A/N: At long last, my family has left my home and I can write in peace. Don't get me wrong, I do love them, it's just that the ceremony is only over the weekend for a reason. Now that I'm a high school graduate and I won't be moving into the dorms until mid-July, it's time to buckle down and finish this thing. Many thanks to the readers and faithful commenters for continually supporting me even when I do disappoint them. I recommend listening to the beginning of Ludovico Einaudi's spectacular album Nightbook while you read the start of the kal-if-fee. Trust Skye on this one; it's spectacular writing music.
This chapter was not beta read, so any plot holes I may have managed to create are purely my responsibility. I went back and watched Amok Time from TOS for the first time in about a year to try and stay as close to the source material as possible. But fear not, for there will be sundry elements of chaos, as in VOY's Blood Fever. Sorry, Vorik.
Next time: The fight is on. Also, Troshi pays a visit to the Taylor household.
Haven
Chapter Seven
Malcolm's dreams are full of shade and shadow the night before he is to fight to the death. Vague omens and dazzling allegory dance across his plane of vision, only visible from the external view by the singular twitch of an eyelid. He needs to be rested for the ceremony, but something within him keeps him from achieving this state of unconsciousness. It's akin to all of the times he's been on assignment, sleeping out in the open, on guard for an assailant at any moment. His intuition is telling him something, and he knows better than to refuse it attention.
It suddenly comes to him, by a lightning strike of realization, that this is much bigger than a dispute between two families.
Of all the daughters of faculty members at the Academy of Sciences, why would Koss's father insist on the offspring of two rather unimpressive midlevel instructors? On paper, T'Les and Sanet were ordinary Vulcan citizens of unimposing clan designation. It would have been in their best interest to marry their daughter off well.
But such pairings, he had discovered from his research, were relatively rare. Administrator Havek seemed to be a rather crafty man whose every move was calculated for maximum impact. Although they would never admit it, he most likely struck fear into those with less political power. He would not have concerned himself with a family he considered to be beneath his status…unless he wanted something from them.
Over the course of the previous day, between his ineffectual attempts at training, T'Pol had confided in him that her mother's retirement had not been of her own free will. She believed that this was a direct result of the destruction of the monastery at P'Jem.
He recalled the incident well. It was one of the first times he had been left alone in charge of the bridge, and things had quickly run afoul. If only he was more clever, a bit faster on his feet, he might have been able to avoid a hostage situation. Now, a little more than two years on from the debacle, his guilt had subsided and he was left with questions.
T'Les was a tenured teacher with many years serving the interests of the High Command under her belt. Just how much of the Archives would have been restricted to her? Was it enough for an entire investigation to be launched towards the cause, especially when the Vulcans were facing much more pressing difficulties?
The more he thought about it, between the elusive states of dreaming and cognizance, the less it made sense. The mastermind behind the marriage, the driving force in T'Pol's consideration to marry Koss, seemed to be her mother. Why would she want this if it would only draw her back into the same abusive environment that had destroyed her career?
What was she hiding?
From the courtyard, the gong was struck. It seemed to him that this was earlier than normal, but he yielded to the pull of classically conditioned behavior and stepped out of bed. A starched pair of slacks and a dress shirt was folded neatly atop the armoire, meaning that someone had been in his room while he was asleep. Was it his newfound lover, seeing to every last minute detail of the preparation? Or was it her mother, creeping in under the veil of night to contemplate her daughter's champion and desperately prognosticate as to how much he knew?
Malcolm hadn't trusted the woman from the beginning, but T'Les was appearing less credible by the minute. What frightened him at the moment was that there was now little time to investigate, to gather information in the subtle manner he had perfected over many years of service. Every step he would take forward now would be done so blindly. He didn't want to risk it. He didn't want to risk the fragile relationship he had with T'Pol, and he certainly didn't want to risk his life to entertain some Administrator's ego trip.
But the closer the appointed time approached, he was forced to come to terms with the fact that he would have no choice.
-0-
It's the first day of shore leave that Hoshi and Trip have been in full understanding of each other and free of emotional burden. They awake in his bed, limbs intertwined under the bedspread, with no real plan for the day. There's almost a week left to enjoy themselves, to frolic up and down the beach and set the eastern seaboard aflame. But as for now, they are quite content to stretch luxuriously and take in the first deep breaths of the morning.
Trip excuses himself from the bedroom while his paramour performs her hygienic routine and bounds downstairs. He doesn't bother to leave a note; although yesterday his unexplained absence had caused some strife, he knows that Hoshi is no longer in fear of his deception.
From his father, he had learned a great deal of things, especially when it came to women. He had broken the first cardinal rule of a relationship by going to bed without resolving a conflict. Observation taught him that there was a fine art to apology, regret, and acquiescence. But there was one thing his father always did for his mother that left her with dull memory of any of his most recent misdeeds.
