Author's Note: First, let me apologize profusely for the delay in putting up the last couple of chapters of this story. I got hit with a serious medical issue just before the holidays, and it's taken me some time to get back on my feet. I never intended to leave readers hanging. Thanks to the folks who emailed me to inquire about the status of this story; I really appreciate the encouragement. And, thanks, generally, to everyone who has stuck with this very long, very complicated story. I hope it's been worth it. bluedana (April 2010).

Chapter Twenty-two - The Breath Before The Phrase

The turbolift doors opened almost silently. Captain Archer and Commander Tucker stepped out of the lift onto the Bridge. At oh-nine hundred hours, ship's time, the Bridge was quietly efficient, its crew making last-minute preparations for leaving orbit. Darala's departure deadline, sunset over the capital city, lay behind them by several hours. Enterprise had only now retrieved the last of her medical personnel and supplies, their evacuations overseen by an unflappable and unhurried First Officer. Still, Hoshi had already begun to field increasingly insistent messages from the capital, all variations on the same theme: Leave. IMMEDIATELY.

Impeccable in his uniform, the captain took a quick survey of the Bridge, nodding to Travis at the helm. Reed gave a ghost of a smile and said quietly, "Captain on the Bridge." It was a formality only, offered as a relieved "welcome home" and a subtle acknowledgment that the Bridge was, as it always had been, Archer's. Trip felt the ship's equilibrium begin to shift into place in preparation for her captain re-taking the center seat.

Unused to Archer's informal Bridge style, Ensign Stackhouse stood sharply, just as she'd been taught at the Academy. "Sir!" Trip could almost hear her spine snap into a straight line as she greeted her commanding officer.

Archer looked once, askance, at the unfamiliar face manning the Science Station, and Trip leaned forward slightly to remind the captain that T'Pol was still finishing up other duties. "As you were, Ensign," the captain said softly, the tiny, lopsided grin the only outward sign of his amusement. Stackhouse sat back down and returned her rapt attention to the Science monitor. "She always like that?" Archer wondered, sotto voce, and his third in command, who was used to the spit-shiny eagerness of the ensign by now, replied, just as quietly, "Yup." Archer couldn't recall ever having been that by-the-book, and it made him feel old.

Trip began to walk over to the auxiliary station, his usual spot for the rare times he was on the Bridge. "Trip," Archer reminded him with a slightly broader, even more amused smile, gesturing to the empty command chair. "Forgetting something?"

It took tremendous effort for Trip not to let his mouth drop open. Archer never relinquished command of the Bridge to anyone, not even to T'Pol, unless he was incapacitated or heading off-ship. If he was present on the Bridge, he was in command of the Bridge. And Trip knew Phlox had cleared the captain for duty – albeit reluctantly, after Archer had left Sickbay against medical advice – almost four hours ago. He returned Archer's smile with a sickly one of his own, and stepped to the center of the Bridge. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Archer take a seat at the auxiliary station.

The commander forced a note of calm into his voice. "What's our status, Travis? Are we ready to hit the road?"

Ensign Stackhouse glanced back and forth between Commander Tucker and Captain Archer, confusion written on her face in big block letters, but Mayweather calmly turned back around to the helm and said, "We're about fifteen minutes away from leaving orbit, sir."

"We might want to speed things up just a little, Commander," Hoshi said from Communications. "I'm getting some chatter about launching military ships within the next few minutes. They really, really, really want us gone. I've been getting updates from … Shevon Oreevi Liaison. She's 'recommending' that we leave now."

Trip slid gingerly back into the command chair, feeling out of place, as if he were taking an exam under the watchful, assessing eye of some professor he wanted very badly to impress. He resisted the urge to peek over his shoulder at Archer for permission before he issued his next directive. "Report, Malcolm?"

The lieutenant straightened, showing no sign of surprise. "I'm reading six vessels on approach, sir." He paused. "Weapons hot on all of them. Should I go to Tactical Alert?"

