The universe was vast, endless, terrifyingly beautiful, darkness and light. Millions of those diamonds were seeded across the cosmos. Many were called home by those born of their earth; many could become home, to the voyager who traveled far enough.
And many, Da'an thought, could never be home again.
Years had passed since the destruction of the Taelon homeworld; the once-lovely planet, the jewel of the ebony sky, had now been reduced to ashes at the hands of the Jaridians.
The Mothership, unique in its strength, faithfully harbored the remnants of the unfortunate race.
Sailing away through space, towards one of those diamonds called Earth. And to a hopeful future for their race.
Da'an watched the stars streak past the rounded window for a while, before continuing through the corridors to his destination; he was not looking forward to the coming exchange with his child, but he was all too aware of its necessity.
It did not help that Zo'or had gone to the one place on the Mothership that would make the particular conversation more difficult than it already was.
Da'an wondered what reasons his child would have to willingly submit himself to such pain. So often he had found Zo'or sitting there, sadly staring away, to the point where his sorrow was nearly palpable�
Quietly, Da'an circled around the corridor and stepped through the rounded doorway of the ship's most private and sacred place. The Mothership's womb.
The walls, pulsating to its mother's heartbeat, were dotted with the palely glowing embryonic tubes. Tiny Taelon infants, unnaturally quiet and still, slept in their seemingly eternal stasis.
It was difficult to suppress a sensation of chill, of quiet dread even, as though entering some ancient tomb. Nearly all Taelons had some, if not all of their children here; despite its function to nurture and protect the unborns, the womb still held something of a dark, discomforting atmosphere. It did not feel right to see such young life unable to truly exist.
Da'an closed his eyes, taking a moment to shield himself from the undeniable pain this sight brought to him. Four of his own children slept here, and the pain never became easier to bear. Finally he opened his eyes, scanning the thrumming room.
Zo'or was kneeling next to one of the embryonic tubes, and as Da'an approached his quiescent child, a small pang of sorrow tore through his chest; he recognized the small pod as the one that carried Au'ril, his first child, Zo'or's eldest sibling, if only it had been given the chance to live. He had named all of his children, despite knowing they would probably never awaken to hear their own names.
Zo'or's hands were gently pressed against the organic casing as he watched the tube, a look of unmistakable sadness over his features.
"Zo'or?" Da'an attempted gently.
Zo'or's head rose a bit, as his hand lightly brushed the silvery pod where his sibling lay. "A pity we may never see them again," he said quietly.
Da'an slowly knelt down next to his child. He could barely remember how many times Zo'or had returned to this place, quietly considering the unborn children. Especially with Zo'or's delicate condition, why be reminded of them?
It pained him just as much to see his only living child among the glowing pods. "You should not come here, sha'min," he said, reaching out to gently brush Zo'or's cheek. "You do not need to see this."
The younger Taelon sighed. "I can only fathom the pain of witnessing one's own infant confined to an embryonic tube."
Da'an looked away, his gaze coming to rest on the pod next to Au'ril's, on another crystalline baby destined to know only the slumber of stasis. He did not know the child, but briefly felt a moment of sympathy for its parent.
"It is indeed unbearable," Da'an said softy.
"It is a pain I will never know," Zo'or said.
Da'an winced. Yes, he thought. In the darkest of ways, my child, you are indeed blessed. "You are most fortunate," he said aloud.
"I am hardly so."
The quietness of Zo'or's words was heartbreaking. There was nothing to be said to ease the pain, Da'an knew.
"I am sorry, my child." Indeed, you cannot know�
"No one is to blame for nature's decisions," Zo'or murmured. "If I am condemned to sterility, then so be it."
A warm flush of guilt spread through Da'an's body. He briefly if he had made the wrong decision in coming to Zo'or� but he had to continue. It was time to step from behind the centuries of secrets.
"Zo'or�" he began, his hand falling from his child's face. "There is something you need to know. Something I fear I have been keeping from you."
The younger Taelon looked up, intrigued, waiting for his parent to speak on.
Da'an's hands undulated nervously. He steeled himself to continue.
"Sometimes, choices are made to protect those around us. They are often difficult to make, and difficult to understand." He paused. "We are leaving for Earth now, and know not what dangers await us, what fate may befall us. You should know this, and understand it, before it is too late."
"Please, continue," Zo'or said,
Da'an carefully lifted a hand, and watched as Zo'or did the same. A faint blush illuminated their joined hands as the sharing began.
Zo'or closed his eyes, concentrating on his parent's memories as the steady thrumming of the mothership dissolved from around them�
The scene coalesced into a view of a garden, thrumming with some of the loveliest plant life the Taelon homeworld had to offer. Thoughts of the Mothership and of the womb dissolved as the memories focused on this one instant in time.
Huddled on a carved stone bench, his arms wrapped tightly around himself, Da'an stared out at the garden around him, concentrating on a particularly lovely flower, with deep purple petals and a tiny azure heart� an i'sha'ka, he recalled. As small and fragile as it was beautiful. Like the fragility of so many other small beings he had known.
Da'an forced himself to look away. Even the flower's timeless beauty could no longer distract him. His concentration broken, Da'an moaned as a sudden, sharp pain throbbed through his body. Curling his slender body forward, he pressed his arms tightly against his abdomen and waited for the pain to end.
