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.”