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Come, let’s away to prison.
We two alone will sing like birds i’ th’ cage.
-King Lear, Act V, Scene 3. William Shakespeare
Looking around this odd French village fills me with a sense of dissonance that seems to make today feel worse. The architecture looks like home, pure Ni’var. Vulcan and Romulan houses huddled together, looking completely out of place in these rolling green hills. So much of Earth is green, like the whole planet has been drenched in blood. I hate that it feels familiar and off kilter at the same time. It makes me miss Ni’var.
You stand next to me, looking at your PADD, checking the directions. Your uniform is freshly pressed, your hair perfectly combed. You made sure that my uniform was properly clean. Tied back my hair for me before we got on the transport. You wanted to make sure we looked respectable. That we come across as respectful.
I let you lead because I don’t want to think about anything except trying to retrace the patterns of the Zhal Makh in my mind. Trace the pattern to remind myself that I am in control of my decisions. I am a Romulan. A Romulan obfuscates, redirects, misdirects, and keeps what matters most hidden. I am in control of myself.
I am in control of myself.
You lead us away from the village center to a Vulcan home on the edge of town. The garden around the house is perfectly balanced in a purely Vulcan sense of order and aesthetics, crisscrossing lines of white stones dividing the plants into individual plots. The plants themselves are clearly from Earth, but have reassuringly red leaves instead of the grotesque blood green of most plants here. The house itself features massive glass panes, matching the intricate linework of the garden. All sight lines lead to the front door, a proper Vulcan entryway that shows itself plain as day.
The door opens for us, and an older Vulcan man stands before us. B’Avi’s father. He’s a little shorter than you, dark hair and dark eyes. Eyebrows as thick as B’Avi’s with the same prominent cheekbones. Handsome in the same way and dressed in traditional Vulcan robes of gray and blue.
I want to scream so badly my throat hurts just thinking of it.
“Kyle Djokovic. Dzolo. Please enter.” He bows his head slightly as he lets us in. Inside the house, everything is pristine in the exact way I’d expect from a Vulcan home. A Ni’vari plant sits on a table in the center of the room, a flourish of dark violet. There’s a moment where it feels like coming home. Then I remember where I actually am and what happened.
I want to tear that plant out by its roots.
“We brought B’Avi’s things. We weren’t sure… we thought you’d want some of it, but we weren’t sure what...” Your words are rushed and full of pauses, awkward in a way that you usually aren’t. You hand him the duffel bag we packed this morning. He takes it with another bow of his head and slips out of the room to stow it. A delicate-featured Vulcan woman steps forward from somewhere in the house. She’s dressed in a deep purple robe with gold embroidery in intricate patterns that seem to mimic the garden outside. Her hair is pulled back in a precise bun. B’Avi’s mother.
She reaches out her hands to us. You grasp her offered hand without a second thought, utterly human in your lack of concern with the intimacy of the gesture. Humans touch each other constantly. Hand contact is casual for you, but I know the significance. One time you asked B’Avi to arm wrestle. He kept making that considering face around you for days after, trying to parse if you had been offering to have sex with him that night. It had only been the first week, when we were still just getting to know each other. I don’t know if you even noticed. Her gesture isn’t a sexual offer, but it is familial and so personal. I can’t help but hesitate before taking her hand. When I do, she squeezes tightly.
“B’Avi spoke of you both often. You were very important to him. We appreciate that you came here yourselves. You could have simply sent his things.” Her voice is even and quiet, so utterly Vulcan. Her grip borders on painful, the only hint of her roiling emotions.
“He was the best.” Your voice falters a little as you speak. “He saved my life. I’m so sorry for your loss.” It’s all you can manage. It’s not enough, and I can hear your heart aching with each word. You want to say more, and you have no idea what to say.
“He lived up to his ideals. His goal in attending the War College was to become a man who could protect others.” B’Avi’s father’s voice is firm as he enters the room again.
“We are very proud of the choices he made.” B’Avi’s mother’s voice is tightly controlled. She looks at me, as she releases your hand. Her grip remains tight, the only sign of something out of the ordinary.
“I…” I falter, not sure what to tell them, not sure what to say. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to make their son’s death about me. I don’t know what to give them, when they’ve lost so much. “I trusted him.” It’s all I can manage, but four Vulcan eyebrows rise up simultaneously. They may be Vulcans from Earth, but this community in France is the only one with a substantial Romulan population on this horrible, green-soaked planet. They know what it means that I trusted him. They know what it costs me to tell them.
I imagine cutting out my own tongue. My traitorous tongue that has given too much away in order to try to make up for their loss.
Her grip tightens on my hand. “Thank you for your candor.” Her eyes bore into me, and I want desperately to yank my hand free and make a run for it. I feel utterly exposed, laid open for her perusal. I want to scream. I want to hit her. I want to smash their beautiful home to pieces.
I want to cry.
She finally releases my hand.
My mouth tastes acrid, like my whole body is trying to reject that word. Candor. Like I’m some nun. Disgusting.
