Prylar Trem's Last Plea

Posted on Mon May 26th, 2025 @ 5:48pm by Ensign Kivo Dak

705 words; about a 4 minute read

Mission: A Silence of Friends
Location: Deck 5; Ensign Kivo's Quarters

Quarantine birthed a tense silence. Whereas the corridors of deck five were alive with the everyday pace of life, centering on the Mess, now it was a silent tomb. Thick with controlled fear, shut doors bore the Paghs of the isolated. Each soul behind each door weathered this differently. Some relied on discipline. Some relied on training. Some relied on disbelief. And some... some relied on faith. At least, as best as he could.

5-025. That was the room that Ensign Kivo shared. Behind his door, a peaceful melody drifted in the quiet. It swam through the speakers, oscillating to favor different sides of the small room, stimulating all sides of the brain. Seated in the middle of his space, in a modified lotus fold of his lanky legs, was Kivo Dak. The song was Prylar Trem's Last Plea, a hymnal adapted to music. Its history somewhat paralleled the darkness the crew of the Thunderbird found themselves in.

Centuries ago, Prylar Trem and her followers were captured by the Blood Cults of the Kosst Amojan during a pilgrimage to a shrine in southwest Kendra. As the cultists began to burn them at the stake as a sacrifice to their Kosst Amojan masters, Prylar Trem began to sing to steady her people. She pleaded for the cultists to turn from the fires while she encouraged hers to stay true. Today the fire was a virulent spore, and her voice steady in the face of destruction was a potent allegory. Reject the darkness of fear and hopelessness. Feel the love of the Prophets.

The news was still fresh. First officer, dead. Captain and the Chief Medical Officer... there was dueling rumors. Dead or sick, or recovering. That was the chaos of plague- and of war. What was plague, but a war waged in the arena of time and challenging the body's chances to heal.

His arms were up in the Bajoran prayer position. His eyes, closed. The flicker of firelight graced its glow across the high cheekbones and apple-shape of his face. He spoke in soft, low whispers. ""Raka-ja... ut shala morala... ema bo roo kana. Uranak... ralanon Zhaan D'Sai... propeh va nara ehsuk shala-kan, vunek..." It was the Duranja- the Bajoran prayer for the dead. As he spoke, he rubbed the copper earring in his hand, its familiar ridges and flourishes against his sensitive fingertips. He could feel its weight in his palm.

In the absence of weapons for this war, all Kivo could fall back on was his faith- as shaky as that sometimes felt. He and the Prophets didn't talk as often as most would claim to be in a "good standing."

Dak's eyes blinked open. he stared into the flame until he could only see the blot of a gray blur dancing across his vision. She wasn't the first he'd prayed for. She wouldn't be the last either. How many times had he done the Duranja... or been a part of one. The number was alarmingly high for any Bajoran. Dak stopped his remembrance at around thirty, when his concentration was broken.

The thud and chirp of the comm system broke through the sound of his music. "Ensign Dak, report to the Bridge." His brows popped in a thinly veiled annoyance.

"Ensign Kivo..." he corrected under his breath. "Computer, end music." Dak rose to his knees and blew out the flame of the Duranja lamp. He stretched out a long thin arm and seized his uniform jacket. He tapped the commbadge. "Bridge. On my way. Kivo out." The Bajoran finally rose. he found his black undershirt and threaded it over his torso. Then he pulled on his jacket. He pocketed his D'jarra earring as he stepped outside into the ghost town of the corridor. Once he was in the turbolift, he allowed himself a moment of wonder. Why was he head for the Bridge?

The portents didn't sound good. Kivo normally worked in the Shuttlebay and occasionally, one of the off-shifts. "Bridge." He stated. he felt the earring in his pocket but he turned away from it. He turned back into the secular world that made demands of him.

 

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