Title: Warrior, Dream
Author: Falikal Jones
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Spock/B'Elanna Torres
Archive: SFF, ASCEM, all others please email
Feedback: To list or human@agoron.com
Notes: Words and their order are mine; characters and some settings are
not.
Part of the "Spock Fuh-q Fest II", located at http://www.kardasi.com/fuh-q-fest-2/
Following the Attack of the Email Demons I've just recently surfaced from, I discovered I
didn't care for the story I originally wrote for the Spock-Fuh-Q Fest, of which this is a
part (all hail kira-nerys). It never got through to the list anyway, so I wrote this
instead. :) I'm behind on email (that's an understatement), but I'm pretty sure the
deadline was moved up to today (I hope I hope). If someone can post this to ASCEM for me
at the right time (my posts often take 24+ hours to get through to there for some reason)
I'd appreciate it.
She dreams...
...Strange landscapes of red and light, on which no war is made. The sand keeps its
secrets, turning its back to her in endless dunes, offering herself to herself in deserts
that defy horizon. A world for a halfling, a backdrop on which a chaotic self might be
played out peacefully, if the
right tricks are learned.
She knows none of those tricks. Awake she can pretend otherwise; this dream-place, echo of
a real world so far from where her body sleeps, does not welcome self-deception. To deny
the truth is to distort reality, and nowhere is that more clear than in the desert.
All of this she half-understands, as she dreams. There is an impulse to attack - to prove
herself honorably brave, and slash down the invisible enemies which must be present. No
place is so calm as this. It is an illusion, the mind-trap of a clever foe.
But, also: she wishes to lay her down. Warrior, sleep, the world seems to say, at once
confirming her identity and permitting it respite. She may be whole, here. Not one or the
other, or even merely both, but some new thing: not halfling, but newling.
And so she wanders in the dream of sand, contemplating the drift of emotion and impulse
within that seems to synch with the rhythm of mystery all around
her.
In time, he comes to her. His hair is tangled and long, his robes wind-worn and tattered.
His ears, curiously proud, and the arch of his brows, and the set of his mouth, all speak
of his heritage. But he is not Vulcan. He is, like her, something new.
He is like her.
His pattern moves differently. He shifts in different paradigms, and draws from different
mysteries to make up the newness of his self. But they are kin, in this place, and know
each other. He comes to her with a hand raised, fingers parted, and she knows he means it.
There are no words. She senses that the language of this place might shatter her, even in
dreaming. She is not yet ready for the final poetry. So she is silent when he reaches her,
and silent when he reaches for her, drawing her in to his circle of calm.
She expects to feel no urgency in this man, nothing like the violent shades of emotion
that color her. But, to her surprise, what she feels when he touches her is - the sea. In
this dry place, he is a sea of a man, as rich and vibrant as herself, but bound by
moon-laws of ebb and tide. She understands, in a moment, the difference between the
absence of emotion, and the mastery of it.
His hands close on her wrists. She cannot tell if he means to mate or meet in battle, but
responds the same for either: with a fight, as is correct. She shows teeth and struggles
with him, and he smiles - not with cold, but with the deepest, sweetest compassion she has
ever seen. She can hardly bear it. She fights harder, flipping him to the ground, but he
lands easily and brings her with him. The sand is softer than she imagined.
Suddenly all the rage is there. All the desperation, too, and the sadness.She strikes out
blindly, beating his face and arms and chest with hard punches, wailing a battle cry
between clenched teeth.
He endures. His iron grip, hands on her arms, holds her as he lets her rail.He does not
flinch from her blows. He waits, steady. The sea. And then she is spent of it, and his
arms go around her. She does not cry. There are no tears, not for the warrior, not even at
the end of the long road home.
His mouth finds hers, as she reaches for him with the same fierceness she used to attack
him just moments before. A tangle of breath and heat, her teeth tearing his lip, green
blood marking their kiss. He arches to her, and she responds. In the logic of dreams,
clothes are now irrelevant, and so they vanish. The killing heat sears but does not wound,
and naked they meet on the sand.
His hands smooth down her back, pressing hard into her skin, and hers find his hair, tug
and explore, fingertips brushing the tips of his ears. They tangle, rolling as their
bodies sing out with the pleasure of contact. His hands pin her wrists above her head as
he bends to lick the hollow of her
throat; her thighs grip his waist as she rolls atop him, biting at a palely green nipple.
For a moment, she is astride him, palms pressed to his chest. Her hair is wild, sweat
covers her, her eyes are glorious. He looks up at her, his own face shaped by passion and
glory. They are desert-beasts, comrades, unified and self-creating divinities. His hips
thrust up and they roll again. She is ready, oh yes. She parts for him, reaches, demanding
he enter her. His cock sinks into her, he thrusts with head thrown back, and she cries out
again, a triumphant sound.
Together they rock and twist and thrust. Her teeth sink into his shoulder; his hands grip
her back, nails breaking the skin, then roam to press her breasts, deft fingers plucking
and rubbing even as he roars along the path to climax with her.
For a moment, she is keenly aware that she is dreaming. She sees them as if from high
above, figures entwined, serpentine, strangers who are bound by their odd half-natures.
The world of the dream continues to speak in its breath of a voice, its pulse of a voice,
its loving, fucking, reaching body of a voice: yes, warrior. Dream, warrior, dream.
And her vision expands: she sees a hundred thousand worlds, each twirling in invisible
orbit around a companion. She knows this dream-place is the deeper truth of a real world,
his world. With this eye of distance she sees that each world is twinned, and each twin is
unreal to the other, shadowy and unreachable, but for dreaming. Some twins are mirrors,
approaching the same end from opposite beginnings. The twins touch each other with
mystery, shape each other with their presences.
And then she sees their bodies on the sand again, and understands.
This all in a moment: the same moment, or almost, their bodies reach the point of
becoming together - his chest slams against hers; they are breathing one breath. She can
feel the fullness of him, as her ankles cross over his lower back and their eyes meet. She
can feel the rise of pleasure,
cresting - she is poised on its edge forever, and then it crashes all around her, and she
is shaking in ecstasy, and his eyes are the sea and the desert all at once, and she is of
them and in them, master over them and eternal soldier to their perfect empire.
She and he have each been halved, then made whole, and in this moment they form yet
another whole - as strange and beautiful as the rest, and, she is suddenly certain,
nowhere near the last of what wholes they might yet become...
...She wakes.
* * *
Very far away, an ambassador opens his eyes.
END |