Trip shifted in his seat. "No, let's not give them any provocation. They're not trying to fire on us – they know we can take them out without breaking a sweat. They just wanna have the last word, be a little dramatic. Travis, can we at least break orbit within the next five minutes?"

"I think I can do it in two, sir, but it won't be pretty."

"You're a good man, Travis. Take it nice and easy, though. Don't want them to think they've chased us off with our tail between our legs, now do we?"

Mayweather snorted softly as he reset his controls. "That sounded almost Andorian, sir."

The commander laughed, then threw a discreet glance toward Archer, as if too much levity on the Bridge might be a problem. The captain merely sat at aux, seemingly engrossed in monitoring ship functions, looking more like an interested observer than a concerned captain. The man seemed almost too relaxed, and Trip began to get the uneasy feeling that this whole thing involved more than a subtle test of his command skills.

Not for the first time, he wished T'Pol were on the Bridge.

After a moment, Mayweather signaled ready, and Trip ordered him to break orbit. The entire Bridge crew seemed to hold its breath as they smoothly departed The World – if The People were inclined to pick a fight, this would be the perfect time to do it, while Enterprise's maneuverability was severely limited by the effort of breaking away from the planet's gravitational force. Trip counted to thirty in his head, then felt the almost imperceptible change as the starship broke free and sailed gracefully into open space. The Carah Shon ships paced Enterprise, keeping a constant non-agressive distance. He relaxed the fist he hadn't realized he'd clenched, and took a moment to verify Travis' coordinates. For the moment, they were simply on course to leave the system. He had no idea where Starfleet HQ would be sending them next. He looked around to the aux station, in case the captain wanted to share any details about their next mission, but the seat was empty now. Reed indicated the Ready Room door with his chin. Archer had left the Bridge without saying a word.

That was when Trip began to worry.

Porthos followed the steady pattern of the water polo ball with his eyes as it bounced in perfect cadence against the bulkhead and floor before landing securely in Archer's spread palm. The brief pauses between each bounce-thud-smack were greeted with raised ears, at least as raised as any beagle ears could manage, in hopeful anticipation that more morsels of food might find their way from the plate sitting on the bed to the small space between the beagle's paws. When inclined, Porthos' master had very good aim.

The dog sighed heavily, a broad hint, and the cadence faltered. "Ready for more, boy?" Archer asked rhetorically, as if it were possible for the dog to refuse a piece of well-cooked protein. He broke off another piece of medium-rare Salisbury steak and tossed it in a lazy arc toward Porthos' waiting mouth. The meat never even got close to the deck. Two more chunks followed in quick succession. "I don't suppose you're at all interested in this healthy green salad, are you?" The beagle swallowed the meat and rested his head down on his right paw. "Hmm. Didn't think so." Archer lazily stabbed a few pieces of deep green hydroponically grown lettuce and beefsteak tomato with his fork, dipped it into the oil and vinegar dressing, and considered it. After a moment, he spread the rest of the food randomly across the plate and put the fork down. Chef might be fooled into thinking some of it had been eaten if he didn't look too closely.

At least Phlox would appreciate the fact that Archer had chosen a cheese-less meal to feed to his dog.

As he pushed the dinner tray to the foot of the bed, the door chime rang. A little past oh-nine-hundred. Enough time for Trip to get off duty, confer with T'Pol over dinner, and head to the captain's quarters.

"Come," Archer called, pulling himself up to a sitting position on the bed. As expected, Trip stepped into the room, followed closely by Commander T'Pol. Archer palmed the water polo ball for a second, then dropped it onto the floor. "Evening, Commanders," he said pleasantly.

"Cap'n," Trip replied, already looking wary, while T'Pol simply wore her I-am-open-for-business face. Archer watched as Trip surveyed the room, taking in the half-empty plate of food and the hard-bound novel lying facedown on the bed. "Sorry to disturb you so late. Had a couple fires to put out in Engineering. Figuratively speaking," he added awkwardly.

Archer swung his legs around and rose to a sitting position. "Not a problem. I was just finishing up dinner."

Trip raised an eyebrow - a mannerism he had obviously gotten from T'Pol. "Yeah. How'd Porthos like that steak?" he asked.

