Klingon Tea Ceremony

[Jennifer Braggins]

==

[Artemis d'Tor'an]

== To help, I rewrote/revamped the wiki page! ==


They had survived. The team from the Philadelphia had gone into the Cardassian ship, shut things down from Engineering, and then moved on to the Cargo Bay and had saved their people. Federation hostages, all Starfleet officers, with one psychotic Cardassian guarding them. He had shot, Jensen made sure he was obliterated, and Art had stood by his side through it all. Almost offhandedly, Art made mention of the Klingon Tea Ceremony to Commander Jensen, and thankfully, even in the heat of the moment, he had understood what that meant.

“Death is an experience best shared.”

The rarely-spoken-of Klingon Tea Ceremony was a sacred ritual in the Klingon culture. It represented death, and facing the inevitable, and the hope of every Klingon warrior: to die in battle. The ceremony was only even done between two people, usually not long after a shared battle experience where death was all but certain. It was an intimate ceremony between two people who were more than friends, and family not by blood, but whose bond was battle-forged. And this experience with the Cardassians had only been the latest.

Artemis, daughter of Tor’an, had invited Peter Jensen to partake in this ceremony today. On board her new quarters on the USS Yeager, which were still sparsely decorated, a serving tray was the only dish on a table. Next to it, a winding branch sat, covered in large, sharp thorns. Feeling as if everything was now set up and ready, Artie checked the time: her friend should be here any minute.


==Tag Jensen!==

[Peter Jensen]

Peter realized the immense honor of what he had been invited to. He had tried to prepare as best he could, obviously securing and taking the antidote that would allow him to survive the experience, but also working as much as his duties allowed on his Klingon pronunciation. He wouldn't want, after all, to accidentally call someone's mother a hamster - or the Klingon equivalent - by mispronunciation.

He had put on his dress uniform for the ceremony, the finest he had. If it was suitable for welcoming self-important brass to the ship, it was suitable for this too. Even more so, in fact.

When he entered the room, he felt the solemnity of the moment even more so than when he had been proceeding there. He smiled as he saw her. He had come to depend on her more than he realized. When he'd taken command of the Philadelphia to hunt down the Yeager, there had been absolutely no doubt in his mind as to who he'd wanted as XO. Peter trusted d'Tor'an with his life, and she had stood by him in one of the most crucial moments of his life. A moment he thought back on with trepidation and bafflement of having actually done that.

Yes, it had turned out to be a massive waste of time in the end, but that had not been his fault, he realized that quite clearly. And regardless: D'Tor'an had stood with him when he had needed it the most. And the mission to the Cardassian ship had been a repeat of that. As a DH she could have politely suggested that he take someone else. There was certainly no lack of capable people in Security. But...she had stood with him again, without question. He appreciated that more than he could put into words. And he couldn't imagine anyone else he'd rather have had by his side at that point.

"Thank you for inviting me, Leftenant", he said softly. "I...I almost tremble at the oppressive honor of taking part in what I have understood is a sacred ceremony. I have tried to prepare as best I could.", he assured her, and then nodded his head ever so slightly with his hands slightly moved forward, turning the palms upward, in a gesture that was meant to say "Please take the lead.". He had tried to do his homework the best he could, but he also knew that he was a stranger here.

== lupDujHomwIj luteb gharghmey! ==

[Artemis d'Tor'an]

Opening the door to her friend in a full dress uniform caught Art by surprise. She was in uniform herself, but aside from it being a brand new uniform (along with her not-brand-new official title), she almost paled in comparison to the First Officer.

“Welcome!” She said brightly, grinning at him. One of us is going to have to change! It was a half-joking thought, and she wondered if putting on some Klingon armor would be too much. It was just tea, after all, no matter the ritual. It wasn’t that she didn’t consider it important; she was more thinking how hard it might be to drink said tea with plated armor on.

He thanked her for inviting him, and his tone was solemn. It was so enlightening to Artemis to see Peter so humbled and emotionally vulnerable. She could count on one half-hand how many times she had even called him by his first name; they had always managed to stay professional, even in their familiarity. Asking this human to partake in the Klingon Tea Ceremony was an almost-unheard of honor, and Jensen certainly understood that.

To anyone uneducated, it would be educational to know that by participating in this ritual, Peter Jensen was taking a great risk. Even with an antidote, the poison tea was not kind to one’s system. “Well,” Art started, “we start by sitting down, and acknowledging the plainness of the pot and cups.” She moved the cups more towards each chair, and explained why they did so. Surprisingly, she found her voice shaking, if just a little. “Life, like the cups, starts out plain…” she motioned to the tea pot full of steaming water, her voice steadying as she continued, “and it’s what you put into it that makes it matter.”

