Chapter 13: The Beginning of a Story
"I find it hard to believe there's anything logical about a surprise party," Sam said. He pressed on the package that Taurik had left on the side table, misaligning its edges from the table's.
Taurik redirected his attention to the cake he'd selected—Gabi had once said her favorite flavor was buttered popcorn. It had proven impossible to find a cake in that flavor pre-programmed in the replicator, so he'd had to manually request the combination.
"There is," he offered, "a tradition in my home region of Vulcan that is somewhat similar to what Humans call a surprise party. It is a rehearsal of adaptability when presented with unfamiliar and unplanned situations." Of course, it was very much unlike anything a Human would call a party, though the rituals were not entirely dissimilar. The goal was to catch the recipient of the party off-guard, even startle them if possible.
The next time he looked at Sam, his grin was disbelieving. "There is not."
"There is."
Sam laughed. "I can't believe you're lying to me!"
"Why would I lie about this?" he asked, dispensing with the common retort that Vulcans didn't lie at all. He knew Sam didn't believe that, and neither did Taurik, anymore. Vulcans too often made honesty a matter of personal perception.
Sam didn't seem to have an answer for that. "There's no way in hell a surprise party is a Vulcan tradition. Why would you ever want to surprise someone?"
"In the Vokau Mountain range, the weather is unpredictable and erratic. The temperature regularly ranges over forty degrees within the same twenty-five hour period, and storms are formed without advance warning as is common in other areas of the planet," he said, and could see from the curious, glazed expression that his explanation wasn't going to help his case. "Because traditional travel through the region is dangerous even today, Vulcans historically adopted various strategies to survive. Because preparation was often impractical or impossible, adaptability became the region's maxim. Surprise is a true test of one's adaptability."
"So it's like a rite of passage."
"Most illogical."
"I told you!" Sam said, as if in triumph.
"No, to assume that a tradition predicated on surprise would involve a specific life milestone is illogical." He watched Sam appear to unravel his sentences with no mean difficulty before continuing, "The event is to be planned without warning for the target or targets, and may happen to anyone at any time or never. Rites of passage imply a predictability."
"It's hardly a surprise party with just the two of us, anyway…" Sam still sounded incredibly amused with the notion.
Even though it was clear Sam had moved on, it was also clear he didn't believe Taurik for some reason. "Should you ever elect to visit Vulcan, I insist that you tell me. I will arrange for you to attend the event," he offered. "You would not refer to it as a party, but you cannot deny the element of surprise."
"No." Sam chuckled. "I can't. When is she supposed to be here?"
"She is, no doubt, already aboard."
"Oh." Sam was quiet for several seconds, looking around the room. "Should we turn off the lights?"
"Is that the appropriate Human ritual?"
Sam didn't get to tell Taurik either way when the door slid open and Gabi gasped.
"You guys!" she squealed and dashed into her quarters to nearly tackle Sam in an embrace.
Sam laughed, wrapping his arms around her waist. "Surprise."
To Taurik, she offered the greeting gesture of his own people. "Welcome to the Ramsar," he said, though he was certain she had already received such a welcome from the transporter operator and any of the engineering staff she may have met upon boarding.
"Thanks. I'm so happy to be here." She looked around the bare room, and her eyes landed on the cake. "You really shouldn't have."
He wasn't sure whether she was being polite or expressing that cake was an inapt confection for the event. Taurik glanced at Sam. "I was led to believe that cake is an appropriate food for a surprise party."
"No, it's appropriate, I'm just—"
"Did you know that there's such a thing as a Vulcan surprise party?" Sam asked as Taurik began cutting the cake. His understanding of geometry was, unfortunately, not represented in his ability to cut even slices.
"I think it's called a datorik ak'wikmun." She glanced at Taurik, possibly for confirmation.
He nodded, and gave her a plate with the piece of the largest volume. "That is correct."
Sam shook his head. "I still think you're pulling my leg." When Taurik paused to look at his leg and contemplate how such an idiom had come into use, Sam said, "I mean I think you're tricking me."
"I deduced the meaning from context," he said, and gave Sam a plate. "I assure you, I did not coach Gabi in anticipation of your disbelief of a simple and inconsequential fact. I believed Gabi would appreciate a welcome of this sort."
"And you were right. Thank you, Taurik," Gabi said with a nod, and speared a portion of the cake with her fork.
They each took a bite. As Taurik was contemplating the incongruously light flavor in combination with the heavy cake, Sam covered his mouth with one hand.
