Like a Colossus
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Winona/George, Calphurnia/Tiberius, Gen
Series: Belief in Angels
Summary: "Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once." In which George is dead and his mother is left to pick up the pieces.
A/N: The Shakespeare quotes are all in italics. Quoting from "Romeo and Juliet," "Macbeth," "Hamlet," "Julius Caesar," and "Troilus and Cressida." The title comes from a line from "Julius Caesar": "Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world / Like a Colossus"
It's a Sunday morning, and Sam isn't up yet. Thank goddess Sam isn't up yet.
She's digging through the cabinets, trying to find the powdered sugar.
Calphurnia makes them donuts, every Sunday. It's her worship, in a way. Her way of thanking the mother goddess for all she gives them. She likes to think Sam understands this. He has George's blood, and George has always been sensitive to such things.
Or, perhaps, he simply inherited her sweet tooth.
Either way, she's going to have to get Tiberius to stop at the supermarket in Riverside on his way home from taking Sam to church.
Tiberius comes in to get his coffee, which Calphurnia puts on the counter for him in between reaching for the flour and the baking powder. He smiles, kisses her cheek, takes out Calphurnia's tea bags. Water in the kettle, kettle on the stove. It's been the same for almost fifty years. Tiberius has even stopped complaining about their lack of a replicator.
"I'll get Sam up," she says.
"You're a saint, dear."
"For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss," she replies, smiling.
The kettle whistles, and Tiberius pours the water into a mug, over the tea bag, sweet-smelling steam filling the morning air. "Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?"
"Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer." She isn't even thinking about it, doesn't have to, after all these years. Once, when they were seventeen and knew too much, they had to read these words. Now, fifty years later, they understand that no one has to remember everything. Only what is actually important. And this. This has always been important.
Tiberius turns, pinching the tiniest bit of sugar from her bowl to mix into her tea. His eyes sparkle in that way that has her falling in love with him over and over again.
"Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take. Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged."
"I believe you missed a line, Romeo."
Tiberius kisses her temple. "Terribly sorry, Juliet."
The knock at the door is a surprise. Calphurnia nearly spills her tea. Tiberius gives her a look, putting down his coffee cup. "I'll get it."
"No, no, let me."
Calphurnia goes to the door, wiping flour on the thighs of her jeans. She tucks a few stray hairs behind her ears. Smiling, she opens the door. "What can I do for-"
There are two people standing on her porch in full Starfleet dress uniform. Oh goddess. Oh.
Oh.
"Tiberius," she manages, weakly. "Tiberius, darling, turn on the holo."
Her hands clutch at the doorframe, paint peeling off under her fingers. George was going to repaint on his next shore leave. And oh goddess, oh goddess, George.
She feels Tiberius's hands slide around her, holding her up. She sinks into him, turns, grabs at his shirt. She can't cry in front of them. These kids, and the woman has bright blonde hair, and she thinks for a moment it's Winona. It isn't. She knows it isn't. But still, Winona isn't the kind of woman you cry in front of.
"Mr. and Mrs. Kirk," the boy says, his dark eyes sympathetic, in a quiet sort of way. "Captain George Samuel Kirk of the USS Kelvin was killed in action yesterday when his starship was attacked by an unknown assailant. He has received the Starfleet Medal of Valor posthumously."
The pause stretches out, long and tense. The girl who looks like Winona puts her hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Captain Kirk is an inspiration to all of us. Thank you."
They salute, and they hand Tiberius the medal and a Federation flag, and then they're gone.
"If you have tears," he whispers, "prepare to shed them now."
Calphurnia shakes her head against Tiberius's chest. She doesn't have any tears, only dry, dry screams. But she can't let them out. Not now. Not with Sam sleeping in the next room.
"My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, and I must pause till it come back to me."
Tiberius nods, pressing soft kisses to her hair. She can feel the cold medal digging into her back. "The end crowns all; and that old common arbitrator, Time, will one day end it."
