Vigil + Ante

Harsh lighting on sterile surfaces. I have not moved from his side. I dare not. I need to know he will be well.
My elbows are on my knees.

The steady rhythm of his cardio-monitors on the side of his biobed, is like an obsession.
Rather than lulling me to any semblance of sleep, I find myself anxiously counting the 240 beats in my head.
Assuring myself they are not even remotely out of sync.
My back is at an exact angle; straight, but not upright.

I became physically ill in this very room when I was informed that my Ashalik had lost a considerable amount of blood. “Head Wound”, Doctor McCoy referred to it in my presence, before leaving and remarking on our skin color and ear shape when he surmised he was out of range of my hearing. I did not retaliate. I simply allowed Nurse Chapel to withdraw the copper-based life source from me, an exact match to my Petakov. “Head wound.” It came forth from his mouth as though it were a simple medical occurrence. In actuality, it was probably the worst thing that could happen to one of our kind, the head being the source of everything we are.
My face is in my hands.

I cannot rest. Sustainance holds no appeal. Sleep is an impossibility.
I deserve this, not my Sa-Kai Sochya. I should be there.
He looks so frail in the bioskeine cocooned about his person on the biobed.
His…his skin was actually cold, clammy to the touch. So far removed from our ordinary state of being.

I have ruined everything we might have been. I crave death. The only thing keeping me from removing myself from this life is the possibility that my Fonn Ashayam will necessitate any more life source, or organs.
He deserves that and more.
All I want is to touch you once more, T’hy’la.
All I want is to be worthy of it, again.

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~ by T'Naehm on April 27, 2011.

14 Responses to “Vigil + Ante”

  1. Distant, unheard words, are scarcely noted.

    Disconnected, scattered trails of idle, weary thought in that floating space between conscious and subconscious can hardly be considered coherent.

    Dermal regenerators are methodically set up over my prone form, working to heal abrasions, contusions, hematomas…yet despite all the care medical officers might desire to offer me, nothing of a medical nature is capable of providing aid to a wounded mind as intricately woven as mine.

    I am aware, somewhere in the depths of that floating subconsciousness that should I not obtain the state of a Vulcan Healing Trance, I will not survive.

    A Vulcan mind holds direct control over vital bodily functions. If I…permit myself to fade into the exhausted darkness and escape my being yearns for, bodily functions –despite the aiding flow of my Sa-Kai T’Naehm’s blood in my veins– will fail.
    I cannot permit it.
    Somewhere between the state of consciousness and subconsciousness, there is my T’hy’la’s presence.

    An anchor.

    A reminder.

    He ceased. In the last moment, he returned me. It is then my duty to return to him.

    As I needed him in those dark moments, when I believed most that I had lost him, now he…needs me.

    To do that, my focus is first required inward, which is where my subconscious soon directs itself. Self-repair. I enter the Vulcan Healing Trance, all life functions lowering to bare minimum.

    While alarm might raise in those such as McCoy and other Terrans unfamiliar with the likes of Vulcan physiology, my Ashal-veh will be aware of what is occurring.

    And so my breathing slows to a point of near stillness, my heartbeat lowering to near Terran standard, pulse nearly nonexistent…yet still faintly present as priority and focus is placed on healing the affects of trauma to a Vulcan mind.

    • Distant, unheard platitudes, that hardly registers within my consciousness.

      I am failing to connect every weary thought in my internal battle to keep from touching my True T’hyla. My upswept brows are knitted together with effort and pain.

      Anyone that chanced upon viewing my countenance would presume I am angered over some matter of gravity.
      They would be correct in that presumption. The proof thereof is lying there, with my blood flowing as a verdant spring into every corpuscle, into each tendril of circulatory vessel…Intimacy.

      I am within you, my F-Fonn Ash-sh-shayam.

      I choke on my thoughts, burying my face in my hands once more. Yes, Intimacy—but I do not deserve it. My Loyal Love, the Terran mind would translate my term of endearment. These translated words are so completely insufficient as to be useless.

      Fonn, for example conveys the inability of deceit. The wholehearted flinging of all others away from the internal coils about one’s innermost being. Loyalty, yes, but with desperation. Quite similar to what I feel for him, but have never ever received from anyone else.

      Lost in my own thoughts and under the belief that the majority of the third shift had already retired for the evening, giving way for the sparse care of the Delta Shift, I didn’t hear the boots clicking into our private medical chamber, until the wearer thereof spoke.

      “Sos la’tusa vu Laktra?” Her voice is bell-like, clear and strong, confident but feminine. Fascinating.