"Oh, my god," he said, and gagged slightly. "Taurik, what the hell is this?"
"Is there something wrong with the flavor?" he asked. He didn't find it offensive—in fact, with the inherent sweetness of most Human cakes, he found this one more palatable in that it was more salty than sweet.
"What is the flavor?" Gabi asked, smacking her tongue on the roof of her mouth as if it were, perhaps, too salty. "It's, uh… it's unique."
"I attempted to recreate the cake with the buttered popcorn flavor you once indicated you preferred," he said, and Sam barked in a laugh.
Sam did take another bite, though, which was at least an indication he found something about it acceptable.
"For candy," she said with a smile.
"And I suppose candy is not a term encompassing all sweet confections," he said, and inspected his next bite with more interest. Somehow, perhaps, he had created something new.
Sam and Gabi talked a bit about what candy was, and the various sweet treats in Human traditions. Though they disagreed about whether cake was a pastry, they did not disagree that neither were candies. It was a semantics discussion Taurik could see no point in discussing—except that such semantics had led to his misunderstanding of what was an acceptable flavor for a cake. Many of the flavors they listed as "candy flavors" were also acceptable cake flavors, though the distinction seemed arbitrary.
Upon her final bite of cake, Gabi declared, "I don't hate it."
"That's as good as an endorsement to him," Sam said.
"I do not hate it, as well," Taurik said. At Sam's look of scandal, he offered, "Of course, I am speaking idiomatically. Applying such an emotive characterization to a flavor sensation is illogical. I consider the flavor and texture to be palatable."
"Good. I was wondering if we'd have to send you to sickbay." With a small sigh and shrug, he gave Gabi another hug. "Well, it's good to see you, Gabi, but I have to get to my next shift. If you want to, you can join me for lunch at thirteen-hundred hours."
After Gabi agreed to meet him, they gave one another a final embrace. Sam left.
"So how are you doing?" she asked, helping herself to another slice of cake. He watched her drag her knife with no regard to uniformity. "Saalle's due soon, isn't she?"
"I leave for Earth in two weeks," he said. "The baby is expected to arrive in approximately twenty days, and her pregnancy has thus far been average."
Gabi nearly threw her new slice of cake down on her place with force. "I cannot wait to see the holos!"
"You and Sam will be receiving holoimages of the infant as soon as they are available," he said, and hesitated. "However, in my experience, infants of the same species tend to look practically similar."
"Get out of here with that 'you've seen one Vulcan baby, you've seen 'em all' crap," she said, and frowned. "Infinite diversity in infinite combinations. This is a combination I'm particularly interested in."
Taurik had never heard the philosophy applied that way, at least not that particularly succinct way. "I do not mean to imply I'm not anticipating the birth of my first child with due positivity. Regardless of appearance, the child will be distinct to me in telepathic properties. In fact, in a distant way, we have already been acquainted."
Gabi seemed interested in the idea of having met the infant before birth, and pursued him for answers as she unloaded her single bin into the room. It was mostly clothing and very few decorations, and her questions had mostly to do with personality and wondering what unborn infants thought about in the womb.
Taurik tried to tell her that the connection had not crystalized to that degree and would not be for several months—but it did not stop her from speculating.
She speculated into the late morning, and then asked if they could meditate before joining Sam for lunch. Since he hadn't yet meditated today, he agreed. He joined her on the floor, on a newly replicated pillow, and searched the room for some glint of light or spot of pure silence or color to substitute a meditation lamp before realizing how unusual this was.
He turned to her, struck by the strange sensation of an outside anxiety tugging at him. "Are you unwell?"
Gabi shrugged, adjusting her posture and hand position. "The Klingons have gone insane."
Of course. Taurik had observed his Human companions become tense and uncomfortable as time progressed. "The quadrant's political equilibrium does seem to be… shifting," he said with a small sigh and nod. He had been ignoring that largely in favor of preparing for new familial duties—though they would be limited, as he would be expected to return to the Ramsar and Saalle and the child were disallowed. That did introduce a different element of anxiety. "However, with new situations come new opportunities. You have exhibited an uncommon ability to adapt and make yourself useful."
She smiled, but didn't look at him. Closed her eyes. "No offence, but that's one surprise party I'd like to miss," she said. She took a deep breath and was silent for some time. He joined her in her deep breathing exercises, feeling the distant disquiet lessen even without his focused attention.
Gabi shifted suddenly, and looked at him. "You're in a desert?"
"Very well," he said, and guided their meditation before leaving to join Sam.