Archer's pleasant smile dropped away as his glance dropped guiltily to the dinner tray. He should have known that Trip would figure him out sooner rather than later. Gesturing to the one chair in the room, wedged under his computer desk, he invited T'Pol to sit. Trip stayed standing, leaning against the wall next to the door with his arms crossed. "I've already transmitted the mission log to Starfleet Command. I don't want them to be taken by surprise if The People decided to contact the Romulans on the back of this disaster."

"You really think Darala would get back in league with the Romulans?" Trip wanted to know. "I mean, we didn't part on the greatest terms, but Jin Sava seemed to get it pretty well."

Archer looked at T'Pol, who responded, "Darala has shown that she will do whatever seems in her best interest at any given moment. However, she may defer to Jin Sava while she deals with the aftermath of the pandemic."

"Speaking of that, T'Pol," Archer said, "I heard through the grapevine that the Vulcan Science Directorate might be interested in publishing a paper on your research and experiments, if you and Phlox have any interest in writing one. That would be quite a feather in your cap, I'm sure - that's a figure of speech - and, yes, I know it's not logical, because you were both simply doing your job," he went on as she opened her mouth, "but what you did was pretty damned amazing and you should be recognized for it." He grinned at her briefly, both because he was pleased that she and Phlox would get some benefit out of this whole ordeal, and because she was looking as close to nonplussed as he had ever seen her. He turned to Trip. "And I've put you in for a commendation for your handling of this whole situation, rescuing me and - even if Darala won't admit it - avoiding a global coup d'etat."

Trip shrugged, both honored and embarrassed. "That's not necessary, Cap'n," he muttered.

Archer glanced from Trip to T'Pol and back, amused. "Sometimes I think the two of you have begun to share a brain."

The two commanders studiously avoided each other's eyes. You two couldn't be more obvious, Archer thought to himself, if you put up a fifty-foot billboard.

He picked up the padd resting on his pillow and ran his index finger along the edge of it, silent for a moment. This was harder than he'd expected, much more difficult than a captain issuing orders to his staff. These were his friends, and he was about to disappoint them. "Commanders, I asked you to come here for a reason. You two ought to be the first to know that I've put in a request to Starfleet Command for a leave of absence," he said simply.

"What? Why?" Trip asked, looking rather stunned, while T'Pol inquired, "For how long?"

He decided to take the easier, more practical question first. "I haven't decided. It'd take me a while to get back to Earth, and I was thinking I'd stay for maybe three, four months. I ... need a break, and," he paused, looking for the right words, "and frankly, I think I need some time to get my head together."

"Cap'n..." Trip's objection, whatever it might have been, trailed away. "I don't understand," he said finally.

Archer resisted the urge to pace the tiny, crowded quarters. With three people and a dog in the room, there was barely enough deck space to manage three steps in any direction. Instead, he leaned forward and clasped his hands in the space between his knees. "You've read my mission report, Trip." He flicked a glance at T'Pol, still seated silently across the room. "And T'Pol's addendum." The captain's log had included as many details as he could stomach, formed into a textbook-dry narrative. And although he had not explicitly described everything Lab Tech had done to him, anyone reading T'Pol's more scientific account of the genetic manipulation of the pathogen would easily be able to fill in the gaps. Additionally, T'Pol's report subtly but accurately described the captain's physical and emotional recovery since his return to Enterprise, and, frankly, Archer had had enough respect for her and her work not to edit her comments before sending the report on.

Reading her version of the events, coming face to face with what had happened during their captivity on the planetoid, had put things into clearer focus. He realized he couldn't continue to jump at shadows, to hold his breath waiting for a clawed hand to grasp his shoulder, or a crew member to blink sideways in the middle of a conversation. Every night brought disturbing dreams - when he slept at all; every morning, the haunting music of the Sayn echoed in his ears.

This level of preoccupation in a captain of a starship in deep space could get them all killed.

