Mestral’s Legacy: Chapter 21

At first there was nothing but searing heat; gradually the surroundings came into focus and Alaia found herself perched on a rocky outcropping; below a desert extended to the horizon and apart from that there was nothing. A fierce wind swirled around her, peppering her skin with grains of sand and forcing her to close her eyes. She supposed that she hadn’t heard it at first because she was too shocked by the sudden change in scenery, but with her eyes closed she could hear a voice carried by the wind–Vorak.

She remembered touching him and shivered despite the fire licking at her skin: a fever–his. It dawned on her that touching him had caused a meld; an unsettling thought considering the lack of control it implied. Hearing him again she saw him now in the swirling sand below her, curled up into a ball as the shifting sand threatened to bury him. Scrambling down the embankment, her body aching with fever, she felt her way towards him sliding the last few metres and landing in a heap at the bottom. He was close; she could hear him more clearly now but couldn’t understand the Vulcan words. It didn’t matter, they would lead her to him.

“Vorak!” He was oblivious to her presence until she grabbed his arm; his eyes focused on her; he was trembling uncontrollably, rivulets of sweat dripping from his body, losing the very last of his control and he knew it. He yanked his arm away but only succeeded in pulling her down into the sand with him. So close to him, their skin touching, she could feel the urgency within him–as if there had been any doubt–but even as he pressed himself against her he was fighting it. It’s alright, she thought, her hands tracing the powerful shoulders and the tight muscles of his back; her hands moving lower, urging him to give in to the fevered desires of their bodies. It was all the permission he needed.

* * *

He awoke, faint starlight filtering through the window, not remembering the exact details of their encounter, but certain that there had been one–their bodies were still joined–and although the burning in his blood had receded, he could feel it lurking just below the surface. She lay beneath him, motionless, and for a moment he feared the worst until he felt the slight movement of her chest and regained the presence of mind to consider that bearing the weight of him might be impeding her ability to breathe. Propping himself up on his elbows, he watched the rise and fall of her chest, the star light playing across her body. Her hair was splayed out around her except for a section that had fallen across her chest. He moved it aside, his hand tracing the silky skin of her neck down to the sensitive tip her breast. She arched her back, her body contracting around him; he bit his lip, drawing blood, in an effort not to make a sound to wake her. He needn’t have bothered–the stirring of his body in response to hers was enough to do that. Her eyes opened, glittering in the dark, displaying the desire that burned inside.

“Alaia,” he said, breathlessly, lowering his head to her, his lips finding the spot his hand had grazed. He felt her hands skim his arms and tangle in his hair, keeping him captive as her body came alive beneath him. His vision blurred and smoldering desire ignited again.

* * *

It was light out when his senses next returned to him. At some point they had moved from the floor to the bed; Alaia lay beside him, her back to him.

“Alaia,” he said gently reaching out to touch her arm; she shrugged off his touch. He tried again but got the same response. There was an odd rhythm to her breathing; levering himself up on one elbow, he leaned over and confirmed his suspicion–her face was wet.

“Alaia,” he said gently, alarm suffusing him, “Did I injure you? I did not intend to.” She did, in fact, have a rather ugly bruise below her left shoulder, but the streak of blood on her neck was his, not hers. He touched his lip and flinched at the rawness there.

“Who is she?” she asked, her voice devoid of inflection. He frowned, searching his memory for anything that might be relevant and finding nothing.

“I don’t understand the question,” he said quietly. She turned to face him and he saw a flicker of anger behind the impassiveness.

“You called me by someone else’s name,” she said, challenging him to disagree. “Who is she?”

Her cheeks were flushed, but she was no longer crying; in fact, there was a fury building behind the lilac eyes that he would as soon not provoke. He did not have the energy to deal with an enraged Terran; he had barely the energy for this conversation.

“I asked you if there was anyone. You could have told me; I would have stayed,” she glared at him, pulling the covers around her as she sat up and prepared to remove herself from the bed. “I just wanted to know,” she said, miserable.

He frowned; he was still trying to puzzle out what it was that he could have said. Her accusation was highly unlikely since the only lover of note that he had had was not one that he thought of with any great affection–Pon Farr or not.

“What was it that I said, exactly,” he asked, holding her arm so that she could not leave, but fully prepared to let go if she was determined to do so; she seemed amenable to further conversation, making no move to free her arm from his grip.

