05-17-2024, 01:33 AM
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.
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.