Trip shot a glare in T'Pol's direction; clearly there was disagreement between them as to just how much Starfleet really needed to know. He could easily imagine that tumultuous conversation: Trip having the captain's back as always, arguing for omissions, shadings, and revisions that would protect the man's privacy and dignity; T'Pol logically maintaining that the details were pertinent to understanding the mission's outcome. From the comprehensiveness of the final report, Trip clearly hadn't won very many of those battles. The Vulcan ignored Trip's accusatory body language, keeping her gaze steadily on Archer. "Captain, this does seem a rather drastic step, even for you." Her bar for his behaviour seemed to be set exceptionally low these days, he noticed. He guessed he couldn't really blame her for that.

Archer raised his chin. "I'll also be escorting Jamey Egawa's body back home." Two sets of blank stares made him thumb the screen of the padd, scrolling down to the relevant passages he had spent several hours studying. "Jamey was a Muslim. Islamic law says that you're supposed to be buried in the ground. As I understand it, if you die at sea, your body should be preserved and taken back to land for burial if at all possible." He shrugged and then dropped his shoulders. The last time he had accompanied a flag-draped casket home, it had held the body of his friend and mentor, Admiral Forrest. "I figure a ship in space and a ship at sea must amount to pretty much the same thing. If we skim the edge of the shipping lanes, there should be enough criss-crossing cargo ships to get me back to Earth."

"Sir," Trip said, "Crewman Egawa's death was not your fault."

"I never said it was," Archer replied in a chilly voice. "This isn't some ill-advised guilt trip over the loss of a crewmember. I've lost crew before. So have you. It's not about that. It's about this ongoing mission -- we're supposed to be out here as ambassadors, drumming up support for a war we all know is coming. I can't ... we're not going to get very far if I'm a paranoid ball of stress, ready to draw down on anyone who looks at me sideways." Now he did launch himself off the bed, pushing past Trip to pour a glass of water.

"Captain," T'Pol began, and her gentle tone betrayed the influence that humans had had on her after all these years, "it is natural for humans to mourn --"

"I don't need a lesson in human psychology from you, T'Pol," Archer interrupted, then added lamely, "or from anyone else. I'm just giving you the heads up, that's all. Look, I practically had to wrestle Phlox to the ground to get released from Sickbay. I would think you'd be all in favor of my taking a short break."

"But escorting Egawa all the way back to Earth, sir?" Trip seemed inclined to press the point. "That seems a little extreme."

"He was a part of my crew, Trip. It's the very least I can do." He picked up his novel and turned a page, rudely signalling the end of the discussion. After a moment of pretending to read, he heard T'Pol rise from her seat, accompanied by a deep sigh from Trip.

Trip spoke to the top of Archer's bowed head. "Just as long as you remember, sir: the rest of the crew needs you, too." As he passed by the foot of the bed, he paused briefly. "This isn't who you are, sir. Don't let this be who you are." The door swished open and shut without a response from Archer.

When the communication came in at two thirty in the morning, Archer was surprised to see Jin Sava's impassive face appear on the monitor. "Darala's continued reign is in some doubt," the politician said without preamble. "Those of extreme opinions are becoming more and more vocal. I am doing all I can to save her from herself."

"Any indication of whether she'll want to continue diplomatic relations with Starfleet?" Archer wanted to know.

Jin Sava paused for an uncomfortable moment. "The One is impulsive, and her natural inclination is to lay the blame for the pandemic at your feet. She is being pressured to cut off all ties with humans. I doubt she has the personal or political strength to resist."

"Why are you telling me this?" Archer was certain that this communication was both surreptitious and unauthorized. Jin Sava might have a great deal of power and influence on The World, but they had all seen, firsthand, the consequences of betraying The One.

"You are still labouring under the mistaken impression that I am a rival for Darala's power. In truth, I have protected her position in more ways than she will ever know - and I do not see the need to explain myself to you further." The Teryat waited while the sting of his words subsided. "This ill-fated plan has pushed The World closer to war than we have been in generations. Not just with humans, but amongst The People, as well. Cutting ourselves off from the rest of the galaxy, even as your Coalition seeks to expand, would be as detrimental to our way of life as the physical removal of The One from the throne. I, and others of a like mind, must find a path between those two catastrophes." Archer nodded, sympathetic at least to the politician's predicament. "And ... there is the matter of the Heirs."