Once they were both seated, she continued, “The vine in front of us is to be stripped of its thorns -which represent the initial pain of battle- and placed into the pot of water. Then the other takes the petals off of the flowers of the vine, and places them in each of the cups.”

She stopped, not wanting to get ahead of herself. Taking a deep breath, she stopped to look at Peter, to see how he was taking this all in.


==I suddenly feel like I’m doing Passover dinner! ==

[Peter Jensen]

Peter followed her carefully, doing his best to not do something that might be considered offensive, though of course he had to admit to being somewhat in the dark on that subject. He didn't know a whole lot about Klingon culture, but what he knew, he admired greatly.

Yes, there were...shall we say....less than admirable parts of it too. The slavery. The subjugation of entire worlds. The Klingon Empire was definitely something of a mixed bag as far as Peter was concerned.
But he deeply admired Klingon culture, especially the value it placed on honor, loyalty, and sticking to one's word.

Of course he wasn't so naive as to think that this meant that all Klingons were honorable, even by their own standards, or kept their word always.
But this was true of everyone. He knew that well enough. And still, the dedication, loyalty, honor, integrity, and martial prowess which the Klingons valued, resonated deeply with something inside him.

He followed her movements and her words vis a vis the cups and teapot. He was under no illusion as to how the aftermath of this was likely to be...unpleasant. But he was fairly certain that he wouldn't die. And that, at least, was something. Not many humans were allowed or trusted with this honor, and he took it deadly seriously.

I just hope that doesn't mean literally the little voice in the back of his mind said - even as another part of him thought At least I'd be in good company - as he looked as he felt: Humbled, honored, nervous of doing something wrong. So he listened to her instructions carefully, and then proceeded to try to strip the vine of its thorns as she'd said. It was easier said than done. Both because...well, this was not something he was used to doing, but also because his hands were shaking a bit from nervousness. Meaning that he pricked his fingers quite badly more than once and let out hisses of pain. A few droplets of blood fell from his finger to the table, which he didn't notice as he was so entranced in managing a simple task like putting the thorns in the pot of water. He held the thorns almost ceremoneously in one hand, while using the other to drop them in, indiviually.

He had no idea if this was the right way to do it, but he trusted that Artemis had spent enough time around humans by now to realize that this was reverent by Human standards, and Peter was doing it as well as he could. He was feeling all sorts of things he couldn't really put into words right now but he was unquestioningly here. Now. In this moment. Sharing this moment with someone who, he realized, mattered to him much more than he would have thought when they'd first met.

[Artemis d'Tor'an]

At Art’s pause, Peter picked up the thorn-filled vine, doing his best to pluck the wood of its offensive parts. Art wanted to smile at him as she watched him prick himself again and again; it was almost like watching a child navigate through their first bramble bush in the woods. If she had been unsure about him taking the human-needed antidote, she would have also worried about the bacteria that the thorns would deposit into his bloodstream. But the tea, if anything, would do its best to kill that bacteria as well as it would try against their bodies’ healthy cells, as well. Small drops of his blood fell onto the table, and that did make Art smile; it would be very soon that both of their blood may be spilled, and the blood spilled now served to further honor the ceremony.

With the thorns now stripped from the vine, they sat in the tea pot, coloring the water as their essence gradually seeped out. It was a combination of the thorns and the petals that made up the poison: separately, they were not pleasant, but together, their chemicals combined into something lethal or near-lethal, depending on the strength of the warrior (or the medical bay). When Peter placed the top back onto the pot, Art tried to make her small smile into something that resembled reassurance. She didn’t want him to think she was laughing at him, or his pain.

The flower petals, which were as white as a metaphysical new soul, were now supposed to be picked off and placed at the bottom of the drinking cups. If she had beer steins, perhaps it would have been easier to just plop the whole flower in, but Art felt as if that would take away from the point of the ceremony. She found herself holding her breath as she took the individual petals and placed them, only realizing she had been holding her breath for a period of time when she went to blow out a thin strand of hair that threatened to fall in her vision. She scolded herself for not having better control over something as silly as her hair, but did her best to just tuck the hair behind her ear and move on.

