Epilogue

A lowering sun shone cold-white in a February sky, turning bare branches into spider-web halos overhead. Water crystals grew with frozen symmetry among fallen leaves on the path, their fragile beauty crushed under his boots. The path was treacherous with ice, yet he made his way with little trouble.

Kirk's breath steamed around him in the still air as he gazed out over a precipice, the winter-blue sky spread out clean and pristine before him. It was cold, but he glowed with the heat of his walk. Dark came early in the mountains; he would have to hurry if he wanted to make camp by the waterfall. He checked the map again – a mile as the crow flies, but there was no flying across the precipice. Hitching up his pack, he set out again, pacing himself against a growing weariness.

The walk, generally accomplished in three days, had taken him nearly five. The toned, tanned man who had walked these mountains seven months ago was gone; this one was thinner, tired easier. He was more than ready to rest when he finally reached his destination.

The sun dipped below a low-lying cloud while Kirk made camp. He pulled his father's tent out of the pack, along with makings of a campfire. As shadows crept along the ridge, new flames licked at the deadwood he had gathered, casting shadows of their own in the encroaching darkness. Kirk walked over to the cliff, looking down at the waterfall which flowed down the side of the mountain. It fell a long way before smashing against the rocks below. Frozen spray lined the embankment like snow; the sounds of the distant fall and the sizzle of the fire shed their quiet noise on him like rain. A single sunbeam escaped the enveloping cloud, charging the frozen spray with fiery radiance – Kirk's breath caught in his throat.

Darkness drew in like a cloak, and he was forced to retreat to the campfire. As the flames died down, his eyes were drawn to the sky and the stars which hung there. But he made himself look away. He must accept the fact that he may never be out there again; he must make room for other, younger officers.

He snorted into his coffee, choked. Damn, but he had gotten maudlin. He was thirty-eight years old; hardly of retirement age yet. So he'd been through the wringer for awhile. Was it any worse than the cumulative effect of the five-year mission?

"Yes," he said to himself. For a moment he wondered if, had he known what he was to experience over these past months, he would have left the summer woods for the unknown. He shrugged unconsciously – perhaps he would never know.

But that was over. He had put it behind him, though the memories still came back to haunt him. Memories of Spock waiting for a word, a gesture, that would help him open up. Of McCoy's chiding him into a healing fury. Sometimes he dreamed of Jonn Faal, too, sensing his fear and dementia, yet his loyalty, too. There was no doubt that if Jim Kirk had been in complete control of his faculties during his imprisonment, he would never have survived life in the compound.

His eyes glinted wickedly. "Neither would Garal," he muttered, taking comfort from the words, though he knew they were empty.

Now he was talking to himself. A vivid image of his friend McCoy flashed into his thoughts, the memory bittersweet.

He kicked dirt over the glowing embers of the fire and was swallowed up in the waiting darkness. Standing still for a moment, he savored the experience, drinking in the sensations like water. It was dark, yes, but with no barriers to keep him in, no Garal to attack in the night. This darkness expanded, leapt beyond the mountains, reached out to the black sky above, their joining marked only by where the stars began. He was free here, free to start again, to heal and make plans.

And oh, did he have plans. Nogura got him promoted, got him the desk job. But he owed Kirk, owed him plenty, and when the time was right, he would get back the Enterprise. Somehow, some way, he'd get Spock and McCoy back, too.

He looked one last time at the stars before turning in for a much-needed sleep, confident now of his claim to them. His chest expanded with the intake of cold, clean air, and he raised his empty coffee cup in salute.

"Some day," he said.

Weeping may remain for a night,
But joy comes in the morning.

The End

I have always been a sucker for chronologies; I like knowing what everyone is doing when they are separated. The Appendices of Lord of the Rings really did me in, though. It was like reading a story unto itself, and it clarified a few things for me, furthering my understanding of what Mr. Tolkien was describing. I'm certainly not Tolkien, but I have no qualms about borrowing from him! If you want to see the chronology for Empty Spaces, go to the next 'chapter'. Thanks for sticking with me – Westel