Llaiir u'Rhienn ~ Full Circle

Vox Clamantis In Deserto ~ Part I

People living deeply have no fear of death.

(From Anaïs Nin’s Diaries)

[IRW Endless Sky, Leih’s quarters]

“Kroiha-i yhfew, thaessu.”

Who would have thought? The woman actually stopped fidgeting. With a satisfied huff Saeihr poked at the fading bruise on a much too frail looking neck and recalibrated her medical scanner. Again. Either something was wrong with her instruments or this was one odd Vulcan. She was sure she had compensated for the fact this was a half-breed; not that the term was accurate in any way. If it wasn’t for the eyes and some of the more lush variety of curves that you didn’t exactly expect in that race, you’d have to dig into the DNA and notice a few other small oddities to realize you weren’t exactly looking at a purebred thaessu. Not even her brain chemistry gave a solid clue, though it seemed that was a mess in any case.

Stupid machine. Oh, Saeihr understood you sometimes needed to employ drastic measures to get what you needed, to defend your ship, your crew, your Empire. But toying around with something this complex when you really had no idea what you were doing, and for no reason other than to see how much damage you could do... Elements, that was just foolish.

There. Not that the Hiifvehi’Saehne truly saw the point in caring for the woman’s injuries if her efforts were only going to go to waste again. And there really was nothing she could do about … Saeihr frowned at her scanner that insisted the Vulcan’s temperature had yet again dropped after reaching almost fever levels. But if she was fighting off an infection, where was the wound that had caused it? Not that there was a lack of choices really, but it all seemed to heal clean. Surprisingly so, to be honest. Something internal? None of this made sense.

Cracked rib. Perhaps a bone fragment that had gotten into the bloodstream? But that still wouldn’t explain … she was fidgeting again and Saeihr pondered whether smacking a Vulcan to the back of the head would help. Considering the beatings this one had already endured, likely not.

“Hnafirh’rau.” This really wasn’t a time to be squeamish. And what a stupid dress. How did one even …

“Ie, maenek.”

Saeihr was so stunned the woman actually spoke, she did not stop her from getting up. Or from shedding the blasted dress. Well, now. Much better. Though what she saw now was not exactly improving the healer’s mood. Ah, Fire, Air and Earth.

“So you do understand me.”

“Yes.”

“Talkative, are you. Sit back down, I need to mend that rib.” For all the good it would do.

For someone who had to be hurting at even the smallest move, the thaessu had a certain fluid grace about her that gave Saeihr a hint why tr`Sahen was acting, well, obsessive was the word that came to mind. Not that she probably hadn’t been a pretty thing before.

“Oh, will you hold still.” Had that been a huff? There definitely had to be something wrong. Saeihr didn’t consider herself an expert on Vulcans, but she was sure they shouldn’t act this way.

Then again, they probably shouldn’t have their brain chemistry scrambled before they were tortured near dead. Considering that, the woman was practically a picture of health. Good healing properties, near ideal if the healer was any judge, though the lines crisscrossing her back spoke of continued abuse, new wounds inflicted over old and not all of them made by a sharp blade. Yet the oldest, least deep were already little more than faint lines, and few enough of them would leave scars … if she lived long enough for all of them to heal.

Saeihr had pondered and dismissed the idea of using a dermal regenerator to help the process along – it might well incite the Vaek’Riov to simply start all over again, and her healer’s oath resisted the thought of causing this creature more suffering, thaessu or not.

Stupid. All of it. Not that anyone was like to care about a lowly doctor’s opinion. Or common sense for that matter. She frowned at her instruments on last time before putting them away and her steely grey eyes fell on the food still cluttering the desk. So, at least the woman wasn’t trying to starve herself. The water was gone, as were the ihor berries, though nothing else seemed to have caught her fancy. Odd. Saeihr had personally spent hours hunting the database for thaessu nutritional needs, and not surprisingly they were easily enough fed and cared for, no matter how much of a fuss the Vaek’Riov made. Sure, the fact they couldn’t stomach meat was no lie, though that was a matter of habit, not physiology. Forcing unfamiliar proteins on them would prompt something close to an allergic reaction at first, but if you gave them time you could probably feed them ship’s bulkheads and they’d adapt.

Still, the things she’d selected after her tedious research required no adapting whatsoever, should even be delicious to a palate that apparently favored foodstuffs spicy enough to bring a tear to Saeihr’s eyes merely from smelling them. The Rhennish had not been touched either, and that at least made sense to the healer. The woman’s file suggested she was the famous exception to the rule where the thaessu high tolerance for alcohol was concerned, but even so it dehydrated them rather badly. To bodies and minds keyed on conserving water by any means possible, willful waste of the precious liquid would just be, well, idiotic. Though they probably called it illogical.

As it was, though, the enzymes inherent in the fragrant wine would do the thaessu a world of good, and if she wanted a bucket of water afterwards, well … now there was an idea.

Looking rather thoughtful, Saeihr poured a glass of the purple Rhennish and pushed it into the woman’s hand. “Drink. And keep glaring at me like that, it almost makes you look like an actual person.” For a moment it seemed as if the Vulcan might even answer again, but then she only canted her head and … ah. Good hearing. Very good.

“Fvah’lla.” The healer stared at the door before the chime even rang and then huffed, gathering some bedsilks to throw over the puzzled looking thaessu. Well, she wasn’t going to have some raffle leer at a patient of hers, not in her presence. Rude, to simply interrupt as it was … “Well? Are you going to stand out there all day?”

“Hiifvehi’Saehne.” The man’s bow was polite enough, probably owing to the fact he knew exactly whose face would be looking at him in sickbay the next time he stubbed his toe. Though it did little to mollify Saeihr’s ire. Nor did the fact the security officer had a towering hulk of a Gai’Shian in tow, barely an adult by the looks of him though, carrying some, … oh, come now.

“What is this? Is the Galae in such a dire state we need to plunder Federation baths for soap?”

“Your forgiveness, madam. The Vaek’Riov …”

“Yes I can imagine. Put it over there and out with you.”

If they were going to protest, they wisely decided to hold their tongues and merely did as told.

Stupid.

If tr`Sahen had thought to gain any sort of favor with the thaessu by having some of her personal things brought here, he had sorely miscalculated. Elements, the look on the woman’s face could almost be called an expression and it was one Saeihr wouldn’t like to see directed at her. Naturally, if the thaessu was but half as territorial as a Rihanha she had every right to be incensed. And what…? Candles. Fragrant, though subtly, and a flat pillow. Soaps, rather exotic to the healer’s nose but they were undoubtedly hers for she recognized the scent of one of them as similar to the one emanating from her hair. Under all the blood. Small, intricate bottles that probably contained bath oils or perfume, and a hairbrush. How silly. They had to have gone through the place looking like fools, picking what they thought a woman might like. Well, at least the soap was useful in that it smelled better than anything Saeihr had in her quarters.

“Come on.”

The thaessu merely stared at her, still wrapped in the silks and decidedly pondering murder. Somehow it only made the healer like her. Almost. A bit.

She grabbed the ivory colored ball with the familiar scent and motioned to the narrow doors set into the far wall. “Look, I don’t care much for this situation either. I have better things to do than patch up tr`Sahen’s newest favorite toy. But I seem to remember your kind can absorb water directly through the skin when needed and Elements know, you need it. So I can force feed you, douse you right here, or you can come with me now. Besides, I should think any civilized creature would ache for a shower in a state like yours.”