#
The journey to Earth had been quick and effortless, allowing him to spend most of the time meditating. Those six hours of meditation seemed to have been the most productive six hours in meditation he'd spent in recent memory. He was no longer anxious for his ability to share responsibility for an infant, no longer concerned for Saalle's health through the ordeal. He wasn't even apprehensive about attending the birth—an event he'd never before witnessed.
For the first time in what seemed like years, he was still. Some of that might have had to do with Saalle's nearness, nestled against his chest, with her head resting on his shoulder.
Saalle, on the other hand, was hardly tranquil. He suspected that was because she was never physically comfortable. He regretted not being here, even if his only role was as a calming telepathic pillow as he seemed to be now, but not enough to feel anything about it. He had his duties, and she understood.
Only a vague sense of emptiness persisted. He wondered if it would ever leave him—the sensation that he'd somehow left a limb or vital organ somewhere. It was most illogical, but it was the only description that approached accuracy.
For the last two days, though, his thoughts and days had been occupied. There were final preparations to be made for the birth. The infant would have a place to sleep and trinkets to begin learning about spatial balance and logic. This afternoon, Saalle tasked him with rearranging their bedroom to accommodate the additional bed until the child was old enough to sleep alone—and now, though she hadn't engaged in any physical labor at all, she was tired.
He took the opportunity to lie quietly beside her, as he had not had the opportunity in months. To simply be with her, to feel her presence in mind and in body, was a sensation he'd very much missed.
With a mild sigh mostly intended to refill his lungs, he directed his attention to Saalle. "Are you comfortable?"
Saalle responded to his thoughts with a sudden pleasant contentedness. "This arrangement is quite relaxing. Are you comfortable?"
"Yes. You don't need anything?"
"I need a series of chemical reactions to induce labor…" With the comment came amusement. "Perhaps tea would settle my stomach, however I would not have you leave."
"I would return."
"Which, while pleasing, is less so than your remaining." She passed her fingertips over his collar bone, the sensation of her light touch arcing down his spine and whispering on his skin. "I am pleased you were able to utilize your familial leave stipend."
"As am I."
A solitary chime of an incoming request to connect sounded in the main room outside, and he felt her disappointment. He projected his regret and promised return quickly and with tea as he rose and went out to the main room. He turned the kettle to boil water for Saalle's cup of tea, and accepted the message.
The image of an unfamiliar admiral appeared, and Taurik pressed down the anxiety that he was being recalled from leave because the war had begun in earnest. The admiral's grim appearance gave him no reason to suspect otherwise.
"Good afternoon, Lieutenant," the admiral said. "My name is Admiral Dawson."
"Live long and prosper, Admiral."
The admiral gave a brisk nod, and continued immediately. "I am attached Project Lost and Found, the venture initiated when the Voyager went missing in the Badlands two years ago."
Perhaps to keep himself from guessing anything else, he added silently, four months, thirteen days… "Yes, sir. Is there news?"
"Yes…" The admiral paused long enough to sigh, and fold his hands on the table before him. "The project has been discontinued," the admiral said. "We know this decision will be unpopular, but we've exhausted our options. As we continue to search, the likelihood that even hull fragments or propulsion trails still exist decrease. We did want the families of those missing to hear from us directly the official word."
"Yes, sir…" Somehow, his voice felt as though it almost got stuck in his throat.
It was logical. In addition to the reasons stated, Taurik was sure that the new situation of the war with the Dominion had changed things. They could no longer dedicate resources to locating the remains of a lost science vessel in a region of space renowned for tearing ships apart.
"As of this afternoon, Voyager and her crew is recorded as lost." The admiral paused, perhaps long enough for Taurik to say something.
But what was there to say? His brother had been dead for two years. Everyone else was only now accepting what he'd always known. He hastily nailed back the illogical anger as the admiral relayed additional information that seemed to be meaningless in the wake of this news.
It was not news.
The notion that Vorik was dead, had been dead for a long time was not new. So why did he feel this way? Why was it as though he had just heard this for the first time? Perhaps he was more affected by recent and upcoming events than he thought, meditation or not…
"If you have any specific requests, please forward them to my office."
"We will not require any object or notification to perform funerary rites," he muttered.
The admiral nodded, perhaps understandingly. "If anything changes, please let us know. Good afternoon, Lieutenant."
"Peace and long life, sir."
Taurik bristled as the admiral's communication blinked to black, an empty and dark black he was too familiar with. He felt… dizzy. Ill. He reached for the wall as he walked to the counter in the kitchen where the kettle clicked. He mechanically removed a tea cup from the shelf, poured water into it.