They usher us into a room with a wide, low table. They sit with us, and a Vulcan girl of 11 or 12 serves tea. B’Avi’s sister. Sober faced and silent. She performs the assigned duty perfectly, never receiving a correcting glance or gesture from her mother. She sits with us in silence, the only sign of her discomfort the way she holds her own hands together in her lap.
You speak of B’Avi’s methodical and insightful approach to problem solving, his decisive approach to crises, and his willingness to re-evaluate his views based on new information. You describe him through proper Vulcan values. You don’t mention how much you loved his company, how you made him go dancing, or any of the silly pranks he did with me. You give them an image of the ideal Vulcan son.
They speak of their gratitude that he had companions who valued him and their pride in his achievements.
I say nothing. I don’t know if you even register my silence. B’Avi’s parents politely ignore it. They know I’ve already said more than I wanted to. The way his mother said ‘candor’ still rings in my ears. My stomach roils.
I sip enough of the tea to be polite. I can’t tolerate more than that. You finish your tea and make our excuses. We get up to leave as B’Avi’s sister clears the table.
B’Avi’s parents show us to the door. B’Avi’s mother bows to me, then to you. His father does the same, and you bow to both of them. I manage to at least nod at them. We leave. As we walk out, you grab my aching hand. We walk away from the house together, moving fast. Once we turn the corner, once we’re out of sight of B’Avi’s house, you pull me against you into a tight hug.
I can feel you shaking as you start to cry, your arms tight around me, gripping me against your chest. I feel my own tears, hot and angry, soaking the jacket of your uniform.
We stand there, locked together, letting loose our shared loss for this moment. Time seems to stretch out until you finally let me go, and I step back instinctively. I need to redirect attention. I need to hide from you. I wipe my face clean with the arm of my jacket.
“There’s something I need to do while we’re here.” My voice is calmer and clearer than I expected it to be. It’s gratifying that I have enough control to manage that.
“Do you want me to wait?” You stand a few feet from me, knowing better than to try to get close to me again. I grunt non-commitally. I refuse to admit that I do. You know anyway. “There’s a cafe in the village center. I’ll be there whenever you’re ready.” I nod and walk away from you.
I pull out my PADD to double-check the directions. I walk fast to a proper Romulan building, a vibrant garden of purple flowers with a painted entryway out front. A sign hangs over the entrance labeling it as a store for spiritual and meditative goods. I walk around to the back of the building. The back entrance isn’t marked, barely even noticeable as a door. I enter.
I walk past shelves of hand-painted Pixmit decks, puzzle boxes and labyrinthine sigils. I can see in the front of the shop where rows of Vulcan incense, lamps, and shelves full of books sit. Vulcan things at the entrance a Vulcan would use. Romulan things at the entrance a Romulan would use. At the center of the shop is a circular counter space where a woman awaits. She turns to face me as I come in. She lacks any of the usual cultural or species markers. She could just as easily be Vulcan or Romulan. Probably a true Ni’vari, some mix of both.
I approach the counter with purpose, not bothering to look around.
“I hear that you offer painting services. Funerary marks might be of interest.” Her eyes meet mine and one eyebrow flicks upward slightly.
“I am sorry for your loss. I can assist you. Do you have a confessor that you wish to have listen?” She doesn’t play the language game. She speaks directly. More Vulcan than Romulan or maybe raised by Qowat Milat. She will have to do. Doing this alone… It’s not worth considering. Asking you… it feels too sad. Too much to ask of you. I am not the only one grieving.
“No.”
“Then I will stand as your confessor.” I nod. I hate this, but after revealing so much to B’Avi’s parents, it feels right to speak freely to a stranger. She, at least, does not know any of my names.
She stands up, and she’s irritatingly tall. She sweeps out from behind the counter and shows me to a small area partitioned off from the rest of the shop. Her every move is precise and graceful. I think breaking one of her feet would be satisfying. Behind the partition, there is a chair that leans back at a forty-five degree angle. I sit down, trying to control my breathing. She pulls out a large bowl, begins to grind up herbs, and adds a small amount of water to the mixture. As she prepares the mixture, her voice is quiet.
“Who is it that you mourn?”
“His name was B’Avi.” She leans in with a stylus in hand, starting to slowly apply the paste across my brow.
“Who was he to you?”
“We were cadets at the War College. He was from here. I’m from Ni’Var. On our first day, I made a joke, and everyone else just stared at me, but B’Avi did that eyebrow thing that Vulcans do when they think something is funny. I knew right away that he understood me.”
“You haven’t known him long then.” Her tone is even, but I feel the question burning beneath her words. Why would I be doing this for someone I barely knew? She doesn’t just ask, so she must not have been raised by the Qowat Milat.
“Not long. But everything that happened, all the stuff we did together… Everything felt easy with him. Like we’ve always known each other. He was already like family. I… I told him my second name. Sometimes, I would think… about the future. A future we might share.” The stylus stops for a moment before continuing. I can tell I surprised her. Romulans rarely admit to future plans. The future is unreliable. Now is what matters. Contingencies and schemes are one thing, but making plans for the future that rely on someone else is foolish. “He invited me to come with him here for All World’s Day. I… I was going to ask him. To be my confessor. To bear my secrets. I wasn’t sure if I was going to go through with it on All World’s Day, but I wanted to. I… I think I would have asked him. He knew what it would mean, so I didn’t want to rush into it, but I was going to. If we had more time.” He had invited me quietly one day after you had mentioned you wanted to go to Ibiza. I had genuinely been looking forward to it. I wanted to come to this blood-soaked landscape that he called home. I wanted to see this place. To meet his parents.