"The ... Heirs?" Archer's mouth went dry.

Jin Sava's eyes regarded the captain knowingly from the video screen. "Yes, the Heirs," he said, his tone loaded. "You should be aware that you, Captain, are the biggest threat to the dynasty. I have tried to assure Her Serenity that your ... involvement ... will not become significant, and I trust that is, in fact, the case."

Archer swallowed. "It is," he said. He had no intention of asserting any claim, however tenuous, on the Royal House.

Jin Sava paused then, as if to make sure he had Archer's full attention. "It would not be a betrayal of my loyalty to Her Serenity to tell you, Captain, that Darala is being advised by some to eliminate any unwanted complications. I do not know how far those around her will go to protect the integrity of the House. I will do whatever I can to counsel her in a different direction," Jin Sava went on, "but there are limits to my influence."

Oh, excellent, Archer thought. Another bounty on my head. "I understand. I appreciate the warning, Teryat." Suddenly the creeping paranoia he'd complained to Trip and T'Pol about didn't seem so off-base. It would not take much effort at all, in the scheme of things, to eliminate the physical evidence of the Heirs' genetic makeup - along with anyone with any knowledge. He wondered if Jin Sava had anyone watching his back.

The Carah Shon face remained unreadable. "Take care, Captain Archer," Jin Sava intoned, more as a solemn admonition than as a pleasantry. And the video communication ended abruptly.

Archer took a deep breath and reached for his personal padd. Trip's words had rolled around inside his head for the rest of the sleepless night, along with Jin Sava's thinly veiled warning. For however long he remained on Enterprise, he had his duties, and they wouldn't get done with him hiding in his quarters. He'd start by returning to command, fully, with his butt in the center seat on that Bridge.

You will be disposed of, Lab Tech's voice hissed from the shadows.

Archer looked around sharply, even as he reminded himself that he was alone. With a steady hand, he reached for the door control. "You're dead, go away," he said out loud, ignoring Porthos' quizzical twitch, and opened the door to the hallway.

His long strides took him to the end of the corridor, where T'Pol waited for the turbo lift. They murmured "good mornings" to each other, then rode to the Bridge in an almost comfortable silence. If T'Pol still thought his proposed sabbatical was a mistake, she was keeping her own counsel for the moment. He could read her well enough to know, though, that she was concerned about him. Even now, she studied him carefully, her analytical mind no doubt assessing his mood, taking his psychological temperature. He wondered what she would say if she knew that the Heirs she and Phlox had worked so hard to save - Heirs who were, however nominally, likely the only offspring he'd ever have - represented a serious threat to his life and well-being.

She'd probably think that high-tailing it back to Earth might be good idea after all. Logical, even.

He stepped onto the brightly lit Bridge and greeted his command crew. T'Pol slid into her seat at Sciences, and immediately began to send the backlog of status reports to his screen. He looked at the list: there were seventeen reports waiting for his review and signature. He clearly had a lot of catching up to do.

Hoshi's voice came as a welcome interruption, just as he was initialing Trip's latest Engineering requisition. "Sir, I have Starfleet Headquarters incoming for you."

Archer rubbed his eyes and bookmarked his page. "Thanks, Hoshi. I'll take it in the Ready Room." He rose from the command chair, shook the stiffness out of his legs, and made his way to his private office, feeling the weight of T'Pol's eyes on his back the whole way.

Hoshi was efficient, so Admiral Gardner was queued up and waiting for him when he clicked on his monitor.

"Hello, Jon."

"Admiral."

"I wanted to let you know personally, Jon, that the Carah Shon L'os have officially declined to join the Coalition. They made it plain that it had nothing to do with you – they don't blame you for what happened in any way. In fact, they took pains to inform us that Enterprise's efforts were instrumental in avoiding even the option of war. They're willing to be allies, but not partners."