"Taurik?"
Hearing Saalle's voice from the bedroom, he scrambled to put away the overwhelming grief as he retrieved one of Saalle's pre-packaged tea packets from a clip on the wall. It smelled of aster. Why did it smell like aster? "Which tea would you prefer?" he asked, aware his tone belied his raging emotional landscape.
"What's happened?" Saalle said softly, her voice closer than he thought it should be.
He brought the packet of tea to his nose, inhaled. "You should be in bed." It was, indeed, Vulcan aster and soft v'tal bark. She grew both of them in the garden, but she must have obtained the bark shavings elsewhere. The incense Vorik had used smelled like aster.
"I am pregnant, Husband. Not dying," Saalle said.
"The doctor—"
"Taurik." Her voice was only a breath, and he could feel her reaching through the Bond they shared to, please, let her in. She must have felt his distress through the walls, his inability to breathe and think. "What's happened?"
He shook his head. "It's nothing." And yet, it was as if it was all new again.
The pain was so great, he couldn't even tell her to leave him alone. Let him bring her tea and sit with her quietly. Remember the future he'd been anticipating only ten minutes ago, a future that had not changed. Sleep and put yet more distance on this loss he always had with him no matter what he gained.
Taurik slid the tea back, away from him. "An admiral Dawson called," he said, and she nodded to show she was listening. He steadied his gaze. "Voyager is declared lost. There will be a memorial service, and…" He took a sharp breath to pull back in the sorrow that threatened to escape, compressing it as much as he could. "But I have always known," he added, and blinked in surprise and frustration at the tears in his eyes.
Saalle crossed the space between them as he struggled to speak, standing beside him in resolute and supportive silence.
He leveled his breathing, or at least tried to. It seemed as if the news had strangled his lungs. "I have always known," he said, as if to remind himself he shouldn't be responding this way. Even more so, since Saalle reached her hand down to his, her first two fingers hooking his.
The gesture drew him back enough. "You should be resting."
"But you are in pain," she said.
"Give me a moment. I will recover."
"Let me help you."
"But the—"
"I will protect myself and the child."
He felt her step against him, the child in her upset by the ambient emotional turmoil. For one second, he let himself be angry. He should have left the house immediately if he couldn't control himself. But it was an idle reprimand now, especially since he was fairly certain the only outcome would have been his weeping in the garden instead of here.
He would not weep. He already felt everything, so surely there was nothing left. "I have always known he was dead. This changes nothing."
He felt Saalle's fingertips slide up his cheek and press firmly under his eye.
"May I?" she whispered, and he blinked. She didn't usually ask.
He nodded and wrapped his fingers around her palm.
She was a wash of crimson calm—she shared his sorrow, but she was at peace. As he leaned into the comfort she imparted, he felt her wordless request that he share more with her. As always, she refused to pry, to search for herself.
There would be no more searching. This would be the final update. Voyager's crew was to be memorialized with a service on the Starfleet Academy grounds, and he was invited to attend. Taurik, as his sole beneficiary, would receive on Vorik's behalf the Vulcan jade and obsidian IDIC for those lost in the pursuit of space exploration, a Starfleet commendation for valor, and Vorik's final rank pips—full lieutenant. For the first and last time, Vorik would outrank him.
Should Taurik desire, Starfleet would provide an official uniform for funerary rites, for there would be no bodies to bury or burn or… whatever else others did. He didn't know.
Only a moment ago, he had been so angry, he thought he might never feel anything else. But, of course, when the emptiness and the silence returned he wished he could have stayed angry forever. He was only a moment from weeping when he managed to tighten his hold on the familiar stoic calm.
He had survived this long, and, really, he'd always known. This was illogical.
This is normal, he heard Saalle in his mind.
How is this normal?
You may have always known he was dead, lived as if you knew. But now Starfleet will never speak to you about him again. There will be a ceremonial goodbye. His service record will be closed. Her whisper on his mind was light rain on fire. She settled securely against his anger, his grief, his regret. She released him from their meld and pressed her forehead to his jaw. There is a reason the entire family shares the grieving together. Such deep sorrow would be too much for anyone alone.
It almost made sense, the way she said it.
But he didn't point out that most Vulcans did not weep. All of his concentration was consumed in maintaining an even rate of respiration.
No one was looking. Even the Humans had released the ghosts to rest. None of them were Starfleet officers anymore. All that remained was a funeral and empty space. Vorik's service was over.