      I incline my head in agreement. She indicates a seat near me with slender brown fingers, and smooths her Federation Uniform beneath her posterior. After moments of silence, she softly begins to relay to me the events that she witnessed, piecing together all that I could not, due to my furious state, recall with clarity.

      Her Vulcan is flawless, if limited. She dances between it and Terran English when she does not know the vocabulary. There is a quiet reverence within each difficult inflection, from the moment she properly introduces herself, through to her cessation of her summation with my cry to my T’hy’la, at which point I wince.

      Two slender brown hands gesture in two directions. Him & I. “Ko-Kugalsu, Sa-Kugalsu?*” She attempts.

      After all of this I stand and go to him, all else having faded away. I hold his hand, uncaring as to our present company. She knows. It is my confirmation.

      Return to me, Sochya Sa-Kai. I do not wish to exist in any world without you at my side.

      I look at her, startled, having felt him for an instant. Uncertain if I had spoken aloud.

      It is then that the machinery surrounding my Ashalik beeps ominously, before one long, unending beep heralds the cessation of his vital activity. My lips turn slightly downward for an instant, before I turn to Ms. Uhura and feel my eyes alight with the sudden realization. “He has begun Tow-Kath* *.”

      ***May I express sorrow for your deep mental anguish?
      * Male Female Fiances?
      * * Healing Trance needed to revive.

      • For once, time flows beyond my ability to acknowledge it. I cannot say with any amount of accuracy or clarity that I have been under the Vulcan Healing Trance for three minutes, three hours, or three days.

        All I am aware of is that the fog around sluggish thoughts is beginning to clear, that the unnecessary fretting of medical personnel has passed, a quiet stillness present in the air apart from the gentle beeps and tranquil whirs of medical machinery.

        And him…my True T’hy’la… Even with the distance between myself and my consciousness, I have been ever aware of his presence, naturally…inherently…he has never once left this area. Never once left me.

        There is a minute shift in my breathing pattern as my mind’s focus gradually alters from internal repair, redirecting outward towards customary biological function, the heartbeat in my side fluttering slowly to life, increasing the rate of blood flow.

        My blood…my T’Naehm Sa-Kai’s blood. Our Blood. Alive, together, pumping in emerald harmony.

        The haze about my exhausted consciousness is thick, but I note the absence of pain, attempting to categorize my state and level of functionality despite my natural tiredness. Putting forth the mental effort necessary to heal leaves little room for obtaining actual ‘rest’.

        Ashal-veh… I desire to return… I feel you… however my consciousness has not surfaced sufficiently to acknowledge it.

        My mind reaches for his…in vain, I know, as there is no bonded connection between our minds at present, but the action is intuitive reflex in my effort to awaken.

        A single, elegant digit twitches once.

  2. The more I spoke with the allegedly medically proficient staff of this vessel, the more pessimistic I became as to the quality of care my Sochya Sa-Kai would receive.

    Fortunately one Nurse, Christine Chapel, was not only familiar with Hakausu* but had completed her Thesis at Starfleet on the topic of Rytemk* * and was, therefore, adequately prepared for S’chn T’gai Spock’s current state of Tow-Kath.

    As for myself, after much fussing and coercion from Lieutenant Uhura, I availed myself of her generosity and willingness to provide items she believed to be necessary. Most of what she gave, I was unable to find use for. Including, but not limited to, a platter of Vulcan delicacies. Designed, no doubt, to entice and arouse my non-existent appetite.

    I did accept and utilize other items, such as clean clothing and grooming implements. Both originating from my Ashalik, according to their scent. I buried my nose in the folds of the former, trying not to weep.

    The latter I employed to disguise the turmoil within, which manifested itself outwardly, in an unkempt appearance. I clipped my hair in the style of the One I cannot refer to as my T’hy’la.

    I do not merit the honour. I reason with my own mind. And if he does not…if he is not…successful… I swallow hard unable to complete the thought.

    Until, one day, it came to pass while my head rested upon the biobed, nearest his heart…I felt a long tapered digit flick against my head.

    *The natural process by which the body heals itself
    * *Vulcan State of healing

    • Life functions gradually stir into their more customary state even as a tired consciousness strives to do the same. The hum of my T’Naehm Sa-Kai’s emotions echo through me, reaching my mind via brief contact, further working to clear the haze.

      My True T’hy’la.

      This fortifies my rising consciousness as warmth spreads pleasantly along limbs that had run cold, and I inhale slowly but deeply. Acute pointed ears hear the shift at my side, registering.

      Awareness steels over me more completely, and I lean into it, peeling my eyelids slowly apart to see fuzzy surroundings, focus slow to come. A private room in sickbay. I feel myself begin to relax, tiredness seeping in further.