"I know, Tiberius. I know."
And she does. Oh, goddess, oh, Mother, but she does. But it was always supposed to be her. George should never have been the first. He was too young. Too young and too perfect and too smart. And she can't understand why the goddess took him from her.
The news is playing on the holo behind them. Calphurnia can hear soft voices, the sounds of the reporters with their oh, so detached, vaguely empathetic voices. She hates them.
"I will," she says with shaking hands, "I'll go wake up Sammy."
For three weeks, they never leave her alone. There are endless lines of Sunday-dressed women with casseroles. So many casseroles.
Sam trails behind her like a little ghost. She calls him her umbrella. It's Latin, she tells him. Little shadow. He clutches the hems of her shirts and follows. He doesn't say much the first three weeks. But then, neither does Calphurnia.
Tiberius stays at the church, mostly. He prays and prays. Calphurnia does, too. Only, she prays in the way the sun rises every morning, even with George gone. She prays in the way she's the only one Sam talks to. She prays in the way she always knows what to tell him, even when she doesn't know what to tell herself.
Her world is shrinking. She doesn't look at the sky for three weeks, only leaves the house when she absolutely has to. For three weeks, they eat casserole.
And then there's the week in San Francisco for the funeral. Winona isn't there. Calphurnia can't help but think that she should be there. She usually manages to make things awkward and uncomfortable-she was never good with people-but she should be here. It doesn't seem right to do this without her, even though she was there. Even though she's stuck on some starbase somewhere. She won't be home for another few weeks.
Calphurnia misses her. She's brash and loud and too much sometimes. But Sam needs his mother and Calphurnia needs a break in the monotony. Winona was always anything but boring.
And then they're home, and Tiberius makes her tea, and she makes him coffee. Neither of them quotes Shakespeare. Tiberius tells her, more often than he should, she thinks, how strong she is. It isn't strength, not really. It's only that she doesn't cry.
They eat the last casserole, and the women stop coming with more. Calphurnia starts to cook again. She doesn't make donuts, mostly because she can't bear to ask Tiberius to get powdered sugar.
Tiberius takes Sam back to church one Sunday. Calphurnia, with lack of anything to do, goes out to the cornfields. She wanders, aimless, barefoot, feeling the earth seeping through her toes, the warmth of her Mother soothing arthritic joints, aching bones. She hadn't realized how much she'd been carrying, until it was gone.
She sinks to her knees, grasps loose earth in her fingers. And she cries, long, drowning sobs. She chokes, gasps, breathes. Breathes deep and cleansing.
"Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks that rent the air, are made, not markt; where violent sorrow seems a modern ecstasy: the dead man's knell is there scarce askt for who; and good men's lives expire before the flowers in their caps, dying or e'er they sicken."
The Bard calms her, as he always has.
"Damn you, George," she whispers into the dirt. "I love you. I love you so much, my beautiful darling one."
She rocks back, sitting on her knees. She dries her eyes, fixes her hair, and stands.
When she reaches the farmhouse, Sam and Tiberius are sitting at the kitchen table. Tiberius drinks his coffee absently, reading his John Donne anthology. "Death Be Not Proud." Of course. She puts a hand on his shoulder.
Sam stares into his cereal. His eyes are dark. So, so dark.
"How is it that the clouds still hang on you?" she asks. He doesn't know much Shakespeare. But she hopes it is enough. For once, she doesn't know what to say to him, what will make everything all right.
When he answers, it's in a whisper, barely audible. "Not so my lord; I am too much i' the sun."
He probably has no idea what it means. But it comforts her, somehow. Maybe he knows that.
Death be not proud, though some have called thee/Mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so,/For, those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,/Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me./From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,/Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,/And soonest our best men with thee do go,/Rest of their bones, and souls delivery./Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,/And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,/And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,/And better then thy stroke; why swell'st thou then;/One short sleep past, we wake eternally,/And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
--John Donne
Pairing: Winona/George, Calphurnia/Tiberius, Gen
Series: Belief in Angels
Summary: "Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once." In which George is dead and his mother is left to pick up the pieces.
