Ashes of the Fallen

[Cptn Corizon 0]

For I have eaten ashes like bread, and mingled my drink with weeping.

-Psalms 102:9

 

The hulking wreckage graveyard of ships from the Battle of the Wormhole floated ghostly silent about the wounded Excalibur-B. The lights had finally stopped flickering as auxiliary power had finally be restored, but the ship still felt like a sarcophagus.

 

Ah-Windu Corizon shifted a piece of wreckage off the ready room desk and sat down in the scorched chair behind the desk with a heavy sigh. They'd won the battle, but at what cost? And how long could they hold the wormhole before the Scorpiads regrouped?

 

His head wrapped around that and many other questions for a few moments before revolting in protest. It wasn't his problem at the moment, and he had more important things to worry about. For the moment, he was commanding officer of the Excalibur, and his role was to get her and her crew to safe port at DS9 as soon as possible.

 

It had now fallen to other, higher-ranking officers to secure the gateway Alpha Quadrant, and in a way he was relieved by that. Now his task was to see to the repairs of the bruised Excalibur.

 

Causality reports were still coming in, and the normally stoic Daemon had a sinking feeling he was not going to have a short list of letters to write to families back home, the bridge alone showed him that much, and a visit down to the triage center in the main shuttle bay had only confirmed his suspicions.

 

That was the hardest part—visiting the dead and dying—trying to give them some sort of comfort in their last hours. War had taken it's toll on the Excalibur, physically and spiritually. The once proud ship had the queasy feel of a morgue at times. So many good people had lost their life fighting aboard her over the last few years, and even more today.

 

A thought tinged with regret and angst entered his head and he suppressed it, but not as quickly as he would have liked. The war had taken its toll, even on him. There was a price to be paid, he reasoned, and everyone under his command knew that they would be asked to pay the piper at some point.

 

As the Excalibur had floated aimlessly in space in the final furious moments of the fight, he'd been ready to cash in his chips and leave the floor—but fate had intervened, and his time would come later.

 

Shuffling through the desk he found what he was looking for and placed it and two glasses on the desk. Uncorking the bottle he poured two glasses of golden-amber liquid and replaced the bottle stop before putting it down with a gentle thud.

 

Taking one of the glasses in hand, he raised it slightly examining it slowly before tapping it against the glass counter top and the second full glass. “To the Fallen, I mix my drink with weeping,” he said downing the glass in a swift gulp.