      While the Healing Trance gives off the appearance of sleep…it is not sleep. I have not rested and the ordeal had not been a small one in nature.

      But I need…I seek…the War to my Peace, that sense of balance and comfort I find only in my Ashal-veh despite my knowledge that I am here because of him. Because of his jealousy…..because of his ‘love’. Perhaps the last reason is the reason for why I cannot fault him. …Emotions run strongly in our race, in some ways, more deeply than in humans.

      Head turning just so to the side, a quiet warmth enters tired hues, lips parting in a whisper. “…T’hy’la.”

      • Beneath the layer of dermis, is a layer of connective tissue known as the fascia. Like a translucent web, but with more power per square inch, it holds the humanoid body together, holds it upright and still allows for flexibility.

        It is also a conductor of energetic impulse.
        Within the Vulcan, it acts as a lightening rod.

        Until this moment, I have only ever availed myself of this knowledge with regard to how it may be used to disable my enemy.
        It has never been utilized, effectively, on my person.
        My Sochya Sa-Kai accesses my fascia, and telepathically communicates to me via his digit on the fascia beneath my scalp.

        My head snaps up to attention and even as I perceive his weary state at once, I am as I once was as a child: eager to come home and, in the privacy of my bedroom closet, confess to my mother through the graphite slats. Every woe, every heartache, every emotion for which I felt overwhelming shame. She would hearken to me, cooing softly in her “Rah-King Ch’air” as I called it, then. One of the few things she took from Terra, to Vulcan.

        The closet confessional came when I entered Primary Academia. Prior to my Vulcan education, however, she was my Teacher. Stealthily, lest my father balk, she was my very first Professor. I would climb onto the softness of her form on the “Rah-King Ch’air” and she would spin tales of her world, and soothe me when my Father would wound my Hybrid sentimentality. “My world belongs to you as well, my son. Never forget.”

        Illogical. In order to assimilate into the land of my Father, not only did I need to forget everything she taught, but to abandon our time of confession. The shame of my childish emotional state needed to cease. It did not behoove a Vulcan Man.

        Yet, as my eyes lock with my Ashalik, his need is transmitted to me, as well as his…Forgiveness. My hand reaches for his, tentative and afraid. I place my lips to the tender flesh of his palm, Vulcan meeting Terran intimacy. My beloved…my T’hy’la has returned to me. I have no words, and my mouth is as dry as the land in which we were born.

  3. Weary eyelids lower at the sensation felt when lips press into the center of my touch-sensitive palm, lashes resting upon the tops of my cheeks as I take a moment to simply absorb the feel.

    His presence, his natural warmth, his emotions… A connection brought about through physical contact, my palm pulsing ever so faintly.

    Remorse, shame, concern, comfort, love, guilt, fear…and that is but the mere surface of the ocean that exists in the depths of my T’Naehm Sa-Kai.

    Browns meet a mirror pair once more, an unspoken understanding –a forgiveness– present within my own…eyes so like our mother’s. My lungs quietly expand with an intake of breath, lips parting to speak with a tired gentleness into the stillness.

    “We are, and forever shall be, children of two worlds, T’hy’la.”

    Few words, but the soothing meaning is deep and layered. We are both races combined into one. We cannot be expected –nor, in all honesty, expect ourselves– to fit so completely into ‘one’ race or the ‘other’…emotions would occur, regardless of how far we aimed to suppress them, and while father would say otherwise…mother would assure us that this is nothing for which to feel shame.

    True acceptance by another being of both our halves, in the wake of mother’s death? That is found only here. He for me, and I for him. The only two who comprehend what it means to be comprised of such opposite dualities of nature.

    “You returned to me…” Lifting my hand, digits brush over his temple in a tender display of intimacy. “…Taluhk nash-veh k’dular.”***

    Queries and answers will no doubt come in time, but for now there is only this. Only Us, here, in the midst of our reunion.

    *** I cherish thee

    • My T’hy’la.

      He is mine once more. I have done nothing to merit anything but his disdain, yet he has so conceded.

      Sitting beside his bed, watching him rest, I still scarcely believe it. It is not only illogical, but highly improbable. I have destroyed people for crimes of a far less damaging nature than what I have done. I am fascinated by this green blooded miracle beside me.

      On this day, the third since his original emergence from Rytemk, he has allowed his eyes to rest since his morning meal. We expect him to be discharged soon. It is nearly 1300 hours, when Lieutenant Uhura visits on her midday cessation of duty.

