I live in a castle, surrounded by the trappings of war. Towers and turrets. Tapestries depicting historical conflicts. Battle emblems and weapons.
I can hear the trumpets sound from warriors long dead, though five thousand years of Vulcan peace. A warning. A rallying cry. Sometimes they wake me in the night.
Oh, Vulcan is at peace. But there are conflicts ongoing that make me shiver, even in my castle stronghold.
I live in an age where the battlecries from across the Federation ring in my castle as clearly as if those sounding them were close enough to touch. I see the reports of them. I watch my husband struggle with them. Strive to hold them at bay, in an ever numerous Federation. With ever varying beings. With unending sources of conflict.
And he doesn't struggle merely for himself, but for all of Vulcan, and their allied planets and colonies. And many others in the Federation who have put their trust behind his standard. His standards. He has an army behind him, true, but they look to him for leadership.
It's a role that comes to him naturally. My husband is a Vulcan warrior, both by inheritance, and by practice. Even if, in this day and age, he does not fight in the traditional sense.
But every day he sails out to do battle. With words. With debate. With logic. With compromise. Head high. Undaunted in spite of needing to do this over and over again. Sure of his convictions and his duty.
He fights for the rights of all in the Federation, not just for those he represents. Fights for them in a skiff made of paper, without ever drawing a sword but of intellect. Hand fasted by his principles, by logic, by his oaths sworn to peace. But he fights nonetheless. And he fights hard.
It takes its toll. I see him grow weary with it. Grow older. Even grow exasperated and at times, almost despairing. That the same battles must be fought repeatedly. That even in this advanced age, peace is so elusive. That war soaks our Federation like an incendiary, needing only a spark to cause a conflagration that could engulf us all.
We call ourselves gentlebeings in conference. Sometimes, I tell my husband, I believe it is said in the forlorn hope that the characterization will, one day, actually stick.
Others grow jaded, and skeptical. Others lose their tempers and their principles. Become blinded by political demands, or private self interests. But Sarek goes on undaunted. His foot never slipping. His principles never tarnished. Trying to hold others to theirs. To make of the Federation what it claims to be.
Something that doesn't necessarily make him, or Vulcans, always held in high esteem. To only too many, he is a perpetual thorn in their side. But the Federation would not be what it is without him. And I honor him for that.
Though he wears no battle gear but his principles, he is my knight in shining armor.
And I could not love him more.
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