Art poured the thorn-infused tea over the flower petals, soaking them and causing them to release even more flavor (and poison) into the liquid they would be drinking in a matter of minutes. It occurred to Artemis only then that as much as she liked to say that she was simply Klingon, her mother’s strength and human genetics might now be a bit of a downfall. She sighed, realizing too late that she might feel this a little harder than she had meant.

“batlh qo' mIw'a' neH ghaH.” She spoke in Klingon, raising her cup. “Hail to the glorious dead.” She nodded to Jensen to indicate that this was a direct translation. “We honor those warriors who have died in battle before us… and we honor each other today, as two warriors who have fought side by side.” Suddenly there was a lump in her throat. To avoid cracking, she fell back to her native language of Klingon.

“matay'DI' matay'DI' maQap… As we have shed blood in battle together, we are blood-bound.” That was a rough translation, but truth be told, it sounded better in English. “And now we test the bond of our blood - not with each other, but within ourselves.”

Bringing the tea cup to her mouth, Artemis raised her eyebrows at Peter, in a silent comment of ‘here we go!’ She brought the liquid into her mouth, surprised at how it tasted both sweet and bitter. That in itself was poetry: the sweetness of the liquid, chased by the bitter aftertaste, could easily be seen as a metaphor for life itself. She took a bigger sip, her heart beating perhaps a little bit faster now as she wondered how long it would take for the poison to attempt to seize her heart’s muscles.

[Peter Jensen]

Peter observed her carefully, trying to figure out when it was time for him to do something. He looked at the way the water changed color as the thorns did their thing. It was..beautiful in a strange way.

Like the changes to the courses of the river of life, he thought for a moment before smiling slightly at his own hidden poetic talent. And, suiting the action to the thought, he met her eyes, and...there was something in that moment that he had both not expected at all, and had felt for a while now. He didn't know how to put it into words.

"The changing of the color", he said softly, "reminds me of the changing stages of life. It starts out clear, but soon gets muddied, and changed, and difficult, and...well, full of thorns", he remarked.

Not all that poetic after all, are you? he thought to himself with his usual bit of self-deprecation coming in to sabotage him again. And then he smiled as he saw her blow a strand of hair away. This was indeed a serious affair. This was, as far as he could understand it, a borderline sacred ritual. But in that moment of her blowing hair away from her face - an everyday normal thing - she looked...different to him. He blinked a bit and tried to force his mind back to focus on the ceremony in front of him.
It was all..beautiful. The liquid changing colors. Even though he knew what it was, and that he would be dead in a few moments if it hadn't been for that antidote he'd taken.
The surroundings, the utensils. It all had a stark, spartan kind of beauty that he felt in his soul somehow.

He kept his eyes on her throughout her preparations for the decisive moment. He, frankly, had trouble taking them off her. And a million different conflicting emotions welled up in him like an orchestra of many instruments. He blinked again as he took his own cup in his hands, but didn't raise it yet. He felt his hands shake ever so slightly, so it was partly to not spill any of the liquid - though that could have been poetic as well, in a way, resembling the spilling of blood and the unpredictable nature of batte.

He looked at her.

"We have indeed both shed and spilled blood together", he said solemnly. "And there is no one I can think of that I would rather have by my side in battle. You stood with me when it mattered the most. When everyone else opposed me, you were there by my side", he said. "I could not have done what I did without you."

He looked down at the cup and sighed.

"Hail the glorious dead", he mused, then looked back up at her. His fear of doing something not usually done in the ritual had momentarily gone. He was definitely "living in the moment" now. Something he very rarely did. And what he was about to do was something he had never thought he'd do:

"I come from a long line of soldiers, and warriors. The Captain recently said that I am a cop, not a soldier. She is wrong. As far back as my line can be traced, almost 800 years, we have been soldiers. First in the Danish navy and army back on Earth. Then in Starfleet. Though I am the first officer in the family.", he paused before going on. "I have lost people under my command. I'll never forget the first. You can get the full story later, but to make it short, I didn't stick with my guts. I let my superior goad me into making a decision I shouldn't have. And it cost someone their life. I am haunted by that.", another small pause. "I have killed people. On the megasphere, another member of the away team was assimilated in front of our eyes. I had no choice. I would do it again in a heartbeat. But killing another Starfleet Officer....", yet another pause, "It sticks with you. I know I saved the team there. I know I did what I had to do. But I still see his face sometimes when I close my eyes", he finished. For a moment pondering whether all this was not exceptionally inappropriate at a solemn moment like this, then reasoning that while mentioning killing or dying would likely be inappropriate at any other ceremony like this, the Klingon Tea Ceremony might be the one such occasion where it'd be appropriate.

