Darkness.
I am unsure of my whereabouts. An expansive, empty void...that is my one awareness. So vast, so overwhelming, so paralysing. Enveloping me, isolating me. I cannot see. I cannot move.
I cannot breathe.
She is calling to me, a dire cry of my name. Her hand, small fingers desperately outstretched, reaching for me. It is all in vain...and I am engulfed.
"Don't leave me, Spock...please..."
Forgive me, Nyota.
Fluttering of eyelids, and the Vulcan quietly wakes. No jarring motions, no hasted breaths, nor quickened pulse or fearful eyes. Yet, irises still seek she who adjoins him; illogical, yes, as her form is presently at his side. And yet, they do so all the same, her slender figure sought out by his eyes and his mind. She, whom slumber had long since claimed, tranquil, still, at peace. The posture telling of a sleep apparently not disrupted; a relief from him, as the notion of her encountering such visions is an unsettling one.
Now, is a recollection of the images, concocted thrice in his subconscious: a scape, so black and so infinite; an ocean, perhaps, or the colossus of space, yet devoid of stars; the sensation of his body afloat; an immersion, a slow submerging; a silence, oh the despairing silence; his name, a terrible shriek, abrupt and piercing and shrill in delivery; the slim hand, a hapless attempt at his freedom; her face, a visage contorted and blurred, twisted with tormenting grief; the bursting of lungs bereft of air; the agony of cracking bones from cruel compression; the cold, cold, sinking into icy depths. Lost, it seems, is the meaning behind the vision of his mind's eye; contemplation, perchance, can solve a riddle so disquieting.
A plan will be forged, come the hours of the morn, for meditation; yes, a quiet reflection of the visage contaminating his mind. And a hope that an interpretation will arise, and a solution brought into being.
From her, he senses a warmth, a touch of tiny fingertips. Perhaps, she did indeed endure the very imagery he had, or she can sense an agitation within him. Nay, there rises from her a distress, a fear. She had possibly envisioned his dream, or one of a similar vein to his. His figure is nestled closer to hers; again, illogical to seek out one so proximate and so tender. The need for her touch, to encompass her in taut arms. Illogical, yet undeniable.
The realm of subconsciousness is a perplexing entity, indeed. Yet, also fascinating.
THE END