Chapter 14: Left Alone

Vorik looked around the warm yellow walls of the resort, remembering a sense of hope and welcome in these halls. He'd invited B'Elanna to share a meal with him, and she'd accepted. They'd conversed mostly about work, though he'd been surprised she was amenable to other, more personal topics. Not much more personal, but he'd considered the interaction a success.

Now, the sensation seemed to belong to another person. In a way, it did. That other person wasn't dying and alone.

Two days ago, he'd been ill, he hoped, with a simple flu. The symptoms were not pressing, though they got worse as time progressed. His concentration faltered with the imposing knowledge of what it must be—and must not be. He wasn't ready. It had to be something else. So, illogically, he ignored the simplest explanation and continued to treat an illness he did not have.

Only after he humiliated himself and everyone else, assaulted B'Elanna, and received a due dislocated jaw… he had to acknowledge his illness was the pon farr. He had to acknowledge he was dying.

"I don't understand the purpose of coming here," he said, and faced the EMH.

The hologram gave a smile that might have been condescending, but it was impossible to care about the perceptions of a computer program at the moment. "Trust me. Ensign Vorik, I'd like you to meet T'Pera."

The EMH gestured to a woman. A Vulcan woman. A Vulcan hologram with a name.

Vorik resisted the urge to leave immediately, pressing away the insult to himself and thousands of years of attempting creative solutions that never amounted to anything. The EMH's audacity to believe it had devised something truly novel seemed one insult too many today. Hologram technology of this nature was novel, but the notion of a substitute mate was as old as the first Vulcans scrambling after rock lizards on red dunes.

"Surely you're not suggesting that she become my mate."

How was this misunderstanding possible? Had everyone forgotten he was telepathic? He'd possessed a telepathic bond with his mate not because it was expected or beneficial or pleasant—but because it was required.

Even Vorik had been caught out and blind to the difficulties. He knew the horrors ahead, because the stories of failure were rampant. Convulsions and sweating blood. Madness and tongues bitten off. Vulcan males were prone to senseless violence during this time, if left alone too long, and he put precautions in place to prevent that. He only hoped that the end wouldn't be as painful as the rumors suggested.

He would try to live. He doubted he would succeed, but he would try.

"Well," the Doctor said, "I wouldn't recommend a lifetime commitment, but she might be able to help you with your immediate problem."

"She's a hologram. She isn't real."

The EMH frowned. "Then I assume you have the same low regard for me."

Vorik gripped his hands into fists. Of course, he would, but he couldn't say that. An EMH could understand this no more than a Human could. The Doctor did not have a mind. He had banks of knowledge, he had skin and could even display blood if he chose. But, as far as Vorik was aware, he did not have the capability to either accept or project the telepathic connection that was innate to most organic creatures, beings with brains.

The telepathic connection that he needed to remain himself, and to remain alive.

"You're a skilled physician, Doctor, but let me point out the limitations to your own experience with physical matters," he finished, since that was at least true, if vague.

"I believe we're discussing your sexual difficulties at the moment, Ensign," he snapped.

Yes, of course. Vorik needed no further proof the doctor was as inadequate a physician for this condition as he would have been a mate.

"And this holographic mate is the best solution I can think of."

"She won't be the same as a real mate," he offered weakly.

What he meant was: she wouldn't be enough.

"The difference is all in your mind, which, if I've understood you and Mister Tuvok correctly, is where the pon farr must ultimately be resolved." The Doctor circled around behind the hologram of the Vulcan woman, and Vorik avoided her blank and empty eyes. "Let your mind convince your body that she is exactly what you need her to be."

If such pale substitutes were possible, didn't he think that they would have been preferred? He must have known that Vulcans in Starfleet were given special medical leave precisely because there was no alternative to a living and breathing and thinking mate. If it were only a matter of Vorik's mind, then surely… surely, he could have solved this problem on his own.

But he couldn't. Men who did defeat the pon farr on their own trained exclusively to do so for years—most often those who did achieve the feat had obtained such heights of emotional suppression and mental control that would take Vorik decades to even approach—even then, he imagined some sort of bond was required. At the moment, he would have taken anyone's mental and emotional support were the sense of embarrassment and exposure not intolerable.

If anyone understood the urgency of the situation, they did not care.

"Think of this as an advanced self-healing technique," the EMH went on. "It will still require considerable mental discipline on your part."