A/N: The Shakespeare quotes are all in italics. Quoting from "Romeo and Juliet," "Macbeth," "Hamlet," "Julius Caesar," and "Troilus and Cressida." The title comes from a line from "Julius Caesar": "Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world / Like a Colossus"
It's a Sunday morning, and Sam isn't up yet. Thank goddess Sam isn't up yet.
She's digging through the cabinets, trying to find the powdered sugar.
Calphurnia makes them donuts, every Sunday. It's her worship, in a way. Her way of thanking the mother goddess for all she gives them. She likes to think Sam understands this. He has George's blood, and George has always been sensitive to such things.
Or, perhaps, he simply inherited her sweet tooth.
Either way, she's going to have to get Tiberius to stop at the supermarket in Riverside on his way home from taking Sam to church.
Tiberius comes in to get his coffee, which Calphurnia puts on the counter for him in between reaching for the flour and the baking powder. He smiles, kisses her cheek, takes out Calphurnia's tea bags. Water in the kettle, kettle on the stove. It's been the same for almost fifty years. Tiberius has even stopped complaining about their lack of a replicator.
"I'll get Sam up," she says.
"You're a saint, dear."
"For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss," she replies, smiling.
The kettle whistles, and Tiberius pours the water into a mug, over the tea bag, sweet-smelling steam filling the morning air. "Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?"
"Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer." She isn't even thinking about it, doesn't have to, after all these years. Once, when they were seventeen and knew too much, they had to read these words. Now, fifty years later, they understand that no one has to remember everything. Only what is actually important. And this. This has always been important.
Tiberius turns, pinching the tiniest bit of sugar from her bowl to mix into her tea. His eyes sparkle in that way that has her falling in love with him over and over again.
"Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take. Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged."
"I believe you missed a line, Romeo."
Tiberius kisses her temple. "Terribly sorry, Juliet."
The knock at the door is a surprise. Calphurnia nearly spills her tea. Tiberius gives her a look, putting down his coffee cup. "I'll get it."
"No, no, let me."
Calphurnia goes to the door, wiping flour on the thighs of her jeans. She tucks a few stray hairs behind her ears. Smiling, she opens the door. "What can I do for-"
There are two people standing on her porch in full Starfleet dress uniform. Oh goddess. Oh.
Oh.
"Tiberius," she manages, weakly. "Tiberius, darling, turn on the holo."
Her hands clutch at the doorframe, paint peeling off under her fingers. George was going to repaint on his next shore leave. And oh goddess, oh goddess, George.
She feels Tiberius's hands slide around her, holding her up. She sinks into him, turns, grabs at his shirt. She can't cry in front of them. These kids, and the woman has bright blonde hair, and she thinks for a moment it's Winona. It isn't. She knows it isn't. But still, Winona isn't the kind of woman you cry in front of.
"Mr. and Mrs. Kirk," the boy says, his dark eyes sympathetic, in a quiet sort of way. "Captain George Samuel Kirk of the USS Kelvin was killed in action yesterday when his starship was attacked by an unknown assailant. He has received the Starfleet Medal of Valor posthumously."
The pause stretches out, long and tense. The girl who looks like Winona puts her hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Captain Kirk is an inspiration to all of us. Thank you."
They salute, and they hand Tiberius the medal and a Federation flag, and then they're gone.
"If you have tears," he whispers, "prepare to shed them now."
Calphurnia shakes her head against Tiberius's chest. She doesn't have any tears, only dry, dry screams. But she can't let them out. Not now. Not with Sam sleeping in the next room.
"My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, and I must pause till it come back to me."
Tiberius nods, pressing soft kisses to her hair. She can feel the cold medal digging into her back. "The end crowns all; and that old common arbitrator, Time, will one day end it."