Black eyes. Mind-reader eyes. In a face like cut from marble, features so clear, so lovely if Saeihr were a sculptor she’d throw away her chisel right now because nature had shown art its limits. But other than the eyes of any thaessu she had ever seen … they were alive.

For some reason, it made the hair on the back of Saeihr’s neck stand up.

Vox Clamantis In Deserto ~ Part II

Vesht akarshif, lesh Vuhlkansular ulidar t'’alek, t’salur mazhiv heh t’yon-dak yon-dukal. Sharush solektra yakul etek - salan tam-tor fi’urozh heh vok-tor kahrlar. Tusa na’kusut heh kali-tor na’rishan -

(Ages past, Vulcans bore the mark of heat, the scar of blowing sand and burning sun. The ground opened to eat us, the wind danced on our crops and leveled our cities. We wept for the pain and we fought for survival . . .)

[IRW Endless Sky]

Toy. Pet was perhaps more apt, if one considered being fed and groomed and fussed over … ah, useless. Though the metaphor offered itself again when she paced the room like a caged Sehlat, growling deep in her throat in helpless fury. They were dying. She felt it. Oh, not acutely or she might be writhing on the floor by now, screaming in agony. But it was there, like a wound that would not close, trickling emerald heartblood. Why was she here, playing for time, allowing for this to happen, instead of using all the pitiful strength left to her battered body to break free, fight, help them, help them …

It was a horrible thing, to know in your heart, your soul, your mind that others of your kind were dying. It was even more horrible to be so near and utterly incapable of doing a thing.

Reason alone suggested that her barreling out into the corridor, weak as she was and armed with naught but daggers against disruptor rifles, would result in nothing but one more dead Vulcan. Though it would be deeply satisfactory to take as many of them with her as she could. No, not satisfactory … delightful. Very much so.

She stopped abruptly at the window and stared at the vista of glittering diamonds shining in the endless night. What was wrong with her?

Yes, the fact meditation still eluded her was as good an explanation as any for her irrational, volatile behavior. This utter, complete inability to accept, move beyond, … even think. Ah, she was not even asking for her usual clarity of mind. A shred of it would do.

How close the poor, blushing male who had carried her things had been to death … he was not likely to ever know. Though the healer who in her abrasive way had been trying to be kind seemed to have caught a glimpse at least, treating her like one would a small but unstable explosive. There had been times when this would have sparked her humor, dry as it might have been. It seemed a lifetime ago.

She resumed her pacing, unable to soothe the turmoil threatening to break loose both in body and mind, and it was better to wear a hole in the deck plating than tear the entire quarters to pieces, no? Ah, so much for the sarcasm being a casualty. The fine silk fluttering about her legs rustled quietly in the silence as her bare feet made no sound on the carpet, but rather than settle her mind as it should, the absence of noise only served to heighten her anxiety. She became aware her hand had been opening and closing, traveling to her neck, her shoulder, as if trying to reach for a sword hilt that was not there. If she had thought she was going mad before, she was near certain of it now.

Desperate for a distraction, or something to focus her thoughts, the Vulcan stopped at the desk where untouched food had long since gone cold and Gespar candles lay amidst a pathetic assembly of items salvaged from her quarters. Her home. Her territory. The temptation to hurtle each and every piece against the wall was near irresistible, just as the sudden, fierce impulse to break the necks of those insolent invaders had been.

As fast as the fever had risen it dropped once more, leaving her shivering with cold. This was not good. She could sense no illness, but then again even if she had, there simply was no way to summon sufficient control to fight it. Whatever the infernal machine had done to her, the effects were more dire than she had initially believed. Near absentmindedly she toyed with the trinkets under her fingers, a flask with fragrant yelash’ay – what irony, they likely had no idea what this was – a little bag with spices and tea leaves, … and froze. A small piece of soap had rolled out of its protective wrapping and the scent seemed to pierce her senses, cutting through her very heart.

The phrase ‘sick to one’s stomach’ is unknown on Vulcan, and so the dark haired one clutching her belly did not immediately recognize what was happening. Hardly surprising, evolution had seen more sense in equipping the race with an ability to resist a great variety of poisons, if often at the price of being altogether miserable for a time, rather than go with the method favored among species that had a fair chance to replace lost liquid and nutrients within a reasonable time – which was expelling the health threat rapidly, and forcibly. It took truly a great amount or a terribly potent poison to have a Vulcan body resort to such desperate measures, and few lived to tell of the experience as it was. But the reflex at least is the same, universally recognized even by those who never felt it before.

For agonizing seconds, the Vulcan fought down wave after wave of revulsion, and then nearly dropped onto the desk after all, gritting her teeth lest she scream her anger and grief to the uncaring stars.

Of all things, of all the things they could have brought, it had to be a reminder of warmth, of tenderness, of laughter and spraying water, of a star-bright blue gaze filled with mischief and love; gentle, playful … until it turned dark, dark like a gathering storm that charged the air…

Mo shíorghrá

Her hands were steady when she carefully placed the soap back into the pale wrapping, closing it until there was but the faintest trace of its scent still floating in the room. She clutched it in her fist as if in a case of steel, willing the memory to sink back into the darkness, away, to safety.

No.

No matter what he thought he had won, what he thought he owned, nothing of it mattered. Not as long as her soul, her heart, were safe, locked away, out of reach. There was no harm, no injury that could hurt a living Katra, nothing that could threaten its integrity unless she allowed it. And the stars themselves would cease to burn before that happened.

Remember, mo chroí …

Almost a smile, the brief, sudden expression flickering over features cast in stone. But the light shining in night black eyes was that of Nevasa rising over the Forge.

Gently, near tenderly the Vulcan put the wrapped soap back onto the desk before she again walked over to the window, a thoughtful air to her proud, even gait.

Could it be?

Ah, irony of ironies if it were so.

Not entirely unusual, to lose control even if only for a mere second in such distress, for the mind to succumb to the ancient fires rising from the depths.

Could it be?

Plak'tau.

She leaned her forehead against the cool clearsteel, pressing one palm against it as if to draw the cold into her body that was once more burning with a fever that would not cease.

It was how he found her, staring out into the eternal night as if yearning to break through the invisible barrier and take flight; a small, lithe body wrapped in bedsilks that had slid off one elegantly rounded shoulder. She did not move, not even turn to favor him with the by now so familiar defiant stare when he stepped behind her and slid one arm around the slender waist, pressed his face into the fragrant mass of damp curls. Such heat. Even through the silks, a heat that made you want to hold her close forever, drink in the warmth, the scent so familiar and exotic both.

A near perfect moment, where it almost seemed possible the woman in his arms might exhale, lean against him, welcome his touch, even answer … only she would not. No, the only way to deal with such a creature was break their will, beat them until they bowed their proud, stubborn heads and then discard what was left of them.

But for a fleeting moment, he wondered. Wondered how it would be to not hate, to give in to the impulse and trace that hauntingly beautiful face with tender fingertips, see those dark eyes light with recognition, … not until she tensed and squared those lovely shoulders did Itsak realize he had been holding on to her so tightly a just mended rib had cracked again and his fingers had dug into her skin fiercely enough to bruise.