Thundering down the boardwalk in the first pair of shorts he had laid his hands on that morning, he made tracks to a specialty shop a few blocks away. The clerk had given him an odd look, for he hadn't expected his first customer of the day to be a breathless man without shoes, but had imparted his goods upon him nonetheless.
And that was how Trip found himself slamming the screen door shut behind him on the return trip, a dozen long-stemmed red carnations in his hands.
Roses were for romance, but carnations were for thoughtfulness. And he had every intention on sweeping Hoshi off her feet with the gesture. However, when he enters the bedroom, he finds that she might have very different plans for his gift.
The Japanese woman wears a modest sundress, her hair swept back in the casual ponytail he finds so familiar. As she rights herself from bending over his suitcase, he can see that she's draped the most formal outfit he had packed over the bedpost.
"Today's the day," she insists, her tone firm but eyes soft with affection.
-0-
Catching a prolonged glimpse of himself in a mirror, Malcolm decided that the outfit that had been selected for him wasn't going to work. The sleeves were too long and his shoulders were much too broad for the seams. Then again, it was typical of him to obsess over the minute details when there was a more effectual matter weighing over his head.
He hadn't seen T'Pol yet that morning. He had read that the formalities surrounding the kal-if-fee were often treated with undue finesse, so he could only imagine the elaborate costume she would have to squeeze into. But he was dressed in a rather plain set of formal clothes, and couldn't help but wonder if Koss would do the same.
Having stood outside the door for quite some time, mulling over the actions she was about to take, T'Les sweeps into the room without so much as a knock. This startles Malcolm, who turns to face her.
"If we do not start the processional immediately, we will not arrive on time," she warns. It's about as subtle of a hint as he's going to get to get his ass in gear.
Whatever she's about to say next, it escapes her lips soundlessly. The sight of the human in the charcoal gray ensemble stirs something in her memory. In an instant, her fingers are at his collar, assisting him in his dilemma.
"My daughter has chosen well," she says, and neither are entirely sure whether she speaks of clothing or something else. "These clothes belonged to my husband."
Good lord. Biting his lip, he gestures down at the fabric pooling around his ankles. He can't replace Sanet, whether in spirit or in physical presence. "They don't fit me."
"They will have to do," she replies softly and with so much fervor that he momentarily forgets his goal to weaken her resolve. "Mr. Reed, I am glad that my daughter has chosen such an honorable champion."
The comment floors him. Just yesterday, T'Les had been so fervently against this, and now she was on his side. He knew at that moment that he didn't have a hope of understanding these people.
Malcolm wants to bring up T'Pol's apathy towards Koss, but knows this will make little difference to such a pragmatic species. It only confirms his suspicions that the administration of the High Command has wronged her in some way, and that she was now willing to choose whatever antagonizing option presented itself. Gut feeling had won the day over obligation to one's culture, as it often did in the end.
"I understand that your late husband was not your betrothed," he confesses, knowing full well that it is an egregious breach of privacy for him to know this. But he hopes to convey his understanding of her motives. It was not entirely difficult to discover this discrepancy in virtue; if one knew where to look, the truth often revealed itself.
The older woman pauses with her palms on his forearms, having just hiked up the sleeves a quarter inch. It was true that she had defied her mother's wishes, choosing infatuation over responsibility. It was not entirely unreasonable to make the assumption that her daughter would do the same. Struggling to piece her thoughts together and weighed down with things she could not possibly express at the moment, she said simply, "One day, T'Pol will understand that everything I have done has been to her benefit."
T'Les doesn't even tell him to hasten his preparations, only tipping her head in Malcolm's direction and ducking through the door.
-0-
When T'Les had suggested a processional, Malcolm had inferred that it would be only the three of them making the trek up to the ceremonial battle grounds. What he hadn't expected was a veritable parade of acolytes and assistants accompanying him to his doom.
Two men in chain mail helmets led the way, each holding a trapezoidal frame of wire at arm's length. From each tier, a series of bells dangled and struck each other. That and the sound of their footsteps was the only thing to be heard in the deathly morning stillness.
Behind them, four men wearing hawk-nosed masks carried a variety of weapons. Malcolm immediately recognized the lirpa, a traditional instrument of warfare with a fan shaped blade on one end and a club on the other. He had trained with it intermittently at the Academy, just enough to know how deadly it could be when used with a particular amount of devastating force. He made a mental note to choose that as his first defense when the time came.
Was he really considering strategy? Sure, he had killed before, but only when under orders and never under his own free will. It was downright uncharacteristic for him to be thinking like this. But he knew one thing about the desert, and that was that no matter where in the galaxy the shifting sands asserted their dominance, it had the tendency to turn the feeble into the strong and the prey into the hunter.
T'Les met him at the gate, and the two nodded towards each other. As the interim matriarch of the family, she took the lead and continued their ascent up the mountain.
