Far Away From Home

 

"You are distracted."

Vuron smoothly slung the bat'leth over his shoulder in a large, ornate sweep. He brought it down quickly, flipping it back up, point into the belly of Master Chijqa.

"Not distracted enough, it seems." The Klingon grinned.

Their blades flashed back and forth with the comfort of camaraderie. Of skills very equal to one another, even if Chijqa boasted years more experience.

"I hear you made quite the scene, in the council," the master continued. Vuron felt his eyes tightened into nearly a smile. The man enjoyed trying to get his ire up. At first Vuron's seeming-calm had infuriated the man, but now it was an interesting challenge between the two of them. Who could incense the other to the point of distraction first? Often times, Vuron had the man laughing until he had to set down his weapon. Whether Vuron intended the hilarity might be another matter.

"The rumor is, your Ambassador is trying to send you out in an short-range evac shuttle for the next galaxy."

Vuron sighed.

"Close enough sentiment, considering."

Over the nine months, and ten days he'd been studying under this battlemaster, many of his self-imposed shields came down. There was only so many bruises one could give another man without some sort of companionship to develop. Or they ended up killing one-another.

Chijqa took him through a few more forms, sensing that the Vulcan needed to concentrate on something other than his superior.

Once sweat pored down their faces, into their simple practice garments, Chijqa called an end.

"You haven't come in several days," the Klingon said simply.

Vuron felt his eyebrows fly up, until he retranslated in his mind. "Come to practice?"

The battlemaster grinned toothily. "Of course. And you look greener than usual. How much of the rumors are to be believed?"

Vuron sighed. He set his weapon on its rack on the wall – the Ambassador forbid his practice weapons in the house – and sat down in a heap. Weariness from a weeks worth of lack of sleep dragged at him.

Chijqa crouched next to him, using the tip of his own weapon in the dirt to balance. His warm chocolate eyes captured Vulcan black ones.

Klingon openness and demands for truth pushed at Vulcan sensibilities for logic and privacy.

"You know of my planet." Chijqa rolled his eyes. "There are times when a Vulcan must return home, for certain rites of passage." Close enough to the truth, without telling too much. "Without a home, we are..." He sighed.

"Lost?"

The Vulcan lifted a shoulder in a minute shrug. "It will do."

"You are close to a rite, then. This is why you are agitated?"

He nodded.

His battlemaster frowned. "It is not honorable for the council to keep you from your rites. Do they know about it?"

"We are a private people about such," Vuron answered, feeling a bit queasy for saying this much.

The big klingon huffed and stood. "I will speak with Mistress Bel'tath. She can put pressure on the council. Peace talks have waited this long, they can wait a little longer."

"Chijqa, it is not as simple as that."

He cursed elegantly. "Of course it is."

"I am the lowest member of the house," Vuron grumbled. "Lower than the cook. The Ambassador will not agree to leave the planet for my wellbeing."

The battlemaster laughed. "The man in charge of security for a Vulcan Ambassador holds the lowest rank?"

"I am expendable."

A myriad of expressive emotions flickered across the Klingon's face. A burble of a familiar burn crept up in his blood. Whispers of fight, Fight, FIGHT! Echoed through his mind. Fight for life. Fight for something! Don't let yourself simply die!

Vuron covered his face with a hand. It didn't hurt yet. But it would. And soon.

And soon, no amount of meditation, or meditative exercise, would help.

"What is this rite? Can we preform it here?"

YES! Fight!

Vuron uncovered his eyes. Anger and resolve boiled in the battlemaster's eyes.

Anger. The first pon farr held the most difficulty. He had regained much control after nearly killing Sellik...

"Perhaps."

Kill. To kill. I kill. You kill. He kills. We kill. You (pl.) kill. They kill.

"Is there a way to explain this need, that allows for Vulcan privacy?" Chijqa spat the words.

Will kill. Killing. Have killed. Having had been killed.

Will that passion be enough?

"I need to go hunting."

The familiar wide grin split his face. "Hunting? That is all?"

Vuron squirmed inwardly. "Vulcans are vegetarians."

Chijqa laughed heartily. "Say no more, my friend. Begin your preparations. I will speak with Mistress Bel'tath. We have familiar hunting grounds far away you can use. Very private. Go do your meditations. This time tomorrow you can bathe in the blood of a targ in privacy."

Vuron regained his feet and bowed to the man.

He wasn't sure it would work. Not entirely. But a chance was better than none.