"I...haven't told anyone this before", he said softly. "I...I told you because....because your opinion matters to me", he looked her in the eyes. "I need to maintain an image. But I...I have come to rely on you. There is no one on this ship I trust more. Not even the Captain.", the words escaped his lips before he'd found a way to stop them. "The word "honor" is used among humans entirely too often for the significance it holds", he went on. "People talk of "duty and honor" without realizing the Marianas trench depth of those words. I doubt I even fully comprehend them to the bottom myself. But....and I have thought about this...", he added with a slight smile, realizing the irony of what he was about to say, "I am honored to serve with you and to call you my friend. You are a bulwark. A fortress. A loyal comrade in arms who's as solid as a mountain", he finished, once again showing all too well that his emotions were a lot deeper than his poetic talents.

Then he held out his cup in front of him, almost like a pastor holding the chalice before raising it during the communion-ritual he had observed during his - very - infrequent visits to a church and echoed her statement. This part of the ritual he had practised long and hard until he'd gotten the pronunciation as right as it was possible for a human to get:

" batlh qo' mIw'a' neH ghaH. " he said solemnly, then put the glass to his lips, tilted his head slightly backwards, and then did the same with the cup so the liquid flowed into his mouth.
The taste of it was both yes and no at the same time. It was sweet like candy and bitter like the world's most intense grapefruit. He quickly forced himself to swallow all of it, then put the cup down slowly, ceremoneously and looked her in the eyes. He was waiting now. Waiting for the inevitable backlash from his body. He was fairly certain he wouldn't die.

But if I die, I die well.

[Artemis d'Tor'an]

Her poison tea half gone, Artemis allowed herself to rest and pause. She needed a moment to savor the conflicting tastes, and allow her body to feel the warmth of the liquid move through her trachea, past her lungs, and worm through her stomach. It was psychosomatic to feel the poison move in behind it, but Art knew the pain was coming.

What she didn’t see coming, however, was Peter’s entire confessional. About coming from a long familial line of soldiers. About losing people under his command. About having to kill people in the name of self-preservation. And for the purposes of mercy for those in question. And the shame he felt for doing so.

She knew he did not admit this information lightly. In fact, he said as much in order to make his point, and acknowledge it. It was clear he was never this vulnerable before, or at the very least, in a very long time. Though she wasn’t sure how to feel about being called a “bulwark” and a “mountain”, she understood the sentiments behind the words. She was his rock.

He took another mouthful of tea, and Art was glad; she wasn’t sure she had the words to tell him how she felt about what he said. The young Klingon was stunned, to say the least. She knew that Peter regarded her highly, but not this personally. Well, he was here, doing this ceremony with her, and that was certainly personal. She had invited him, as somewhat as an offhanded comment, thinking either they were going to die, or he wouldn’t take her up on it. But here they both were, expressing the deep feelings they had for each other. This was about as soft-hearted as a Klingon got, diluted by Human genetics or not.

“I trust you with my life.” She found herself blurting out. Her tea was almost gone. “And all aspects of it. As I stood with you, against… well, against everyone else… I knew that even if you were somehow wrong, I would still stand with you. “

The words were running out of her now, she couldn’t stop herself.

“On Earth, sailors of old manifested a saying that referenced a star they called ‘Polaris.’ It was a star that was always constant in its movement, and was the brightest star in its constellation. To the bare eye, it was the closest star to True North, and sailors used it to navigate. If ever they became lost at sea, with nothing to guide them… they looked for the North Star. And that… that’s how I felt on the Bridge of that Yeager, standing next to you. Even if the situation turned on us, even if everyone else turned on us… you were… and are… my North Star.”

Art drank the rest of her tea. She felt like she was going to puke.

[Peter Jensen]

Peter listened to her, transfixed by her now in a way he hadn't been before. It felt as if time seemed to stand still. As if this moment would contain all other moments there had been, were now, and would be.
It was as if he actually saw her for the first time. Not just as a subordinate, nor even as a fellow officer. But....as a person. A woman. That realization filled him at once with both utter shame, and wonder at the same time.

He didn't precisely "stare" at her, but he definitely saw her. As in saw her now. And his heart was racing. Had he been a Vulcan, or a doctor, or a Vulcan doctor, he'd probably have said that it was the poisoned tea which was about to mess him up. But that was not all of it. He hung on her every word now. Every move, every twitch. The moment was almost trancendental.

