Words Like Nature
Word Count: 862
Summary: Back on Earth, with a sadness lingering in her soul, Nyota finds herself returning to the rituals of her childhood.
Words Like Nature
Uhura has not prayed since she was a little girl, side by side with her sisters and brother in their home in Mombasa, but back at the Academy, her feet once more on solid ground, she finds herself outside the little mosque just off Academy grounds. She stands outside the door for a long moment, unsure, wondering if it will really help, wondering if she really wants to, wondering if she even remembers how.
Illogical, rings in her ears for a moment in Spock’s dry voice. And it is illogical, but-she has always turned to the rituals of her mother, her family, her heritage, in times like this. Times like this, she feels more like little Nyota, the youngest of five children, than she feels like Lieutenant Uhura, top ranked in her focus and destined for whichever stars she chooses.
A bismillah springs unbidden to her lips, and she steps through the door into the small courtyard where the fountains burble and sparkle in the afternoon sun. There will never be another afternoon on Vulcan. She almost turns around and walks away as a wave of guilt washes over her-is it selfish to think that she has been preserved for some reason, to give thanks to God for saving her and the man she loves, and not so many of her friends, not so many strangers as worthy, or more worthy than she? Perhaps, and yet-she toes off her sandals, turns towards the East and sinks to her knees in front of a fountain, beginning the ritual ablutions. To her surprise, the movements return to her almost immediately. She washes her hands first, then her mouth and her nose. Slowly she draws each hand up the opposite arm to her elbow. The drops of water evaporate quickly in the warm air. Her face is next, and as the cool water splashes her cheeks, she finds it mingled with hot tears.
She is instantly wracked with sobs, doubled over in front of the burbling fountain, adding her gasping cries to the soft chirping birds and the rustling breeze. For long minutes, she is crying too hard to do anything but try to catch her breath as the air around her seems suddenly too scarce, too thin. She is angry at herself-she does not cry like this, does not let her emotions overwhelm her and drown her in whirling sorrow. She pushes herself up and continues her ablutions, tears dripping down her face, breath still short.
Her hands are rough as they follow her hairline back to the nape of her neck. Anya, her Klingon Phonetics class partner has-had-hair even longer and thicker than Nyota’s. She was on the Farragut. She is gone.
She brushes quickly over her ears, round and unquestionably human. She loves to trace the pointed ridges of Spock’s ears, loves the way he almost blushes, and his cheeks take on the very faintest hint of green, the way he says, “Nyota,” his eyes smiling as he reaches up to cover her fingers with his. She has not seen a smile in Spock’s eyes since their return. Spock’s mother had ears like hers.
She shifts back and reaches down to scrub at her feet. The ground is hard beneath her, a solid, comforting presence in the way that the Enterprise, with its carefully constructed gravitational field and hallways echoing with unexpressed grief wasn’t. Nyota has always longed for the stars, but now she is drawn down to the earth, drawn to the texture of sand between her toes and the sound of birds, the feeling of water on her skin and unfiltered air in her lungs.
They will find out about temporary postings within the month, had been the announcement, and longer term postings within the year as the brass figures out where best to utilize its suddenly limited resources. Nyota is ashamed even to think it, but she is not ready to go back into the black yet. She will be, she knows. But not yet.
Finished with her feet, she begins the second round of ablutions-hands, mouth, nose, arms. Her tears have dried, and this time when she splashes her face it dissipates the tightness of the salt tracks on her cheeks. There was a tightness in her chest too that has loosened, she realizes. Her breaths are full again, and deeper than before. Hair, ears, feet, and back to her hands again. Her movements become more measured as the pounding beat of her heart slows. She lingers over this last round, cupping the water in front of her and looking at the reflection of the sky in her hands.
There is a creeping gladness in her heart, unfurling slowly even as the shadow of her grief still looms large over everything else. She is glad to be alive, even in a universe full of pain and loss that steals the air from her lungs and drags tears from her eyes. Her ablutions come to a close, and Nyota pauses a moment, realizing it is not just her skin that she has cleansed.
Nyota smiles, enters the mosque, and begins to pray.