Just as he was beginning to fear T'Pol wouldn't show up, there she was, resplendent in a lavender gown and matching veil.
His breath caught in his throat. Seeing how anxious she was, how her entire body was tensed in anticipation, suddenly made the entire ordeal more real for him. Malcolm mumbles something about how beautiful she looks, and she responds by telling him that he looks honorable.
There was that word again. How could she bring herself to utter something like that, especially when he was prepared to kill for her? By God he was prepared to do anything, whatever it took to keep her safe. And that scared the holy hell out of him.
A narrow butte had been carved on the side of the mountain centuries previously, its sloping sides reaching them at some distance along the trail. A circle of stones supported by columns ringed the ceremonial grounds, obscurely reminding the human of Stonehenge. Several people stood huddled together, deep in conversation. When one notices that the other party is approaching, a massive gong is struck, heralding the start of the ritual.
It shakes Malcolm to his core.
He and his party enter the circle, the protective group that had accompanied him quickly separating. Even T'Pol scurries away to join a handful of women at the far end of the grounds, who surrounded her and obscured her from his view. It seemed to him from their body language that they were arguing, desperately trying to convince her to forget her wishes and return to obligation.
Several men in silvery costumes crossed the threshold, each balancing one end of a litter on their shoulders. A hushed silence descended upon all those who were in attendance. The elderly Vulcan gentleman that now sat in the sedan chair, glaring down upon those he perceived to be his subjects, looked oddly familiar.
Perhaps he had seen him in a briefing, or in a news segment detailing the members of the Vulcan government. From what he had read, it was common for the senior member of the clan to preside over the proceedings of the kal-if-fee. But from the tense silence all around him, Malcolm could deduce that a sighting of this man wasn't common around here.
"What you are about to see comes down from the time of the beginning without change," he says once his pallbearers have set him down on a raised dais some distance from where the action was to take place.
Administrator Havek's acolytes step aside, revealing the imposing figure of Koss himself. Whatever he was feeling right now, he was trying his hardest to disguise it. He stepped forward and bowed before the officiator, and Malcolm immediately mimicked him.
After exchanging ta'als, the man continued, "This is the Vulcan heart. This is the Vulcan soul. This is the Vulcan way."
"Administrator, my betrothed has brought into our household a challenger," Koss stated, casting a dismissive glare in the direction of the man in question.
The officiator, apparently a man of some influence, scrutinized Malcolm from head to toe. The gears were grinding in his head, but he still asked, "Who is this offworlder that defends a claim to one of our women?"
Before he could speak, he heard T'Pol respond in a level tone: "He is Lieutenant Malcolm Reed of Earth, son of Stuart, son of Mary, my desired mate."
Some flash of recognition stirred behind the old man's eyes. Hearing the challenger's name announced, the adherents that were holding the frames of bells shook them with force. The crowd began to mutter amongst themselves.
"Kroikah!" He cried. "Koss of Vulcan, son of Havek, son of T'Rin, do you accept the challenge according to our laws and customs?"
"Yes," he said, and their men bearing weapons approached.
"Lady T'Pol, are you willing to become the property of the victor?"
Even Malcolm flinched at the antiquated wording of that. But, as always, if there was a question, she had an answer. Forming a triangle over her breast with interlocking hands, she repeated the lines that she had been able to recite from memory since shore leave began. "As it was in the dawn of our days, as it is today, as it will be for all tomorrows, I have made my choice."
The man stood suddenly, approaching the center of the circle. From underneath the gong, a fire smoldered. Behind him, T'Les and Havek bowed their heads out of respect.
"I, Administrator V'Las of the High Command, am honored to preside over the challenge. The proceedings will take place in accordance with our laws and customs. If Malcolm Reed wishes to retract his claim, let it be known that this is his final opportunity."
Something in Malcolm's mind clicked as he put a name with a face. From the way V'Las was staring him down with the faint air of expectation, he knew that his name carried some weight for him as well. This was the conniving, manipulative head of the High Command he had read about. This would have been the man who would have had the power to dismiss T'Les from her station.
Seeing how the exits were now ringed with ranks of armed guards, with several stationed behind the older woman, he finally understood.
"I accept the challenge," he announced defiantly, nodding slightly at T'Les. Something in her face twitched, but she set her jaw and returned the gesture.
"Very well," V'Las said, returning to his seat. He exchanged glances with Havek, as if to confirm that this was the man he had been speaking of. They shared the knowledge that Reed was a dangerous man, but each desired to gain the upper hand in a different way. His mind already working several steps ahead, he announced, "Here begins the act of combat for possession of the woman T'Pol."
He accepts the lirpa that he's handed, the translucent silk it had been wrapped in falling to the ground. The sand creates an uneven texture beneath his feet, and the sun pounds into his eyes. Without relief, he's momentarily blinded and almost doesn't catch Koss running towards him, weapon held aloft and face contorted in rage, until it's too late.
(to be continued)