=/\= Sas-a-Shar (The Forge), T'Karath Sanctuary =/\=
8th Day in the month of T'lakht, YS 9022
"Yes. Fantastic. Instead of having all of your internal organs failing you within a week you'll have one or two left to help you limp along for another week," he replied dryly. He stopped there though, assuming that he would soon be given a Look if he argued the point any more. She was right about his belt though, she could use it and have minimal effect on her. "Do you really want to come with me," he asked her. He had to admit that he didn't like the idea of being away from her for what would probably be a month long visit back home. The more he thought about it, the more he began to like the idea. The damnable part was he was certain that she could tell.
Tell Sakarra could indeed and though she should have taken his slow warming to the idea as a simple reaction to her logically pointing out the facts, she knew her beloved somewhat better than that by now. While capable of astounding leaps of reason and logic, in this case he was following … C'thia. The simplest of truths, that while he was worried about her he would not stop her from giving him what they both needed. Time to relearn each other, to heal, instead of another separation that at this point would likely be painful. Time … in the delight of home for him and the excitement of a whole new world to discover for her. His world.
But she also knew better than to push the issue or even raise a knowing eyebrow at him.
"Yes." She said simply, signaling her willingness to concede on another issue by letting her head rest against his shoulder and gazing up at his beloved features through half closed eyes "I do."
And with that Sakarra demonstrated what Vulcans thought of planets that would cause organ failure in just about any species save those who can by virtue of thought alone make a heart stop beating, a muscle contract to push an annoyingly fractured rib back into place or wake and sleep at a moment's notice. By doing the latter. The rib she had already taken care of and the other thing was bound to startle him a bit.
Brent sighed watching as Sakarra closed her eyes. She was asleep already wasn't she. He shook his head slightly before he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Alright my beloved. You will come with me and we will introduce you to my parents and my family. I will tell them just how much I love you and if they push the issue I will tell them that when the time is right I will very well propose to you," he said ever so softly. "And it will be the truth. Only this time the truth will be spiced with a bit of annoyance that it will cause my father. Which is good for him every once in a while." His peace said to Sakarra, he leaned back against the rocks and closed his eyes on his own, drifting off to sleep.
…
Vulcans don't dream. Why would they. All those uncontrolled sorting mechanisms, all this wildly erratic firing of neurons to assign a pattern to randomness, to file and store and betimes erase or bury so deeply the subconscious becomes an even more mad jumble of half-remembered visions and inexplicable urges … it is not only illogical but a serious pain where one does not want it.
Why would they. Meditation, conscious sorting and filing, looking over important things and storing the currently less urgent things for later review … it is reasonable. More organized. And frees the time when one sleeps for an even more reasonable purpose. Resting.
Sometimes, Vulcans do dream. And it's rarely a good sign.
At best, they are dealing with an overwhelming experience and simply are overcome by fatigue before fully absorbing it all. Rarely, very rarely, an adult in full possession of her wits will allow for such a thing to happen, and the results are generally tumultuous. Fun, on occasion, too. Though they'll admit it the day Nevasa rises in the West.
At worst, they are dealing with one of the rare instances where even meditation and focus can't fully resolve the issues of a mind too highly strung, a brain stimulated beyond recommended safety limits. As with all types of trauma, the experience is generally … not relished.
...
Trapped. Trapped in darkness. Warmth, pain. No, not pain so much as … languor. Sweet, sweet languor, sweet as the poison of a K'karee's bite, seeping into her very blood. Darkness. Heat. Enticing, marvelous heat. Heat that made her want to stretch like a lazy feline on a sun-baked rock, taste of copper in her mouth. In the air. Everywhere. Like. Want. More.
Dark. Always. Marvelous, majestic, all enfolding darkness. Haze of emerald, flashing. Gone.
A beaten, battered body, stirring. Heartbeat like thunder. Kill. Slowly. Enjoy. Want.
Pain. Sweet, suffusing every limb. So sensual, so alluring, calling, calling … like the scent on the air, whispering. Caressing. Want. Need.
…
The choked scream echoed in the empty, silent room when Sakarra's eyes flew open and it took her a full second to realize it was her voice that had made this frightful sound. Like a Le-Matya's call to its mate, fierce and laced with longing. Offering its latest kill, fresh blood, to lure the desired one.
Her nails were digging into … into … ah, no, no.