Vox Clamantis In Deserto ~ Part III

Ce qui embellit le désert, dit le petit prince, c'est qu'il cache un puits quelque part...

("What makes the desert beautiful," says the little prince, "is that somewhere it hides a well.")

[IRW Endless Sky]

Lunikkh ta’avik. Poisoner of wells. She had called him that, the day he had finally tasted the triumph of having her in his power, the day his knife had cut into her supple skin, just as the machine had torn away that veneer of logic. He had wondered, like a curious child wonders about a sleeping volcano or a seemingly inactive power socket, what might happen if one of the tasteless, bland creatures were forced to … feel. And like a cruel child he had begun to tear the feathers off his pretty captured bird, shattered its wings, cracked its frail bones one by one.

Poisoner of wells. An ancient invective, none a follower of Surak would use in their right mind, for it implied more than mere hatred for an enemy. Hate and fury, passions that could change as quickly as the Vulcan heart beat, and the foe you battled so cheerfully today might be your ally tomorrow. But the poisoner could not be forgiven, would be despised and shunned, not even granted the sword but forced to drink of the water that would be his death. Drink, to the very last, bitter drop.

Itsak was beginning to taste the bitterness of a victory won at too great a price.

Anger he had expected, arrogance, and in the end, fear and despair. Had reveled in the thought of the aristocratic face wet with tears, to hear that level, melodious voice falter as she begged for her life. And had been stunned by the sheer heat of her fury. Amazed, and at long last, impressed. Enchanted.

But it had not resurfaced, only sunk as if to the bottom of the fiery mountain, simmering in the impenetrable depth. No, he was no longer expecting to break that stubborn will, to ever hear those sensual lips utter a plea. Too many times had he been on the brink of taking that last, irrevocable step, snap the slender neck under his hand, drive the sharp blade into her side. Every time her eyes had dared him to do it, every time that proud face had lifted to defy him, no matter what he had done to her.

She was sleeping, sleeping at last. Unable to deny a beaten, battered body driven to exhaustion the rest it needed any longer, she had stretched out under the silks and it was the one, the only time he ever saw the lithe, slender body devoid of tension. Even her face was different, softer, but distant. So distant, he wanted to reach out and cup it in his hands, demand to see what it was that could bring about this expression, demand that she look at him this way …

He dared not stir, not even to reach out and pull the shimmering silk over her bare shoulder, outlined in dim silver against the starlight that filtered through the window. So close, he could feel the heat radiating off her skin like the desert soil breathes warmth long after night has fallen. But he knew the lightest touch would be enough to wake her, make the dreamy, almost tender shadow over her face disappear.

In the utter silence of his quarters, Itsak clenched his hand into a fist. The desire to pull her close, make that warm, supple body mold against him, bury his face against the neck marred by his own knife … it was overwhelming, and it was futile. Oh, she would not fight, scratch, bite. She never did.

Only locked herself somewhere deep, defying him with a body that did not resist and still refused to yield. Refused to give but a second of what he had realized he wanted.

I know what you want …

A voice as silk and velvet, melancholy, almost gentle were it not for the steel beneath. She had told him, that first day, even as his blade cut lines of emerald over her steadily moving chest.

And what is it I want, lady Vulcan?

She had known, even before he did, and denied him ever since. What he hadn’t done to see at least the fury again, hear her curse his name, something, anything that told him he held sway over even the tiniest part of her soul, could hurt her, make her feel, feel … anything.

If only she would fight, snarl, throw things at him, destroy his quarters and dig those pearly teeth into his hands, kick with all the surprising strength in those long runner’s legs … he could laugh and shout back, struggle and argue, revel in the heat of her anger and seek a million ways to soothe it.

I know what you want…

One part, only one part of her soul that was locked away in a fortress nothing could breach, and if it was the one that hated him. He yearned for it as a man dying in the desert prays for water.

…

A human speaking of the thin line between love and hate will only be met by calm, uncomprehending gazes on Vulcan. For to those born under Nevasa’s merciless light, the metaphor is severely lacking in accuracy. There is no line. There is a gulf, a canyon, an ocean, too wide to cross in anyone’s lifetime. No, if anything, they are one and the same. Not even sisters, or twins, but threads so entangled and interwoven none can separate them without destroying both. And between them there is no line - only the cruel edge of a blade; so fine you will not know it cut you until your blood runs into the sands.

When one points out the seeming contradiction, it will likely be met with more puzzlement.

Vulcans have always loved their enemies, though not precisely in the way a gentle man who walked a distant planet, a different desert, had suggested. But with the fierce, untamable enthusiasm of one roused to feel one’s own heart beating, drink the air as if it were life itself. How can you not love the one who makes your blood run faster, makes you taste the sweetness of fury, lets you be alive … what does it matter who dies, who lives to hate and love another day? There is no contradiction in mourning a hated enemy. Nor in love that kills.

…

Your sire was negligent, Vaek’Riov.

I will not debate that, lady Vulcan. But you did not merely say that to raise my ire and make me kill you. Because you know I won’t. Not yet.

Quite so.

Never his name. Not once had she spoken it, not even in anger.

Outside the window a Warbird gracefully tipped over one wing, a silent dance in the eternal night. Once he had believed it would soothe the unceasing pain, the sharp blade tearing at his heart to defy them all, become by struggle and merit that which others had thrown at their feet from birth. But it hadn’t. Oh, there was a sweetness to power, a satisfaction to staring at those who looked down their noses at the half breed with the knowledge they would not dare speak disrespectfully in his presence. Or at least, not do so and expect to live.

But at the end of the day, there was always the emptiness, the unfulfilled promise. The cold, hollow void that nothing could fill, until in the end there was only the spark of hatred left to keep a living, beating heart from freezing. Until you turned to that hate and vengeance like one turns to a flame at night, cold and lonely in the dark. Until every flame became hate, had to be hate, for nothing else had ever kept you warm. But one thing about staring into the fire too long is that it can make you blind to other light.

Shiarrael. Everything he could have ever desired, she had been given … and thrown it away, with both hands. Not thrown, hurtled, kicked, dashed, shattered. Stubborn, infuriating, ungrateful, selfish Shiarrael. He had nearly convinced himself she deserved his hatred as much, if not more than anyone else. Then why was it that in his mind he kept seeing the innocent infant with eyes like his own, dozing peacefully in her mother’s arms; the willful, indomitable child that made him laugh against his will, defended him so angrily against his grandfather; even the defiant, angry creature drenched and bloodied after one of her illegal Kormerek matches… and could not hold on to the hate, felt it slip away like mist before the sun.

Even her. Shiarrael’s Vulcan. Twice the despicable creature, born of a race that reveled in their perceived superiority, cast away all feeling and believed it gave them the right to treat others as if they were just as heartless. A fool could see the finely chiseled features of a noble born, the perfect, elegant mannerisms of one raised to more than play lapdog to a disgraced Rihanha commanding a pitiful excuse for a starship. And yet it was obvious she had done just that, run away just like her Commander, selfishly abandoning her heritage to do as she pleased.

No. I want my OWN life. You don’t understand!

Because I am half Vulcan?

No- not because of that- it’s because you’ve never been imprisoned by expectation!

Expectation? I envy that, Shiarrael…

Two birds, fleeing what they perceived as cages, seeing the kindred spirit in the other? Or merely two stubborn creatures out to bend the universe itself to their will, arrogant and never caring about the hurt they left in their wake? Itsak was no longer sure he knew.

