[USS Vanguard] RPG: the rumination of trees

  • From: Jayne Deaux <jaynedeaux@xxxxxxxxx>
  • To: ncv80221@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
  • Date: Wed, 27 Jul 2005 01:10:33 -0700 (PDT)

*    Trevor  Elis     *
* Vanguard  Arboretum *
* during "A Drink..." *

He trims the tiny bonsai as a meditation, lost in the
precise and subtle art of culling what should be a
mighty tree into a diminutive version of itself.  Its
tiny purple-tinged leaves sprouted from gnarled grey
branches that seemed to reach ever upward despite
their twisted form.  Patience.  Restraint.  Humble

The species of the little tree is unpronounceable to a
human tongue.  It is native to Vulcan, having been
cultivated for centuries by the wise and serene people
of that world.

He admires those qualities in them, wishes for them in
himself.  A Vulcan certainly wouldn't have gotten in a
brawl with the captain of his ship; Psi Virus or not,
it was humiliating.

The memory of it causes his cheeks to burn.  He puts
the clippers down and lets out a slow exhale.

It wasn't the fight.  It wasn't about Breckenridge. 
It wasn't even about Desdemona, although he still saw
the two of them together whenever he looked at her,
and couldn't help but wonder what might have happened
if he hadn't stumbled into them.  Still, that wasn't
what troubled him most about all that nasty business.

Santos had become the focus of all of Elis' rage and
frustration.  The single obstacle, so it would seem,
to attaining the peace he sought so desperately.  It
wasn't the man himself; although his character was
certainly questionable--Santos fancied himself a
rogue, and thus modeled himself to be caddish and
brazen.  Rather, it was the image Santos came to
represent in his, Elis' mind.

The smoldering resentment had grown into hatred, and
that hatred he had cultivated and nurtured as if it
were one a precious orchid.  It had blossomed into
rage that night, and it lurked beneath the surface of
his every thought and action since.

Of course the chaos that Desdemona seemed to thrive
upon did nothing to help him attain the quiet of mind
alluded to in the ancient texts he pored over nightly,
which was why he had withdrawn from her.  Well, it
part of the reason at any rate.  It was the heart of
the matter.

He knew, but was not willing to concede, that the
solution to his problem was a simple one.  If he
sought peace within, he would have to make peace
without.  With Des.  With Santos.

With a disconsolate sigh, he takes up the clippers
again and tries to clear  his mind of intrusive
thoughts as he reshapes the tiny tree.

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