Title: Immortal
Soul
Author: T'Sia
Pairing: Sarek / Amanda
Rating: PG (tissue alert for
the sensitive - like me)
Summary: A recently widowed Sarek
mourns the loss of his wife.
Disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek and its characters.
I only play with them. If I could make a wish though, I would like to have
Sarek :)
The heavy door opened to the dark house and the shape of a tall man appeared in
the doorway, blocking out the light from outside, while the brightness behind
him made his contours shine like the corona of a star during a solar eclipse.
The door fell shut and the sound echoed back from the empty house.
The light disappeared and so did the sound in the quiet oppressive atmosphere.
In the dim light of the hallway the posture of the lonely man sagged as if
strength had left him with entering the house. He took off his outer robe and
straightened only to meet not his wife but his reflection in the mirror
opposite the door. Dark shadows were set under his eyes and deep creases which
had not been there a few weeks ago marked his hawk-like face. They seemed to
set deeper every time he entered this house. He shook off the illogical feeling
and walked to the chest of drawers below the mirror. He placed the flitter keys
on the shiny surface and again the sound seemed unnaturally loud to his ears.
The effect was emphasized by the silence in the house which seemed dark and
cold ever since Amanda did not live here any longer to fill it with warmth and
light. Unwanted his gaze travelled back to the mirror and wandered up his body
until he met his own gaze. The amount of exhaustion in his eyes nearly made him
deter but he remained rooted to the spot and observed himself.
Unwanted his gaze travelled back to the mirror and wandered
up his body until he met his own gaze. The amount of exhaustion in his eyes
nearly made him deter but he remained rooted to the spot and observed himself.
He should control his feelings.
He should mask and master them with his disciplines. But there was nothing to
master. A few weeks ago, shortly before his wife's death he had felt much more
than he could cope with. After her death his feelings had numbed. A petite
human woman of all living beings in the galaxy seemed to have taken all his
ability to feel with her into death.
He did not care.
He did not care about anything since she was gone. Only his work kept his mind
occupied to prevent him from retreating fully into himself. He had packed away
every personal item of his wife after her death in a futile attempt to adjust
to the situation and regain control over himself. But as soon as he entered
this house which held so many memories and ghosts of the past he felt her
presence as if she would come into the hallway any time to greet him.
He wanted to go to the study to prepare his work for tomorrow, but when he
moved his feet carried him into the library instead of the second floor.
Although uncharacteristically for him he neglected his duties and dismissed the
thought of work. He entered and his hand lifted to touch the spines of the
books while he wandered along the ceiling high shelves filled with a collection
of antique books of Terran and Vulcan origins. Surprisingly her books were the
only items he had not banned from the house. He did not even dare to touch them
and his hand carefully avoided the books that had belonged to her. He felt for
the place where her mind had once been connected to his and his mental
fingertips touched the wound.
He felt nothing when he touched the severed link. The healer
had sealed it professionally.
Absent-minded he rounded the comfortable armchair, which faced the window. He
held his breath when his eyes played a trick on him and showed the image of his
wife for some seconds while she sat in the chair and read in one of her
favourite books like she had done on the day of her death - it had come so
suddenly and unexpected, no time to prepare. He cut of the thought. When he
blinked the image was gone. Paradoxically, this sent a stab of pain through him
which he had not felt when touching the severed bond in his mind. There was
another inner wound that still bled and refused to heal. His vision cleared and
his gaze fell on the book she had last read in. It still lay face down on the
soft carpet where it had dropped when she died in his arms. He knew he should
pick it up and place it back on the shelf.
Yet he never tried to touch it since that day.
Carefully he stepped over it and sat down in the chair. He leaned back, his
eyes staring blankly out of the window. He was not grieving like a Vulcan
should. Yet he could not. Spock was in deep space and he had no close family
members left with whom he could have shared his pain. He was not even sure if
he even wished to share his pain. He wondered whether the message of his
mother's death had already reached his son.
