=/\= T'Shen monastery, Shi'Al province =/\=
17th Day in the month of et'Khior, YS 9022
"Now my dear. You could probably get me to let you down, but it would require you knocking me out. And if you did knock me out, you'd have to somehow make sure that I didn't fall on my shoulder... Because while I think you might not mind your own injuries, you do care of mine yes?" He continued on not letting her speak. "And if you don't knock me out I will simply hold onto you until we reach where V'Ley wants us to go. If you make too much trouble, I will have to simply toss you over my shoulder. That would certainly make an amusing end to the poetry, don't you think?" he said casting a glance over at T'Para briefly. "Maybe I'll even give them a few good 'unga bunga's' to help add to the flavor?"
"Poetry?"
"Un-gahv bhun'ghas?"
"Purple Loxodonta?"
"Poetry?"
Surrounded by three Vulcan females in varying states of undress and stared at by all three, the Marine appeared as unperturbed as a Sehlat who had just dragged a tree into the house and shattered every bit of furniture in its path, figuring the prize worth the cost.
But where T'Para was clutching her massive belly, trying terribly hard not to laugh and hurt her ribs, spine and everything else in the vicinity and V'Ley only radiated perfect confusion, Sakarra's black eyes spelled 'Impossible Male' in bright, burning letters.
"An obscure earth dialect, T'Para." Nestled in her mate's arms and to the casual observer perfectly relaxed and compliant, Sakarra's voice was nearly a purr, with an undertone that the half-dressed V'Ket knew all too well. Rarely is the Le-Matya more dangerous than when it blinks lazily and seems not interested in the grazing Jarel at all. Until it suddenly is.
"Implicating a completed Kal-if-fee, or at the least a fair approximation of such. Now, I should appreciate someone elaborating on the 'poetry' issue."
The speed with which V'Ley had shooed her fellow novice out of the baths after he had kindly brought the cleaned and dried clothes was impressive, but her stoic expression when she helped the smiling T'Para into the terracotta uniform was even more so.
"You know Sataf'el the poet, yes?"
"I do. Elaborate."
"There is no need to employ your foremother's tone with me, t'dahsu. He has made … inquiries. And while I cannot say I have seen any … verses yet, there is sufficient evidence to make a reliable prediction."
"I see."
For several long moments, the young woman seemed to consider the new information, as well as the 'knocking out' option presented by her beloved. And then, to T'Para's complete astonishment and the little healer's unfeigned relief … exhaled. Slowly, softly, until she was molding against her mate's broad chest in what could only be interpreted as surrender.
Well, now. Wasn't that something. Whether it had been his logical approach of pointing out his own injury or the fact that as her Companion he had the right to attend in this manner, he had actually set his will against the stubborn one … and prevailed. T'Para filed this observation away as noteworthy indeed and then nearly laughed again when her near sister could not refrain from a wry comment after all. Though there was no mistaking the undercurrent of tenderness and … mischief in the low, musical voice.
"T'sa-veh k'harta'yh, S'haile."
Truly, it was a good thing that even and especially a pregnant V'Ket has impeccable reflexes or the jar that fell from the poor little healer' hands might have shattered on the floor.
"Imagine my surprise when someone tells me that I am going to be made into a poem. Me. A simple farm boy from a world that practically no one knows about unless they're in the Marines," he said still amused at the idea. "And now someone is going to write a poem about when I got so mad I went into a fit of rage. You know most people in Starfleet are going to tell me to seek counseling or lose my temporary commission?" he said as instead of waiting for Sakarra to respond to him, or even her friend he walked out of the door, keeping to underneath the large roof of the buildings as Brent carried his beloved back to the healer's room.
He gently let Sakarra lay down on the stone bench where she had spent most of her time, before he withdrew to sit down next to her. Unable to hold her close anymore he was content to simply hold her hand there before pressing a kiss to the back of her palm.
