The Captives
By panyasan
Prologue
Disclaimer: Enterprise and it's characters are propriety of CBS/Paramount.
Time-line: This story takes place a year after Terra Prime (January 2155) in the beginning of the year 2156, the start of the Earth-Romulan war (2156-2160).
Authors note: Thanks to my beta, KKGlinka for her inspiration and help.
Dahshaya-tor nam-tor herbosh
Indukah-kahk mashau-fam
Katra-kahk ka'tur
Ha-tor nash-veh, hi
Ha-tor nash-veh-nirsh.
Separated, I am empty
Like a indukah tree without water
Like a soul without logic
I am alive, but do not live.
H'nas, poet and writer (in the year 353).
T'Pol felt the desert breeze on her face. It was the end of the cold season and the sun was not scorching like in the dry season, but it burned on her head. She wasn't used to these conditions any more. She felt a sense of homecoming but it was diminished due to the state she was in. The restrains were hurting her wrists and with every step she took the little bell attached to her feet – a strange old habit from ancient times – reminded her of her imprisonment.
She stepped into the warden's office. She was accompanied by a tall women, wearing the black robes of a prison guard. She handed her new clothes and checked her personal belongings.
"A personal asenoi is not permitted. You have a meditation fire pot in your cell," said the guard, taking away the meditation pot, a childhood gift that she cherished.
The guard looked with a critical eye on her vokau, the triangle shaped plate used to remember loved ones. She felt an emotion that she strongly wanted to suppress. T'Pol was determined to keep it at all costs. Fortunately, without a word, the guard shoved her bag with the vokau back toward her as a sign of permission. Then she removed the restraints, told her to put her own clothes in a bag and left.
She quickly slid into the dark slate undergarment and folded the white, ironed collar round her neck with some difficulty because of the device. She fastened the robe and put her sandals on. Boots were not allowed. She always wore heeled boots, the minute she had found that human invention, because it added some height she enjoyed.
The warden entered. She was a tall woman, with a stern face that measured her with one look. She handed T'Pol a new bell. "Ras-kur kling, give the bell its rightful place." T'Pol attached the bell to her new clothes. Ras-kur kling, literally translated gray nobody was the title of prisoners in Vulcan.
"Your number is dah-leh-teh reh-leh steh-kul (2037). You are here because of illogic. It's our task to bring logic back into your life." The warden explained the daily routine. "You wake up at 3.00 hours, 7 minutes for bathing in the bathroom, 3.10 breakfast, 3.20 first shift of work, 4.20 lessons of Surak, 6.20 meditation, 7.50 second shift to work...."
She went on for an hour, explaining the rules, including that T'Pol wasn't allowed to speak against her. Then a new guard entered the room and took her to her cell. It was a small place, with only a mattress and a meditation fire pot. She put her vokau in a corner, where it wouldn't be easily seen. This was no place to show your vulnerabilities. She stood in the middle of the room and heard the muffled screams and sounds around her. "Ras-kur kling," she said out loud. Gray nobody. But the wall consumed her words.
It was not the treadmill of work outside in the sun or inside in the factory, the hours of lessons in the Kir'shara or the meditation hours on the hard floor - that made this life almost suffocating. It were her fellow prisoners. They were not only illogical, they were erratic and bordered on insanity. Staying alive became her first priority.
Being clearly a women of high upbringing, her fellow prisoners were annoyed by her presence. M'Lek was the worst, a tall woman that used to be beautiful. The madness in her eyes drove out anything appealing and reminded T'Pol too much of the erratic Vulcans of the Seleya. M'Lek's intent was to shock her guards with her unruly behavior and her shouts during lessons became something to be expected. She was punished accordingly.
Every morning she washed herself quickly, secretly longing for a good, warm shower, a longing that she should suppress. One morning, shortly after her arrival, she finished dressing as M'Lek walked in.
"Shorty," she said, repeating one of T'Pol's nicknames in the prison. Prisons were the only place in Vulcan society where nicknames were used. Without further warning M'Lek put a hand on her neck, forcing her face sideways along the sinks. She could feel the stone brushing her skin.
"I know you, daughter of Karik and T'les," she hissed into her ear, "You're like those fragile Earth beings that Vulcans can crush with one blow. I despised them, but unlike you I didn't kill them. Your father spent his life creating ties with his precious alien allies and you just killed it. I killed my mate – because he deserved it – I had every right as a Vulcan woman. That's logic. That's Vulcan. You're not Vulcan any more. Don't you agree?"
T'Pol knew that M'Lek killed her commanding officer and had no regret. According to her, he cheated on her, so he got what any Vulcan women would have served him. If she said "Yes" to M'Leks question, maybe she would survive, but she would become her slave, free for M'Lek and her circle of friends to torment her every minute in this place. That was not an option.
"No."
The very moment that word escaped her lips, M'Lek slammed her head against the sink. At the same time she heard the bang, she could feel something warm against her face. Then M'Lek hit her again against the sink. She felt hopeless for a second. This women was much stronger than her and could indeed kill her with one blow.
M'Lek whispered something madly in her ear, holding her in a firm grip. T'Pol could feel her, smell her sweaty body close to her. She realized M'Lek was her living nightmare, the person she feared becoming more then fear itself. But if she didn't face her, she would be dead.
There was a sound and a split second later, M'Lek turned her head, easing her hold on T'Pol's head. In that that moment, she moved quickly and bit the point of M'Lek ear. She bit down hard, until her tongue distinguished the copper taste of blood and she heard M'Lek scream in agony. Then she kicked her in the stomach with all her strength, grabbed her head and smashed it against the wall. For a moment M'Lek was down. She straighted herself and walked out. She never looked back.
She could hear M'Lek calling her every name in the book that Vulcans supposedly never read when the guards – warned by the signals from her neck device - stopped her. In the office, the warden accused her of attacking a fellow prisoner and she demanded that she apologize. T'Pol didn't. It would seal the fate that she just fought.
She wiped the blood off her face with a sleeve, staining the gray cloth green, and looked at her with all her dignity and said, "I think that the High Command wants me to live." For a brief second she questioned if that was indeed the High Command's intent, but now there was no room for doubts. "So I made sure I stayed alive," she added.
"You're in no position to think. We think. Not you," the warden fired back, but she didn't make her apologize. Instead she denied her the privilege of a private cell for a week. During that time she hardly slept, constantly on her guard, sharing her space with six other prisoners. She grew to dislike crowds, but she became aware that her stay with Humans had made her more adaptable to being deprived of privacy.
After a week, her own cell was a welcome sight. In the dark with, only her meditation pot as light, she looked at her vokau for her child. Briefly, she inhaled and allowed herself to grieve. The pain consumed her. After a while, she tried to reassert herself, her situation requiring her to stay focused and strong. She shifted her attention to Trip, as a beacon of hope.
She remembered his smile, lighting up her life. The way he had shaken her logic. She remembered his kindness, when they grieved. She realized being able to grieve with him, if only for a short period, had helped her more to deal with her pain of loss than she had thought possible. Suddenly, she felt an overwhelming longing for Trip, that burned deep in her katra. It was better if she suppressed it, but at this moment she didn't. An emptiness filled her. Dahshaya-tor nam-tor herbosh she contemplated and, feeling the emptiness and loneliness without Trip, she started repeating for herself the old line from the poem of H'nas: Dahshaya-tor nam-tor herbosh, Dahshaya-tor nam-tor herbosh....