T'Pring was perfect.
Every hair was bound perfectly in place, every fold of her robes shifted gracefully as the air moved around her perfectly still body, and her face was locked into the look of perfect serenity that any Vulcan might suppress a stab of envy at.
"She was not content to cast away her own bondmate's life," said one junior council member flatly. "She would have us sacrifice our sons' lives in favor of our daughters' wishes."
T'Pring inclined her head. "That is not what I ask."
"Perhaps that is not what you wish," said another member. "But that is the outcome of what you ask of us."
"With all due respect," T'Pring lied, "that is not the case."
"What we are due from you is more than respect," said a third. "You would upset the very foundation of society. You should beg our pardon for your lapse in judgment, not request our assistance in your dangerous proposal."
"Danger?" said T'Pring, almost reacting visibly before sealing herself away again. "There is danger in immobility as well as in action."
"So you would say," said the first council member, "before leading us all off a cliff in your wild fancy."
T'Pring bowed her head politely, which hid the tiny narrowing of her eyes she could not quite suppress. "All I ask—"
"—is too much," interrupted the first council member, far outside the bounds of courtesy. "You speak too much. We are not required to listen to your lies and false dreams. Why do we listen to you at all?"
Before anyone else could react, T'Pau stood regally.
"You listen because I wish it," she said, and her voice rang through the hall. "Speak, T'Pring."
T'Pring bowed her gratitude and turned again to face those around her.
"All I ask is another way—an addition, not a replacement." She took another breath. "I would not ask you to risk your children. But let there be a way out. When a match proves unviable, let there be a way out that does not end in death."
There. That was it. That was all she would ask.
"There have been dissolutions before," said one of the council members. "Unworkable matches have been unmade. Your objections are illogical."
T'Pring bowed her head again.
"Dissolutions occur, yes. But only ever at the insistence of the parents—and even, on occasion, over the objection of those in the bond. That is no solution. There must be a way for the one who would make the choice to challenge to instead make the choice to dissolve the bond."
There was a whisper of murmuring in the air, and in the mental space in the room, not entirely blocked by the shields of those who sat there.
"And there you see her mind," said the first council member again. "She seeks nothing but justification after the fact for her own mistakes."
The murmur in the room turned to sounds of assent, and T'Pring steeled her face into icy serenity and said nothing.
One of the senior council members took the floor and faced her.
"What is your answer to this, T'Pring?"
T'Pring forced the breath to be even in her lungs. "My choice was a bitter one. I would not wish it on another."
"The logic of our system is sound," said the first council member, who seemed to take T'Pring's presence as a personal affront. "What would you wish? That all women abandon their bondmates as you did? You are without logic, T'Pring."
"No," said T'Pring, but the council member continued, cutting her off for a second time.
"Even before the Awakening, parents ensured that their children would not be alone. She is not just d'Vel'nahr—she is utterly un-Vulcan. If she wishes to be something other than what she was born to be, then let her seek her fate elsewhere and leave us in peace."
T'Pring held her poise and let the words roll off of her like precious water. It was not an idle threat—the council did indeed have the power to declare her vrekasht, outcast from all things Vulcan, on behalf of their entire world. None in her own family would contest the ruling—nor did T'Pau, granddaughter though she named her, have any legal ability to do so for her now that she was no longer bonded to her grandson. Her fate rested entirely in the hands of those who now stood accusing her, and she faced them alone.
The murmuring rose again, but this time it was less agreeable. Faint hints of hidden emotion swirled again, but this time they were more uncertain.
The senior council member rose again, and the murmuring subsided.
"Your words betray rash judgment, T'Yoru, she chastised the junior member. "T'Pring has not been named d'Vel'nahr, nor has she betrayed any such tendencies. Her logic is sound, if limited." She turned to T'Pring. "I would not cast such a vote," she said, and the murmuring rose in mixed agreement, "but I do not believe that the reforms you seek are necessary. Yours was an unfortunate case, but unique. There is no need to change things for everyone on the negligible chance that it will occur again."
The murmuring rose to a more unanimous assent. T'Pring bowed and tried again, her heart and blood only maintaining their usual patterns through sheer force of will.
"Honorable council, I request your reconsideration."
The senior member sat down again. "Unless there are any other matters to discuss, I move that we withdraw for the day."
"Seconded," said a male council member, and there were no calls to remain.
T'Pau stood. "As the council wishes," she said. "Adjourned." Her voice rolled through the hall with the force of a gavel, and as one, the council rose and began filing out.
T'Pring stood, unmoving, as the sea of figures surged around her, until one of them stopped and faced her with carefully concealed loathing.
"You are fortunate, T'Pring," said T'Yoru.
T'Pring inclined her head, unwilling to give in. "I am."
There was a minute tightening of T'Yoru's eyes as she tried to read her.
"Indeed," said T'Yoru. "If they pitied you less, they might not have deemed you worthy of sharing the same sand under their feet."
Perfect. She had to be perfect.
"It may be as you say, Council Member T'Yoru," said T'Pring, bowing her head with respect for her office. "But I have many reasons for gratitude."
T'Yoru gave her another look before stiffly nodding her farewell and leaving without another word.
T'Pring remained exactly where she was, not giving an inch to her stiffened knees, until the last of council, other than T'Pau, had left the room.
She let out the breath she had wanted to scream and bowed her head.
T'Pau moved down from her seat and stood beside her.
"You did well, granddaughter," she said softly.
"I failed," said T'Pring, looking down.
T'Pau took a deep breath and shook her head.
"No," she said. "You did not fail. You did what had to be done. You spoke the words they needed to hear—and heard them they did, deny it though they will. You carried yourself with grace and poise and gave them nothing to use against you."
T'Pring looked up. "But they did not listen. They would not change."
"They did listen. They did not agree with you, but they did listen. Remember that difference, child."
T'Pring closed her eyes. "A difference without substance."
"Is it?"
T'Pring opened her eyes, but did not look up.
"Child, your words have a life of their own now. They live in the minds of those who heard them, like seeds in the dry season. They live in the middle state, neither fully alive nor entirely unliving. But when the rains come…" She opened her hands, cupping them as though catching precious water in her palms.
T'Pring slowly looked up to meet her eyes.
"And if the rains never come?"
T'Pau turned to the side and picked something up from a low table.
"Then," she said, holding up a pitcher. "You will have to be the rain."
T'Pring stared at the image on ornately carved pitcher—a scene from ancient myth, showing T'Kay the trickster dancing away with the stolen heart of the river. She knew the scene all too well from her childhood, and also how the story ended—with T'Kay returning the heart and restoring the water to the land, and being hailed as a water goddess despite being the source of the problem in the first place.
"Fortunes may change," said T'Pau softly. "In what ways, none can say for certain. But without water, the seeds you have planted will most certainly die."
T'Pring looked down again. "Then I must continue, always knowing that I must lose?"
"Perhaps," said T'Pau. "But if I have learned one thing in my years, child, it is this..." She met her eyes and held out the pitcher. "There are some battles worth losing."
T'Pring looked at her expressionlessly for a long moment, and then held out her empty hands.
"As you say, elder," she said, and took the pitcher.
