PL | Commodore Ivanova - "Quod Somnia Veniat; Pt III"

Posted on Thu Dec 31st, 2015 @ 8:26am by Admiral Rochelle Ivanova
Edited on on Sun Jan 3rd, 2016 @ 10:34am

3,105 words; about a 16 minute read

Mission: Resurgere

Dismounting his horse, Javaan Irelle, prince of Atlantis, removed his riding gloves and made his slow, steady way towards the gurgling of the creek he’d chanced upon. Quenching his thirst, and that of his undoubtedly tired mount, didn’t come immediately – instead, in an almost animalistic way, the young noble paused to listen to the sounds of the woods around him; to the birds calling, the trees breathing, and the whisper of the water before him. Only when satisfied that he was alone did he kneel to dip his hands into the icy waters, bringing them up briefly to wash them clean before using them as a makeshift cup. A couple steps down stream, his spotted horse drank greedily and without care of tidying up before satiating his own thirst; a sight that nearly made the Prince chuckle.

His parched throat relieved, his eyes rose to survey the deep forest that surrounded them. The air was cold, and the mist lingered heavily within the fingers of the trees. It was hard to believe that he was lost. It simply couldn’t be. For the better part of his nearly twenty-one years of life he’d wandered the deep woods and high plains that surrounded the royal city of Prastin, learning every glen, mapping every ravine within his own eidetic mind – and yet it had been an intolerable last couple of hours. Deny it as he may have liked, the truth remained that he was lost and it was all due to the frolicking of a doe that had somehow managed to sound and masquerade herself as another horse in pursuit. The look of surprise on her face when at long last he’d trapped her at the end of a rocky box canyon must have mirrored his own – though she turned from surprise, to fear, to impatience and he from concern, to surprise, to embarrassment. Embarrassment because, while the deer-like creatures on that planet were large as some Terran moose, she was far from the threatening marauder her clumsy gallop had made her seem. It was utterly preposterous, really. Lost in his own woods and knowing that morning was rapidly giving way to the noon and the lunch hour would certainly tattle on his absence within the palace walls. It would only be a matter of time before his mother’s worry would see to his father heading out with a search party. And for what? Because of a damned doe in the damned forest of endless trees and hills an moss. Even on the best of days it happily played tricks on the mind of the weak, leading them further into its often treacherous grasp, but never the young Prince. Not until that misty late autumn morning.

Sighing heavily, in a thick mix of exasperation and budding anger, Javaan shook his hands relatively dry, and balled them together as he stood. The horse at his side nickered softly as his master tucked his frigid digits deep beneath the warmth of his mane and rested them against his neck. “Sorry, Phoebus.” The Prince soothed, stroking his fingers along the expanse of the animal’s silken hide, “The needs of the many, and all that.” He explained with a chuckle, though his brain whirled in an attempt to find a solution to the ridiculous conundrum he’d put them in. It was as if the forest had chosen to take mercy on the boy and his horse, forgiving him for not taking a single piece of technology with him – no combadge, no tricorder, nothing any more modern than the clothes on his back and the tack that adorned Phoebus’s body – when it chose to allow for a break in the mist long enough, and large enough, for the sun to illuminate the northern backs of the trees and boulders. The bright green of moss and brilliant reds of fungi running along the northern expanse of the trunks dawned within Javaan’s eyes, finally clicking and jarring memory. It was elementary as anything, basic science that allowed for him to remember geography! The opposite of north was south and to the south was the sea, a sea that rolled steadily forth until it broke and faltered at the shores of Prastin – home.

“I’m a moron, Phoebus. A serious moron.” He grinned, replacing his gloves before gathering his reins and swinging defly back up into the saddle. The horse gave no response beyond a quick toss of his head and prick of his ears, ever eager to escape the cold and replace it with the warmth of his stable. A quick squeeze of his legs and cluck of his tongue was all it took for Javaan to set the animal into motion, turning to cross the creek and take up a steady, ground covering trot in the direction of the south and the roar of the ocean’s majesty.

It would be well into the noon hour before he reached the water, but the elation he felt when finally able to orient himself within his surroundings made the delay completely worthwhile.
Even for the Atlanteans, the sea had always been a mystery. Beneath the silver foam of her waves lay fathoms far more foreign than even the furthest reaches of space. Unlike the heavens, where stars claimed the night’s blue-black expanse, there was nothing to signal any way point or any hope of life – well concealing the wonders that thrived beneath the desert-like expanse of its barren surface. Since time itself began, brave men had tried to conquer her only to falter and pay with their lives – a bitter price to pay for the cocky way they’d dared to take such a chance and engage in such folly – and to be laughed at by the bitter sea birds sailing serenely by. It was hard to imagine the struggles and the losses witnessed by the winged creatures as they played the role of cackling sentinels, watching with glittering eyes as mortal men took their last desperate breath before sinking beneath the undulating waves.
But, on that particular enchanted day, nearly twenty-one years from the day of the Vindicator’s own violent demise, the water was calm and shone like a bed of diamonds beneath the bright beauty of the sun.

