A/N:This is an early story I've felt compelled to repost. Thanks to the beta, AkashaIZ. Please be advised, I do not own Star Trek.
The Village
I do not know how long I have to live. Vulcans have an average lifespan of 200 years, while humans often live to just over half that. But I am a hybrid of both races and the first of my kind to survive to full maturity. I am currently 165 and my blood is not red, but still I do not know for sure.
How long?
I keep asking myself this question as decrepit legs carry me across an alien forest. Almost one hour ago, I left my home in the slopes above to journey to the village at the base of the mountain. I have no appointment there, no errands, and no commitments. Those ended years ago when I began finding it more difficult to function, more difficult to think. I merely go there occasionally because I like to walk, and the village is as logical or illogical a destination as any other.
Dense forests are a rarity on this dry planet, but enough cloud cover hangs over the surrounding peaks for this one to flourish. The thick pine-like trees above and around me are beginning to eclipse the morning's light and the narrow trail is barely wide enough for me to traverse. I chose to follow this route instead of the main road, but I am now unsure as to why. The way is not quicker, and I do not have any energy to spare.
Ceasing my forward progress, I extricate a flask from the sling wrapped around my shoulders. Bringing the cool water to my lips, I become thankful that I had the presence of mind to carry sustenance for this journey. But as I move to place the flask back into its sleeve, a violent trembling seizes my hand. I let loose an ancient curse. The tremors have returned.
They do not pain me as much as my ever-present aches, but in truth they are worse. For I have always striven for control: control of my emotions and control my life. The tremors represent the opposite of control. To me, they are the physical manifestation of the ongoing destruction of my mind.
Clenching my hands into fists, I silently will them to go away. But it is a useless gesture as I know it will change nothing. Deciding to simply wait until they are done with me, I turn to face one side of the path, and peer into the nigh-impenetrable foliage, beyond which lies darkness. For a while, I just stand and stare, daydreaming about what it would be like to lose myself in there.
It is so quiet.
But then I hear a rustling to my left.
Or is it my right?
Is that breathing?
I grow alarmed. This world contains predators and they are known to frequent this region.
No. Not alarmed. Scared. I am just a scared old man.
I hear the cracking of branches, the crunching of leaves, the pounding of multiple footsteps getting louder. A shaking hand instinctively drops to grasp a phaser on my belt...a phaser that was never there. I keep swiveling my body, but I cannot pinpoint where the steps are coming from. Soon, the question flashes through my mind once more.
How long?
Feeling my death upon me, I begin to wonder if I have finally found the answer.
But from where?
Behind me!
I try to spin, but the back of one foot catches the tip of the other, causing me to fall to the ground. A huge black blur dives across the path, only to disappear into the underbrush on the other side. My breath exhales as I realize it is merely a yagor, a common deer-like plant eater of this world.
I do not even attempt to rise, as I know it will be a long journey in and of itself. Instead, I continue to lie there, listening to the quieting palpitations of my heart, my back feeling secure against the hard earth. Reluctantly, I begin to consider the fear I just experienced. It was real fear, the kind I never used to feel when I was an invincible young man, second-in-command of an invincible starship. The fear is a byproduct of the affliction that is attacking my mind. It is a scourge of the elderly of my race, and the same one that plagued my father in his later life. Every month that goes by, another layer of protective logic falls away, allowing more and more uncontrollable emotion to trickle through. Not many months are left before the trickle turns into a flood.
The dark forest canopy mesmerizes me as I watch it sway back and forth against the light sky. Basking in the soothing roar of the wind on the branches, I attempt to lose myself in the past. But it is never an easy task, for my logic is not the only victim of this disease. My memories are also a target: short-term or long-term, people or places, facts or events, it does not matter. The disease destroys them all, one-by-one and not chronologically. For a man who once held the collective history, science, and culture of hundreds of worlds cataloged within his mind, it is a frustrating condition to say the least.
Sometimes, I wonder what will happen when it finally consumes me. I have always been able to take care of myself.
After a while, my mind insists on replaying a memory that I wish the affliction would take. In this memory, I am at my wedding. Across from me, stands an emotionless stranger, handpicked by my father. The stranger is young and very beautiful. But she has no warmth. I look across a room filled with other strangers, to see her standing with the friends that are left to me. She too has always been my friend, for she has always understood me, just as she understood me on that night so long ago, when I told her I could not love her. Returning my gaze, she gently smiles, as if to say that, yes, she still understands. However, I have seen her smile many times before, and I know that this smile is not real. I turn to look at my father who is standing some distance away. And it is then that I become aware of another emotion. The emotion is hate…but I feel it more for myself than for him.
Deciding it is time, I begin to pick myself off of the ground. Though I am forced to wince through the pain, I give thanks that at least the tremors have left me.
I find myself continuing onward, and it is not long before my path intersects with the main road that will lead me to my destination. After some time on that road, the forest grows sparse and, eventually, I arrive at a gentle precipice. From there, I look downwards upon an enormous low-lying plain, with mountains all surrounding. On that plain lies the village. It is a small settlement, spreading outwards for several square kilometers. The road meanders all the way down towards it.
A feeling of helplessness comes upon me, as I stand there in indecision. The encounter with the creature has left me worse for wear, and I am finding that I am more exhausted than usual. Glancing backwards at the tree-filled mountain, I can see residences dotting the side, but I cannot see my own, for it is too far away. With a sobbing laugh, I realize just how far it is, and how it will be uphill all the way when I return.
Briefly, I consider staying in the village for the night, or perhaps having a shuttle take me back. But what if I wake up and discover I do not know where I am? What if I experience another breakdown in someone's presence? They could report me and have me taken away to rot in a comfortable cage, my weakness unveiled for all to see.