And doing that with you instead of him leaves a burning pit inside of me.
“All we have is now.” An old Romulan adage. Trite. Useless. I almost get up. Instead I take a long breath and wait for her to continue. “A future lost, a promise of tomorrow stolen, a difficult burden to bear.” I feel my body relax. Her words echo through me, perfectly exposing the true extent of losing him. If he had become my confessor, if he had been willing to carry my passion and truth, it would have meant far more than I can even admit to myself. You wouldn’t understand. Your truth is plain as day. Your passions lead you in foolish directions, but they lack the fervor that burns a Romulan from the inside out. I wish you could understand. “Were you lovers?”
“No. We kissed once, playing a stupid drinking game. But we were never… Neither of us wanted it to be like that.” He kissed you that night too. We even kissed that night. It was funny at the time. It doesn’t really seem funny now. It just makes me miss him more, thinking about the way you were laughing and how drunk he was. His head cocked just slightly as he listened, nothing in his demeanor showing how drunk he was except when he spoke.
“How did he die?”
“He was aboard a derelict ship on a training exercise, and there were pirates. He died protecting his team.” She doesn’t need the details. I don’t bother to explain that you were on blue team with him, and that I was assigned to gold team. That I was supposed to be on the bridge when green team boarded the Miyazaki. Instead, I was sitting around waiting, going out of my mind with anxiety for you both. I wish I had been on blue team with both of you. Or at least on red team, where I could have been on the bridge. Anything would have been better than the waiting. “I wasn’t there. I couldn’t help him.”
The stylus hovers near my face for a moment, unmoving. She moves back slightly, appraising her work. She does not speak for a moment that seems to stretch on far past its welcome.
“How will you carry his memory?” She finally breaks the silence with the final question. The one that I knew was coming. I still feel unprepared for it. I close my eyes, feeling my breath falter.
“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. It’s stupid Vulcan nonsense, but B’Avi believed it. He died for it. I will remember it. I will carry that ideal because he can’t.” I don’t say that I will live up to that ideal. I can’t go that far. But I will keep it close. I will do my best. For him. For who he might have been.
She puts the stylus back in the bowl and backs away. She hands me a damp cloth so I can wipe away the paste, leaving only the stain on my skin.
“You are marked by the pain of what you now carry. May that pain fade as these marks fade. May your burdens give you strength.” I bow to her. She holds up a mirror so I can see what she’s done. Thin jagged lines in a lopsided arrangement, reflecting the words unspoken between myself and the dead. A warning to those who know how to read it of my emotional instability in the wake of loss. It makes me look dangerous. It makes me feel like a danger. To myself. To others.
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome. I hope that you do not need such services again for many years.”
I leave through the back entrance and head back to the village center. You’re sitting outside the cafe at a table with another cup of Vulcan tea, looking at your PADD. I can tell from the smell that you’ve added a disgusting amount of sweetener to your tea. I sit down across from you.
A young Vulcan waiter starts to approach, but turns around when he sees my face. You look up, but don’t comment. I don’t know if you know what the markings mean. I resent that I may have to explain them to you. I resent the gentle smile that crests your lips as you look at me. I resent that the ritual helped. That talking about him helped. That talking about him with you would probably help.
I put that thought away. I have exposed myself enough. I might talk to you about all of this, but not today. Even though just sitting with you makes me feel less jagged, less likely to break something.
“Any word on Sadal?” I redirect your attention away from me and any questions you may have.
“I’ve been messaging with her brother.” Other Sadal. Thinking about him makes me feel slightly annoyed. Always so eager. So happy to follow around that cocky bastard Reymi. The irritation feels like a salve, and I revel in the sensation of something that has nothing to do with loss. “He says they’re going to transfer her to a specialist hospital on Betazed. She still hasn’t regained consciousness.”
Tarima Sadal saved your life and that’s what she gets for it. I hate that. She’s as much a hero as B’Avi was, even if she wasn’t able to save B’Avi. Her quietly withering away feels like a taunt from the universe. I want to overturn the table and spill your nasty tea all over the ground. I want to break something. Instead, I just say one word.
“Damn.”
Silence hangs in the air between us for a long moment before you speak.
“I was thinking we could go to the holosuites tonight.”
“What for?”
“There’s a combat sim I want to try. Thought it would be fun to smash some heads.” I grin at you. After today, smashing some heads is exactly what I need. After what happened to you on the Miyazaki, you probably don’t actually want to fight. You’re just trying to distract me. Offering me bait you know I’ll take.
“I’m in.” Tomorrow, I’ll ask you to teach me to surf, even though you know I hate the ocean. Bait I know you’ll take.
You aren’t B’Avi. I’ll probably never trust you. But you are my friend, and I’m grateful for that.