Summary: Back on Earth, with a sadness lingering in her soul, Nyota finds herself returning to the rituals of her childhood.
Words Like Nature
Uhura has not prayed since she was a little girl, side by side with her sisters and brother in their home in Mombasa, but back at the Academy, her feet once more on solid ground, she finds herself outside the little mosque just off Academy grounds. She stands outside the door for a long moment, unsure, wondering if it will really help, wondering if she really wants to, wondering if she even remembers how.
Illogical, rings in her ears for a moment in Spock’s dry voice. And it is illogical, but-she has always turned to the rituals of her mother, her family, her heritage, in times like this. Times like this, she feels more like little Nyota, the youngest of five children, than she feels like Lieutenant Uhura, top ranked in her focus and destined for whichever stars she chooses.
A bismillah springs unbidden to her lips, and she steps through the door into the small courtyard where the fountains burble and sparkle in the afternoon sun. There will never be another afternoon on Vulcan. She almost turns around and walks away as a wave of guilt washes over her-is it selfish to think that she has been preserved for some reason, to give thanks to God for saving her and the man she loves, and not so many of her friends, not so many strangers as worthy, or more worthy than she? Perhaps, and yet-she toes off her sandals, turns towards the East and sinks to her knees in front of a fountain, beginning the ritual ablutions. To her surprise, the movements return to her almost immediately. She washes her hands first, then her mouth and her nose. Slowly she draws each hand up the opposite arm to her elbow. The drops of water evaporate quickly in the warm air. Her face is next, and as the cool water splashes her cheeks, she finds it mingled with hot tears.
She is instantly wracked with sobs, doubled over in front of the burbling fountain, adding her gasping cries to the soft chirping birds and the rustling breeze. For long minutes, she is crying too hard to do anything but try to catch her breath as the air around her seems suddenly too scarce, too thin. She is angry at herself-she does not cry like this, does not let her emotions overwhelm her and drown her in whirling sorrow. She pushes herself up and continues her ablutions, tears dripping down her face, breath still short.
Her hands are rough as they follow her hairline back to the nape of her neck. Anya, her Klingon Phonetics class partner has-had-hair even longer and thicker than Nyota’s. She was on the Farragut. She is gone.
She brushes quickly over her ears, round and unquestionably human. She loves to trace the pointed ridges of Spock’s ears, loves the way he almost blushes, and his cheeks take on the very faintest hint of green, the way he says, “Nyota,” his eyes smiling as he reaches up to cover her fingers with his. She has not seen a smile in Spock’s eyes since their return. Spock’s mother had ears like hers.
She shifts back and reaches down to scrub at her feet. The ground is hard beneath her, a solid, comforting presence in the way that the Enterprise, with its carefully constructed gravitational field and hallways echoing with unexpressed grief wasn’t. Nyota has always longed for the stars, but now she is drawn down to the earth, drawn to the texture of sand between her toes and the sound of birds, the feeling of water on her skin and unfiltered air in her lungs.
They will find out about temporary postings within the month, had been the announcement, and longer term postings within the year as the brass figures out where best to utilize its suddenly limited resources. Nyota is ashamed even to think it, but she is not ready to go back into the black yet. She will be, she knows. But not yet.
Finished with her feet, she begins the second round of ablutions-hands, mouth, nose, arms. Her tears have dried, and this time when she splashes her face it dissipates the tightness of the salt tracks on her cheeks. There was a tightness in her chest too that has loosened, she realizes. Her breaths are full again, and deeper than before. Hair, ears, feet, and back to her hands again. Her movements become more measured as the pounding beat of her heart slows. She lingers over this last round, cupping the water in front of her and looking at the reflection of the sky in her hands.
There is a creeping gladness in her heart, unfurling slowly even as the shadow of her grief still looms large over everything else. She is glad to be alive, even in a universe full of pain and loss that steals the air from her lungs and drags tears from her eyes. Her ablutions come to a close, and Nyota pauses a moment, realizing it is not just her skin that she has cleansed.
Nyota smiles, enters the mosque, and begins to pray.