      Her apt comprehension of Vulcan ways-indeed beyond language and protocol to the simple understanding, it seems, of our superiority as a species-has earned her immediate access to our inner circle. In spite of this obvious allowance, she seems pleasantly surprised each time. A humility I find not only appropriate, considering her rank…but also, “charming”.

      Being aware that it is also the only chance she will receive in which to find nourishment prior to the end of her shift, I allow her to sit with my Fonn Ashayam. As I take leave of them both, momentarily, I notice her hands folded neatly in the lap of her short red uniform. I am satisfied in her knowledge of propriety, with regard to touch, enough to trust her alone with my Ashalik. Her eyes are kind and they look upon his still form, innocent in slumber, with an almost maternal concern.

      Illogical. I am fully capable of caring for my Sa-kan. The phrase, the sense of possession that accompanies it, causes the faintest of upturns to the corners of my mouth. I re-enter the private sickbay room, with a small array of consumables for Ms. Nyota.

      To find James Tiberius Kirk holding the hand of my T’hy’la.

      • Tendrils of emotions not my own are what begin to stir a lightly slumbering consciousness. Guilt, regret, remorse, irritation towards an outside party…a deep-rooted envy… Human emotions. Far too Human, quieted words of apology reaching acutely pointed ears.

        This is not my T’hy’la.

        A cool hand holds my warmer one in a gesture far more intimate than could ever be considered appropriate in Vulcan culture. The muscles fibers within my arm contract, the limb tensing just enough to be perceivable by the transgressor, my shoulders stiff when eyes open, meeting blues, causing his string of words to cease

        I retract my hand, watching as awareness of his offense flickers to life behind his eyes, periorbital hematomas yet present. “Captain…” A subtle, but present reproach, a faint crease between elegant eyebrows, confirming his fear. A brief visual stocking of his state as he shrinks back informs me that he is neither fit for duty, nor fit to be walking about in excess…let alone be present here.

        …Doctor McCoy is no doubt searching for an insufferable escapee.

        Any words the blond might have offered me then are cut off when Nyota respectfully stands from her seat a few feet behind him, all gazes turning to the door of my private sickbay room, the air itself seeming to still, hovering between tension and uncertainty.

        Ashal-veh…

  4. My equilibrium is very suddenly jarred, as though the ship has taken a hit and we are jerked starboard. However, no one else seems to experience this, therefore I theorize that the movement is some internal phenomena. Perhaps an inner ear/cochlear event.

    Consequentially, I nearly drop the platter I had retrieved for Nyota’s comfort. I regain control of it, but a few Terran grapes roll off.

    One rolls to Kirk’s federation standard issue boots and he bends to retrieve it citing a code I am unfamiliar with: “Five Second Rule!”

    The filthy man reaches for the fallen fruit, still holding my Sochya’s hand, and puts them into his mouth.
    He then returns the compromised digits to my T’hy’la.

    “Yer pretty clumsy, y’know that?” Arrogance incarnate.

    Without any superfluous thought, I close the space between us. “You will release and leave us immediately.”

    It is not rhetorical, it is not a request. I am giving the captain of this vessel an order and there will be consequences should he choose to disobey me.

    • A direct order. To the very Captain of this ship, indeed the same individual my True T’hy’la had attacked in a possessive rage. No immediate move is made to obey, the two appearing to intend to stare one another down, and so as I mindfully bring myself into a better seated position upon my biobed, I disengage the disagreeably intimate contact, gaze flickering once between them.

      I observe as the blond visibly bristles, his jaw tightening. I internally postulate that he has clenched his teeth. “In case you forgot, cupcake, this ship is under my command. I’ll be wherever I want, whenever I want, and for however long I feel like being there.”

      A mild irritation surfaces, simmering beneath seemingly cool control as I draw myself to a stand with natural, quiet grace, hands folding neatly behind me. Kirk’s blatant disregard for others in the areas of common courtesy and respect knowns no bounds. “Captain, antagonism is hardly–”

      “The hell it isn’t, Spock!” He scowls, fingers curling into his palms, icy blues never leaving my T’Naehm’s dangerous gaze. “He attacked us! You’re in sickbay because he put you here. I’m reporting and kicking this asshole off the second we reach spacedock.”

      I still, shoulders stiffening, minutely narrowing my gaze while subtly ensuring that my breathing remains controlled. Peripherally, I note that Miss Nyota appears to be struggling between enlightening the blond on the puzzle pieces he is missing, and recalling her station aboard this ship.

      “Indeed?” Impassive, emotionless, quite near robotic, a dark cloud beginning to hover. “It would be in your interest, then, to also make a formal request for my replacement. I will be taking the time available prior to our arriving at spacedock to write out my resignation.”

