With everybody asking questions on Lars’s immortality, I decided to do my own research.
When Steven listened to Lars’s heartbeat it took 6 seconds per beat or 12 bpm (Beats Per Minute). This is far less than the average bpm for a human around Lars’s age. It would usually be 70-100 bpm on average (to keep it simple I used 80 bpm). This means his heart is beating at 15% the average for a boy his age. So his body is functioning at 15% of the time it normally would be. So if his body ages at that rate given the average male life expectancy being around 80 years would mean he will live to 1,200 years!
Applying this to Lion is pretty easy, the average bpm of a healthy lion is about 60 bpm, giving our lion 9 bpm. Lions in the wild live to be about 16 making our lion live to about 240 years.In “Buddy’s Book” Rose is seen with lions and many people theorize one of them died and that’s how Lion was created. In “Historical Friction” it is stated that beach city was founded nearly 200 years ago. So that would make lion around 200 years old give or take.
Some people have said that a number of leaves on the each tree represents the amount of time they have left, Lars’s tree is full and young, while Lion’s has only a few clumps of leaves. This corresponds quite nicely, with Lars having over a 1,000 years left and lion having only about 40.
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(this is a sequel to THIS ‘I think there’s someone in the house’ fic!)
The paramedics hammer on the door, and Neil looks up, teary-eyed, from where his face is pressed into Andrew’s damp hair. He’s feeling for his breath with the back of his hand, waiting moment to moment for Andrew to die in his arms, silently like he does everything else. Urgency keeps stunning Neil all over again, hysterical defibrillators. The EMT’s are calling out through the wall, muffled but calm.
It feels unthinkably wrong, their absolute evenness and ease outside his door when his life is an exposed neck and Andrew’s death is the whirring blade of a saw.
He realizes that he has to get up to let them in, and it seems as impossible as it would be for Andrew to spring up and answer the door himself. He feverishly wants them to crumple the door to splinters and be inside already.
It’s a herculean effort to ease Andrew to the ground, like he’s gritting his teeth and cutting off his own leg. He touches Andrew’s clammy face briefly but he can’t bring himself to try and slap him awake. He props Andrew’s bare feet up on the rim of the bath so the blood will flood towards his head, at least.
He feels untethered to his body when he stands, a helium balloon with its usual weight passed out on the bathroom floor. He falls into the wall immediately, adrenaline neck and neck with exhaustion.
He finds his way to the front door without his mind’s help. His head is in the bathroom with Andrew, and he knows that no matter what happens it’ll be there for a long, long time.
The next time he blinks, a man in uniform is holding his biceps and peering down at him seriously.
“—sir? Sir, are you hurt at all?”
“No,” Neil says, lips numb. “Bathroom. He’s in the bathroom. He’s bleeding to death.”
He turns, easily slipping the paramedic’s grip. There’s a procession of them, hefting a gurney and a couple of kits, and they’ve brought all the cold from outside in on their heels. They’re such a foreign object in their warm, messy apartment — uniformed, official, and precise.
It’s deadly, walking in and seeing Andrew spread out in his boxers, blood oozing through his t-shirt from his loose stitches, pale enough to match the porcelain. Neil’s seen enough corpses to recognize what they look like.
He falls heavily to his knees and puts his head directly to his chest, listening, tears slipping hotly over the bridge of his nose.
“Please,” he slurs. His heartbeat is a tentative thud, a knock from an unexpected guest. “Help him. Now, help him now.”
“We’re going to try our best Sir, but you’ve got to get out of the way,” someone says gently.
He topples backwards onto his hands. It’s a cramped space, and he knows it would be easier if he waited outside, but he also knows he’d rather die than leave them alone with him.
The first guy kneels down and takes Andrew’s pulse, and Neil shakes his head. They’re too slow, time is feeding directly into a wide open drain.
“He needs an IV. He’s two litres down, at least. You’ve got to—“ A petite woman puts a hand on his shoulder and he shrugs her off violently. “No! You have to listen to me.”
“We know what we’re doing,” she says. “Are you an MD?” She eyes him doubtfully, gaze flitting from his scars to where her colleagues are taking vitals and cutting through Andrew’s clothes.
“Yes,” Neil says wildly. “And he needs an IV. Possibly two. Large-bore, normal saline. He’s not getting any oxygen, and he’s been like this for as long as it took you to gather your meager response team.”
She purses her lips, but she’s a professional. He can see her repressing her anger and it infuriates him. He feels like he’s crashing, over and over again, and he’s watching someone daintily pump the breaks.
“He’s right,” one of the EMT’s says distractedly. “We’re gonna need to get some fluids started, he’s in hypovolemic shock, sats below 50.”
“You want to tell me what happened?” one of the men asks.
“No,” Neil says as evenly as he can manage, reaching out to graze Andrew’s cold fingers.
“Did you do these stitches?” the woman asks, pulling at Andrew’s skin to get a better look at them. He suddenly sees how they must look to them, sloppy and angry red. Neil bends her arm away without thinking about it.
“Don’t touch him,” he snaps. He could break her arm and it would make him feel better. He drops her, disoriented by his own violence.
“There’s no need to be antagonistic,” the first man says. “We don’t want to have to remove you.”
“You really don’t,” Neil agrees. “You won’t succeed.”
please take a moment to imagine the Federation version of Eurovision as @swordfern and I have envisioned it, in a post-DS9 peaceful future:
-Bajor does something very soothing with hand percussion and like…. background eurythmy dancing but the lyrics are utterly heart-wrenching.
-Betazed is always a fan favorite- they really get into the pop ballads and impressive choreography, and of course aim to inspire ~feelings~
-Romulans do the super intimidating acts like that one song about Moscow Germany did one year.
-Klingons just do fucking opera every time, with intense choreography, generally involving weaponry.
-Andorians do… whatever the andorian version of death metal is. imagine andorian headbanging. with those antennae. imagine.
-the new Cardassian Republic, when it finally gains admittance, is intensely earnest and a bit disco. No one really knows how to react to this.
-Vulcan sends one person with a Vulcan lute and they play an extremely logical arrangement extremely well, with no dancers or any illogical frippery… and they repeat this each year. No one ever votes for Vulcan.
My babies Mia and Ringo! Earlier this year I adopted two cats and now they have an instagram account for me to keep track of photos I take and document their daily lives. Here’s a sample of photos on it. You can check them out at mirincat on insta! If you don’t use insta, 80% of my twitter posts are cat pics now too.