And Starfleet bought it, hook, line, and sinker.

"That's good to hear, anyway. They might come around, though, you never know." Archer tried to sound optimistic. The fallout would be left to the diplomats. Let them earn their pay for a change.

"I've read your report, Jon. Wild stuff. Sometimes I envy you out there, having all those adventures, but then – I guess it takes a special breed, doesn't it." Archer suddenly began to remember all of the reasons he detested Gardner. More likely the Admiral's staff had given him a sanitized, easily digestible version of the mission, with no controversial parts to put Starfleet in an awkward diplomatic position. "I've also considered your request. And, I'm sorry, but I just can't approve it." The Admiral showed no reaction as Archer's face fell. "We've been getting a lot of chatter lately indicating that the Romulans have been active on the frontier. We may need Enterprise to join Columbia on patrol and escort duty. We just can't spare the most experienced captain we have out there until we know what's going on. Your request for a leave of absence is denied."

"I see." Archer swallowed his disappointment. It tasted bitter, like ashes.

"If you really think you're going space crazy, I'll see if I can get someone to make the long distance trip. Maybe I can send a ship to rendezvous with Enterprise, drop off a counselor within the next six to eight months." The Admiral's voice dropped to a conspiratorial level. "Just between you and me, Jon, we've got some pretty attractive ones assigned here in San Francisco. Couldn't hurt to send you one who's easy on the eyes, and a bit on the friendly side, right? Anyway, that's the best I can do at the moment."

Archer turned away from the monitor for a moment. "I understand, Admiral," he said. He couldn't bring himself to say it was okay, because it wasn't.

"Well, Starfleet Command will keep you updated on the Romulans' movements. Be careful out there, Jon." Archer nodded briefly but said nothing, and a second later, the transmission ended. He made a fist, but there wasn't anything to punch. Gardner, unfortunately, was several million kilometers away.

T'Pol noticed his unsettled mood when he returned to the Bridge. At change of shift, she followed him into the turbo lift. "Was your conversation with Admiral Gardner productive?"

"Starfleet Command is concerned about the Romulan fleet's movements on the frontier," he non-answered.

"Did the Admiral approve your leave of absence?" she pressed.

Archer gave her a sideways glance. "Why, are you anxious to become Acting Captain?" he teased. She did not smile. He sighed. She wasn't going to be distracted, clearly. "He told me that he needs my 'experience' out here for the time being." And, he apparently thinks I need to get laid, he didn't add.

"I see."

"Yeah, that's what I said."

T'Pol stopped outside her quarters and keyed the door. "Captain, may I visit your quarters tonight at twenty-one hundred hours?"

Archer was so surprised, he took an involuntary step backward. "Uh, yeah, sure," he stuttered. Did this woman get some sort of charge out of rendering him speechless? Without another word, T'Pol left her captain standing in the corridor, alone.

Promptly as always, T'Pol entered the captain's quarters with a minute to spare, carrying a yoga mat and a saucer containing a fat wax candle. She placed both on the floor at the foot of the bed. Archer took one look at them and snorted a laugh. "T'Pol, if I remember correctly, all I ever got out of Vulcan meditation techniques was a migraine. I think I even gave you one, too." Not even the echo of Surak's katra in his head could penetrate the brick wall of his mind. They had given up, by mutual consent and without recriminations, after three disastrous sessions that had left Archer cranky and T'Pol seeking anaprovaline from Phlox.

She raised both of her eyebrows as she lit the flame. "Vulcan meditation requires a mastery of one's emotions, a trait that humans do not possess."

"So you've said on occasion."

"And neither do Vulcan children." That shut him up. "Kneel, please."

Archer lowered himself to the mat, ignoring the creaks of his joints. Since T'Pol would not ordinarily touch him, he arranged his hands to mirror hers.

"You going to teach me nursery rhymes?" Archer asked, holding his hands stiffly in the pose she showed him.