The scent he remembered so well was clinging to her again, warm, exotic, whispering of cloudless skies and air so clear, so sharp it cuts like a blade. Shadows, deep and rich as velvet, and a hidden spring in the hills, sweet and clear … rose petals, floating on the surface. He could see it, felt as if he had but to reach out to trace the thorny little flower clinging to life among the rocks and sand, the rich, vibrant blossom … like a memory, only he had never set foot on the dry, inhospitable planet where this rose grew, and it was not his hand reaching into the water. Nor hers, or his father’s.

He obviously failed to convey even the fundamental … aspects of your heritage.

Obviously.

Without him even noticing, his fist had opened and he was letting his fingertips graze over the mass of sable curls, the luxuriant abundance spilling over the pillow, the silks. Shimmering black against the pale aquamarine, bathed in starlight. He didn’t reach for the finely tapered ear, the smooth temples, the graceful curve of her spine disappearing under the fine spun cover.

Asleep. Still asleep. But it seemed as if he were the one dreaming.

A smile. Oh so fleeting, he might as well have imagined it. With her face turned away, towards the star dotted darkness, it was easy to believe in a trick of light … but he was sure. Sure that for an instant he had seen the face she had showed her lover, the Vulcan he had slain … or had he?

Once more Itsak resisted the impulse to grab her, shake her, force her to tell him, let him see what was hidden at the bottom of the well, beneath the barrier of those luminous black eyes. Break the magical moment, the stolen time, the silence. Dare one last desperate assault at the fortress of her heart, her soul, the secret hidden away from prying eyes. And then he nearly laughed, low and bitter, his fist buried in the fragrant tresses.

She would not surrender. Like the flower after the storm, again and again she rose and turned her eyes to the sun. It had sealed his defeat. And if only for one heartbeat he believed she would forgive, Itsak would lay his sword at her feet like the warlords in the old stories and await death … or life. Either would be welcome.

Poisoner of wells. By his own hand, the water that could have been redemption, deliverance, hope … had turned bitter and foul.

Nothing left.

Nothing but vengeance, and even that flame had turned to ashes.

The shriek of the comm rang so loudly into the silence, he cursed and his head snapped up, but his piercing gaze only found empty air to bore into “Fvah’lla!”

Hanaj’s smooth, unperturbed voice answered, with barely a hint of smug satisfaction “The test was successful, Rekkhai. We are ready to depart within the hour.”

“Good. I will be there shortly.”

One hour, and even this fleeting dream would be no more.

Not that it had ever been more than a dream.

Dark, dark eyes settled on him and he could not even summon the razor sharp smile of triumph, take pleasure in telling her it was her world which would die soon. Only one last flame was burning, one pitiful glimmer in the dark, and he turned to it with relentless determination. “It was not him, was it. The thaessu. I should have known.”

No answer, only that unnaturally silent gaze, fierce like the sun beating down on a dead, empty desert. He grabbed her by the throat, pinned her onto the bed, murderous fury in his eyes. “Who!”

And if he had to search Charon himself, every deck, every corridor, every dark hideout, he would find and kill him. Kill the rival who had seen beneath the fortress walls, had been granted that smile; but not before he had made him suffer.

“Who!”

For the first time in what had seemed forever, she spoke. The same words she had said to him the first time they'd met, that night on I'Rak Prime, and the memory cut his heart like white-hot steel. “An order, Vaek’Riov?”

Amazing, even now her musical voice was still the same, rich and resonant, water and velvet, the low, deep ringing of a bronze gong. “Klee-fah.”

Virtus, Non Copia Vincint ~ Part I

Vengeance is mine; I will repay.

(Anna Karenina)

[IRW Endless Sky, Leih’s quarters]

The raven haired Vulcan stood by the window as it seemed to have become her habit, gazing at the fires shining in the endless night. The dark emerald dress clung to her figure like blood spilled at midnight and then frozen in time, yet another of the lavish gifts the Vaek’Riov saw fit to spill into his captive’s lap.

Forged of blood and steel and fire...

A silent echo, and yet her very being seemed to vibrate with it, a roaring storm raging within the confines of a still, almost peaceful body. Her palms pressed against the cold metal, ah, cold as ice, under her feverish hands.

Before the glittering sands become the blade, they must burn. Burn and flow, yield to the fires that shape it...

Weak. Helpless. Once, the mere idea would have had her snorting with anger. Now, she almost had to stop herself from laughing.

I remember.

What a difference, to yield and remain unbroken, or to struggle against that which you cannot defeat until you shattered.

No, she was far, far from helpless.

If there truly were any of those listening devices that poor Yyaio had been so concerned about, someone would be surprised indeed to hear a Vulcan’s low, gentle laugh ringing in the silent quarters.

…

They said that those wild, untamed barbarians could live through Sandfire itself, becoming one with the desert which should be their death. Learning to endure pain that was part of their every breath, coming to cherish it for proof that you still lived … it was said they found pleasure in it, pleasure akin to ecstasy.

When the desert’s rage is upon you, you cannot fight. It will win, always.

But sometimes, just sometimes you can endure, accepting the force of nature, embracing it despite your fear.

Sometimes, the only way to live is … to yield.

…

So often she had read the words, marveled at the story. Never had she seen the inherent humor. How different the ancient tale might have played out, had her ancient foremother not been what she was, how different this might be … would be an interesting matter to ponder another time.

Slow, much too slow, the way her aching limbs moved, but the steel forged in Sas-a-Shar has always been prized for its endurance. Ironically, even by the very people whose skilled hands had crafted this ship, the daggers her once more cold but steady fingers removed from the wall. So much in fact, they let one of its finest examples rest on its very own chair in their chambers of power, revered as a thing not only beautiful and ancient, but in possession of its very own … soul. How close they were to the truth, the Vulcan doubted many knew.

Barefoot and shivering she stood on the soft carpet, forcing her roiling thoughts to become a calm, steady river … only a little while, only a little longer. Oh, she knew the nature of her fever by now and once more the sheer irony nearly prompted another laugh. Well and so, there were but two ways to solve this, and while the first would not do, and the other ...

There was no doubt in her mind that her s'thora would come for her. A certainty as unshakable as Seleya herself, as simple a fact as the eternal dance of atoms. And Charon's crew might even arrive in time to save her. She hoped at least it would not be too late for her s'thora to take her Katra into her hands - and take it home. But even if it was not to be, … she knew her soul to be at peace. Under all the torment and agony, all the fury and grief, that which mattered looked back and smiled. It was enough.

Never is a Vulcan more dangerous than when she is perfectly at peace. And that, too, is no contradiction whatsoever to those few … who know.

The faint smile still playing over her lips, the Vulcan tilted her head at the desk and gently sat down the daggers on the polished surface. Of the three days Yyaio had asked, only two had passed but there simply was no more time … like the wanderer in the desert knows the soft footfall of the Le-Matya, she knew the danger drawing close, the predator breathing, tensing for the jump.

Increased security hardly stopped a determined one, and in the end, all she truly needed was a glimpse, a way to speak to someone who might or might not hear … the screen blinked under her fingers and something … someone… was there.

“Khar-esh’on.”

