Rage. Oh, the merciless rage.
A fury, untamed and unconstrained, a reminiscence of those ancient fires of his ancestors. That was all that his eyes would divulge, all that I could detect from him. His eyes, his face, his body...all radiating with a zeal, a hatred I had not yet witnessed in this form, not for a period of time. There was no shame on this occasion, no sudden realisation of err.
From him, there was only the conflagration of his fury. An intent, savage and livid, of a spilling of blood. I envision an altercation from afar, a collision of blows, mad and trained and brutal.
A change now comes forth, a mutation of sorts. A death, horrible and painful, of he with whom I share my love. A shriek, a cry emanating from my own throat as I cradle the lifeless form, garments all sodden with blood.
A scream I sound, a dreadful wail of his name. All in nullity are my pained cries.
"No... Spock...please don't go..."
With a jarring of her ill-rested body, she wakes, a gleam of sweat marking her skin. Many times, her mind had manifested this memory, a recollection of an event passed by, and details housed within. Yet, why? Perhaps, to offer an alternate variant, a chain of events differing from that which had been reality.
Indeed, her subconscious has conjured visages of the memory, a retelling of a specific event of a shared past. Yes, there lies the memory: the warring of her beloved and his adversary. Strike after violent strike, the jabs, the blows, the frenzied barrage. Flashes of a battle, fuelled by mercilessness and brutishness; however, these were not her stirring's cause. Her mind's eye had sighted a break in the images, a distortion, like a glitch of a computer system.
A new set of conflicting imagery had been displayed by her overactive subconscious; an immobilization, a seizure of control from the attacker; a figure thrust onto a rigid surface; a rod, of twisted metal and stretched length, jagged and blunt, driven into a body, and the piercing of a heart; the terrible oozing of moss-tinted blood; a pain, the agony, distorting his face. Not even a whimper is made from him as he falls, his body contorted into a folded heap on metallic flooring. A smirk, horrid and demonic and maniacal, painted onto the lips of the assailant, the celebration of a victory most vile, as his freedom is at last acquired. Dying huffs of the crumpled form, diminishing into faltering inhalations, and the grasping of a wound through a stained tunic. Her race toward him, the urgency of her legs and her arms and her hands in the rush to hold the bloodied form, to cradle in her slender arms. Excruciating are her cries as the life's end arrives at last, the halting of a heart's rhythm, the silence of breathing ceased. And the eyes, oh the terrible dimming of the irises, the fading of that once vibrant cocoa tint...and of a life.
With ravaged emotions, she twists her body to glance at the figure by her side. He would, naturally, deem such an act illogical. Yet, her gaze meets him all the same, a possible check of his physical existence, maybe. That he is still with her, heart beating, chest showing the entrance of air into his lungs as he breathes. There is a want within her; nay, a need for a touch, for a light caress of fingers onto his skin. But, she dare not wake him, so peaceful in the arms of cosy bedding and warm slumber.
Unclear of the reasoning behind the disturbing concoction of images, she reaches out her mind to the Vulcan sharing her bed. A beckoning, of sorts, for an embrace. And, yes, there comes from him a reply, a compliance to her request, and a figure is drawn closer to hers, long arms enclosing around her, enveloping her. Holding her, soothing her.
And now, there emerges from him a solution in the form of a proposal: an invitation for her accompaniment during his morning meditation. A viable remedy, yes, as it had assisted him in ridding his mind of such unsettling imagery and quell unwanted emotions. Unique to him, the notion is a balm to her troubled emotions, her fears, her worries. A solace, brought by a traditional custom of his people, and by reserved means.
Presently, however, as their figures are bound together in warmth and affection, her mind wanders to those images which had looped over and again. Numerous nights had been disturbed by the same visage that unravelled her sleep this night, and there is a hope that their hauntings will soon cease.
A subconscious mind is quite the foreboding conjurer, is it not?
THE END