Saalle took his arm and directed him back to their bed, neglecting to bring the tea. She sat beside him, folded her hands, and waited for some time until he quieted the storm.
"Will you go to the memorial?" Her question was quiet, gentle.
"Yes. Provided I'm not occupied by other matters." He cast an unsubtle glance at her belly. "Vorik would forgive my absence for reasons of my first child's birth." Illogical a sentiment, though, it was. He could only manage to think of the small flicker of life within her, though not much else.
Would Vorik have requested leave to be personally present at the birth, or if he would simply wait at his post in quiet anticipation and hound Taurik for news every five minutes? How many of his colleagues would see holoimages of the baby on those distant starships? Would Vorik have had a child of his own first, or later, or about the same time?
Oh, how he wished Vorik were here…
He felt Saalle brushing softly at his restless regret. "It is logical to feel this way."
Even though he'd had no intention of acting on it, Saalle's gentle assurance was somehow permission. She didn't even give any indication of what she thought this way was. She only wrapped his fingers in hers and offered her support.
Shedding no tears, they wept together.
The next morning, he awoke to messages from assorted family members of the missing—lost Voyager crew consoling one another. Professor Ballard offered to host a meal for everyone after the service. Though most had accepted the inevitable conclusion, some were angry. Many of them seemed relieved. He offered his own meaningless support to the string of meaningless messages, echoing that the decision to discontinue the search had been a logical one. As he read, he accepted Saalle's drowsy embrace. Probably sensing his distress even in her sleep.
Personal messages had arrived from Sam and T'Leall and Gabi. He listened to them, but set aside any reaction he might have had. T'Leall expressed her surprise in only that they had continued the search for so long, and requested that he return to Vulcan to perform rituals that would be empty without a katra to fill them. That Vorik's had been lost, now so surely, so irrevocably…
He shook that off and turned to Sam and Gabi's messages. Each of them expressed condolences in their unique fashions. Their support, however useless… was somehow not meaningless. Eventually, he set the PADD aside, as well.
He carefully extracted himself from Saalle's arms and left her sleeping comfortably in the thin sheets. He retrieved the meditation lamp from its drawer in the table and sat unfolding and refolding his grief until the shapes were manageable and the creases were worn. The sun was shining in the long windows when Saalle called him.
"Taurik?"
He blinked once at the flame, turned it off. She seemed… annoyed. And, to be fair, he hadn't brought her breakfast, though it was late in the morning. "I apologize, I wasn't attending to the time. What may I get for you?" he called back, and went to the replicator.
"The doctor," Saalle answered.
"The doctor?" He stopped his walk midstride to spin, go back to the room. He leaned in the doorway. "It's time?"
"I believe it is."
"But the date isn't for three days."
"You may take that up with the child when this is over." She took a small breath, pressing her back up against the headboard. "There is no hurry, but—"
"No, I'll—" Taurik was about to go to their communications panel in the main room, but thought better of it.
He quickly crossed the room, kissed Saalle's forehead, and then went to call the doctor. He had forgotten to be anxious last night, and now that it was time… he could only focus on Saalle's needs and wait. He had become very good at waiting. This outcome would, in all likelihood, be better.
#
The baby cried, and Saalle leaned against the pillows at her back. She turned her eyes up to him, giving his hand a weak squeeze before letting go. He didn't need the Bond between them to know she was exhausted, relieved, and impatient to see the child.
And to sleep. Of course, she wanted to sleep.
Taurik couldn't think of sleep. His thoughts were an inexplicable jumble as the midwife turned to him, holding a squirming infant, screaming and flushed olivine, in her two hands. He accepted the baby in his own. "We have a son," he said, unsure how he was supposed to suppress the emotion thickening his voice and clouding his eyes.
"A son…" Saalle said, very softly with a sigh. "Good."
Taurik didn't question Saalle's reaction, and turned his attention fully to the new one in his hands. "We welcome you to our family," he said to the baby, and showed him to his mother.
Saalle opened her eyes to see the baby, and smiled. It was so small and so brief he almost missed it. He hadn't seen that from her since they were children. She looked at the baby's small face, scrunched up as he cried in obvious discontent.
"What will we call him?" Taurik asked, and shifted the baby to hold him against him more securely. The baby flailed his tiny fists even as his screaming quieted in apparent confusion and interest for the new sensation of Taurik's shirt on his skin.