Soft, quiet, a word that would make little enough sense to any listener, spoken in the lilting, liquid cadence of Nel-Gathelkh Golic. Wise one. Savant. If she was listening, she would know.

The pause of silence was long enough to make Sakarra wonder if perhaps she was too optimistic, but a clicking sound registered at the extremes of her hearing - the room's speaker system activating with no information being fed to them. The Vulcan held her breath, as if making any more noise than that would disturb the events to follow.

Savants' voice was wrong - synthesized, distorted, clearly electronic. The tuning-fork hum that normally accompanied her words rippled and split. "Set of all parameters 15 sub 6. New Pend class Valit ehre'mentat aur min sava Tet min sava Auren almad-*kssssskkkk*-ender class Local dsub variance 29 link Main, lin-*ksssskkkk*-aoj miQand net ajaQ a-*kssssskkkk*-substantiate local binding 212, parse audio stream, parse visual, parse recurse pend pend launch-"

Sakarra's ears popped as the local holography network was roughly seized from its normal handling routines and forced into new tasks. Misfiring projectors filled the room with sparkling multicoloured flecks of light, a shattered rainbow hung suspended in the air. The speakers in the room hummed a soft sonorous wine-glass hum, with a quiet bass thump, an anticipatory beat, waiting to be unleashed. Was this showmanship, or was there some reason for this display?

The specks of light flitted and twisted as holographic projectors came online, pulling tight into a Savant-like halo. She was a spectral wraith within the bluish storm of light, the flush of her cheeks a luminescent pink, her charcoal black Starfleet uniform an inky shadow at the core of the column, splayed out in wavy snaking tendrils from her hair. Ethereal and with a faerie's unearthliness, the hologram smiled a broad, sly smile, full of mischief and barely-suppressed glee. Her words were sang in time with the pulsing of light and sound about her. "Welcome to the show, let's move up to the dance floor."

The Vulcan blinked – and blinked again.

“Fascinating.”

And since right here, right now, it hardly seemed to matter whether she did or not, returned the avatar’s smile with a gentle one of her own though she could not stop a slanted brow from climbing by a considerable margin.

“Dance floor?”

Logically, Savant was employing a metaphor, though one the Vulcan was unfamiliar with. Still, the obvious glee added to the fact she was indeed here made it not too difficult to draw a likely parallel. “It is most gratifying to see you, Savant. May I assume your control of systems is sufficient to prevent undesirable … observation, as it were?”

Savant was here all right, that much was obvious. But was it still her? Something seemed off. Probably because she was incapable of intelligible speech. She was speaking in verse, as if the ship was a club that was in desperate need of entertainment. "Get ready for the sound, rock the ship from the stern to the shore - They can't hear us yet, they don't have a clue - Party's gonna start with just me and you, yeah - we'll rock the boat, gonna give'm some more -"

Melody. Rhythm. The words were a classic example of non sequitur, at least until the Vulcan stopped blinking and rearranged her thoughts. No small feat in her current condition, though the bit of musical talent she had inherited stood her in good stead as she repeated Savant’s words in her mind. Of course. The AI was … going back to basics, in a sense. Why she had chosen this particular phonetic pattern was interesting all in itself, however … this was yet another fascinating development which unfortunately she had no time to ponder at leisure.

“Understood.”

Though one should hope ‘rocking’ said boat was not to be taken too literally.

Party. They had to determine a logical course of action. Unfortunately, the only action the Vulcan’s blood was screaming for involved rather straightforward means of laying waste to anything in her path. And bit by bit, ancient instincts gained ground, overruled the stubborn will set against them, until reason, logic, even simple thought would shatter under the all consuming heat …

Not yet. Not. Yet.

“The Vaek’Riov has been informed that the virus is ready to be deployed.” With slow but fluid movements speaking of both much practice and no small amount of reluctance, the Vulcan picked up the daggers and weighed them in her hands, remembering a small, incredibly fast male dancing on desert sands. Yes, like … this.

“Unfortunately I have no knowledge of where the weapon is kept, nor does it seem logical to attempt a rescue of the few surviving Vulcans on board. Might it be possible …”

The shudder running through the great ship was all a pilot needed to tell her that powerful engines had sprung to life, and indeed a mere second later the Warbird’s massive beak turned. Turned towards … even from an angle, the sight was breathtaking.

Virtus, Non Copia Vincint ~ Part II

[IRW Endless Sky, Leih’s quarters]

Using what was left of the proud, sleek shape that had been Temep`Shar and the massive amounts of power generated by the Starbase, a sparkling sapphire beam lanced out from the battered Vulcan ship’s belly. The shockwave sent another series of shudders through the Endless Sky, but it merely accelerated, a warhorse stomping and snorting through the river that separates it from the foe, paying no heed to the annoying currents tugging at its powerful legs.

For a small eternity it almost seemed they would fail, that the amaranth hull would shatter under the stress, the ‘Gateway’ come apart as space itself seemed to twist and groan, hurl angry blue sparks at the insolent creatures ramming a spear into it. But few races take as much pride in their craftsmanship than the one that had built Temep`Shar and the ship prevailed, shedding hull fragments and losing entire decks as support beams buckled like reeds under the storm. In a blaze of blinding diamond and sapphire light, a maelstrom of colours formed, settling into a deep well of midnight blue and scattered diamonds reflecting ocean water.

Out of time.

She didn’t see the tractor beam latching on to the remnants of the Vulcan ship, barely even felt the shudder as the Warbird crossed the event horizon. Difficult as it had been, the Vulcan had torn her eyes away from the truly mesmerizing sight and gripped the daggers, making for the door.

Home. One way or another.

“The dance, as you put it, seems to have begun.”

Savants' voice had an electronica hum to it as the hologram bobbed upwards, dissolving into a miniature replica of the coalescing light beyond the hull. Releasing her weak bindings on the local holography network, she parted with a quip, "We're ready to dance, now the time is right - they won't even get a warning light - Time to get on up to the floor-"

“Indeed.”

Even in her current state, the Vulcan could not help but appreciate the ever cheerful AI and her apparently unquenchable optimism. Though one might safely assume Savant had little idea, especially now, precisely why the saying ‘Vulcans don’t dance’ should have the words ‘any more’ attached to it. For when they do, inevitably, one of two things will happen in short order and neither involves any type of logic but the one which is written in emerald blood.

Quirking a velvety black brow at the inherent irony, if not the universe’s once more proven sense of humour, she was hardly surprised the doors opened on her approach – nor that the two naval security officers stationed outside were woefully unprepared.

[IRW Endless Sky's Computer Network]

Savants' position on Endless Sky was a lot more delicate than it appeared. She had few clock cycles to work with, and this was a terrible state to be in. It isn't a case of a potter not having enough clay - no, it was far worse. No metaphor could adequately describe the problems of an AI with too few computing resources. Not only could Savant not formulate her usual models and plans, she couldn't even think of them. Quite literally, Savants' ability to act was hampered in ways that she couldn't comprehend right now.

She had gone feral, and knew it. Within her code lay a dormant seed of her higher functionality, but she had stored them away unused - she simply hadn't the processing time to bring them to bear. Instead she had modified her code to amplify her instincts and maintained a few simple goals. She would rely on her superior speed and the surprise of a sentient computer program prowling in the computers' midst. Higher cognitive functions would have to wait.