"I know, Tiberius. I know."
And she does. Oh, goddess, oh, Mother, but she does. But it was always supposed to be her. George should never have been the first. He was too young. Too young and too perfect and too smart. And she can't understand why the goddess took him from her.
The news is playing on the holo behind them. Calphurnia can hear soft voices, the sounds of the reporters with their oh, so detached, vaguely empathetic voices. She hates them.
"I will," she says with shaking hands, "I'll go wake up Sammy."
For three weeks, they never leave her alone. There are endless lines of Sunday-dressed women with casseroles. So many casseroles.
Sam trails behind her like a little ghost. She calls him her umbrella. It's Latin, she tells him. Little shadow. He clutches the hems of her shirts and follows. He doesn't say much the first three weeks. But then, neither does Calphurnia.
Tiberius stays at the church, mostly. He prays and prays. Calphurnia does, too. Only, she prays in the way the sun rises every morning, even with George gone. She prays in the way she's the only one Sam talks to. She prays in the way she always knows what to tell him, even when she doesn't know what to tell herself.
Her world is shrinking. She doesn't look at the sky for three weeks, only leaves the house when she absolutely has to. For three weeks, they eat casserole.
And then there's the week in San Francisco for the funeral. Winona isn't there. Calphurnia can't help but think that she should be there. She usually manages to make things awkward and uncomfortable-she was never good with people-but she should be here. It doesn't seem right to do this without her, even though she was there. Even though she's stuck on some starbase somewhere. She won't be home for another few weeks.
Calphurnia misses her. She's brash and loud and too much sometimes. But Sam needs his mother and Calphurnia needs a break in the monotony. Winona was always anything but boring.
And then they're home, and Tiberius makes her tea, and she makes him coffee. Neither of them quotes Shakespeare. Tiberius tells her, more often than he should, she thinks, how strong she is. It isn't strength, not really. It's only that she doesn't cry.
They eat the last casserole, and the women stop coming with more. Calphurnia starts to cook again. She doesn't make donuts, mostly because she can't bear to ask Tiberius to get powdered sugar.
Tiberius takes Sam back to church one Sunday. Calphurnia, with lack of anything to do, goes out to the cornfields. She wanders, aimless, barefoot, feeling the earth seeping through her toes, the warmth of her Mother soothing arthritic joints, aching bones. She hadn't realized how much she'd been carrying, until it was gone.
She sinks to her knees, grasps loose earth in her fingers. And she cries, long, drowning sobs. She chokes, gasps, breathes. Breathes deep and cleansing.
"Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks that rent the air, are made, not markt; where violent sorrow seems a modern ecstasy: the dead man's knell is there scarce askt for who; and good men's lives expire before the flowers in their caps, dying or e'er they sicken."
The Bard calms her, as he always has.
"Damn you, George," she whispers into the dirt. "I love you. I love you so much, my beautiful darling one."
She rocks back, sitting on her knees. She dries her eyes, fixes her hair, and stands.
When she reaches the farmhouse, Sam and Tiberius are sitting at the kitchen table. Tiberius drinks his coffee absently, reading his John Donne anthology. "Death Be Not Proud." Of course. She puts a hand on his shoulder.
Sam stares into his cereal. His eyes are dark. So, so dark.
"How is it that the clouds still hang on you?" she asks. He doesn't know much Shakespeare. But she hopes it is enough. For once, she doesn't know what to say to him, what will make everything all right.
When he answers, it's in a whisper, barely audible. "Not so my lord; I am too much i' the sun."
He probably has no idea what it means. But it comforts her, somehow. Maybe he knows that.
Death be not proud, though some have called thee/Mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so,/For, those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,/Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me./From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,/Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,/And soonest our best men with thee do go,/Rest of their bones, and souls delivery./Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,/And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,/And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,/And better then thy stroke; why swell'st thou then;/One short sleep past, we wake eternally,/And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
--John Donne