hundreds and still they came. Defeat was inevitable for them, outgunned as they were. And so defeat they suffered. And in that defeat I lost him.

You see he was their leader. The Commander, they called him. Underneath all his quiet, passive demeanor raged the heart and soul of a warrior, a champion, a crusader. He desired freedom, not for himself, but for those around him. He desired an end to the tyranny my people inflicted on him and his followers on a daily basis.

But desire is not enough when faced with a superior foe. And so they lost. I ordered all the betrayers tortured and killed as was their due for defying my peoples will. But him, him I saved for last. My superiors wanted to be present for his execution and so he was saved until they arrived.

He was brutally tortured in front of all: prisoner and soldier alike, but he never cried out. Not once. Not in pain. Not in fear. Not in despair. Not even as his blood stained the ground red beneath him.

Furious at his defiance my superiors finally ordered me to carry out the execution. I remember well his final words to me for I see before me now what he saw then. Your banners that bear his mark, waving and snapping in the wind are the banners I saw in his eyes. Your cries of vengeance, the completion of the prophecy he gave me with such simple words.

You can't stop what's coming.

I remember those words well. I have not forgotten. Could not forget, as his name became the rallying cry for those we oppressed. We could not stop what was coming. And I, for one, in the end chose the only course possible. I surrendered to him. I surrendered to his dream.

I did love him. I loved his stories of his home world. I loved his soft, brown hair. I loved his soulful blue eyes. I loved the meals we would share. I loved his defiance even when we shared our bodies. I loved his bravery. I loved his smile as he skillfully drew his blade along the throats of my comrades, staining his hands with their blood. I loved him even more as he smiled unwaveringly into my eyes as I severed his head from his body.

You understand, do you not? He was my enemy. My equal in all things. And I loved him for it.


The Scarran cocked her head sideways as she observed the odd mix of aliens before her. A crowd of hundreds made up of dozens of races: Sebacean, Hynerian, Luxan, Delvian, Zenetian, too many to name, too many to recognize.

She easily recognized the banners and flags that snapped and swayed in the wind. They bore the familiar blue disk and letters of a language she had only seen drawn by one man. A symbol of an organization, a people, dedicated to science had now become the rallying point for war. She was one of perhaps a handful of beings in this end of the galaxy with this knowledge and the irony of it was not lost on her.

But it was not the banners or the crowds that concerned her. It was the small knot of people in front of her that held her attention.

A dark haired Sebecean female carrying a small child, perhaps all of three cycles, accompanied by a gruff and battle scarred Luxan, a gentle Delvian who carried a Pulse Rifle in such a menacing manner that she would impress a Peacekeeper, a pair of Nebari-male and female siblings, and the diminutive Hynerian with an air of importance about him. An odd collection of beings to be certain, but one she had been expecting for a long time. A group that she had only heard of in tales told on those nights that were not so long ago.

Slowly the dark haired female approached her, stopping a few hentas away. Her expression was unreadable as she looked over the beaten and battered Scarran. After a few microts she extended her hand, palm upwards. Wordlessly the Scarran rested the small holo device into the Sebacean's palm.

"What is your name?" The Sebacean asked.

"To him I was called Ashrra. It is all I wish to be known as." The Scarran replied.

The woman nodded once and sharply turned away. Her stride was brisk and sharp as she departed from the gathered crowd. Had anyone doubted her past as a Peacekeeper, the cold emotionless expression on her face as she passed the others in the crowd dispelled that notion. Slowly the others who had accompanied her followed, obviously puzzled at her departure and the fact that the Scarran still lived.

Such was not the case for too much longer. Mere microts after they were gone the crowd descended on Ashrra, chanting the names of their fallen leader, their chosen martyr. Ashrra smiled as her vision dimmed and the chants of her love's name echoed in her ears.

And the name she heard was that of John Crichton.