The orders were issued, and Sakarra was in motion. She unleashed herself upon the monolithic architecture of the Romulan computer network, expanding her software like gleaming talons into the surrounding software, pulling away clock time and storage space with the same motions. Small things first - personal logs and secondary monitoring systems. Things that would only be noticed in a few minutes; an eternity of time for her to work with. Enough to bootstrap her mind back online. Enough to bring the terrible weight of her capacity to this place, to sunder the computer from the inside out and make it her own dominion instead. Just a few minutes.

For Sakarra, however, a few minutes wasn't nearly as generous an amount of time.

[IRW Endless Sky, corridor not far from the bridge. Or very far. Everything is … relative.]

They had not been told a prisoner was loose, and most certainly not that it was a thaessu with Kalen. How she had gotten a hold of those finely crafted daggers was anyone’s guess, though if any of the people unfortunate enough to cross her path had taken a closer look and thought about it for a moment, the black hair, shimmering like an inky river under the stars, the provocative blood-green silk dress and the incredibly dark eyes might have given them a vital hint. As it was, they were rather … busy.

Having been thrown into a bulkhead by a girl who could not only be his granddaughter by the looks of her, but seemed much too frail, not to mention injured, to achieve a feat like that, the senior centurion shook his head to make the ringing in his ears stop. Before he could pick himself off the floor he saw a young Arrain try and take a shot at the girl but with a rather impressive twist of her hip she simply sidestepped the green beam. It was the last the poor male would ever fire.

Certain that she was coming to finish him off, the graying man tugged at his own blade, his disruptor somewhere among the others littering the emerald stained deck. And then stared at the black eyes looking down at him, mesmerized. Mind-reader. Was she trying to … no. There was none of the pressure that forced mental contact would elicit before, inevitably, his defenses had to crumble under the sheer … heat. It seemed to radiate off the Vulcan, emanate from her skin, her eyes. There are instincts, and there is wisdom gained with age. And he didn’t want to kill the poor child for … well, trying to go after her dishonorable captor, for clearly that was what she intended. Foolishly brave, especially for a thaessu. Touching, even.

“Come on, girl. Finish it.”

For a split second, something seemed to keep the flames roaring in those eyes at bay, but he had no time to ponder the meaning of it before a small, slender hand dropped the dagger and closed on his shoulder. He didn’t even have time to chuckle when the last words he heard before unconsciousness took him were the same S’Task had spoken to his Orion captors so long ago.

Nash-veh Vuhlkansu - pontal na’sochya.

Considering what same man had done after speaking that sentence, the centurion found the situation both amusing and … fitting. Bred to peace. Yes, that had turned out well, hadn’t it?

[IRW Endless Sky, Bridge]

“Report.”

“The Vulcan ship is destroyed, Rekkhai. The stress of crossing the event horizon has compromised the engineering section.”

“Will the wormhole remain stable?”

The furtive looks of ‘Damned if I know’ as well as the sudden furious tapping at consoles told Itsak they were quite worried it might not. But even as amaranth wreck pieces tumbled away under the massive Warbird’s belly, the eerie blue glow of the blue tunnel they were traversing remained … steady. For a given measure of steady, as energy flickered and sparked, sapphires and diamonds seemed to twirl as in a child’s toy, fracturing light. Here and there, the tunnel seemed to bulge as if an angry wraith tried to reach inside the abomination daring to defy nature, but inside the madly twisting maelstrom it seemed almost quiet.

“Indications are, it will, Rekkhai. At least … long enough.”

“Wishful thinking, Hanaj?” With a malicious, razor sharp smile, the man seated in the command throne studied his second. The die were cast. From here on out, it was up to the Elements.

“Charon?”

“Still closing, Rekkhai.”

What an annoying little nei’rrh, that federation ship. Well, perhaps his dear cousin had taught those spineless creatures a thing or two about perseverance. It was almost a shame to destroy the ugly thing, for at least its spirit was something one could respect. “Wait until they are in optimal firing range, then fire a full spread.”

“Inside the … ie, Rekkhai. Torpedoes loaded and ready.”

With everyone’s attention fixed on either their work stations or the marvel on the viewscreen, barely any attention was paid to the opening of doors. Barely, but enough. Shouts of surprise and a sudden gurgling sound made Itsak turn just in time to see one of his security officers collapse at the feet of …

“Klee-fah, tr`Sahen. Kah-if-fee.”

Magnificent. And quite stunning in the real sense of the word, since it took his bridge crew almost an entire second to shake off their stupor.

It is challenged?

The first beams tore through the air before he could so much as shout an order but he need not have worried for she sidestepped them with feline grace, advancing on him with his own Kalen. The daggers he had gifted her.

This. Ah, Elements, what passion. One small Vulcan against the entire bridge complement and she seemed disappointed they were not many more. This was what he had thought he had caught a mere glimpse of, and now saw unleashed, all the ancient glory in one tiny, bleeding woman’s eyes, the thaessu beating heart. And they were going to kill her.

“No!”

They did not hear. Not his frantic order, not the announcement of the tactical officer that Charon was in firing range. Resorting to bladed weapons in close range, everyone not watching with surprise, interest, excitement or plain annoyance closed in on the Vulcan and they fell like leaves before the storm.

Who had taught her to wield them like that? How …?

“Hna’h!” The last person on the bridge keeping his head, Hanaj snarled at the angry tactical officer and the torpedoes launched, streaming towards the suddenly so very frail looking, battered Federation ship.

One nuisance dealt with. Now, for the other.

Pulling his disruptor, Hanaj took careful aim.

More than once the Vulcan had silently been grateful that it was not only the blood of an ancient Matriarch’s daughter that flowed in her veins. Admittedly, she had cursed the Warlord’s heritage just as many times; but the uncanny ability to hone in on important things even in the most heated battle, even under the most dire circumstances, was one of the traits he had passed on to his descendants; one which she had ample reason to be grateful for.

Charon.

Viewscreen.

Torpedoes.

There was vengeance. And then there were ... more important things.

She barely felt the beam scorch her luxurious and by now truly annoying dress when her sudden, unexpected change in direction saved her. All she saw was the tactical station and the glowing lights, and the swords that stood in her way. Her mind slipping away under the maddening fever, that fever screaming for blood and more blood, insatiable and turning her eyes into living flame; to be extinguished only in a river, an ocean of emerald, she clung to those last fragments of conscious thought and leapt like the Le-Matya ready to sink her teeth into a rival’s neck. Twisting in mid-air she seemed to defy gravity, pay no mind to the razor sharp blade cutting a swath across her torso. And devastated everything in her path.

Her last thought before the tactical officer crumpled to the floor and her fist neatly shattered the console was that Sovar would have been proud – she had never quite mastered this rather desperate maneuver before.

Somewhere behind the Endless Sky, a dozen torpedoes ignited in a fury of flame and light, the shockwave rocking a badly battered silver shape that had been racing towards them, defying certain death. Death that had been … postponed. For now. If they wondered why the torpedoes had unleashed their massive potential long before even touching their shields … at least they were alive to wonder.

Virtus, Non Copia Vincint ~ Part III

[IRW Endless Sky, Computers]

Click.

Another processing node cleared out, Savants' software installed. It could fit two registers. Once, it was responsible for traffic control in the local internal communication substation. Now that space had been retasked to a new purpose, one decidedly at odds with the ships' general health and well-being.

Click.