"Ah, do not fret Brent Warren. In the grand scale to which I suspect the poet is aiming, your part will be but a shining thread. Though I should think a memorable one." Once more resplendent in her V'Ket uniform, T'Para took on a near solemn air as she accepted the small couch pushed close by some solicitous healers. "A believer in the old ways, he is. Though the beauty of his verse is beyond reproach, and even the sternest Kolinahru cannot but be moved by them, there is talk of declaring him V'tosh k'tur. Vulcan without logic. They might as well name him outcast and be done with it, though I think the loss would be near as great as when S'task cut the strings of his lyre to never make it sing again."
Stretching out on the warm stone that was covered in soft Sha'amii blankets and finest silk, heated by unseen pipes to make it the Vulcan epitome of comfort, Sakarra gave a small exhale that was part annoyance, part humor. "And so it would be. I have read his 'Sá'ahriv-dhral' and could find no denial of C'thia in it. Though one may argue his interpretation to be … unorthodox."
A few of the bustling healers seemed inclined to start a philosophical discussion regarding this statement – after all, there are few things a Vulcan enjoys more than to debate until the galaxy's cows come home – but they thought better of it when Sejet settled by the young T'sai to see to the disruptor wound and dispersed, long robes swishing pleasantly over the honey colored stone.
"A counselor, Brent Warren?" the old monk did not look up nor comment on the intimate embrace of hands displayed before his eyes, but rather unfolded and shook out some fine linens before assessing the healing progress of the gruesome wound marring the young Vulcan's back "Is it your belief you require such assistance? Or rather Starfleet's?"
"Well I suppose that is a little reassuring. Only a few lines I suppose that won't do too much for my ego now, will it my dear," he asked Sakarra wondering if he was going to continue to receive that look that she was giving him for carrying him into here instead of letting her walk. He was actually sure that she would stop soon, but it was still good to try and hedge ones bets so to speak. The Vulcan's discussing philosophy were beginning to make his eyes glaze over. He loved classical music and had developed a taste of ancient Earth literature while traveling the stars... But philosophy was still one of the most boring things that he had ever heard of in his life. He was polite though, avoiding the looks that made it clear that he was terribly bored.
When he was asked the question Brent thought about it for a moment. "I believe I need it, and I think when the dust settles enough and people see what happened on the Charon they will insist that I need to see one as well. To say nothing of what my family will think when they learned that I lost my temper out here," he said, really not looking forward to that conversation now that he had thought of it.
Sensing the shift in her Companion's mood as the sailor knows the changing of the tide, the young Vulcan carefully squeezed the hand holding hers. Such a contrast it was, one that rarely failed to amuse her. A farmer's son indeed, with hands that looked able to break a tree in two for all the tenderness she knew them capable of, slightly calloused from routinely handling rifles and fully able to make her small, slender hands disappear entirely in their grasp.
She remembered the first time those arms had wrapped around her waist, pulled her close before she had incurred the engineers' wrath by overloading a power conduit after they had been trapped in a malfunctioning holodeck of all places. Even then, she had been amused how very frail she appeared in comparison to the imposing human – deceptive though such appearances were – and astonished by the gentleness of those muscle-armored arms. Leaping away from the small but impressive explosion he had shielded her from the fragments spraying outward, so unfailingly polite for all that he had just crossed every privacy boundary a Vulcan will grant a colleague.
And even then, she had been unable to not love him for it, at least a little.
"Ah, ken-tor. Your culture does not approve of 'losing temper' as it were?" Sejet spread the salve evenly over the dark, crusted blood and noted the ... reaction, subtle though it was. Truly inconvenient at times, such a heritage. Though the young T'sai bore it well, all things considered.
The abbot's voice was as soothing as the crackling fire, his demeanor as unruffled as if he were debating the merits of Vulcan port to cure a distressed stomach. It did not mean he was unaware of the proverbial 'dust' the marine had mentioned, or the things left unsaid.
[To be continued …]
Lt Cmdr Sakarra Tyrax
Executive Officer
Brevet 1st Lieutenant Brent Warren
Marine Commander
USS Charon
