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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
- 7
- 8
- 9
In reality, it'd taken three days to come to an agreement to send Vuron away.
Sranak had been disgusted, baffled, angered enough for his eyebrows to draw nearly together, when Councilwoman Bel'tath had called in his security man in without his permission. Had assumed that Vuron had said far too much to the battlemaster. Disputed even allowing him the dignity of walking into the woods to die by himself.
By that third day of arguing, with Vuron standing to the left of the big table for the entire day, he had turned to hallucinations. Eyes closed. Knees locked. He swayed slightly trying to keep upright. Tried to ignore the screaming voices.
“You dishonor yourself with the treatment of this man,” the Councilwoman. “You do not let him take my offer. Your healer does not treat him.”
“The council requests his presence while we discuss your offer. If you did not request him, he would be at our house, doing the same.”
“So, he would silently suffer by himself at home too? Why do you not accept our offer!”
“We are not asking for an explanation,” another gruff voice swam up. “Only just let your damn Vulcan pride down a moment and accept it. A fine warrior shouldn't be lost for a simple-”
“Let me die,” Vuron said calmly.
The room fell silent. All eyes on him. It'd taken him hours of repeating it for them to listen. Maybe he'd only been saying it in his head? He groaned.
“I will die soon. Let me die with honor.”
This caused more arguments. A Vulcan begging for his last honor? Did Vulcans have honor? Was it the Council's responsibility to see to this honor, when not even his Ambassador seemed to respect the request?
Vuron didn't know when he finally collapsed. Only when Chijqa's face swam in from the darkness.
He shook the Vulcan awake, slipping some bloodwine between his lips. Vuron coughed it up.
“Where am I?”
“I dragged you off. They're still arguing. That Sranak doesn't like you much.”
“Liking me, or not liking me, would be illogical.”
“Hmph. Hating a Vulcan for being skilled in fighting. For a man wanting protecting on Qo'noS, he treats you strangely.”
Vuron reached for the goblet of bloodwine and took a long drag. Chijqa required the drinking of it during some practice sessions, and Vuron felt a strong craving for it right now.
“You will die soon, won't you.” Vuron handed back the empty goblet. “I've never seen you drink more than a sip or two to humor me.”
The alcohol smoothed a few of his frazzled nerves. For a moment he considered experimenting with more of it. A large portion of the pon farr problem was adrenaline. The sex hormones could be controlled, or channeled, but the drive... well, the amount of drink needed to cancel everything would leave him just as dead. His metabolism simply burned through too much of it before its effects would accumulate enough to be of use.
Vuron didn't answer his battlemaster. The Klingon sighed.
“So be it. Come on.”
He shoved a shoulder under Vuron's arm and bodily lifted him. Only the layer upon layer of Vulcan ceremonial wool and Klingon fur, leather, and metal kept his mind from reaching through his touch telepathy and into....
“Where are you taking me?”
“Bel'tath has had one of her shuttles ready to take you to our House's hunting grounds for three days now. I'm sure the pilot will be glad to not be stuck here while they argue.”
“Chijqa....”
“Shut up, Vulcan, and take some help for a change. Do what needs to be done. I'll probably get most of the flack from stealing you in the first place. Damn it, but you are my best student and I won't let politics kill you.”
Vuron protested the aid and forced himself upright. Chijqa led the way, understanding the need to make his own way, if not the way that the closeness of another's skin built up the flame in his blood.
The battlemaster led the way down a series of long, convoluted corridors. Familiar pain built up in Vuron's hands and feet with each passing movement.
When he'd been still in the council chamber, he could focus on ignoring all the little pains. Now, everything felt too sensitive. Too painful. Too... empty and needy. The scarred muscles in his chest tightened spasmodically by the time they finally came to the shuttle docking bay.
The battlemaster led them to a secure area. No one stopped the big man in his armor.
He slammed a fist on the door of a small shuttle. Built for speed. Good.
The door opened. A gruff, one-eyed pilot glared over his shoulder at them.
Should I be concerned about lack of depth perception? He wondered, then nearly laughed. No. I'm going to die anyway. Does it matter if its from a cocked-up landing, or from my own body ripping my mind apart? It might be easier this way.
Chijqa put a staying hand on his shoulder.
“Your weapons,” he nodded to a rack. Vuron hadn't noticed them. “Sharpened and oiled. My old armor is in that bunk.” He flipped a fold of silk from the edge of Vuron's collar. “This will offer you no protection.”
The image of the gruff Klingon wavered slightly. Vuron blinked several times to dislodge whatever irritated the membranes of his inner eyelid.
The Klingon gave him a friendly shove. “Qapla'!”
Vuron allowed himself a small smile. Most likely the last time he'd see Chijqa, might as well. “Qapla' my friend. And thank you.”
The battlemaster's eyebrow shot up in a good approximation of Vulcan expression.
“Get on. Finish your rites.”
He turned and walked away.
For one insane moment, Vuron's hands itched to grab hold of the man's armor. Drag him back in. Take the strong man out into the woods and-
He slammed the shuttle's hatch shut.
“Ready.”
- 7
- 8
- 9
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Far Away From Home