“Aisha,” she said in small voice, “You called me Aisha.” The fury was gone, in its place was searing hurt. He did not pause to consider how he knew this.

“Ah,” he said, realisation dawning. He had been holding his breath; now it escaped in a rush. Releasing her arm, he covered her hand with his, squeezing it gently. She eyed him warily but didn’t pull away.

“You are Aisha,” he said firmly.

“No,” she said, slowly and deliberately as if talking to small child, “my name is Alaia. Something you seemed to forget halfway through…through…,” she trailed off. Changing tact, she asked, “Is she your wife? On Vulcan?”

“No. You are Aisha. It is not a proper name, it is–,” he struggled to put into words what it meant to someone who had never heard the word before, had no equivalent in their language, and had made some very unfortunate assumptions. He pulled her closer to him, and this time she didn’t pull away although she still looked unconvinced at the explanation that he was offering.

“Aisha is a designation.” She looked at him blankly. Sighing, he tried again, “A term of endearment.”

“Oh,” she said meekly.

“Oh,” he confirmed. “I apologize if that was unclear to you.”

* * *

By the time that they had eaten supper, which took somewhat longer than usual, since they had not eaten for two days, the light was fading from the summer sky. He had originally thought that he had awoken at dawn–in actuality it had been dusk.

They sat side by side in front of the fireplace, the only source of heat in the rustic cabin, sipping tea in awkward silence.

“I don’t know,” he said, in between sips, answering a question that had not been asked. He heard her lower her cup clumsily and looked over to see her, eyes wide, staring at him.

“What don’t you know,” she asked. He frowned, confused, until he realised that she had in fact not asked a question–not aloud. He set his own cup down and took her hand. The physical connection intensified the fledgeling bond between them transmitting confusion and a touch of fear: she had spent a lifetime trying to shut others out.

“Perhaps we should discuss other matters first,” he said, almost inaudibly. He explained, as best he could, the matters of bonds and bondmates. He did not meet her eyes until he was done, preferring not to see her reaction and trying to block out her emotions lest she find the concept, and by extension him, too distasteful to bear. There was a long silence when he finished, broken only by the crackle of the wood in the fireplace as the flames consumed it.

“So, it’s like being married–only more,” she said thoughtfully.

“It will fade,” he said, trying to sound reassuring, “in time.” Even to his own ears his voice sounded raw; he had yet to meditate properly and restore his equilibrium.

“I thought you said it lasted forever.” He thought she sounded disappointed, but his mind was too preoccupied to process the information.

“Bonds formed without the aid of a Vulcan priest are different. If they are not desired by one or the other, they fade.”

“And you don’t want it,” she finished quietly.

He turned sharply to look at her but she was staring intently at the fireplace, her expression blank. He moved to sit in front of her, taking her other hand as well so that he held both of hers between his, and waited until she met his eyes.

“What I want is of no consequence,” he said gently, “I would not ask more of you than you have already given.”

“You didn’t ask, remember,” she said, not quite relinquishing her anger at his foolhardiness. She did not move to free her hands, or say anything further. They sat in silence with only the glow of the fireplace for light until the moon rose; after a while he found himself absently tracing the contours of her hands.

“What if I don’t want it to fade,” she asked suddenly, arresting the movement of his fingers which had begun to creep up her wrists. He wondered if she truly understood the choice that she was making; letting himself feel her through the bond, he was surprised to find that she did, in fact, understand as much as a Terran could be expected to–enough to make a decision.

“No one else understands me,” she said, eyes searching his. “I’d never really be me with anyone else. I’d always know too much and they would know too little, you know?”

He took that in, considering it. “Is it only because I am Vulcan?”

No, it’s because you’re you, she thought, but not realising he sensed her thought, struggled to put it into words. He reached up and traced the contours of her face, silencing her.

As you wish, he thought, tracing her jaw line with his fingers, down the smooth skin at her neck, resting in the hollow at her shoulder, and then descending to part her shirt. She leaned in, whispering, “I thought your Pon Farr was over.”

At his raised eyebrow she glanced downward meaningfully, a satisfied grin tugging at her lips. Not everything you read on the WorldNet is true, Aisha.

Glad to hear it, she thought, joining in the exploration.

* * *
Sometime later as they lay in front of the dying fire, each having learned a few things, she asked drowsily, “What are we going to do when we get back?”

I don’t know, he thought, watching her drift off to sleep in his arms knowing that tomorrow they would be apart. I don’t know.

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