Tears for a Lady By Elizabeth K. Frim A light fog touched the top of the quiet harbor, lingering to curl around his soul. He fought back the feeling momentarily, knowing it would conquer inevitably. ‘Then why did you come?’ a voice within questioned scathingly. He sighed, setting one foot on the ancient cobblestones. Grass grew, effused with weed, between their slats. He felt the familiar tingling carrying up through his skin, setting the flesh to prickle. The gates were half-rotted, barely standing. “Ticket booth’, insight led him to believe from his past research of such places. Carefully, he picked his way through the splintered remains of the building: avoiding the shards of glass gleaming on the wooden floor even in the half-light. A cold rage swelled upward, dropped to quiet frustration, and finally settled to a solemn, long-tried bitterness. ‘Why?’ The demand echoed in him hollowly. ‘How could they have left so much abandoned--so much?’ With a silent shake of his head, he continued on: brown eyes carrying memories touched with unrecognized mourning. There was barely a path left from what had probably been a packed dirt road. The water in the harbor lapped off-beat time to his measured tread. Moss grew on the careening pier: algae suffused its lower posts, ending up a mingled scent of growth and putrification. He wrinkled his nose, testing the air for some vague scent of the sea. It came faintly on an aft-wind and with it was carried the distinctive creaking of a mainstay. He shifted directions, walking toward the sound. A scowl darkened his brow beneath the wave of dark brown hair. ‘Was there nothing anyone felt to have let the buildings decay into grotesque images of their stately beauty?’ Gingerly, he touched the corner boards and cursed ever so softly. The curse turned to an agonized gasp as he rounded the leeward side. She lay heeled on her side, yards dipped into the murky waters. Her hull was half-rotted and gaping holes marred her side. The wind moaned gently through the splayed boards of her deck. Utter agony tore at his heart, chilled his blood and anchored his body to the very spot. “Lady,” he whispered hoarsely. “--Bosh Moi--” The fog’s intensity curled its way about his feet, adding to the shaking of his body. It seemed to release him, pushing him forward toward the abomination . Voices drifted out of the mist wreathing her spars. They whispered in the tattered ribbons that once had been rigging. A song caught the soft edge of the quay. His fingers closed gently upon her splintered railing, worn dove gray by years and weather. ‘Shantyman--bring up the Shantyman! The capstan needs winding. Ho--the Shantyman! Raise yer’ voice man--the Captain’s waitin’ to set sail. We’re fer home port me lads…Home port!  --10,000 miles away--- Yo--lend a hand Michael--be quick lad. Heave to…’ They were already scrambling into the rigging to prepare to loose sails on the order. “Wait!” he cried. “Can you use another man?” “Aye mate--Come Aboard. Come Aboard!” His hand tightened on the rail in preparation and the wood cracked with the unexpected force. He swore as a sliver embedded in his palm, jarring the image. He stared, eyes hazed with unshed tears as they were riveted to the splayed boards of the tilted deck. Trembling, he stepped back: fists clenched, nails biting into his flesh. It tore from his throat in a half-curse, half valediction. “You Bastards!!” Without a backward glance, he strode out the way he had come. The fog crawled inward, entwining the past of the ancient seaport. The cabin’s lighting was dimmed to the lowest setting. Sulu didn’t touch it, but moved to stand before the figure sitting abjectly on the edge of the bed. The head did not raise nor did the eyes make any attempt at contact. “Pavel?” “Yes.” The answer was deadpan--devoid of any outward emotion. He waited. A sigh escaped the seated man. “How could they…” the words choked off. “I don’t know,” was Sulu's only response: painstakingly inadequate. “They left her to rot.” “I know.” A hesitant pause followed. “You could have stayed away.” “No. No, I couldn't.” His friend sighed. “You told me once--nothing with that much inherently subdued power, with such regal beauty, and such stalwart glory, could ever pass into obscurity. It hasn’t, nor will it ever. He’s seen to that--And so will you.” Brown eyes, liquid in muted half-despair caught him a silent pleading. ‘And so will I,’ an inner voice echoed. He drew a quiet breath. “There are others, Pavel--there are others: and still sails upon the horizon.” Tears spilled then, unchecked. Sulu sank down beside Chekov, his arm snaking around the other man’s shoulder. ‘Cry,’ he thought quietly. ‘Tears for a Lady. It is the best and only epitaph left to offer her.’