Mandrel: n. 1 a shaft or spindle in a lathe to which work is fixed while being turned. 2 a cylindrical rod around which metal or other material is forged or shaped.
He met her for the first time when he was eight. His dog had died that afternoon and all he'd wanted was his increasingly distant father to tell him everything was going to be okay. Tom had just gotten in from school and raced outside to play with his Border Collie. Only, she hadn't come when he'd called. Concerned, Tom had searched the yard and finally found her curled up under his mother's rose bushes. With a sense of dread, he carefully touched her head. She looked like she was just sleeping, but her feet weren't twitching and she wasn't breathing. Screaming for his mother, Tom was torn between running to the house and not leaving his best friend.
His mother flew out the back door, her panic blunting to a soft sadness when she realized why he was screaming. Disappearing back inside, she reemerged with an old sheet. Gently, she pulled the dog from the bushes and wrapped her up.
"Hush now, Thomas," she murmured, running her fingers soothingly through his cotton white hair. "The Captain will be home soon and he'll help you give her a proper burial."
Distraught, he allowed her to lead him inside and accepted the milk and cookies she placed before him. Lost and wanting to deny what he knew had happened, the boy couldn't do more than break the cookies into tiny crumbs. Ignoring his mother's concerned looks, he recycled the dishes and went without protest to change into his dinner clothes.
Surprisingly, his father was on time for the meal. However, he'd brought two other people with him, making Tom's heart sink.
"Tom, come here," Owen ordered. "This is Captain Janeway and his daughter, Kathryn." He turned to the guests and placed a hand on Tom's shoulder. "My boy, Tom."
Captain Janeway nodded politely, but his daughter dew Tom's eyes. She was older than he- not yet a Cadet-and she was beaming at him. Confused, he hesitantly smiled back and shook her hand when she offered. The adults moved toward the dining room, causing Tom to remember what he needed to tell his father.
"Captain," he called in a rush, watching as Owen paused and looked back. "May I speak with you?" his voice wavered. "Please?"
"Of course, Tom," his father agreed. "After dinner, we'll talk."
Then, he turned with the other man and disappeared into the dining room. Tom's shoulders slumped and his fists clenched as he felt the tell-tale stinging behind his eyes. Before he could run to his room, a soft sound drew his attention. The girl shuffled to his side and was watching him with something suspiciously like understanding.
"My father is a captain, too," she stated softly.
Sniffing, the boy rubbed his eyes and tried to force back the emotion clogging his throat. "Pierre died," he admitted quietly. "Mom said the Captain would bury her when he got home."
He didn't say that it wouldn't happen now; that the captain would talk 'Fleet until late and his mother would probably bury Pierre while Tom slept. Kathryn knew, though. Stepping closer, she rested her hand on his shoulder.
"Well, I could help you, if you want?" she offered.
Surprised, he met her stormy eyes and saw the seriousness of her offer. Hesitantly, he nodded and felt relief flood him when she smiled encouragingly. Grabbing her hand, he pulled her outside to the shed. They selected a hoe and a shovel before Tom scoured the back yard for the perfect spot.
"This just isn't right," he grunted in frustration after a while. "Pierre was a Naval dog. She should be buried at sea."
Kathryn tilted her head to the side. "Why did you name a girl dog 'Pierre'?" she asked in the hopes of calming the distraught boy.
Blinking, Tom pulled out of his thoughts and glanced to her. "Because she sailed with me on the Nautilus," he stated matter-of-factly.
The girl's brows rose as she processed that. "Oh. So, you're Captain Nemo, then?"
Grinning, he nodded before remembering his fallen friend. "She deserves a hero's send off."
Biting her lip, Kathryn glanced back at the house before steeling her resolve. "I can get us to the lagoon, if we hurry."
Astounded, Tom nodded eagerly. Together, they loaded Pierre reverently into Tom's toy wagon and crept around the house. Neither of them breathed until they were a block away. Kathryn asked him questions about his and Pierre's adventures, prompting him to recount the most memorable until they reached the pier. Conversation trailed off when they came to the last plank.
Tom solemnly pulled back the edge of the sheet and shakily ran his hands through his friend's fur. "Don't worry, Pierre, we're doing this the right way," he whispered.
Kathryn helped him haul her up and with effort, they flung the dog as far out as they could. Though she didn't go very far, she made a considerable splash-something Tom knew would have pleased her greatly. Glancing to his right, he saw Kathryn saluting reverently. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Tom forced himself to say Pierre's eulogy. It was his responsibility as her captain and friend.
"Pierre, you were my best friend and the best crewman a captain could have. You've gone to scout ahead this time, so I hope you have fun until I get there."
He sniffed and wiped his cheeks angrily as the tears spilled over. Standing up as straight and proud as he could, he saluted her crisply.
"May God have mercy on your soul," he finished.
Nodding to himself, the boy turned to Kathryn. She fished out a handkerchief and passed it to him silently. Gratefully, he accepted it, wiping his face and blowing his nose before shoving it into his pocket.
"The captain says crying is a weakness," he mumbled, ashamed.
Kathryn cocked her head to the side again and thought that over. "Maybe it's a weakness okay to have in private," she offered.
His skeptical look at her made her shrug. "Or with people who understand."
The last of the sun's rays hit her at that moment, setting her red hair on fire. Her fair skin seemed to glow golden and for the young Tom, she was abruptly the prettiest thing he'd ever seen. Wanting to feel her warmth when he was so, so cold, he shyly reached out and slipped his hand into hers.
A smile stretched her face as she squeezed his hand and led him home.
AN: So, as far as I can tell, Kathryn's actual age is the subject of some debate. From video games and 'The Killing Game' Okudagrams to actor interviews information is conflicting. I know Kate is nine years older than Robert, but I'm bumping the characters back down to about a five year difference. I hope you enjoyed it, even if it is completely and utterly random.