      …Regardless of what the consequences might be to my career within Starfleet. There are always alternative options. I meet eyes that mirror mine with a wordless determination…an unyielding loyalty. My intended…my future bondmate. Two as One. To expel him, is to expel me.

      It is only here that Kirk’s head whips in my direction, incredulity evident in his suddenly pale, wide-eyed expression, spluttering, stumbling over himself to find words, arrogance fading within the fear of loss. “Jim…” A feminine voice…Nyota’s, tentative but soon strengthening, drawing his attention as her hand comes to rest against his forearm. “…Vulcans mate for life,” a gently reverence and respect to our culture’s level of monogamy within her words, even as she strives to break the news of what we are to become as carefully as she is able, “they won’t…you can’t separate them.”

      If it is possible to steal all oxygen, hopes, and dreams from an individual in one fell swoop with words alone –and watch it occur in their very countenance–, Nyota Uhura has just done so to James Tiberius Kirk.

      • The air hangs thick and oppressive as Kirk turns to look at Ms. Uhura.
        His voice. There exists an element to his voice that prevents what I intended to do.

        The moment he turned, my hand came up and touched the air nearest to where his levator scapulae meets his trapezius muscles. “Nerve pinch”, as it is known to…the entire galaxy I’m certain. To’tsu’k’hy* *, is the Vulcan terminology.

        As the son of a high official, I was permitted to study Kheile’a at an early age. My father later admitted to an emotional mutual fear shared by him, with my mother. A fear that my Duality in blood, would make me an inadequate warrior. Quite the contrary.

        It was my intention to administer the disabling maneuver to Kirk, following his asinine remarks, when I heard his plaintive query: “You don’t mean…It’s…Say it’s not true!”
        He sounds like a young Terran boy.

        Nyota proffers a tearful nod. Her empathy strikes something that should be within me. It produces an empty sound, inside.

        Longing is a painful and destructive emotion. Perhaps Kirk is inciting our violent interactions in an attempt to quell his own need for a type of emotional suicide.

        Fascinated, I withdraw.

        * *nerve pinch
        *** One of the Vulcan martial arts.

  5. I find myself unfamiliar with Terran customs of interaction in this particular type of scenario, and so I remain tactfully silent, observing heartbreak in visible form through a stoic gaze. I do not, however, deny the minute tightening in my side…

    If nothing else, I have considered the Captain to be my friend despite his more forward advances as of late, harming his more sensitive human emotions has never been my intention.

    It was he and his obstinance that truly left no other alternative.

    The blond turns towards me, then, loss echoing in a blue gaze that suddenly appears far younger, searching mine. “…Him?”

    I incline my head, the answer evident.

    His intake of breath is shuddery, but again I say nothing, noting as the rigid lines of his body begin to fade in defeat.

    It is Nyota’s hand on his shoulder that ultimately turns him to considerately lead him out. He no doubt requires…time.

    Dark hues flicker to my T’hy’la.

    • The Terran Captain’s logic is unsound.

      I feel it is necessary to correct him and, consequently, drive my Tilek* deeper into the wounded man. I consider there to be multiple benefits in so doing. The most important mentally come to fore: One, he has failed to understand the principle lesson here. Two, Euthanasia. A Merciful Death to his absurdly arrogant fantasies.

      I physically step in his path, and attempt to educate the inferior. My hands are at my sides, ready for…anything.

      “Understand this, Kirk. Your advances were unwelcome and unwanted.” I tilt my head, recalling his previous statements and mincing my words into monosyllabic, and therefore easy-to-digest morsels for this man. He is a creature to be pitied, especially in this unrequited state.

      “You seem to believe you behaved admirably and appropriately because you feel I had no right to attack you. However, to accept and maintain control of oneself when one cannot have his way, is a vital quality expected of every Starfleet Captain.”

      I arch one angled brow and finish him: “And rest assured, Jim. You cannot have your way. And with Sochya Spock, you never could. Do not forget this. I do not wish to remind you, again.”

      I look to my T’hy’la whose fathomless brown hues reflect all that I am, and all I wish to be. We are a unified front. War and Peace. I turn to Nyota “Sviribau aifa: Etwel wimish Sochya isha T’Naehm Spock.”* *

      I incline my head cordially in gratitude and return to my Fonn Ashayam. Furtively holding his hand, when I am certain we are alone, he whispers tenderly “Tilek svi’khaf-spol t’vathu – tilek svi’sha’veh”.*** An unfamiliar, yet applicable phrase.

      * Vulcan Spear
      * * “Communicate this: We are Peace and War Spock”
      *** “The spear in the other’s heart is the spear in your own” -Surak

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