A Mission Post by Lieutenant Commander Jin Rha-Yaleii
Mission: Coil of Darkness
Location: Vulcan
Timeline: 2410
[Near T'Shen monastery, Shi'Al province, Vulcan]
She had strayed far enough from the monastery that even its warmly tinted roofs were no longer visible between the tall trees and she breathed easier for it. Not that she begrudged the healer monks' concerns for her yet fragile health, but the only living being whose company she could bear at the moment was the massive Sehlat shuffling ever faithfully in her wake.
This high in the mountains the air was crisp, almost cool, and as Nevasa began to lower towards the unseen horizon the shadows that were so sharp and harsh in the desert bathed the forest in a soft crimson twilight. A shirahnah took wing above the trees, its hoarse, reverberating call causing Warya's ears to twitch. Luminescent in the fading light, the sehlat's wise old eyes followed the bird's silhouette gliding above the treetops.
"Wrrrf?"
"I suppose."
Warya shrugged – or would have, if a sehlat's physique and his old bones had allowed for it. He was not truly worried about any predators honing in on the scent of the Vulcan still smelling of copper and injury; there were few up in these mountains that would have been a match for his favorite she-biped and even those would likely avoid him - or suffer an unpleasant surprise.
No, it was the painfully discordant sound of her voice, the erratic, uneven gait that worried Warya. She who always moved with fluid grace, whose words flowed like wind and water and song …, was wounded. Somewhere beneath the marks her body yet showed of a battle that the wizened old sehlat judged to have been a close one indeed, her Katra, her living spirit, was in pain.
He heaved a sigh of relief when she heeded his suggestion and sat down on the soft forest floor, her hands idly gliding over the scattering of wildflowers that infused the air with their lush, heady scent.
Her finely chiseled features taut with silent fury and anguish, the young Vulcan breathed in the serenity of the familiar, cherished mountains. Her loose sable curls moved lightly in the breeze rising from the plains far below as the heated soil released its warmth into the waning light.
Useless to deny the truth.
She had known.
In some deep, secret part of her being, the primal core of the Vulcan heart and mind, the awareness she had no longer been able to deny after waking from her healing trance had slumbered like the desert flower's seed in the scorching sands. Submerged by the burning of her blood, the blazing heat of fury and the battle to survive, it had been so easy to focus on aught but the insistent memory of …
She tossed her head as if she could dislodge the image of violet eyes dark with passion, feeding the fever, calling to it, hoping for but the smallest breach in the fortress of her mind and soul.
"Lunikkh ta'avik! Saday'uh!"
She had noticed of course that the shade of his eyes, the aristocratic lines of his chin were like his cousin's, even the casual elegance of their movements were the same. But never had this similarity been so … disconcerting. It seemed as if she were watching a shadow of Shiarrael t`Rehu, cruel, malevolent, alien and yet so familiar …
"No, I do not think so lady Vulcan." Amused, almost flirtatious, the laugh that answered her curses and the demand to let her go. And then the blade began to cut.
Vengeance. All the ferocity of the ancient blood he denied to the last, focused on the one he deemed the epitome of what he despised.
She had sensed the le-matya's delight at knowing its prey helpless, the almost languid air of the predator reveling in the breath before the kill. Stretching out the moment when he would be tasting the doomed creature's fear, its pain, and at last its shuddering surrender.
What he had not expected had been the silent, relentless fury of one born to Sas-a-Shar's children.
When had it changed?
Memories jumbled and distorted by the unnatural, untimely bloodfever induced by – of all things – an ancient torture device meant to strip a Vulcan's reason from them, all the same insisted that something had … shifted.
Once more the spectre of fine-cut features and eyes of dark, lustrous amethyst rose – only this time the razor sharp smile softened and blurred, the predatory air infused with playful tenderness. A fierce raptor's gaze turned questioning, seeking, filled with something akin to wonder … arms like steel holding her bleeding, abused body close to a warm, hard chest. The murmur of a deep, husky voice, laced with … anguish? "Ah, lady Vulcan. What ever shall I do with you?"
The edge between hate and love is finer than a S'Harien's blade.
Few know this better than the scions of those born in the fires of the same unforgiving region that brought forth the steel for those peerless swords, who have been hammered and honed into what they are in the same Forge.
She had known.
Why else that moment of sorrow when she had picked up the blades to make a last, desperate stand to aid her ship, her crew, who themselves had fought so valiantly to save her homeworld. Why else that stubborn refusal to give up after she had taken what should have been – and nearly had been – the last of many, the mortal wound. She had won. Been at peace. Could have laid her Katra into her ne ki'ne's gentle keeping with a smile – and no regret.
Far to the West, Nevasa's last ray tinted the horizon in hues of amaranth and fiery garnet. Far above, the first pale stars emerged on a sheet of lavender. It was the oh so brief moment when even on harsh Vulcan the world became soft around its edges, when the earth itself seemed to exhale and the air was almost balmy.
Grumbling deep in his throat, the giant ball of fur next to the Vulcan heaved himself onto his paws, having caught the scent of succulent quir'lal roots just a little over to the left. Before long, the sound of determined digging could be heard in the otherwise peaceful forest.
