For most of her life, Saavik had hated those unexpected scents.

She had hated the way an unexpected scent of hot desert dust instantly sent her back to the horror of Hellguard, her mind remembering the acrid searing days of metallic drying blood and the heavy oily sweet rot of flesh that had once had a name or at least a number and now was no good even for meat. Remembering the greasy unwashed stench of her own filthy skeletal starved body that had never known what bathing or hope was but knew all too well the ugly rank smell of Guards' lust.

She had hated the way an unexpected scent of a starship's carefully filtered recycled air instantly swept her back to the horror of that particular Enterprise, her mind remembering the mingling of a sixteen year old boy's curiously soft mild soap and a grown man's Vulcan heavy incense with the bitter revolting charred smells of burnt circuitry and flesh. Remembering the crisp clean precise fabric scent of a Starfleet uniform she was no longer sure she wanted to wear as she silently dressed to stand in the honor line.

She had hated the way an unexpected scent of roses instantly pulled her back to the raging shame of that particular hot crimson mountain, her mind remembering the cloying reek of a departing Klingon ship and being left behind with a blue eyed gentle robed woman who did her best to pretend she did not know how Saavik had saved her son on Genesis because she was trying to be kind. Remembering the salty bitter scent of her own weeping tears later in the hidden black shadows of that first night when she truly realized that he could not remember her and she was alone again.

And she had hated the way an unexpected scent of medicines instantly dragged her back to the all consuming grief of that particular stifling still room, her mind remembering the slowly fading scent of Vulcan musk and Human lavender on the at last unmoving long fingered aged hands of her beloved. Remembering the new heavy plastic scent of the opening body transport bag flooding her nostrils until she choked and drowning her heart for long aching years thereafter.

Saavik had hated them all those unexpected scents and more.

Hated the rage and the horror and the shame and the grief that stalked hauntingly after them, like sulking night scavengers trailing menacingly behind a hunting cat.

Hated them all so much that for a time she had tried desperately to pretend she smelled nothing at all, preferring the forced false emptiness of a mind to the real destroying pain of one remembering such dark suffering days.

But quietly, gradually, over the long years, Saavik had found that time slowly ground down the bitter sharp edges of even the most soul cutting days and Vulcan mastery was not in the lack of feeling but the calm acceptance of what had been.

And the peacefully firm refusal to allow it to be any more than that.

Now as she bent quietly over her grandson's carved crib and smelled his fresh smooth infant skin and the sweet innocent milk scent of his small sleeping breaths, Saavik remembered all a sudden another birthing day with the scents of coppery blood tang and damp labored sweat.

Then she realized that the mind could recall more than just dark suffering days.

And for the first time in her life, Saavik looked forward to those unexpected scents.