No. I would rather perish within the wilds.
With the returning path far too insurmountable at the moment, I slowly make my way down the sloping road. As I enter through the open gates, the silence strikes me, as it always does, and it once more becomes difficult to believe that almost five-thousand souls live and work here. My race does not often engage in idle or boisterous chatter, but even by the standards of my people, the entire place is almost eerily calm.
Walking aimlessly through half-empty streets, I reflect that though it is only ten years old, the village is already an impressive place. Buildings in various stages of construction are scattered throughout, but those that are finished outnumber those that are not, and their intricate and unpredictable contours cast strange shadows upon me as I walk past. Outsiders have often been surprised about the raw expressiveness of our architecture, for it often reflects a more emotional time in my race's history…perhaps a more savage time. But in truth we have always revered our past, no matter how much we have rejected it. Because though we were savages, we were strong savages, unconquerable by anything but our own passions.
But that strength is mostly gone now, though you would not expect it by looking around this place. Indeed, no expense has been spared to replicate the ancient edifices of an obliterated world. Were it night, you could be forgiven for thinking you were walking through a village on that world. But it is not yet night. It is the day. And it is all too easy to see that the blue-violet sky above me is not the color it should be. It is not orange-red, the color of eternal sunset.
Soon, I find myself entering the village square. In its center, there is a fountain, one that must have been recently constructed because I have never seen it before. As I hobble towards it, I notice the children - precious children - running back and forth across the open space. They play the games of a lost world, not quite laughing but still calling to each other with breathless enthusiasm. Their emotions not yet stifled by the harshness of a Vulcan education, they still know what the joys of youth should mean.
Peering into their innocent faces, I realize that these young ones will never be able to do as I did. They will never walk upon the Fire Plains of Kir, or sail along the shores of the Vorath Sea, or hear the lonely cries of sehlats in the…in the place I used to go when I was young. Rather, they will take what this world can give them and make it their own. I try to find a measure of peace in that, but all of it is overshadowed by guilt.
Reaching the fountain, I can see that it is shaped in flawless white alabaster. A giant man stands majestically amid the dangling spouts of water. His right hand is carved in a gesture that is most familiar, but the man himself is not. Looking down upon my hand, I begin to shape my fingers to match his own, and then I return my gaze to him. I know to my core that I should recognize this man, that he is important, yet there is nothing, not even a flicker in my mind to tell me who he is.
Shaking my head at how far I have fallen, I decide that the only thing left for me is to rest for the impending journey back home. Over the next while, I therefore sit upon the fountain's ledge, watching the playing children as I take sips from my flask.
It is not long before a little one comes running and trips upon the stone-covered ground in front of me. I rise immediately, though not easily, but before my limbs can render assistance, I hear a voice calling out like a song of light.
"Amanda!"
A young human woman quickly rushes over to help the girl, her arms burdened with a male infant. Looking up to meet my eyes, she gives me a smile I thought was forever lost. "Thank you. Sorry if she bothered you. They can certainly be a handful!"
Too stunned to reply, I can only give her the faintest of nods.
She glances around the square, her eyes so alive. "A beautiful day, isn't it? You know, I think it's really amazing what your people have built here."
"Yes," I whisper. My heart throbbing, I place a hand to my hooded face, hoping to hold back the emotional tide that threatens to engulf me. I know that hope is in vain, as I feel the tears begin to gather.
Oh my love.
"Are you all right?" she asks with a caring face, as she slowly moves to place her hand upon my arm.
A deep ache resonates throughout my chest, as I realize just how much I want that hand to touch me. But instead, I quickly put my own hand up to stop her.
"I am...fine...thank you."
It is then that my hand begins to quake uncontrollably.
The tremors.
In a panic, I snatch it back to hide it within my robe. No. Why now? Father help me, why now? I feel so old...so diminished by her glory.
Trying to redirect my attention away from her, my gaze falls upon the little boy in her arms. Like his sister fidgeting restlessly on the ground beside me, his skin is of light caramel, but his hair is short enough to reveal long, pointed ears.
"Daddy!" the girl cries out, scampering away from her mother's reach. I can hear her footsteps echoing across the square as she runs a short distance to meet a man who I have not seen in some years, a man whose face mirrors my own but is yet untarnished by time.
"Where is Grandfather?" she asks, as her little head looks around.
"Conversing with an old acquaintance," the man replies, as he bends down to embrace her. "He will be along in a moment."
"Did you find Mommy a present for her birthday?" she asks in a slightly hushed voice, as she attempts to peer into the packages he is carrying.
"Yes, I have. And I have found some things for you and James as well."
Beside me, the young woman sighs and gifts me with a bemused smile. "Do Vulcans always spoil their children this much?" she asks before casting a fond gaze back towards her husband and daughter in the distance.
"I...would not know," I reply, becoming transfixed as I watch her son make futile attempts to capture her dark, flowing hair within his little fists.
Oh, the things I want to say to her, must say to her. I open my mouth to speak, but am prevented from doing so by the last scraps of logic that exist within my intellect. Logic says that this is not truly she. This is another young woman, from another universe, who has found happiness in the arms of a man who is wise before his time. Logic demands that I somehow find contentment in this. Though I know I never will, logic somehow prevails and seals my mouth shut.
And in the end, all I can do is capture her joyful face afresh within my mind. I pray it will stay with me for however long I have left.
"Prosper," I whisper to her, as I quickly turn away.
The End
RIP Leonard Nimoy, 1931 – 2015. You've touched my life, and I will always be your fan.