Work Text:
"What are you doing?" Tom asks when he finds Meier sitting on a fallen tree focused on something in his hands.
"Whittling," Meier answers. He doesn't look up, just keeps moving a knife over a long piece of rain-soaked wood.
"Sounds dirty," Tom quips and Meier shakes his head in amusement.
Tom heaves a tired sigh and sits next to his lover, knee nudging against his. "What are you making?" Tom twists the lid off his canteen and takes a long drink.
"A memento mori. When I was a kid back on Scorpia, I'd watch my grandfather whittling offerings for Eleos when someone died. When my father died, he taught me to do it."
Tom watches as Meier makes long strokes with a knife, shedding layer after layer of the soft wood onto the ground at his feet.
"You want to try?" Meier hands the wood and knife to Tom, leaning close to him to show him the technique.
Tom passes the knife over the surface a few times, gouging the wood until he manages some shorter strokes that successfully shave small bits away. He's sure he's made it worse. With a sigh, Tom hands it back to Meier. "You do it. I'll watch."
Meier starts to whittle once more and soon the shape of a woman starts to emerge. Tom hears rustling in the trees and glances behind him. "We'd better go. I think they're moving out again."
Meier stands, folds the knife and tucks the figurine into his pocket. "I hope I have time to finish it. Don't know when or even if I'll ever be planetside again."
Tom watches Meier glance around, taking in the rain-soaked greenery of Kobol, and he squeezes his arm, catching his gaze. "Laura Roslin believes we will." Tom doesn't think she can pull it off, but Meier's always had a little more faith.
Meier snorts, surprising him as a shadow passes over his face. "Maybe Laura Roslin will, but men like you and me, we live on borrowed time."
:: :: ::
As the others disappear into the Temple of Athena, Tom goes back to the grassy area where they have left Meier's body, his chest aching at the sight of the blood-soaked shirt. He'd stayed calm before, in front of the Commander and Roslin and the others, but now it's just him touching Meier's cooling skin. When tears sting his eyes, he bites back a sob, swallowing down a knot of grief to find his composure.
With sure fingers, he searches Meier's pockets, finding first the knife and then the partially carved figure. He studies it, sees the vague shape of a woman, breasts upturned, long hair and slim hips flowing into a gown. For Eleos, is what Meier had said, the god of pity and mercy, to be given as a plea when a loved one died.
Tom slides his thumb over the still rough wood and thinks of leaving it on Meier's chest as the offering he might have wanted. Instead, Tom pauses mid-way and pulls his hand back. No, he thinks enough has been taken from me already. He grips the figure tightly in his fist and he stands, looking at his lover for the last time.
He heads back towards the Tomb, heart filled with grief and renewed anger, more determined than ever that men like them will be saved.
Eleos have mercy and pity on our souls.