Perhaps this solution was similar enough to the types of meditations the celibate monks of Gol engaged in to resolve their fevers. Despite his knowledge that solely psychological resolution was possible… he knew it was impossible for him. He had already proven he was not mentally strong enough. He had already bonded with an unwilling mate.

"There is a certain logic to your suggestion, Doctor." He adjusted his gaze to the hologram—the Vulcan woman he tried to tell himself was real enough. "I will try."

"Good!" The EMH looked between them for a moment, and Vorik glared. "Well, then, I'll leave the two of you alone."

The EMH disappeared in a blink, and Vorik looked at the remaining hologram.

It was impossible to imagine he was in a room with another Vulcan… he couldn't sense her. But he couldn't simply sense other non-telepathic species, either. Not really, not to the extent he could feel another Vulcan in close proximity, especially one in great emotional turmoil as a prospective mate would be.

"Computer," he said softly, and waited for the chime. "Replace the T'Pera hologram with a Human female character." After a moment's hesitation, he added, "A Starfleet officer," since he didn't want one of the beach-dwellers native to this program to appear.

In a wave of imperceptible photons, a Human woman, average in every way, in a command-red uniform, replaced his dubiously-Vulcan companion. She smiled a little, adjusted her stance to something that appeared more natural. "Have we met?" she asked.

"No, we have not," he said. "Do you have a name?"

"Melissa," she said.

He nodded. "Vorik," he whispered, pressing away the nearly-overwhelming embarrassment at the genuine attempt to connect with a hologram. And he would soon be faced with the unimpeachable reality that she was not Human. She was not real.

But he told the Doctor he would try, so he was going to try.

He ignored her unrealistic receptiveness as he stepped forward and raised a hand. He was nearly overcome with the shame—both of his earlier actions and in the desperate insanity of what he was trying to do now. At least she was a hologram, and she would never say no unless explicitly told to do so.

Still, he asked. "May I?"

She looked first at his fingertips, then back at his eyes. "Yes," she said, a bit breathless.

He shook off an impatient revulsion, then pressed his fingertips beneath her eye, his thumb beside her mouth.

She wasn't real. She was a sheet of blank paper or an empty vessel. There was no more depth to her than a wall or breeze. He could engage in whatever physical ritual might have been necessary, but it would never be enough. He didn't even know if such a solution would be enough for B'Elanna, since he'd seemed to transfer his condition to her.

For all he knew, it might be fatal to her, as well.

How was he supposed to know? He hadn't known it could happen that way…

He fought the rage and hopelessness, but the tears rose, anyway, when the holographic hand raised to caress his cheek. She drew in close, just as she was programmed to do.

He pulled back, turned away, and hid his eyes in his palm. "Computer, delete character."

The computer whisked away the mirage of companionship, leaving him only as alone as he'd been when he entered the holodeck.

With a barely suppressed sob, he slipped to his knees. He had brought shame to himself and his people by bonding with an unwilling partner, and there was little left for him to do now.

He would die.

He asked the computer for a meditation lamp. Since he could no more woo a new mate here than he could suddenly appear on the threshold to his home on Vulcan now, he turned his attention to the writhing emotions threatening to surface. Five days from now, maybe less, he would be dead. His body would be entombed in a torpedo shell, abandoned to drift among foreign stars, and his katra would never reach home.

He would die, alone and in agony, and it seemed so illogical… The least he could do was not be so afraid.

#

Taurik walked into his empty room on the Ramsar and dropped his small bag. Sam had neglected to recycle his small coffee cup before going to his shift. The PADD he'd been reading before he left sat next to the couch. Nothing at all had changed.

He sent a quick message to Saalle that he'd arrived on the Ramsar, but he had no desire to wake her if she was currently sleeping. The baby had made her schedule unpredictable.

Was it unreasonable that he should miss them both this much? Saalle, perhaps, certainly. Her stability would have been beneficial, but they agreed that travelling with an infant wasn't ideal. Also, Little Vorik would likely be upset and possibly even harmed by the immense emotions brought about by funerals. He regretted the decision, but acknowledged it would be better if they stayed on Earth.

Taurik would have skipped the ceremony had he not been obligated to go—it was a pointless exercise. Vorik had been dead for two years, and they'd always known.

Saalle almost immediately returned a connection request and, when her face appeared on his screen, he found he had no desire to speak to her. He asked how the baby was developing, and told her he was tired.

It was true. He was tired. But despite feeling tired, he couldn't sleep. Despite being unsettled, he could not meditate. It was unreasonable to feel this way. Nothing at all had changed.

