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Far Away From Home	By : mancer Category: S through Z > Star Trek (2009) > Star Trek (2009) Views: 2090 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Star Trek is owned by Gene Roddenberry/Paramount Studios/JJ Abrams. I own none but this writing and the non-canon characters within. Work published for shared fun, not profit.

Chapter List
- 5
- 6
- 7
Meditation was the only thing left to him.
Vuron volunteered to remain locked in his room, for the emotional wellbeing of the helpstaff, and for the other experts of the negotiation staff, whom had thrown themselves into their work. Desperate to return to their new home before their own time came.
Death sentence, his mind screamed. Even if I got to New Vulcan in time. The chance of finding an acceptable mate are statistically impossible. His memories circled back continuously to his last pon farr, his first pon farr. Back to his dead husband.
That first time had been so horrible, so telling.
His mind slipped back to his childhood, back when, at six, he'd been first dragged to the compound of his intended.
Mother and Father, each holding a hand, tugging ever closer.
Petulant lower lip stuck out. No way it would happen. Not going to let it.
Father knocking on the door while Mother knelt to straighten the dress they'd forced onto his... no, her slim form. He'd insisted on being called a boy, had cut his hair awkwardly with blunt-tipped scissors. Burnt all the dressed and stolen Older Brother's pants. Even ran around topless for a year in protest.
“This is the best marriage agreement we can make for you, considering,” Mother had hissed between clenched teeth. She blamed T'Vuron's constant trials for her early grey hair. The deep sunken splotches under her eyes.
“Brother has a good contract,” T'Vuron stubbornly squawked, as a thumb was moistened to smear away some perceived smudge on a young cheek. “Why do I need one? I want to be alone. I don't want a husband.”
Mother bit back a groan, sighing dramatically before standing. “You will not always be this way. When you are older, you will want to bare children as I did for your father. You will bond with this boy and when you are of age-”
The door opened to Father, silencing Mother mid-tantrum.
An older matron let them in.
T'Vuron had marveled at the statues. She was to be betrothed to a sculptor's son. She would be hired in the clay quarry and remain here. Working whenever schooling wasn't in session. Mother hoped that digging in dirt, sun-up to sun-down would exhaust all of her daughter's rebellion. Current curriculum reports from the teachers left much to be desired; any time she might miss while gaining practical experience would be negligible. One did not unduly deliberate on such things for a student on the lower end of the testing spectrum.
While parents discussed things over her head, assuming she wouldn't understand, she studied the boy. A little older than her. Angry eyes. Broad shoulders. He had a smudge on his cheek. His fists were clenched. Ready to fight.
T'Vuron spat at his feet, to test her suspicions.
The boy irrupted in a fury, fists swinging out at her.
Respective parents separated them, but not after she'd gifted her fiancee with a lovely new black eye and a broken thumb.
They hadn't preformed their initial bond for a month. Each day Mother or Father would retrieve her from the quarry, offer a sip of water, then the boy. The first week, she'd spat at him again. The second week, after enough beatings to hurt, and a dearth of food for her belly to rumble, she'd stopped that; the second week, she'd glared over her water, and returned to the cool depths of the quarry. The third T'Vuron took the offered water back down with her, to drink in solitude. The fourth, none was offered.
The bond had been... a thing of disgust.
She'd lain prone in the dust. Too weak to fight back. To weak to run. He'd placed his strong fingers over her face, and pressed his fetid mind into hers. He'd been disgusted by what he found there, naturally, but the deed was done.
“At least you will have strength for the quarries.”
He'd dropped the full water skin at her side. The last bit of rebellion she had pulled the stopper out, letting the precious liquid into the dusty soil below her.
When Mother and Father collected T'Vuron, they returned a child to school with a broken desiderate. Math and science tests fell to barely passing levels, while self-defense and history scores soared. Mother took to scolding daily. T'Vuron stopped fighting with Mother and Father. Simply stating the facts and moving on.
There would be no more dresses. There would be no more attempts at protocol lessons. T'Vuron would preform all haircuts.
It took a full year before they accepted these truths.
T'Vuron filled the legal documentation to shorten the name, appropriately, before graduation from school, so all certificates henceforth held only Vuron as the given name. When he'd left home, began life as an adult, it was better. He moved far away, introducing himself with his shortened name. None questioned that he was perhaps short. His voice, perhaps, a bit softer. He preformed his duties admirably, spoke with cunning logic, and debated well with the rest of the men. It simply hadn't mattered anymore what he'd been born as.
Then Vuron's blood first boiled with the pon farr, and the urge to go to a man who still had minimal control. Vuron went to the place of challenge. Koon-et-kalifee.
He had been there. Sellik.
Nose flaring with want. Blood boiling. Roaring in the back of Vuron's mind.
Vuron held only the slimmest note of control now.
The elder asked for seconds to come forth. Vuron had none. A lifetime of social rebellion left him with no one willing to stand at his side.
Sellik had a younger brother. Rellig. Vuron turned blackened eyes at the younger, who submissively turned them aside. Rellig would not fight.
“Who is your champion?” The elder asked.
“I am,” Vuron stated. With a dramatic touch, he shredded the ceremonial dress Mother's Mother had supplied. Sellik's eyes had widened at the leather pants underneath. The bare chest bisected with laser scars from where certain horrid tissue had been extracted. The ceremonial man's sash tied around Vuron's waist.
“So, this is what happened to the little slave.”
Vuron shouted in fury, snatching the ceremonial weapon before the time had been called.
Sellik used his great strength to lift up a paving stone to block the first stroke. The second he avoided by ducking behind a pillar.
When the coward finally picked up his own weapon, it turned into a battle of strength versus skill and practice. Vuron's body fell to the boiling of his blood. The raw hatred and lust that Sellik pushed through what little bond he'd started when they were children.