The thought trailed off.
He knew he should not stay in this room. He told himself the
habit would wear off in time. But it did not. Still after weeks when a
Vulcan should long have completed the mourning ritual he found himself spending
long time periods in this room to feel her presence; listening to the echoes of
the past while he re-lived memories he had shared with his beloved.
Although he knew she was gone he sometimes thought to see the cloth of her
flowing robes shine through the thick vegetation in the garden when he sat here
and stared outside. Of course she was not out there but it was nevertheless
difficult to resist the urge to follow the vision outside when it lured him
with sweet memories. He remembered a discussion he'd had with Amanda shortly
after her mother died. She had spent a few weeks in her parent's house on Earth
to make sure her father could cope with the loss and she had told him of the
same feelings he experienced now. He had not understood back then how she or
her father could expect to see her mother in places which had been her
favourites or where they were used to find her. But now he understood all too
well what she had meant.
His gaze travelled to the windows when one pat of them was automatically opened
to let in the fresh evening air. He reclined in the chair again and steepled
his hands in front of him to set his mind into a light meditative stage. He
remained motionless until the light outside slowly disappeared and was replaced
by the dark blue night of Vulcan.
Suddenly something appeared in his peripheral vision.
He turned his head to find his wife standing beside the chair, gazing down on
him with a tender smile on her lips. She lifted a hand and stroked his cheek
gently.
"Sarek," Amanda whispered.
He felt a profound relief that her death had only been a bad dream. Quickly he
grabbed for her hand to make sure she was real and awoke when the sound of
tearing cloth could be heard. His eyes snapped open and he jumped out of the
chair. He was alone in the room. It had only been a dream and realization of
the truth almost hurt him physically. He tried to master the piercing sensation
after weeks of numbness and unclenched his fists forcefully. He felt something
soft glide out of his hand and looked down to see that it was a piece of cloth.
The curtains must have been blown in by the wind and touched his cheek while he
slept. Instantly the memories of his wife, which were always hovering close to
the surface of his consciousness, had broken through and had given him the
impression that she was there, touching him. His desperate grip had torn out a
piece of the soft material the curtain was made of. Slowly it floated to the
ground beside the book. His vision blurred when he saw the book again.
He refused to let the tears fall. He was a Vulcan; Vulcans did not cry, they
did not love.
So was the public saying. It did not mean anything to him anymore. He lifted
his gaze and stared out of the window into the night. But the view of the
garden held no comfort and again he was confronted with vivid memories of Amanda,
her presence as strong as if she were just there beside him but yet far out of
his reach.
He sank back into the soft chair, his head bent and his
shoulders sagged. Slowly he reached for the book. Only inches away from the
surface of the leather cover his movement stopped and an almost imperceptible
tremor ran through his hand. Then finally his fingers touched the book and he
lifted it carefully into his lap. Turning it over, he smoothed out the crumpled
pages almost tenderly. Then he reached down again and picked up the torn piece
of curtain. Carefully he placed it between the pages Amanda had read last and
closed the book.
//I cherish thee, Aduna. // he whispered, the sound barely audible above the
soft murmur of the wind.
A strange calm settled over him while he held the book in his hands. As if
picking it up had finally forced him to accept the inevitable. She would not
come back to pick it up. Never. He no longer tried to push the feelings of her
presence away but cherished them as something that helped him cope with the
loss, even if this was not logical. He did not care if it was not logical. His
logic had always been uncertain where his wife was concerned. He could not and
did not wish to erase the memories which welled up whenever he entered this
house. Her presence would always be here. As if her immortal soul had never
left. He would always feel her, always occasionally dream of her. It was not
logical but right because she had been his t'hy'la, - his bondmate and
mother of his child. She would never be gone completely. She would always be
with him. The thoughts stopped the bleeding of the inner wound and set his mind
at ease.
He placed the book back on the shelf.
THE END