She acknowledged he'd had a trying week and his transit to the Ramsar had been convoluted, on two Federation starships and a local trading vessel.

"I would welcome conversation with you tomorrow," Saalle said finally, and Taurik nodded. He could see her concern, but didn't acknowledge it. If he did, she might view it as an invitation to investigate further.

"I will contact you," he said.

"You require rest," she went on, as though he'd said nothing. For a moment, he wasn't sure he'd heard Saalle say it, or the priestess in his memory.

"Yes, I do…" He nodded, and, despite not wanting to speak to her, regretted ending the conversation. "I will speak to you tomorrow," he said, and Saalle ended the connection.

The screen turned black and Taurik seemed unable to stop staring at it. The priestess who performed Vorik's funeral had been gentle in her investigation, looking for pieces of Vorik that had been left behind. There was some question of whether he'd been able to perform some sort of transference across their Bond—a rare reflex between twins.

He had successfully rolled up his fear of the procedure, knowing it would do him no physical harm. It might be painful, but that would pass. He was prepared to be searched, his mind ransacked by someone he did not know on the day he was expected to put his brother to rest. He should have known better than to believe himself prepared.

Most funerals included a transfer of the deceased's memories to an ark for preservation, but this was obviously impossible in Vorik's case. Though speculation was illogical, Taurik had decided that even if Vorik had been able to perform a transference the event would have been torment. A priestess would remove the memories and place them within a katric ark. Then, long after Vorik's body was burned, his physical form relegated to time's ashes, Taurik would have been allowed to return if he wished. Some small part of Vorik's soul would survive, possibly forever.

With surprising skill, her mind had flown straight through what others might have considered a maze to the place Vorik no longer was. She noticed his flinch at her touch, but drew no attention to it. She saw the tears, reflexive from the telepathic needles she pressed behind his eyes. Calmly, softly, she peered into every corner and ran telepathic fingers over every ragged edge to see if Vorik had left him anything.

He could still hear the priestess's voice in his mind. I see no evidence of a transference. I only see what remains when a Bond is violently broken. Pieces of him. Strands.

He didn't know until that moment he'd desperately wanted to hear Vorik's soul hadn't been lost after all. He wanted to hear Vorik had been with him all this time, and now he could return home. He could rest. Both of them. He needed to rest.

You require rest, she'd said, and the sense of precognition was alarming. Return this evening. I will close the Bond and preserve what pieces remain.

He'd objected. He had no desire to return. Is it harmful to complete to procedure immediately? When she replied the negative, he said, Then I request that you finish. She told him, again, before continuing, that he could withdraw consent at any time. Maintaining the small ragged bits that had been ripped off would do him no harm.

Less than two minutes later, before she had quite yet begun, he withdrew his consent.

His mother would be disappointed. Humiliated. He had only come to torment her with the face of her lost son.

The priestess waited quietly, politely, while he wrapped up his reaction and shoved it into the nearest dark corner. She waited patiently while he rubbed his tears into his sleeve and caught his breath.

He apologized, and she assured him that was unnecessary and then apologized for being unable to close the Bond.

Taurik wondered under which perspective she considered that to be the truth. He rejected her offer to help him regain control and stood. He had a funeral to attend.

Though he was there physically, listening to the words and participating in the ritual motions and chanting when appropriate, he didn't attend to what was happening. At the end, when the ritual was over and all that remained was silent contemplation, he rose and left the hall before anyone else in his family. The ark was empty.

It was empty because he couldn't let go.

Brother…?

He knew it was illogical, but he reached out anyway. Vorik could not hear him, even if he could sometimes hear Vorik.

He heard him now. A distant echo over water running through a canyon. He could feel Vorik's back against his, his head leaned back, and the rain on his closed eyes. It wasn't words, but a feeling. A sense of peace, of belonging, of relief.

Leave me alone… he tried to withhold the welling emotional dislocation, the sense that he was feeling something that wasn't his. It was the only way to explain the peace, the relief. The only logical explanation was that he was losing his mind.

Or else he was dying.

Was he dying? He'd been told as a child that losing control of his emotions could lead to death, but surely he'd disproven that by now. It was illogical to cry, but not deadly. He would have wept over the empty ark if he'd thought it were.

The only thing those small shards of his brother had to tell him was that he would be okay. He would find peace. He could let go.

Vorik knew nothing. It was illogical to live like this.

Leave me alone! Taurik's being lashed out against the empty darkness, and the sensation shriveled slightly, though it didn't leave.

