Of Religious Fortitude and Detriment
Though it did not happen often anymore, when rain kissed the surface of Earth, it came with purpose. Years of abuse and mistreatment had left the planet without a well-functioning atmosphere and as the once lush globe crept closer to the Sun, rain fell with less blessing every year.
It made sense then that there was a downpour that day. Water cascaded off the slanted roofs of Des Moines, splashing into puddles that quickly turned deep and dangerous, capturing a foot for every step taken by the funeral procession braving its fury.
Twenty wide and one hundred deep, the mourners huddle under umbrellas, defenseless against the torrential storm while they walk behind the casket. It is rudimentary, archaic almost, in that day and age to see them on foot, but if James T. Kirk was anything, he was a man worth the walk.
Familiar faces, unfairly young, are grouped together; a Russian, slim and almost adolescent; a Vulcan, refined and solemn and the dignified woman with porcelain features and heartbroken eyes at his side. These are his friends.
Many tears fall that day for him, mimicking the onslaught of rain from the heavens, sloping down their noses and over their cheeks. His mother stands in the front, her blonde hair tucked behind her ears, tears falling hardest of all. No mother should bury her child.
Amongst his friends and his family, standing as far from the crowd as possible and without an umbrella, is his heart and soul, the man he had died for.
Unshaven and haggard, he is without expression, seemingly without grief. His hair is plastered to his hair, his suit hugging his body, drenched to the core. In his hand, unseen by anyone else is a captain's insignia. This man is a doctor, a high-ranking medical officer on the flagship of their fleet.
He cannot mend a broken heart, not his and not that of his friends.
There is agony in the voice of everyone that speaks before his grave. Though inaudible over the crushing rain, the eulogists speak of his accomplishments, of his friendship, of his religious fortitude and detriment. His mother speaks of her beloved son, his friends of their captain. Even his first officer, the Vulcan, seems distressed.
One by one they pay their respects, leaving in pairs and trios to warm up, dry off and drink down. They leave until all that's left is his heart and soul, bound to this Earth by his sacrifice.
He stands there, until the rain had stopped, smothering heat rising from the surrounding cornfields and he can't help but think this is all wrong.
He stands there until he can think of something to say and when he finally comes to a starting point, his heart breaks and he cannot take it anymore.
His knees sink into the soft clay when he falls, head hanging as raw, unapologetic sobs rack his body. He has never felt pain like this.
His hides his face in shame, in defense and after a while, he stills and is able to breath great, gulping breaths, like a newborn.
It is catharsis and he feels new, but at the same time, stomachs a grief unimaginable.
"I loved you."