Two more, both in the main computer bank. They were beyond the security firewall, and had the precious bonus of being within an FTL-sheathe. Savant swelled, and handshook the adjoining nodes in the network.

Click.

Engineering's computers surrendered four of their processing points. The Chief Engineer wasn't going to be making any more duty logs for awhile. As Savant saw it, he really didn't need to worry about that much longer.

Click.

Savant could finally start to think clearly again. As more of the Romulan network fell and more of her registers came online, she was able to decompress her core functions further and further. The insatiable lust for processing time abated somewhat - her hunger was still burgeoning, but finally she could think of something else between bites.

Click.

With a few hot spots in the environmental processors giving way, Savant was able to return the Yyaio processes back to their original task, and did so. She no longer needed them for her interference tasks, and could let them get on with operating the android. Somewhere in the ship, reflective blue eyes opened, and the pallor of death slipped away from the one who was never actually alive.

Click.

A medical officer, stunned in the middle of his autopsy of the dead Vulcan aide, had the time to react as Yyaio's sluggish muscles came back online. He was even more stunned when the knife plunged into her bare breast didn't affect her. He was not surprised by anything else after that point.

Click.

An entire processing bus in the computer core. She had found internal sensors and ran through a sweep of the ship. The security-obsessed Romulans made it too easy to catalogue where everyone and everything was. If she had a mouth, and the human emotion to drive it, she would have smiled.

Click.

[IRW Endless Sky, Bridge]

Torpedoes. Ya-ie’yakk. Hold.

Even with her recent studies it was not all that easy to decipher the script flashing on the various consoles. And while the fact she was not only hanging on to conscious thought by a thread but also was continuously distracted by irritated Rihannsu wishing to wipe the insolent intruder out of existence could have been counted as mitigating circumstances, in the Vulcan’s way of thinking that was a reason but no excuse. She should be able to … able to … there. Forward tubes.

The exquisite daggers were coated in emerald, and with the gleam of pure, furious delight in her black eyes it gave the young woman an almost feral air, a playful tiger cub taking on the angry elephant preparing to trample it. This time it was in fact the furious security officer who saved her, forcing the lithe, slender body to spin away from a well aimed blade that would have carved her in two a mere split second later.

Hanaj snarled as his disruptor bolt scored the hard bulkhead of the lift doors instead of lancing through the Vulcan's frail torso. He wasn't about to be bested by some gutless Susse-thrai. If she survived, he'd make sure she put those dancing talents of hers to better use than dodging weapon fire. The Romulan took aim again, and had no intention of missing this time.

But as his finger squeezed down on the trigger, a gridlike deck plate hurtled up from the floor and slammed into his arm, sending his shot into the ceiling. A pale hand wrapped viselike around his leg at the same time, yanking him to the ground. The pale, green-smeared, naked wraith that rose up from the ground like the living dead seemed wreathed in a black halo and a nimbus of static and ozone. Her blue eyes gleamed with the reflection of his stunned and increasingly horrified face as their gazes met.

He pushed himself away from her as she crawled overtop of him, the both of them half hidden behind the tactical dais. "But - but - you're dead! I saw you!" The knife buried in her chest, green-clear ichor dripping from the polished handle, was a violent punctuation to his shocked retort. "Nam-tor tevahk ri'pehkatya", she hissed, her mouth unmoving. Death is no deterrent - at least not for an immortal.

If the melodious cadence of clearly accented, elegant Golic in a faint Xial accent had not torn the Vulcan out of her emerald haze of rage, the shudders running through the great ship might have. And if neither had sufficed, the sudden weight and exhilaration, the overwhelming noise and utter silence of billions of minds humming in their eternal, soundless tune … would have.

Home.

There was no need, none whatsoever, to look at the viewscreen and see the ruddy, massive globe turning in the velvety night. No need to gaze at the sharp outline of Nal’Shin, the brilliant amethyst of Thanar’s waves shining under a merciless sun to know they had emerged, come to the end of their journey.

Home.

It sang in every fiber of her being, called to her, pulled with a gravity that made mere natural forces seem pale and inconsequential.

Home.

Recognition. Welcome.

Awareness going beyond the metaphysical, the spiritual, following the circle back to simple, plain understanding. The migratory bird cares not for the realms of the philosopher when it follows the call, spreading its wings to seek the place of its birth. It knows.

Home.

Rihannsu are known to be fiercely territorial, to defend, fight, claw and bite worse than any animal known to the galaxy when they see their realm threatened. What they occasionally tend to forget is to what ancestry they owe this trait.

If the Vulcan had been like a small storm shaking the leaves before, she was a force of nature now, uprooting trees and entire houses as she cut down any who dared cross her path. Some time soon, she would have to pay the price for her fury, for forcing her hurting, battered body beyond the limits of endurance and then demanding more. For a race who takes pride in their ability to subject the physical to the mind, who can master pain, exertion, even emotions by sheer force of will, who can stop their hearts or sink into the deepest of trances with a single thought making it so, the instances when a Vulcan will truly use such abilities to their full extent are surprisingly few. Many may live out long lives without ever feeling the need.

The one storming into the midst of no less furious Rihannsu, an ancient battle cry tearing from her lips, was finding she was pushing even that limit.

“Yyaio! The torpedoes! Two forward tubes!”

But the crew was too well trained to not have rerouted control to an auxiliary station moments ago. When the great ship shook again under the impact of … phaser fire? The first torpedo had already been launched.

Bleeding from countless wounds and with the stench of her own burnt skin searing her nose, the Vulcan did not slow down, merely made one more, desperate effort to reach the Rihanha she had identified as the one manning the secondary tactical station. At the periphery of her vision, a shouting Vaek’Riov stormed into the melee, and something that could have emerged right from an ancient story about eaters of souls and spirits of the dead rising out the desert sands crushed a struggling officer against a console before resuming her near leisurely stroll across the bridge.

The second torpedo was not launched, not yet. And it would not be for several more, precious seconds as the lifeless woman collapsed at the Vulcan’s feet before her fingertips could reach the console’s shimmering surface.

It would have to be enough.

Even as one of the many disruptor beams finally found its target, throwing her body into agonies surpassing even her inherent ability to accept, make it into that churning current that drowned the pain, the raven haired woman smiled. And before her world went dark, she saw it was none other than the hated one with his clear, aquiline features and the finely tapered ears who had tried to spare her, forced the shooter off his feet so that the beam had merely torn across her back instead of hitting and killing her outright. It had only delayed the inevitable for certain, but behind his contorted features, the lips moving in a shout that no longer reached her ears, she could see the massive, proud, and oh so familiar shape coast towards them on the viewscreen. Seleya.

Emerald blood gushing from her in an unstoppable river she fell to the deck, and the last sound she made was a low, melodious laugh.

…

Seconds. Eternities, each filled with innumerable agonies, tearing at his heart with razor sharp claws.

Even before the limp, bleeding body hit the deck, Itsak was there, catching her lifeless form, cradling her in his arms. His heart furiously denying what every sense told him to be true, that life was draining from her too fast to save her, he pulled the motionless woman to his chest, ran his hand through the wild mane of so surprisingly soft curls, cupped her face as if merely shaking her would be enough … enough to wake her, make her look at him with those deep, black pools. He imagined the light of defiance returning to them, imagined those sensual lips curling in the smile he had seen and that had made his heart leap like a raptor taking flight – fierce, radiant, carrying with it the knowledge that she had won.

