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Feb. 17th, 2005 01:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
letterbladeHe discovered that to have a Vulcan's fingertips brush his face was to have fire spark through his skin, smoke cloud his eyes, lightning touch his brain and sear it open, leaving him naked and shivering before pitiless eyes. It burned. The force of it burned, the massive coiled power of the Vulcan mind. The scrutiny burned, the judgement. His skin could flower off in ashes like a nightstalker caught in the sun, banished by the white-hot purity of logic and control. No redemption. No mercy.
The meld spread like flame under his skin, yet he could not move. It had frozen him in place, eyes still wide like a rabbit in a spotlight. The hands framing his face were like steel and far too warm. He was pinned in place as Tuvok slid deeper into his mind, surrendering and helpless, and it was like being taken until he split in two, and he could feel cold sweat on his temples, and if he could have spoken, he would have begged for more.
Inside, he was all cracked doors and roaming shadows, blank walls and blood, and he hadn't even realized how cold it was in there until the meld blew in like the hot wind of Vulcan and burning sand drifted round his feet, because Tuvok, inside, was the high desert and the blinding sun, and there were distant beasts of the savage past that could tear him limb from limb in hatred and revenge. Inside, now, it was Tuvok's ruthless scrutiny, that relentless and aching need to understand, to rationalize, to solve the puzzle; and inside, now, it was Tuvok examining doors and shining lights into corners, and he could feel things changing, rearranging, coming to order, and it hurt like tearing, and was so close to destroying him, and was the most peaceful thing he’d ever felt in his life, pain serene like an open sky.
But then he realized that, even now, buried to the hilt in his mind, Tuvok did not understand him. He eluded logic. He might have laughed. But then those steel hands fell from his face and the flame died in the cold shadows, and he wanted to beg Tuvok never to stop, because he’d been broken open and burned alive, and it was beautiful, and he wanted it more than anything in the universe.
The meld spread like flame under his skin, yet he could not move. It had frozen him in place, eyes still wide like a rabbit in a spotlight. The hands framing his face were like steel and far too warm. He was pinned in place as Tuvok slid deeper into his mind, surrendering and helpless, and it was like being taken until he split in two, and he could feel cold sweat on his temples, and if he could have spoken, he would have begged for more.
Inside, he was all cracked doors and roaming shadows, blank walls and blood, and he hadn't even realized how cold it was in there until the meld blew in like the hot wind of Vulcan and burning sand drifted round his feet, because Tuvok, inside, was the high desert and the blinding sun, and there were distant beasts of the savage past that could tear him limb from limb in hatred and revenge. Inside, now, it was Tuvok's ruthless scrutiny, that relentless and aching need to understand, to rationalize, to solve the puzzle; and inside, now, it was Tuvok examining doors and shining lights into corners, and he could feel things changing, rearranging, coming to order, and it hurt like tearing, and was so close to destroying him, and was the most peaceful thing he’d ever felt in his life, pain serene like an open sky.
But then he realized that, even now, buried to the hilt in his mind, Tuvok did not understand him. He eluded logic. He might have laughed. But then those steel hands fell from his face and the flame died in the cold shadows, and he wanted to beg Tuvok never to stop, because he’d been broken open and burned alive, and it was beautiful, and he wanted it more than anything in the universe.