The view from the top of his perch, high astride the white walled bluffs northwest of the royal city, afforded Javaan a chance to see the finer details of a world seldom truly studied by people more interested in what transpired within the stars above, than the fathoms below. He watched with a smile as a pod of dolphins frolicked along the surf line below. Even they had learned to appreciate and take advantage of the momentary quiet of the sea – it wouldn’t be long before winter’s icy grip once again sent the ever fickle Namaka, the revered Goddess of the ocean, into another violent fit. The flick of his horse’s ears, however, told him that, not unlike the way the coming winter would spoil the sea’s momentary slumber, the newfound serenity of his stolen morning was about to come to an end. He sighed, reaching to gather his reigns and stroke along Phoebus’s speckled neck at the point where it met his shoulders. “Am I that easy to track?” Javaan asked, his eyes still following the dolphins as they continued to cavort and play, blissfully unaware of his presence above. He wondered then if the eyes resting upon his own back had been the true source of the day’s conflict, if the doe had only become a scapegoat wrongly accused of someone else’s transgressions.

“Is that a rhetorical question or are you actually expecting an answer?” Tolled the chuckling of a good natured response, one that only received a heavy snort from the Prince in retort. Twenty years and some change ago, James Archer had once been one of the greatest minds Starfleet Intelligence had ever had the privilege of knowing, let alone employing. Bred of Federation blue bloods, the man had proven himself time and time again as being a God among men in his given field only to have that record forever marred by a return mere seconds too late to warn and save the Vindicator from utter disaster. It had been a self-proclaimed failure that would haunt him until his dying day and it was that very line of thought that had seen to it that he pledged himself to protecting Rochelle and her often unruly son; a task that was far harder than he’d ever imagine. While Landon was relatively easy and reasonable to work with, the child he and the red Queen had created had chosen to march to the beat of a far different drum; his mother’s incorrigible one. Not unlike her, Javaan possessed a wild heart and a stubborn streak that had proven itself impossible to correct, break, or extinguish even when the combination threatened to end his very life on more than one occasion. “You should be paying better attention to your surroundings, Vaan.” He scolded half-heartedly, reaching to pat his own horse’s neck. It really had been a wonder that the Prince hadn’t noticed the approaching footfalls of an animal as large as the Clydesdale mare. After all, she was about as stealthy and subtle as a sledge hammer being swung against a brick wall in the middle of Sunday morning church.

“You could have killed me. I know.” The Prince’s eyes rolled and his head shook, “Phoebus is getting lazy.” He explained with a chuckle and another loving stroke to the loyal horse’s neck. The creature’s tail wrung in mild annoyance as he sighed a heavy rolling sigh in response, as if to shirk the excuse and send responsibility sailing straight back onto his rider’s shoulders – an act that made the boy frown.

James mimicked the animal’s admonishment, dropping his mare’s reins to settle in for the verbal jousting he knew was about to transpire. It never failed; the kid was cocksure as anything, witty, and entirely way too devil-may-care, but he loved him. “He’s right you know.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. You’re an idiot for thinking the horse is going to do your job for you. Says he doesn’t get paid enough to haul your pompous ass around and watch out for shit looking to kill you.” He beamed wickedly.

“You sure you aren’t just projecting your own thoughts onto poor old Phoebus?” Javaan tutted and baby talked, reaching to ruffle the tuft of silvered mane just behind the stallion’s side-swept ears.

The retort garnered a small groan and chortle from the man perched several strides behind and to the left of him. “Pretty sure. Just look at him,” James gestured to the Appaloosa with a bored roll of his wrist, “Poor bastard is completely miserable having to deal with you on a daily basis. I think he’s ready to go on strike.”

The Prince chuckled and tossed his head back to glance over his shoulder at the aging head of Intelligence, “You’re a dick, James.”

“Love you too, kid.” James smiled warmly. In spite of the shortcomings that toiled within the years of youth, the boy had more than earned his spot within the man’s heart. In truth, Javaan was the closest thing to a son he’d ever had. “C’mon. Let’s get you home before your mother loses the plot.”

“Yeah yeah.” Javaan sighed heavily and muttered something to Phoebus that James couldn’t quite catch and decided to let slide for the sake of brevity and getting the boy back to his place beside his mother.