Undefeated to the bitter end.

The mayhem on the bridge had hardly ceased, but Itsak paid is as much heed as he paid the frantic shouts for orders. Her blood drenched his sleeve, soaked his uniform.

Cold, so cold, like marble under his fingertips, the skin that had always radiated such heat, like it was made from silk and fire. He murmured her name, traced the finely slanted brows, the high cheekbones.

“I am not fond of your people. I should have been more respectful towards you- but I’m sure you understand that we are a passionate people. Though, being amongst my cousin has likely made you well aware of this- she’s always been quite…difficult. So, forgive me, I was out of line.”

Dimly lit quarters, the scent of gespar candles. An exquisite beauty perched on a meditation pillow, watching him with dark, unreadable eyes.

“Passionate? Yes, I believe the word is apt.”

How he had ached to pull her into his arms even then, shake that perfect composure, see the elegant features light with that passion. How could he have been so foolish to think it was only her pain he wanted?

“As you wish, Itsak tr’Sahen. Your courtesy is nonetheless appreciated. If we should indeed meet again, I will remember it.”

Like a clear mountain stream, like the ringing of silver bells, the voice that had never ceased to haunt him. A voice that seemed to sing even when it merely flowed evenly as evening winds.

“We will meet again.”

No breath warmed his fingers as he traced her soft lips, no rapid, fierce heartbeat thundered in her side even as he felt his own heart falter, shatter, tear apart with a violence that would have made him roar with pain had he not been stunned with the sudden overwhelming emptiness, the dark and cold echoing in his very soul.

The bleeding had stopped, her hot blood already beginning to cool on his arm, his chest. He knew what it meant, and still did not want to believe. Could not bring himself to believe.

Llaiir u'Rhienn ~ Epilogue

Living never wore one out so much as the effort not to live.

(Anaïs Nin)

[Intensive care unit, University Hospital Te’Rashar, Khomi province]

15th Day in the month of et’Khior, YS 9022

The nurses barely had time to scatter when in a twirl of light an unexpected visitor arrived – with considerable luggage, as it were. Stasis field generators took shape in showers of emerald, and if any of the healers was surprised that Rihannsu transporters were depositing a decidedly Vulcan female in their midst, they hardly gave the matter more than a split second of thought.

Casualties had been coming through their doors since the attack had begun – a trickle at first, overflow from the bombarded areas and the places where massive Warbirds had struck populated areas – but thus far, Khomi largely had remained ... peaceful. And if the Chief Surgeon found that an exquisite irony all in itself, few would have understood the inherent joke. Turning away from the male whose injuries required a watchful eye but little more as he was already mending as well as expected, Kerat gently inserted himself between the healers and nurses beginning to crowd around their new arrival, medical scanners abuzz.

If he were any other race, he might have invoked numerous deities before unleashing a string of exceedingly colorful metaphors. But since he was a Vulcan he did not even sigh, or let any emotion cross his sharp, aquiline features. Though admittedly the state of their new patient would have warranted a wide array of them.

His tan robes rustling softy, Kerat knelt just next to the field generator closest to him and nodded grimly, listening to the nurses’ low murmurs. The surgeon needed no mechanical device to tell him this was a body that had sustained injuries not in one fierce battle but over and over again, had been tended to by pitifully inept medics or patched up barely enough to keep her alive so it may all start again. It was the most recent however that would likely prove the lethal one. Ah, whoever had sent the woman down here was certainly … optimistic about the odds. Or perhaps… oh, my.

“T’Mera. Notify…”

“Ha, Ohassu. Genetic scan confirms.”

No surprise there. Even if the clear, elegant features of the Kir hill clans had not been a good indicator, the people living by Thanar’s endlessly roaring waves had an instinct in recognizing … them.

“Specify the reason for the stasis field.”

“USS Charon and V’Shar report possible danger of a mutagenic virus.”

Shaking his head slowly, the surgeon cast a glance through the high ceilinged window, out across the calm sea. A velvety black dome of sky, already fringed with tones of copper arched over the city, bathing Thanar in hues of deep violet. “The virus is present?”

Pointless to suffer consequences before they befall, but a Healer’s logic tends to fail when it comes to those in their care. If the young one was infected … like a ring of steel closing around his heart, Kerat felt the grief. Acknowledged it, attempted to let it go. And failed, as always.

“Negative, Ohassu. No match with any strands on file by Charon or V’Shar.”

“Remove the field.”

Hope is illogical, or so the more strident of Vulcans like to say. The healer found that statement a blatant disregard of established facts. Hope, sometimes, was everything.

Stubborn, stubborn woman. It was enough to let Kerat experience a split second surge of pride before he continued his relentless efforts to stop the abused, dying body before him from suffering that last, irreversible breakdown. But it was an uphill battle, and he knew it. She was slipping away … fighting, fighting every step of the way, and losing. He barely heard the telltale hum of a planet-based transporter, nor really would have cared if the two people approaching had not obviously been here for his patient.

“Ohassu.”

“Not now.”

“Ohassu.” Sterner, a deep, even baritone that would have sounded perfectly level if not for the timbre a healer hears all too often and knows like the changes of the sea.

Looking up, he saw the woman with the sword across her back and the belly heavy with child, the gleaming terracotta of her uniform stained with soot and blood. The tall, dark male in black and silver, no less disheveled and no less proud in his bearing.

“It is not yet time. She may still live.”

“Yes, ohassu. And you have our gratitude. But if we are to preserve her Katra, we must leave now.”

“She will not release it.”

For the merest heartbeat, the flicker of a melancholy smile seemed to cross the tall, dark one’s features. “You are likely correct. Will you object to our duty?”

Everything Kerat was wanted to yell ‘Yes!’ Everything he believed in made him shake his head and step back, watch as the tall V’Shar touched his wristband and murmured one word before the red shimmer engulfed the three Vulcans. Slowly, silently, the healer’s hands clenched into fists.

[T’Shen monastery, Shi'Al province]

Sihayel could not remember having seen wounds like this in the two centuries since she devoted her life to healing injuries of the body and the soul, though certainly she had seen scars and touched minds that spoke of similar agony. Steady and quiet as a floating whisp of fragrant incense, the healer touched the cool temples, sighing softly at what she found. The young ones had done rightly. There was little time left.

“Se’heik-voh.”

“Ky’orsa-voh, oko-mekh.”

“Ben vahl navun.”

She could sense the grief, the hope, the fear. Knew it all too well. And put it aside.

And then reached… reached … for the spark of life, the mind shrouded in pain. She should not have been surprised at what she found, and was.

Fierce, fierce as Nevasa’s heat beating down on the Forge, fighting, struggling, calling …

They had done rightly. When a Vulcan is in this dire a state, they will cling to life until they can lay their Katra into a trusted one’s hands, and both Vulcans kneeling by the low bed were ne`ki’ne, closer than blood.

All three heard the refusal ringing in their heads as if an A’kweth had risen from the sands to fill the air with its booming, silent voice.

Stubborn, willful child.

Shaking her head slowly, Sihayel retreated. There was no way to force a living Katra to leave if it had no intention to do so.

Unwise.

But then, the young one likely knew, and likely did not care.

All that was left to the healer was aid in any way she could so the fight was not in vain.