He thought he should meditate, but he couldn't. He tried, but he couldn't.

The only remaining slivers of rationality left to him distantly speculated how he might be coping had he born up under the mental operation and let those pieces be removed. Though there had been, of course, pain associated with the removal of the psionic equivalent of dead tissue, keeping the pieces of Vorik with him was now an emotional impulse.

And even though he knew that, he could not bring himself to believe he should return to Vulcan to complete the procedure. He'd made the illogical choice, the harmful choice, the wrong choice… and he had neither desire nor will to change it.

When he could no longer sit here in the room alone, he went to the mess hall nearest Engineering with every intention of finding an empty corner and sitting there to simply listen to the ambient meaningless chatter. The boots muffled on the floor, the cycle of breath in laughter or speech. Anything for a distraction, no matter how small.

As he entered, he heard a familiar voice, felt a familiar pull, and his mind settled somewhat. He was no longer frantic with anger, but embarrassed. He'd allowed his lack of control to drive him from his quarters this way. He composed himself, and looked for Gabi in the crowd.

#

"That's it for me," Gabi said, rising from the table. "I got somewhere to be. See you all later."

Taurik was due back on board about an hour ago, and she figured this was all the time he needed to settle back in. She'd already seen all the pictures of the new baby Vorik, but still felt like she should be gushing over each of them individually and in person.

Lawford grinned at Johnson. "Told you."

Johnson sighed, shrugged. "You win."

"Win what?" Gabi hesitated to look from one of them to the other.

Lawford looked shamed, and Johnson seemed to be refusing to make eye contact with her. Even Dawes just shrugged at her even though her attempt to repress a smile told Gabi what she already guessed anyway.

"Seriously, what?" Gabi sat back down in the chair.

"Nothing." Lawford brushed her away with the back of his fingers with a dismissing nod. "You said you have somewhere to be. We don't want to hold you."

"Petty Officer Lawford Roth." Gabi didn't know what she thought a stern recitation of his full name was going to do… "Come on, what is it? It obviously has to do with me; it's not fair if you don't tell me."

"We just had a bet that you were going to excuse yourself early since Lieutenant Taurik's back onboard," Johnson said despite the venomous glare Lawford was shooting him. "That's all. In my defense, I thought he was exaggerating."

"Exaggerating about what?" Gabi looked at Lawford, hoping that her expression was communicating all the disappointment and anger she hoped. "What did you say? We're just friends—good friends, sure, but…"

"Nobody said anything, Gabi," Dawes said. "No need to get defensive."

"I'm not defensive." Though, even she had to admit she sounded like she was. "I'm just sick of explaining this like it's anybody else's business. I swear, petty officers gossip like they have nothing else to do."

"They." Johnson snorted. "I'll remind you, you're one of us."

"Besides, it wasn't gossip," Lawford said. "It was just a bet."

"What else were you betting on, then?"

A quick look around the table told Gabi everything she thought she already knew. She hated being a topic of conversation like this, especially since she was sure none of these people were her friends. She was moving too quickly, both from ship to ship and up in terms of her career and responsibilities, for any of the friends she'd made in the last year to feel like they were even in the same quadrant as she was anymore.

She'd never heard back from Chloe, Taurik had taken a significant step in her life, Sam had orders to join the Enterprise within the next two months, and the only thing she was doing was running in circles.

"How long it's gonna take for these two to get a room, for one thing," Lawford said, gesturing toward Dawes and Johnson.

The way Dawes blushed and Johnson averted his eyes, Lawford wasn't wrong about that.

"See?" Lawford grinned. "I win all the bets. I'm not saying your feelings will ever be reciprocated—he'd a goddamn Vulcan—but that doesn't matter if the bet's that you wish he did."

Gabi waved that away, even though her blood was boiling—not because Lawford was right, but because Dawes and Johnson seemed to think he was. "It's not exactly attractive that the one time I saw any emotional response at all he thought he was dying."

She couldn't believe she'd said that.

Fortunately, Dawes, Johnson, and Lawford didn't seem to think she'd said anything weird. In fact, they seemed to think she was joking, which was probably a good thing. Still, her heart felt heavy and her hands were shaking. She tore her eyes from the table, from Lawford agreeing that didn't sound appealing, to anything else in the room.

Damnit. Damnit, damnit, damnit.

Gabi stood, her eyes fixing on Taurik's only two or three meters away. He stood stiff and straight, the blank expression telling her he'd heard every word. "Excuse me. I have to… I have to go."

