L-oyalty L-ove A-llegiance P-romise

Tossing, turning within the limited parameters of the sickbay receptacle. Half-dreaming, half-whimpering aloud as a presence is somewhat perceived near me.

“Sa-Mekh? Father, please…thrap-fam’es nufau…ki’gla-tor nash-veh Aitlun kling…I am sorry.”***

It is unknown how many sedative drugs have been inserted into my body via hypospray, but a great sorrow overwhelms in recalling the last discussion I had with my father, after the death of my betrothed, T’Pring, before Our Time together.

*** Father? I offer no offense, please forgive me…I have not seen one that I Desire.


~ by T'Naehm on April 26, 2011.

14 Responses to “L-oyalty L-ove A-llegiance P-romise”

  1. I listen and observe him with a silent intrigue, voicing nothing, but committing to memory.

    I reign in the illogical impulse to assess via touch, to see, understand, comprehend…he may carry my appearance, but he is not me.

    A reflection.

    A different individual. If nothing else, he speaks Terran. Orderlies pass occasionally, assessing his state…he is progressing slowly. And so I wait.

    • As the scene replays in the backdrop of my memory the final action, physical violence from my father at my refusal to bond to anyone else, jerks me awake with a loud shout.

      I sit straight up, with an arm protecting myself. Now, as then, I would never retaliate physically against my father. The emotions, however come to fore here and now, unlike then.

      In silence, the filling of my ocular cavities with saline, startles me. I touch my cheeks as they spill over. I look at my Dewk’a Sasu*** and state simply “My cheeks are wet.”

      ***Country man.

      • My gaze snaps to follow him when he sits up, drawing myself into a fluid stand, idly straightening my blue uniform as I take a careful step closer to the biobed.

        “Bezhun-mashaya***,” I murmur it beneath my breath almost as if I have never seen it occur. But it is true…in Vulcans I have not, and it startles me.

        Again I feel that impulse to touch…to wipe clean, if only because of familiarity, but again I remind myself there is none. We are not the same.

        “Are you well?” I inquire instead of him, uncertain.


  2. I draw my self straighter, mirroring his actions with my decidedly more militant attire.

    “Negative.” The sound comes forth in a slight break, which I clear my throat to correct. “Merely bezhun-isach…”***

    I reach up as though to rectify the situation, in effect, wiping my cheeks clear. “I am…” again I clear my throat “The likelihood of optimal operation, given recent activity is less than 48 percent.”

    I look at him, fully, making an effort not to stare at…myself?


    • “You should not rise so swiftly, you have not been discharged,” I inform him, taking in his unique attire, overlooking his rationalization in regards to his tears…his clearly emotionally compromised state.

      “Do you recall how you came to be here?”

      • I stand my ground, leaning against the opposite wall, in case the logic of my apparent doppelganger is sound.

        “I…do recall.”

        The gaze he sends all over and around my person, give me pause.

        I do not know how to interpret all of this precisely.

  3. I take note of the fact that he does not heed, per se…wondering idly if he is aware his weapons have been taken.

    I meet his gaze, hands clasped behind me.

    “Do you intend to elaborate?” I lift a single eyebrow.

    • In combat training on Vulcan we were taught to watch the path of every set of eyes possible.

      His go straight to my hip sheath.

      The slight weight of my dagger is not felt, and my countenance remains passive even as my eyes narrow. I avoid his query by issuing a statement:

      “Logic would dictate the removal of weapons prior to medical care.
      You will return my belongings to me.”

      • “Forgive me, but your belongings consist of weapons, and as you are insistent on avoiding queries versus answering them and aiding us to better comprehend not only how you arrived…but your intentions aboard a Federation vessel…returning them would be illogical.”

        Stoically impassive, unaffected by the narrowing of his gaze.

        On this ship, he is far outnumbered.

  4. I incline my head, one angled brow arcing at his words.

    “Affirmative. I am aboard a federation vessel, but I am vastly outnumbered by your crew.”

    I pause, bewildered.

    “You would leave me unable to defend myself except by physical brutality…Which, I concede is impaired at this moment? You, essentially, Choose ‘Them’ over your own kind?”

    My head inclines in the other direction, not comprehending.

    • “You assume that I would permit harm to befall you whilst you are unarmed. You would be incorrect.”

      I find it curious that he refers to non-Vulcans with a hint of disdain.

      “None will attack you here, lest you first attack them.”

      Is that different than what he is accustomed to? A faint crease touches my brow.

      • I lift my gaze to search his eyes

        “Then…then I have your allegiance?”

        I stumble forward on unsure feet, which causes a frown to appear on my countenance. I give the Federation salute: a fist to the chest & the pushing away of the hand.

        “I am Spock.”

  5. Allegiance? Such peculiar terminology.

    Concern passes ever so briefly through my gaze at his stumble, taking an unconscious step nearer to him but stopping myself at his salute and the words that follow…as if the air has sudden left my lungs.

    It takes me a moment, but I do gather myself enough to lift my own hand in the customary Vulcan salute, thoughts passing rapidly beneath a cool countenance.

    I…am Spock.” And how would he interpret that? I scarcely know how, myself. Two Spocks….two….worlds?

    • He raises his hand, saluting me. However,he looks as though he is injured; his skin tone has faded somewhat.

      As I arch one brow, I notice he has done the same. We both open our mouths and utter one word in unison


      coupled with both sets of brows moving vertically into our hairlines.

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