"In a manner of speaking," T'Pol said, her voice hushed. "Vulcan babies cry when they are wet, hungry, or uncomfortable. These are basic needs that must be met, and it is their only way of communicating. They also indicate when they are frustrated, hurt, scared or angry." She adjusted his flagging hands. "Each child must learn to control his or her emotions, to surrender them to logic. It is a process."

Archer matched her whisper. "You're calling me a baby?"

"I am pointing out the similarities between an untrained Vulcan child and a human. Both feel strong emotions; both are able, with instruction and practice, to master them. Breathe."

After a moment, T'Pol commented, "You are very tense."

"I have a lot on my mind." Failed missions, dead crewmen, and, oh, right - a contract Darala may or may not have taken out on my life. The usual.

"This will not work if you don't focus."

He began to rise, irritated already. "Then it's not going to work."

The Vulcan surveyed him with equanimity. "Anxiety is illogical. You must surrender all extraneous thoughts and emotions to the flame." She gestured to the candle.

"You're kidding me, right?" She just gazed at him, impassive. Archer sighed. "Fine." He settled back down and closed his eyes to concentrate.

She began by teaching him the correct pronunciations and meanings of the four basic mantras: focus, calm, balance, harmony. He relaxed his muscles under her direction, then surrendered his mind and will to the sibilant Vulcan phrases she whispered. He didn't understand all of them, yet for the first time in weeks, he felt the rage inside him begin to recede. The haunting strains of the Sayn gradually gave way to the sussurus of ancient words slipping across his mind and spirit like the gently blown hot red sands of the Forge.

Time stopped. As the moved into the next phase, every corner of his being was filled with a growing peace. The sense of personal violation, of outrage, gradually diminished.

Every act becomes a choice. Surrender your anger to the flame.

All lives, however brief, are to be valued and honored as a gift to the universe. Surrender your grief to the flame.

What is is, and what has been cannot be changed. Surrender your regret to the flame.

Fear is caution without logic. Surrender it, now, to the flame.

The aroma of the candle changed subtly, evoking memories of comfort, safety, even joy. What is that? Archer asked in his mind.

A voice, perhaps T'Pol's, perhaps his own, answered: It's what the flame gives back to you. It is peace.

He surrendered himself to it willingly and completely.

When he opened his eyes, Archer was still in the kneeling position, his hands relaxed, resting palms up on his thighs. The fat candle had burned down to a puddle in the ceramic dish and extinguished itself. T'Pol was gone. He stood slowly, using the mattress as leverage, expecting excruciating agony from his back and knees. Instead, he felt invigorated and limber, as if he'd just completed an easy jog. A quick glance at the wall chronometer left him in a state of mild shock. It was oh-five thirty, time for him to prepare to report to the Bridge.

He'd been meditating all night. Well, I'll be damned.

As he showered and dressed, he examined the painful memories of the past several weeks, like a patient probing a newly filled tooth with his tongue. There was no pain. The deep wound inside him felt ... almost fully healed. Maybe he'd ask T'Pol for another candle tonight.

"What is is," he said out loud to nobody, testing, and for once it did not sound like mystical Vulcan mumbo-jumbo. Shaking his head in near-disbelief, he stepped out into the empty, quiet corridor. For the first time in nearly a month, Enterprise actually felt like home, his home, and he wondered what had ever possessed him to think about leaving her.

As he entered the lift, a blonde crewmember caught his eye and smiled shyly. He smiled back paternally, and searched his memory briefly. Sciences, he recalled, by-the-book ... "Ensign Stackhouse, right?"

She beamed, her whole face lighting up instantly. "Yes, sir. G-good morning, sir."

"Heading to the Bridge?"

"Uh, no, sir. I'm just getting off of Gamma shift, sir. Going back to my rack. Uh, Captain." Her fair skin couldn't hide her furious blush.

The lift stopped a few seconds later and she got off at the crew quarters level. "Well, pleasant dreams, Ensign," Archer said, nodding his head in friendly dismissal.

"Thank you, Captain," she replied cheerfully, and the turbo doors slid shut on the peculiar sight of the ensign's eyelids blinking sideways.

The End.