It hadn’t always been days spent filled with idle banter while basking in the beauty of fine late autumn mornings. Rochelle’s return to Atlantis Prime had come with prices to pay and crosses to bear – so many of the Atlantean people failed to trust the human woman that had inherited the throne by default. They failed to see the validity of her claim, scowled and hissed about the way she’d run from them, choosing the Federation, and Landon, over her duties and wedding a full blooded Atlantean man. Worse yet, the monarchy as a whole flinched when the child she bore was indeed a son and not the female heir they so desperately demanded – and not just any son, a son born of Trill blood; the spots of which boasted themselves proudly across the contours of his face and body. It had taken a great deal of care, and many sleepless nights spent thwarting kidnapping and assassination attempts alike, before the people had come to learn that their unorthodox Queen, and her beloved King, weren’t the pariahs the neigh-sayers and political left swore they were.

And it had taken war to mend those fences.

A bitter war waged by the neighboring Civonian septs when they firmly had thought, and grossly misjudged, the new mother to be weak and insecure. Blood had been spilled, marring the white stone streets of the royal city along with the majority of territory on both planets, before Rochelle’s grand armies had conquered their enemy and further surprised the entire system by refusing to execute her prisoners of war. It was that day that Atlantis became a Republic that denounced slavery and spoke of equality between the two sister civilizations. It was an act that James had been sure would have made his father proud, having long ago been the one to discover the Atlanteans and label their vicious ways as only being worthy of being wiped clean from the universal slate.

Where once there had been anguish now rose peace – but, as with all cultures, radicals still remained and lurked in the shadows hoping and waiting for a chance to cut the throats of the royal family when their proverbial shields were lowered. Javaan seemed unwilling to believe it, choosing to walk freely among his people without escort and ride the wilds of the planet’s farthest reaches without so much as a hint as to where he intended to disappear to. It was those very acts, and dozens more, that likely accounted for a good ninety percent of the budding grays that had come to sully the thick rich chocolate of James’s hair over the years.

The forests surrounding Prastin, however, were filled with a golden light – one that intricately wrapped about every leaf and branch with a sense of shining best left in old Terran fairytales. Riding through them made it hard to believe that they were mere minutes away from the bustling center of a galactic metropolis, especially one that had become home to thousands of refugees fleeing the now defunct Federation and the relentless hand of the dictator that now encompassed that portion of space in a blanket of macabre ruin. Yet it was there. It was calm, filled with the sounds of song birds and the steady reminder of the surf booming ever so near as the pair followed the staggering cliffs back down to the low lands where the city’s gates awaited them.

Though their pace was slow, languid, and relaxed, Javaan could easily sense James’ anxiety at being so far from the comforts of his technology filled den. Looking at the dark haired man, it was a wonder that he hadn’t suffered a stroke or two long before that very moment. He was tense, and more-so, intense. His eyes glittered in the dappled sunlight as they analyzed every shadow and every sound as if waiting for the Romulan boogieman to come leaping out from behind a tree, or from under a rock, to drag them back to whatever Hell they saw fit. While amusing, it was unsettling to the charismatic and often carefree child of the Phoenix.
Clearing his throat softly, Javaan nodded towards the sight of the palace towers peeking through the redwoods, “We’re almost there,” the utterance was more to soothe his friend than to announce any real joy in leaving the resplendence of the woods. While he loved his mother and father dearly, the stifling nature of royal life had long since lost its sense of wonder and pleasure. Even the deep, dark, rarely explored depths of the planet’s forests and brightness of its high plains had lost their charms and allure. While magnificent, they had begun to lose Javaan’s heart to something yet unknown.

“Almost.” James responded with a curt nod, stealing a glance of his own up towards the alabaster spires. He could feel the boy’s energy as it poured off of him and wafted into the chilled autumn air, already itching for the next adventure. Years ago he had been the same; gung ho and ready to jump at the chance for something new, something more. All of it, and so much more, had been destroyed the night the Federation fell to Tr’Bak. It was as if his very spirit had been crushed by the loss of so much, his own parents and family included. Preaching his woes to the future, however, would serve him no good, and he knew it well. Crushing Javaan’s guile and dreams wouldn’t solve, fix, or remedy anything at all – only damage and thwart the hope of progress.

But progress towards what?

In so many ways those who had survived the Federation’s fall were still nothing more and nothing less than refugees; clinging to the coat tails of a world they had no business being part of. All of the good, all of the peace, all of the grace, and beauty, while inspiring and comforting, were nothing more than a fantasy island approach to trying to fold them all into some semblance of skewed normalcy. It seemed so juvenile, so infantile, for him to feel so jaded – but James knew no other way to feel. It wouldn’t, however, keep him from his duties or pretending to be happy for the sake of Rochelle and the efforts she continued to make to keep them safe and content. A greater part of him knew, though, that even she wasn’t truly happy and, like him, played the role of great pretender for the sake of her son and the generations that would follow him in the future.

It was that future that concerned James the most.

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To Be Continued...
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Commodore Rochelle Ivanova
Commanding Officer
USS VINDICATOR, NCC 78213-E

 

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