A low whistles sounded from the table, but she ran for the doors Taurik had just gone through anyway. "Taurik, wait! Taurik!"

He waited like she asked in the midst of officers and crew walking around them to and from the cafeteria. He held his hands behind his back, and said nothing.

"I'm so, so sorry."

"There is no need to apologize," he said.

"Yes, there is! I didn't—I shouldn't—" She wasn't even sure how to say what she meant. She was sorry for everything, but felt like she should be specific. "I didn't mean that," she said, and shrugged helplessly, even though she was sure that didn't say exactly what she wanted to say.

She wanted to say he was important to her. Why hadn't she just said that?

"I was merely…" He paused, and took a small breath the way he did when he was buying time to think. "The journey to reach the Ramsar has been physically taxing," he said, and nodded as if checking agreement with what he'd just said. "I am attempting to expend excess energy by circling the decks. I didn't intend to interrupt."

"You didn't, I—" She gestured back toward the cafeteria, and those friends she was going to scream at later.

He glanced at the door. "I must continue."

"Taurik."

"Good night, Miss Dixson." He turned and started walking down the hall again, leaving Gabi blinking at tears in the middle of the hallway.

"Miss Dixson?" A few eyes strayed to glance at her, maybe wondering what could be wrong with her. Or, maybe not. She ran after Taurik again. "I don't know why—I shouldn't have said that, and I'm sorry—" He had only been walking, so she caught up easily. Put a hand on his shoulder.

"Please!" He spun back on her, stepping into her space more than she'd ever seen him do willingly before. "You are making a scene."

"I'm making a scene? You wouldn't be saying any of this if you hadn't heard—" She paused at his raised eyebrows, and redirected. "I mean, if I hadn't said…" She stopped, and shook her head again. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry—I know… this week has probably been hell, what with Vorik's funeral and everything, and I wanted to come see you."

"Why?"

"Why?" She huffed. "What do you mean why?"

"I have known my brother is dead for years." Taurik straightened and looked around before pulling her into a nearby science lab. It was deserted. Probably what he was going for as he waited for the door to close and fixed her in his gaze. "Participating in the ritual motions of putting his imagined soul to rest is of significantly less consequence. It would be illogical to consider this arbitrary day of any more significance."

Gabi hesitated. "You can't believe that."

"It doesn't matter what I believe. Vorik is dead." He blinked, and Gabi wasn't sure she didn't see tears. "I don't know how to respond," he added, straightening and blinking his tears away.

Gabi tried to remember what Taurik had said once about emotional control being a choice… and that he had a difficult time choosing. "Don't you get to choose…?" she asked in a whisper.

He focused on her more intently. He almost looked angry, and that… she'd seen it before. It was still scary. "I am accustomed to insults and… derisive remarks. Vulcans are often misunderstood for our values and philosophy, but—?" He looked off toward the black consoles. "You were not mocking us; you were mocking me."

"I—"

"That night was the worst night of my life." He paused long enough for Gabi to look back up. He was no longer looking at her. "And I'm not sure why you were there."

She shook her head, even though she could explain it. Maybe it was because she was alone, and so was he. They had things in common beyond an interest in starships and rock-climbing. It was because she could be herself, and she hoped so could he. It was because she cared, and so, even, did he. "Please, Taurik, tell me what to say. What can I say? How can I fix it?"

He sighed, and she somehow knew what he was going to say. "You can't." He didn't say anything else. He left, and she didn't stop him.

#

The Doctor suggested both he and B'Elanna take several days to recuperate from their mutually-inflicted injuries—it had been several days, and Vorik imagined she was back to work already. She hadn't suffered mortal humiliation. At least the challenge had broken their bond. He couldn't tell where she was anymore—if she was close or far away.

He got out his lamp, lit it, and sat on the floor next to his bed.

He'd replicated a new one early in the voyage, though the lamp that matched Taurik's was still in a drawer underneath his bed. This one was a hanging fire pot, wholly foreign to the people in the mountains of his home, despite still being distinctly Vulcan. It was illogical, but he found his old lamp reminded him of his isolation every time he tried to meditate. It was tiring.

He hadn't meditated, just as he hadn't slept despite having spent most of the last three days in bed. He had never spent so long in such a state of inaction, barely convincing himself to rise to eat or perform other necessary functions. Only after he discovered he hadn't taken any water in two days did he realize he was allowing his emotions to ruin him even further.

Still, he could hardly bring himself to meditate.