When the heavy end of the staff finally struck him in the head, silencing that part of the tide, Vuron nearly laughed in relief.
Terror widened the man's eyes as Vuron lifted the bladed end up over his head, ready to part the sculptor's head from his shoulders.
“Stop!”
Vuron stopped the blade. The shoulder stopped the blade. Green blood welled over sharpy honed steel. Not Sellik's.
Rellig.
The haze cleared like a gust of wind through an otherworldly fog.
The younger brother had thrown himself over his prone sibling.
Vuron pulled up the blade. Blood flowed freely from the innocent youth.
Vuron snarled. His blood ached for Sellik's. His bones ached for it. He wanted to feel bloody muscle within his teeth.
“The bond is broken,” an elder declared woodenly.
“My blood still burns,” Vuron snarled. “Is there no relief?”
“Not while Sellik lives. Or you remain unbonded.”
The weapon raised again.
“No, please,” Rellig whispered. “I offer myself. I will not challenge you.”
Vuron felt the presence of the younger reaching out to touch his mind, just as his hand reached out to touch the hand still holding the weapon.
Vuron shuddered at the contact.
“Your blood does not burn,” Vuron growled. Teeth bared. “You do not know. You do not understand.”
“Then show me.”
Vuron claimed the boy's skull with his hands. Gripping him tightly. Forcing his mind into the child. Pushing like....
Rellig submitted easily. With the ease of habit. His mind fell away, giving Vuron space. Not taking. Not even asking for mercy.
That simple nothingness finally stayed some of the burning. Vuron pulled back enough to have his own voice again.
“I take your offer, Rellig.”
The elder's people dragged away the older brother's unconscious body. Leaving them in peace.
Rellig's body remained as passive and submissive as his mind. Their first mating had been clumsy and foolish. Every instinct in Vuron's mind wanted the boy in his lap, wanted to be thrusting deep into his waiting ass, biting and taking and... there was nothing but need.
A great emptiness in his body where he lacked what even pathetic little Rellig had.
Rellig's memories swam up, expressing the release his brother had found in his body with fighting. Claiming Vuron in insanity of the blood as he beat the boy until his body became exhausted. Some release there, but not enough. Not nearly enough.
Finally, as the blood fever built up to the point where he nearly could not stand it anymore, Vuron found the boy curled up with him in the sand. Back to Vuron's belly.
Gentle caresses of the hands brought the lust up. He pulled Vuron's hand to his face, his mind blissfully open and inviting to his young, artless intrusions. Welcoming him, opening up to him, like a rare flower opening to the sun.
One hand cupping Vuron's, the other smoothing down his chest, down his stomach. Vuron's mind fought for a moment, but there had been a sureness. An idea.
For one blissful moment, Rellig had opened his mind enough that Vuron couldn't quite tell who's hand belonged to whom. Instead of strong corded muscles from years of battle training, he had a soft body. Small, and a little pallid. Shoulders hunched in pain from a young life filled with being hunched over kneading clay, pounding it, slamming it into the wheel and pulling up utilitarian cup after bowl after platter after pitcher.
Vuron nearly pulled out, mentally, as Rellig's hand finally cupped the swollen mound between his legs.
Stay, he whispered. This is yours. I am yours.
And he was. And so was his body.
Vuron felt his hand finally cup his public mount. His strong, calloused thumb and bitten fingernail scraping against the slit there. Thick, oily lubrication slicked his fingers as he separated the oversensitive folds of skin. Rellig's erection, his erection, pressed painfully against the taunt skin, until he stretched the slit up enough to release the aching member.
Vuron and Rellig panted as one as, their minds intertwined, they pumped away. Squeezing at the base, tracing the veins, exquisitely sensitive fingers rippling over the double ridge at the tip.
Rellig's mind screamed for haste. Vuron pushed faster.
The boy had never had the luxury of waiting. Habit kept him quiet, his motions quick and fast so no one would find him doing that. Vuron's boiling blood wouldn't have let him slow anyway.
When they came, they screamed as one. Two voices sharing the tension, the release. The sticky fingers and shaking arm.
Vuron forced the boy's hand up with his mind, sucking the fluid from his fingertips. Curiosity, he supposed.
Rellig sighed in contentment. His barriers didn't go up immediately, but Vuron could feel the need for privacy.
Finally, his blood didn't hurt. His mind didn't crave more.
He pulled his hand away from Rellig's face, carefully putting up his own mental barriers.
That much intimacy had been... disconcerting.
“Thank you,” Vuron said, once his breath calmed enough for normal speech. “You have given me a great gift.”
“I did what I could to keep my brother alive.”
And there it had been. No real bond. Just... protection.
Later, Vuron had researched, and found a human idea. Stockholm Syndrome. A lifetime of hatred and beatings had instilled a perverse loyalty. A loyalty that both frightened and disgusted Vuron.
They hadn't spoken since then.
Rellig had gone to the clinic to be treated with his brother.
Vuron had returned to his duties with a new understanding of how the Vulcan people subverted emotions, and what harm it could do. His research stepped up a pace. Different cultures. Different ways of dealing with all of this... madness.
If he'd discovered this when he was younger, he might had turned to xenopsychology. As it was, action called him more.
Occasionally, there had been a tug on their bond.
There, and not there. Always with him, and never. Occasionally he offered mental support, or a push when he could. Sometimes he hoped he could help the boy, no, a young man really, leave that terrible household.
It never failed to end in disaster. Sellik always seemed to feel Vuron's presence. Vuron could feel the ache of broken bones after.
Sometimes he had feared what the next pon farr would bring. Now... he didn't need to. They were both gone. Completely.
- 5
- 6
- 7
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Far Away From Home