She had known.
While the fortress of her mind, her soul, had held until it all had ended as such things do – in emerald blood and flames – her body had answered the call of ancient fires.
Biology cares naught about right or wrong.
It was the one victory he had won, and he had died without ever learning of it.
A last, dramatic flash of light set the forest ablaze before darkness fell like a cloak of velvet and the stars emerged in splendor.
"Ah, child. Where shall we go from here."
There was no answer, too soon for the flutter of awareness, recognition. Only the shimmer of another life, shining in silence like one of the jewels scattered across the nightly sky.
What legacy would await this child of blood and steel and violence?
What would await the daughter of he who had led a fleet to rain death and emerald fire on this world in the name of vengeance?
Already she sensed the healers tread oh so gently, trying to hide their sorrow and compassion from the small woman with the dark, silken hair and unreadable eyes. Already she sensed the looks of pity, and the ones who would shun the halfbreed, spawn of the Sundered, bred to war.
Fools.
Unseen in the shadow of the tall conifer, the Vulcan bared her teeth.
Mine.
She is mine.
Her heart slowed in time with the beat of the ancient drums of Vulcan battle, lambent black eyes ablaze with defiance.
Mine.
With a suddenness that startled a hunting le-sahriy into flight, Sakarra laughed. The clear, rich, melodious sound of bronze bells and velvet, edged with dancing flame.
Well and so, it seemed she had no small measure of folly to claim for herself. After all they'd survived together, to slink away like this and lick her wounds… snorting at herself the diminutive woman in the great tree's shadow leaned against the wide trunk and watched her old friend's furry shape amble into a patch of starlight.
Huge fangs the color of old ivory gently dropped a fragrant qir'lal in her lap.
"Rrrrmph."
"Thank you."
"Rrr."
She turned the root over in her small hands, almost giving in to another bout of musical laughter over the old sehlat assuming the duties of a nursemaid already. Or again, as it were. Of course Warya had sensed her … condition right away. One might as well attempt and stuff his furry behind into a teacup as try and hide the joyous prospect of a new cub from him.
No, he saw naught wrong with licking your wounds for a little while, as long as you took care to eat properly and wear a warm sweater so you might come back up swinging sharp edged implements. Wise old Warya with his very own scars under the thick, luxuriant fur. Watching her patiently with a secret gleam in his amber-gold eyes.
"You're quite right, of course."
"Hrrrow. Rr."
She had not surrendered then; she most certainly would not do so now.
Oh, they had told her, healers and visitors alike, hoping to lift her spirits. How the Vaek'Riov's sudden disinterest in crucial matters had bought precious time, had even enabled a daring group of Rihannsu loyal to S'Rehu to free her Captain and the twins. Given Charon's crew those crucial few days. Not that at the time the Vulcan had been in any condition to appreciate the unexpected success of her desperate gamble.
Three more days. And a lifetime.
Oh yes, she knew what he wanted. And as poor beaten and bleeding Yyaio had wisely been feeding her tormentor the screams of agony he had craved, Sakarra would … keep her torturer waiting.
A lifetime, if need be.
In the end, what were costly battles lost, when you were the one standing victorious after the war?
Slowly the Vulcan stood, mindful of the barely healed disruptor wound still marring her back, and walked out to the small ledge overlooking the forest below. Warm, flickering lights in the distance spoke of shelter in the rugged mountains, honey colored stone and lovingly tended gardens. Like a jewel nestled in its small valley, T'Shen beckoned the weary, the injured, the battered and grieving, to find peace and healing within its ancient walls. A silver reflection swiftly and silently passed over the treetops, the shirahnah returning from the hunt.
No such place had been waiting for him. Shunned by his own blood, driven to seek vengeance against wrongs done before he was old enough to understand. Driven by the very same destructive fires that had once nearly torn a world asunder. This much the Vulcan knew, and how it had grieved her S'thora that she had not seen how much she and her cousin had drifted apart.
No, she could not forgive. Not now, perhaps not ever.
But she could let herself see the man instead of the ghost. The aehallh.
And make certain the nightmare ended with him.
Your sire was negligent, Vaek'Riov.
I will not debate that, Lady Vulcan. But you did not merely say that to raise my ire and make me kill you. Because you know I won't. Not yet.
Quite so.
Never his name. Not once had she spoken it, not even in anger.
Her proud, elegant profile outlined by starlight, Sakarra watched the shirahnah's graceful form bank on the nightly breeze, a soundless shadow limned in silver. Memories of warm, dimly lit quarters stirred, of Warbirds hanging silently before a star-dotted vista, of a face buried in her sable curls, an arm holding her close as if it never meant to let go.
"Well then, Itsak tr`Sahen. If the cost I must bear is knowing I had a part in how you met your end, I will pay that coin."
As if in answer the silver bird came sailing over the trees, mighty pinions riding the last of the day's heat, sweeping upwards towards its lofty home in the mountains. A shadow briefly touched the motionless Vulcan's upturned face, a breath of air like the faintest caress … and it was gone.
[to be continued...]
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