He finished the last of his blursed tea and knew that it would soon hit him like a charging targ. He had so many feelings, and didn't know how to express them. This was one part of life which he had never been good at. He could turn a phrase, give a rousing speech and lead men in combat well enough. But...being vulnerable like this was something he was not good at, and he didn't know what to do with himself.

Peter was about to say something else as he looked at her, and that's where there freight train, crazed targ, or whichever other metaphor one might want to use, hit him and his eyes turned big and wide like the mill wheels of the eyes of the third dog in the fairy tale by Hans Christian Andersen.
When he opened his mouth as if to speak, a pain even worse than man-flu struck him in the gut and he crumbled over forwards a bit, taken aback by it, but remained seated, impressively enough.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph and all of his carpenter friends!", he exclaimed through clenched teeth. He wasn't religious as such, but once having heard that exclamation from a friend at the Academy, and thought it was hilarious, it had stuck with him. Used very infrequently, but this occasion definitely merited it and it came out without him even thinking about it. This was a pain like nothing he'd ever experienced before. The nausea had hit him a few moments before this, but he'd done his best to try to push it aside and focus on the moment. Now he realized that it had been a warning, a "Buckle up, buckaroo!"-moment which he had ignored. And had been caught completely off guard because of it.

As he was hunched over clutching his stomach, trying to stop himself from writhing in agony because he still had the presence of mind to know where he was and who he was with, he wondered for a moment if it had been worth it.

And one thought kept pushing itself to the front of his mind, even through the impenetrable jungle of pain:

Of course it was!

[Artemis d'Tor'an]

Art’s stomach felt like it was in torsion; she had not taken any sort of antidote, and knew that would come back to kick her. You’re more human than you think! Some voice inside her said, mocking her. She didn’t like thinking of herself as half-Human, and even told those that questioned her that she was mostly Klingon. Strong people, strong genetics. But right now, she felt like she was dying from the inside out, and the only person that would be able to help her get through it was a Human. A… fellow Human.

It felt like it took most of what was left of her strength to look up at him, see how her companion was faring. He, too, was twisted where he sat, bent over and frozen with pain. If there had been any thoughts of Peter doing better due to the antidote, they disappeared upon Art seeing the pain upon his face. Feeling her own pain, in addition to seeing his, was a stark reminder of their pact, and their relationship.

There was some sort of exclamation on his part, though Art found it hard to understand. The pain was slowly spreading to her head now, and she was busy trying to accept that this wouldn’t just be in her abdomen. The center of her forehead was in splitting pain, and she grabbed at her forehead ridges as if they were actively growing. She couldn’t even bring herself to upchuck, because her head was already throbbing with the pain as if she had already done so. Instead, she foamed at the mouth, a mix of spittle and pain, and she tilted out of her chair, barely able to hang on to the table to keep herself upright.

It felt like forever, and though Art realistically knew it would ‘only’ be about 20 minutes, she couldn’t make her brain work long enough to start counting. No, there was no solace to be found, save for the presence of the person sitting across from her. The phrase ‘shared experience’ floated across her mind, and she desperately reached across the table to grab Peter. His hand, his forearm, anything she could reach and hold on to. She tried to look and guide herself, but at this moment she was literally blinded with pain, and as soon as she found him, squeezing her eyelids shut as tight as she could seemed to give her a modicum of solace.

Art didn’t know whether her grip on Peter was firm or weak, but at least she knew -both mentally and now physically- that he was there with her. And she did her best to bring her body closer still, needing to cling onto him to ease the pain.

[Peter Jensen]

In the middle of the ocean of pain he found himself in, Peter suddenly felt a life ring. He felt her grab his arm tightly, but though it would likely have registrered as mild pain normally, right now it was felt as pain just as much as pricking your finger would be, when you're getting disembowelled with a ruste table knife.
Instead, he almost instinctively reciprocated and wrapped his arms around her holding her tightly against him.
In this moment, it felt like  he was clinging on for dear life, and all there was in the universe was himself, the agony coursing through his body and seemingly setting every nerve fiber in his  system on fire....and then her. The lifeline. His one beacon of comfort and safety right now.

"Please don't let go", he managed to squeeze out through his gritted teeth.

[Artemis d'Tor'an]

Please don’t let go… Those words swam in Art’s mind, repeated themselves, and the phrase was like a beacon in the sea of anguish. At some point she realized they were on the ground, but at the same time she realized they had their arms wrapped around each other, gripping each other tightly through the pain. She had no recollection of falling to the ground, nor any memory of reaching out to hold onto Peter, but with them both writhing in pain, the embrace was welcome.

