People living deeply have no fear of death.
(From Anaïs Nin's Diaries)
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 the only result of her barreling out into the corridor, weak as she was and armed with 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 anxiousness. 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 playful laughs and spraying water, of an ocean blue gaze filled with mischief and love; gentle, attentive … until it turned dark, dark like a gathering storm that charged the air…
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 lavender 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 …
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 for a mere second in such distress, to reach for that one mind that was tied to you by invisible strings. The compass by which she had fixed her heart, and the one for whom her soul called even when it was at peace. But how fierce the longing had to be, if it could have broken through all the barriers, all the shields she had built around herself to spare him, spare herself the hurt …
Could it be?
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.
…