She tried to scramble backwards, but the arms around her would not yield even after she had let go in shock and horror, staring at the small red stains on the fabric where she had hurt him. Him. Brent. No, no, this was wrong, wrong …
This time her cry was that of the desperate, trapped animal.
Brent woke up at the combination of pain and the scream echoing across the small room. He looked around into the darkness, trying to find out what was going on before he felt Sakarra trying to move out of his lap and his arms. He held her tightly against him, ensuring that she could not escape. "Hey hey. It's ok. It's ok sweetheart. Everything will be alright ok?" he said softly. He looked down as his chest for a moment, finally seeing what the pain was from. "What's wrong sweetheart," he asked quietly. He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek, looking into her eyes.
Her lips moved but no sound would emerge. It was not alright, it was everything but alright, it …
Dream.
It had been …
Deep, deep, ocean blue eyes rested on her, and the sudden flash of violet she had seen was no more than the holographic map and its warm, garnet light still shining dimly, softly, casting a reflection on her beloved's concerned gaze.
She stopped struggling and forced herself to breathe.
T'Karath. The storm. Racing towards the sanctuary, down the old, dusty tunnels. Here.
A nose nuzzled into her hair and Warya's concerned rumble was the last piece of the puzzle clicking into place.
Home. She was home.
The dark veil lifted and Sakarra was had put not to shudder. And then looked at the tiny red stains, already drying on the sturdy, pale fabric, before returning her deep black gaze to Brent's face. "A dream, my love." Ever so slowly she relaxed in the firm, yet so tender embrace and even managed to lift a hand and stop the Sehlat from nudging her until both she and Brent would topple over.
"Forgive me. I did not mean to … to injure you."
"I didn't know you dreamed," he said softly, brushing some of the hair out of her shoulder, smiling as he looked down into her dark eyes. He leaned against her, bringing her back close against him as he looked down at the red stains in his chest, brushing against them absently as if to indicate that it was no trouble. "I'll be fine. At least you didn't decide to carve out a portion of my bad shoulder. That would have really hurt," he said with a smile as he let out a sigh. "What was your dream about my dear? It must have been something if it was enough to get you to dig your nails into me."
"I don't. Not … not usually."
Far above, the storm was howling. It would be long hours yet before its fury would peak and then inevitably subside. She could sense it with the same clarity as one smells a sharp scent on the air or hears distant thunder over the mountains, ancient instinct for once providing more helpful details than the best chain of logic and probability. If there was a certain irony to that, it was not lost on the young Vulcan.
As soothing as Brent's touch was, her overstrung senses translated it into a low current of tension that made her shift restlessly, and the lingering scent of copper and iron did not do much in the way of calming her. Soon enough she would truly revert to what people even today betimes liked to call her kind, though in hushed tones, vague condescension giving way to awe and a touch of pity. And a bit of fear, mingled always with the inexplicable attraction, too easily mistaken for genuine desire, though they'd admit to that as much as to any of the former.
Wild ones. Barbarians.
None had dared call her foremother any of that in over a century, though it was there, in silent glances, in the way people acted – cautious, never failing to give proper courtesy and reverence to the dignified, stoic Matriarch while at the same time treading as lightly as if in the vicinity of a deceptively silent volcano. Would that Sakarra could bear it with T'Leia's unfaltering grace and laconic humor.
Scents, sounds, every soft shadow, even her beloved's slow, steady heartbeat – so acute, so close. She understood at long last the terran metaphor of things getting 'under one's skin'. It felt like it. All of it.
"It …" she hesitated, studying her Companion's calm, smiling features. She knew better now than to take it for him being unaware. It was never as simple as that, not with Brent. Though she certainly had tried her best to convince herself of it.
"Him. It was about him."
Choking even on those words, Sakarra clenched her teeth and forced a deep breath into her lungs. This was ridiculous. She could deal with this. She could …
Drain the poison. That was it, wasn't it? The longer she clung to keeping it in, locking it away, the deeper it would sink into her very bones until it consumed her from within.
Observe it. Accept it. Only then can you move beyond it.
T'was a pity she was stuck at the first stage and quite unwilling to move on to the second.
=/\= To be continued … =/\=
Lt Cmdr Sakarra Tyrax
Executive Officer
Brevet 1st Lieutenant Brent Warren
Marine Commander
USS Charon