With her sense of time completely warped, Art had no idea how long the two of them were on the ground, their bodies twisted in pain, partially entwined in embrace. While her mind slowly cleared the fog of pain, she became more aware of how they were situated. Like waking up from a deep sleep and a vivid dream, Art opened her eyes, feeling slightly embarrassed about their position.

What she hadn’t anticipated, however, was how close their faces would be. Not sure what to say, she guffawed, smiling at him with her loss for words. Her legs still twitched, her arms still had fiery pinpricks all over them, but now that she could see straight, she wasn’t entirely unhappy with what she was seeing in front of her. Through all the pain, he had stayed, he hadn’t bowed out, and they had come through it together. It was the perfect symbolism and symmetry of what this ritual was meant for.

[Peter Jensen]

Falling to the floor with her had only barely registrered with Peter, as his system fought to keep him alive and used the excruciating pain to achieve that. It seemed like hours, days, weeks that this went on, and afterwards he would muse that if there was a hell, surely it was this, just never-ending.
This particular ordeal did end, however, and when it did, when he had fought his way to the surface of the ocean of agony and could finally breathe again, he saw her.

Right there. In his arms. Her face next to his. And then that laugh of hers. His heart swelled. He hadn't realized how much he loved that laugh. How much he loved....well, everything about her, really.
He looked deeply into her eyes, daring to raise a hand and place it softly upon her cheek as he smiled. But part of him still held back. He was torn between two worlds, two ways. Even now where he had quite literally looked death in the face and told it to go fudge itself and the pale horse it had ridden in on, he hesitated, until he used an effort of will to kick that last bit of hesitation to the curb.

"You are so beautiful" he said in a soft voice. "And strong. And courageous. And I don't know how to express how much you mean to me"

His voice was still weak from the ordeal, but he did manage to say the one sentence a previous Klingon classmate had taught him as a joke and told him to tell an instructor at the Academy as a first-year. It had not gone down well there. He hoped, and prayed though he wasn't a religious man, that it would go down better here.

Otherwise I have to request a transfer for myself.

"SoHvaD parmaq vISIQ. parmaqqaywI’ Damoj vIneH ", he said softly, but there was also a firmness at the same time, meant to indicate certainty, as he looked her in the eyes, dead serious. His one arm still was around her, his other hand on her cheek.

[Artemis d'Tor'an]

Art had never heard Peter talk like this before. She supposed that they hadn’t spent much personal time together off-shift, but they had certainly become quite good friends. And waking up from the pain, finding herself holding onto him with a death grip, and him doing the same - it made the blood rush to and from her head, and she found herself blushing as he spoke.

His hand was brushing her face now, and she found she couldn’t move. Not from pain or from the anticipation thereof, but because she was stunned. There were too many emotions all at once for her to interpret, or perhaps, there was one rushing to the forefront that she was becoming overcome by.

“You are so beautiful.” He said gently. Art felt her breath come in sharply, and stick. Still, he continued. “And strong. And courageous. And I don’t know how to express how much you mean to me.” She became very aware of exactly how close their faces were to each other. Not even centimeters, it was millimeters, and neither one of them were pulling away. If anything, they were moving closer.

Then he spoke to her in Klingon, and told her how he really felt. Traditionally, after the Klingon Tea Ceremony, the partakers spoke poetry to each other, as a symbolism for how beautiful life can be. Right now, with Artemis in Peter’s arms, with him speaking to her in her native tongue about his love for her… that was poetry enough.

She kissed him. Not politely, or gently, or carefully. No, there were no questions in this kiss. She moved her entire body to be with his, and kissed him with her full self. It was the answer to the question he had asked without asking, and she was saying ‘yes.’

[Peter Jensen]

== Sorry for the late reply! :S ==

Peter melted into the kiss and was lost in the rapturous passion of it. So much had happened in such a short time that he didn't know what to do with himself. He was normally the kind of person who was proud to be on top of everything, try to analyze the situation, etc. Right now? Right now he was lost in the moment and simply...existed. He of course reciprocated her affection and kissed her right back without holding back.

When the kiss eventually broke he looked her in the eyes with love, passion and adoration.

"Everything I've ever endured has been worth it to get to this moment", he said softly, then fought his way to his feet - no small feat as he was definitely still battling the aftereffects of the ceremony. While the pain was no longer crippling, its aftershock was still in the background. He then held out a hand to help her to her feet too.

"I am yours. For life. And afterwards, let's kick Suto'vo'qor's doors in together as well", he said with a smile.