Yehvaru [prologue]

[igrab]

Remembrance can be a sentence
But it comes to you with a second chance in tow
Don't lose it, don't refuse it
You cannot learn a thing you think you know

"Mother," she says, holding tight to the neatly-sewn plush representation of her favorite animal. She is small and slight, and flinches impatiently as her mother carefully unbraids her hair - but only once, and then she remembers herself, and grows still.

"What is it?" her mother asks, in the same smooth, cool tones. She is finished unbraiding, but she lingers for a moment, petting her fingers through the gentle waves in her daughter's hair.

"I would like to request a story."

The mother does not smile, simply quirks an eyebrow, but the effect is quite the same. "Do you have any particular story in mind, mathra?" she asks, leaning to fold down the edge of the blanket at a precise angle. The nickname is a familiar one; intimating that the young girl fluttered from idea to idea, much like the jewel-toned insect from flower to flower.

She climbs into bed, then solemnly pats the spot next to her, offering it without words. Her mother pulls up a chair instead.

"I wish to hear a story of the kei-matya."

"Again? Mira, you always ask about the kei-matya. I am certain that you have other interests; in fact, you feel the need to incessantly inform me about them on a daily basis." That eyebrow is still arched.

"It is logical to find comfort in the familiar," Mira says stubbornly, and her mother cannot very well fault that. She acquiesces gracefully, with a gentle incline of her head, then begins her story.

"In that which bridges the dawn of time to the dawn of tomorrow, the sun rose on this day..."

Outside the room, Mira's father leans against the wall. He has only just returned, and though he wishes it could have been sooner, he knows that his daughter has been well-cared for, and he is satisfied that his work has been completed. He considers walking into the room; but this is his bondmate's time to spend with their daughter, and her story to tell. He will listen, allowing the pleasing tones of her voice to soothe the small strains and stresses of the day.

He has heard this story many times, though the names and circumstances change each time. It is Mira's favorite kind of story, and occasionally he questions this, for it was meant to be yehvaru, a story that contains a lesson within a metaphor, teaching concepts in such a way that children will understand them more easily. The story of the kei-matya, in particular, is, as most Vulcan fables are, directed at the concept of controlling one's emotional reactions. In every story, one basic element repeats - loss of emotional control is what triggers the transformation, and the beast form represents the perceived vulgarity and wildness that such a loss of control embodies. Legends of the kei-matya have been told for centuries, and every child grows up with a that thought, in the back of their head, that it's possible - that they could lose themselves, could turn into this horrific monster, that everyone has this potential.

But, he supposes that Mira's predilection for kei-matya stories do not necessarily indicate aberrant thought processes. They are, after all, some of the most exciting stories, and Mira has a fertile imagination. He is proud of her. She has the very best of both of her parents.

"...And then they came for her. One on every rooftop, all down the street, their sharp claws digging into the clay - they still used clay for roofing material, back then. Sand swirled through the streets, looking for a way in - they laughed, as she leaned against the window and tried to meditate. But the damage was done. The seed of fear had rooted within her, and she could not control it, could not become its master. Fear held her in place when she could have run to the door, barring it shut, barring the kei-matya from her home forever. Fear held her in place when the doors blew open, when she could have turned and fled. Fear drew the beast from her throat, contracted her lungs until she was laughing, laughing right along with them, and the sand blinded her and the wind stripped her bare until there was nothing left of her - at least. Nothing Vulcan."

Even now, though her father had outgrown such stories long ago, he very nearly finds himself shivering. It is, of course, simply the conviction with which his bondmate tells the tale; the social stigma of presenting himself in a controlled manner. He conquers his small fear easily, and in that act, he is calm once more, knowing that he is in control.

"So it has been said, and so we say it now, to be remembered."

He comes into the room, and though it does not, of course, show on their faces, both bondmate and child are pleased to see him. Mira says it out loud, and he gently informs her that such words were unnecessary, though, perhaps, comforting to hear. He touches his hand to her forehead in a goodnight kiss, watches fondly as his wife follows suit, and they extinguish the lights as they exit.

"May your night be dreamless, your slumber undisturbed, and when you wake in the morning, may the sun give your eyes the gift of sight."