The Red King - Michael A. Martin [24]
Holding a large scrap of fabric steady, he began to write his vriloxince , the last testament he would leave behind. He wrote to his mother, to Keel and his confederates who had conspired to keep him from the teership, to those he had served with in Starfleet, to those he had captained, and to those for whom he held a special place of friendship in his heart. He explained that his final act of w’lash’nogot was not the action of a coward, but rather a way for him to allow Tuvok to survive for a few days more, under the assumption that help would arrive in time to save his friend.
He had already explained w’lash’nogot to Tuvok in one of their many conversations about death and the afterlife. The ritual suicide was one of the most holy of the Capellan customs, reserved as the highest honor one could perform for another; to die for one’s loved one or friend was a sacrifice beyond words, the ultimate expression of love and loyalty. Tuvok had listened intently then, but did not comment, nor offer any stories of comparable Vulcan rituals.
The Capellan concept of afterlife was different than that of any other culture that Akaar had ever encountered. Rather than believing that their souls or spirits or memories would live on, the Capellans believed that the emotions they felt upon death would live on. Thus, those who died filled with rage would fuel the anger that the living might feel for decades to come. Those at peace or in love would bring happiness for generations past them. The actual memory of the dead person and his or her life were the reasons that so many monuments to the dead existed on their world; they were the only tangible markers that someone who was no more had ever been.
Akaar finished his note, then exited his tent, squinting into the bright, eternal light. He could hear Tuvok’s labored breathing inside the shelter, a sure sign that even his great strength was declining quickly. He placed the note, and the remaining water, near the opening of Tuvok’s tent.
Returning to his own shelter, Akaar sat, cleared his mind, and slowed his breathing. He closed his eyes and began moving his lips in a silent chant as old as the High Teers of antiquity. He could feel the pace of his heartbeat slowing as the ritual took him steadily downward in a deathward spiral. Soon, death would be irrevocable. This would all be over, and all pain and deprivation would be behind him forever. He opened his eyes for a moment and noted that his vision had already begun to gray around the edges.
With a little luck, his friend and colleague could stretch what resources remained after his passing, thus ensuring Tuvok’s survival—at least until such time as rescue finally arrived. Within minutes, he would be gone, and his emotions, his love and loyalty and courage, would be released into the universe. He prayed that it would strengthen his friend as much as their residual food and water would.
He opened his eyes again. The sunlight brightening his shelter was steadily dimming, and he viewed the interior of his tent as though through a narrow tube.
He focused on the memories of joy he held, of his mother, his crew, his friends.
On courage.
After Ledrah’s memorial, Tuvok had filed out of the holodeck with the rest of the crew, then retired to his quarters for quiet, but ultimately fruitless, meditation, ending as it had in an onslaught of memory, all of which he recognized—but not all of which was his.
He rose from the mat on the floor, snuffed the candles he had left burning, and brought the lights up to half-illumination.
He hadn’t thought about the crash-landing in the Neltedian system—the incident that had essentially ended his friendship with Akaar—for years. At least, not until after he had seen his old friend and colleague again in Titan