05-20-2024, 05:26 AM
(This post was last modified: 05-20-2024, 05:33 AM by 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.
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.