Denying his biology would do him no good: he was still Vulcan, and his undisciplined and turbulent nature had to be curbed. The entire day following his final humiliation, he wished he could simply curse his nature, his home, his people, and die.

The next day, he didn't want to die. He did not despise being Vulcan, he missed home more than he could express, and there were certainly specific Vulcans he missed even more. To wish he was something he wasn't or from somewhere he couldn't truly understand was as illogical as wishing B'Elanna had—

It didn't matter. Thinking about it wasn't beneficial. He was Vulcan enough to realize that.

This test of his character had shown him to be extremely, dangerously lacking. He had no doubt that the crew would be better off without him.

Still, he had not died of what would have been called natural causes, and it would be illogical to deprive the Voyager of his skills and work hours while he could be of use.

Vorik had gone to the mess hall today. It seemed that everyone was looking at him. And it seemed like he couldn't look at anyone. B'Elanna, certainly, never again. Tuvok either, probably. Not that they spoke that often.

He would have to, of course, speak to both of them again. It would be impractical not to. But he could never recover from this.

So he hadn't meditated. It made no sense, but he was far too angry to meditate. It somehow seemed illogical to try.

But he knew he couldn't do that forever, so here he was.

Except he wasn't. He just watched the flame, fingers laced together as he idly and illogically imagined where T'Pring was at this moment. He set that aside almost immediately—the amount of anger and sorrow resulting from even thinking her name was unbearable.

He turned his imaginings to Taurik. For the first time, he considered it might not be so terrible that Taurik thought he was dead. Taurik would be correct by the time it made any difference. He wondered if he was still on the Enterprise or if he'd been transferred. If he'd retained his service or resigned. If he and Saalle had completed their Bond, or if they were still waiting. If they still planned to live together, or if circumstances had changed.

Circumstances had changed.

Their minds had been ripped apart—so it was understandable Vorik was less than half the Vulcan he used to be. A significant portion of his control had been removed. Sometimes, at random, he thought he heard Taurik on the far side of a vast and impenetrable desert. Vorik couldn't hear what he was saying, but he was content. That was a sensation that Vorik certainly wouldn't have conjured on his own.

Or, perhaps, he would have. He was miserable. He hoped Taurik was not. One of them should be better, should be more than this.

He closed his eyes and opened the door that he usually kept shut. That place between himself and his brother was empty and dead and even distantly painful. There was no reason to be so constantly aware of it, so he'd shut it away and repressed the pain and anger. Still, he spent a lot of time thinking about what had happened, why their Bond had snapped the way it had.

They should have been together.

It certainly would have made this circumstance more tolerable—even if they didn't discuss it, he would have told Taurik everything. He'd decided such secrecy was frustratingly illogical, and he would have preferred the impersonal shame of discussing uncomfortable topics than the personal dishonor of having telepathically assaulted someone, having bonded with her because he hadn't known it could happen that way. Even though they didn't discuss it, Taurik would have comforted him while he wept.

Sliding the lamp a bit closer, he inhaled the sweet aster aroma and focused on the flame.

How was he supposed to know it could happen like that? If only he'd known, he thought he might have been able to prevent it. It was difficult to defend against an attack blindfolded.

The edge where Taurik wasn't radiated a blackness he'd closed away for three years. It made some sense that today it should be hotter, more powerful. It made sense that he should feel worse right now. It was symptomatic of his condition, of the mortal need to be close to someone.

He avoided thinking of B'Elanna, of T'Pring, and focused on something else.

Vorik stood on the edge of his consciousness and tried to imagine that Taurik was there, listening. Offering some kind of advice or comfort or something that no one else would ever offer… but he couldn't even do that anymore. He couldn't accurately recall his blue shade, as every color he came up with was somehow off. He could almost hear his voice, but couldn't make out the words.

If only he wasn't sure Taurik would be just as angry and grieved if in thirty years or so when Voyager finally reached a distance to make communication possible… He turned away from the illogical imagining. Vorik would be dead, so it didn't matter what Taurik would think of him when he found out.

But it mattered. Taurik would be in his fifties or almost, probably. He would have lived without Vorik for thirty years, believing he was dead. He would hear that Vorik had survived his first pon farr and surely understand when he heard Vorik had died seven years later by the least painful method he could find…

Taurik would understand. He had to understand. Vorik never wanted to die, but circumstances had changed.

He could only imagine Taurik's face—until he realized it was just his own. Taurik would never look so sad. It was illogical.