It was traditionally the mother's prerogative to name children, though many parents collaborated in recent centuries. Taurik only preferred that the name be decided before the Bond was initiated.
"Would you be opposed to naming him Vorik?" she whispered, and looked up at him.
He hadn't expected to be shocked into silence. With a sharp intake of breath, he shook his head. Fought to retain his stoic demeanor, but felt he was failing. "I would not," he managed, bent, and kissed her forehead.
"Then his name is Vorik." Saalle sighed, and waved at the midwife to come to her side. "Take him. I must wash and rest."
"Yes," Taurik agreed. He watched her for a moment, ignoring the midwife moving around to clean the bed. He pressed his palm to her cheek before he left, saying softly, "You did well."
"And you, Husband." She kissed his hand, and pushed him away. "Return in an hour."
"I will." Taurik left the bedroom, not daring ask what he'd done that deserved any recognition. He'd held her hand when she asked, provided mental stability as needed, followed the midwife's instructions, and generally stayed out of the way. The intense feeling of helplessness had been unpleasant, but twenty hours was short, relatively speaking.
It was traditionally the father's to Bond first with their children—he didn't know why. Perhaps because the mother was too tired, in body and mind, to do so. After all, she would have been aware of her own distress as much as the child's in a way much nearer than Taurik had experienced. So he swaddled the baby according to instructions and tucked him in one of his arms.
The infant was so small, and evidently appreciated being wrapped tightly in soft blankets, and stopped wailing almost immediately.
She wanted to name him Vorik.
It was an emotional request on his behalf. She was certainly permitted any emotional reaction she wished during this time. Most Vulcans named their children for important historical individuals or ancestors most often. As the first born between them by twelve minutes, Vorik shared his name with their mother's fifth great grandfather. Because twins were relatively rare, his parents had elected to give Taurik a name that rhymed with Vorik's. Taurik didn't expect any of his distant progeny to be named for him, and it meant nothing without Vorik.
It almost meant something again.
Though the infant would not understand the words, he could identify the tone of Taurik's soft speech as he walked to the back of the house, to the windows filling the walls and looking out on the desert night. Though it seemed illogical to speak to the child, it had been demonstrated that conversing even with infants yielded a host of benefits. So Taurik told him he could see the lights of the town as much as the lights of the Milky Way when the house lights were off on nights like this. If he knew where to look, he could see 40 Eridani, the station in Earth's orbit, and, some nights, Utopia Planetia shipyards.
The baby's large eyes were open on Taurik, apparently, to listen to his running commentary. Even if he could not have recognized Taurik's voice, he must have recognized his telepathic presence, even if only in a small way.
Settling on the floor, he searched the baby's wrinkled face. He could identify Saalle's nose, and it looked like the child's skin color was an almost-equal mix of his own pale skin and Saalle's umber.
"We will Bond," he said, running his fingers gently over the baby's soft head. "And then we will meditate."
The baby whimpered as Taurik carefully, lightly touched his cheek with two fingers.
It was incredibly easy to focus on this little mind, to see the simple workings and the few emotions the baby had experienced. Even now, at less than an hour old, the baby's mind was a swirl of shimmery copper, the color of the desert in these foothills where they lived now, with an undercurrent of blood-green.
Welcome to our family, he whispered into the newly formed parental Bond. Little Vorik.
The smallest telepathic presence beheld his communication initially with anger and fear. After all, the baby had a trying day and couldn't understand what had happened to him. But at the sense of Taurik's affection and protection from those few unpleasant emotions that were already large for his small size, he settled just as strongly into the tiniest flickerings of contentment, of trust so large Taurik could hardly contain it. Soon, he even reached out in bold interest towards the simple meditation Taurik beckoned him to join.
The time went far too quickly in Taurik's estimation, but the infant approached hunger. But he was also tired and impressively calm, having taken well to the new Bond. In fact, he whimpered unhappily when Taurik handed him back to Saalle for feeding, even though the baby had been more telepathically aware of his mother during his fetal development. He showed his familiarity with her more distinctly when she formalized their Bond.
"Are you well, Saalle?" he whispered once they had settled in, laying down beside her.
She sighed, fussed with the baby's position against her, and then turned her clearly-tired eyes on him. "I am well. The healer has assured me the birth was typical and we are both healthy."
"I am relieved." It was a pale, if aspirational, characterization, but she could feel that from him in their closeness. It had always been illogical to dwell on the possibility of disaster, but it seemed especially close lately.
Still, with the small new presence in his wife's arms and their new strength in a growing family, it was easier to see peace.