He had looked upon this moment with dreaded anticipation. A few hours ago, Da'an had entered the birthing cycle-soon, his fifth child would come into the world.
Whether it survived or not was up to fate.
Da'an had given birth to four children, before conceiving this one. Under normal circumstances, the birth of a child was an enjoyable experience. The young Taelon, upon reaching a point of growth where it could exist independently of its parent, began the journey of disconnecting itself both physical and mentally from its parent.
Once conceived, Taelon children immediately formed intricate connections to its parent's body-linking its tiny, growing body to energy pathways, sustaining itself with its parent's core energy until it could form and control its own.
The birthing cycle was relatively simple; the child would slowly separate itself, pathway by pathway, from its parent, glimpsing and tasting the Commonality as it did so, until it broke free of its parent's body, ready to be sustained by itself, and by the essence of the Commonality.
This process of separation could be very long, as it could be very short. It all depended on the child, on its desire to see the life beyond his parent's body, and on its willingness to accept the beckoning of the Commonality.
Usually, the process was relatively painless, when the parent could concentrate on the child's new life, and relax sufficiently to allow it to manipulate his energy pathways as it willed.
But, when the parent's mind was fraught with desperation, and an unconscious refusal to allow the child to separate itself, the birthing cycle could be long, and interminably painful.
Unfortunately for Da'an, he had not experienced a pleasant birth since his first child.
He now sat in a garden, created especially near the medical bay, a large verdant garden filled with the loveliest flowers and plants on the planet. Its purpose was to distract those who had suffered injuries or illness, offering a place of solace and peace. Da'an had hoped to distract himself in these lush surroundings, but it was useless.
He had been sitting there for hours, struggling to relax, to focus, and failing completely. Try as he might, he could not ignore the deep, cold dread that had accompanied the births of his last few children.
Da'an winced, feeling the child as it began to disconnect itself from another energy pathway. After a few seconds, it broke free, sending a pulse of pain throughout Da'an's body. He shuddered and groaned, gripping the edges of the stone bench on which he sat. It took a while for the pain to fade, and when it did, Da'an huddled forward again, vainly attempting to catch his breath.
The painful surges had left him weak and dizzy. For the moment, he felt the child quieting, its small body lapsing into rest for a while. It would not be very long now before its emergence.
It was all too much. Four times, he had know the wonderful anticipation, and horrible agony of birthing a child and having it torn away from him, placed inside a glowing little tomb. Four children he had mourned.
The fifth one was different, he could feel it. The birth was difficult, but he could sense the child was strong, and that it would survive.
But the pain was still there, and it was brought by the thought of bringing an infant into the world and bestowing upon it the same fate.
No one should know this kind of pain. Especially not his own, precious child� the mere thought of one day seeing his child convulsing with birthing pains, or agonizing over the loss of his own children� it was too much to bear. He could not live with himself if he allowed such agony to take place again, to another he so loved.
No, Da'an refused to let his child suffer what he had suffered. He would do anything, anything within his power, to protect his baby from such a cruel fate.
Sinking down into the cool grass, Da'an laid his hands against his abdomen, concentrating. He could feel the infant moving, gaining awareness, anxious to be born, and had to be quick. He only hoped the little one would some day understand the decision his parent had made.
I am sorry, my child�
Focusing what little energy he had left, he focused inward until he reached the depths of his own body, and then his unborn child's. And then, feeling his infant's tiny pathways, still controlled by his own, he concentrated on modifying, altering one of his child's most basic biological functions. He sensed the child's confused reaction, but was aware it would not recall anything once it was born.
Soon, he was done. It was over.
Stifling a small cry, Da'an curled his arms protectively around his abdomen as another surge of pain, by far the worst, shook his slender body; the child would most likely be born within the next hour.
And now, he would be protected. Never to have children of his own, never to risk losing them. Free from pain.
What have I done?
Hours passed, and soon Da'an cradled his newborn, wrapped in a little protective blanket. It lay in a half-slumbering state, moving the tiny fingers of one hand as though testing its new limbs.
It had survived, and it would grow strong. Tired and drained from the birth, Da'an sighed as he lay back on the bed, alone in the medical bay, as the healers had left him alone to rest with his new child.
"Zo'or," he gently whispered. The little Taelon shifted inside the covering, but was still apparently napping. Da'an smiled weakly, bringing up one hand to stroke the infant's little hand.
"I hope you will understand," Da'an murmured. "That I can never allow you to be harmed. I know you will some day understand�"
His voice trailed off and he gathered the sleeping Zo'or closer to his chest�
And violently, the sharing was broken, causing Da'an to sway for a moment before catching himself, and awareness that they were aboard the Mothership and not in the Taelon medical bay returned.
Shocked at the information he had received, Zo'or bolted to his feet, breath raspy, his gaze dropping to the floor and then snapping up to meet Da'an's. Now more than ever, he could no longer bear to see the embryonic tubes around them.
Zo'or could only stare at his parent in disbelieving silence, and it took a while before he could form any words. "You� have cursed me!"
Da'an broke the stare. A mistake. This had been a terrible mistake since the beginning. "Do you not understand?" he pleaded, clutching to some faint hope that he could make his child comprehend still. "I could not let you suffer what I did!"
"It was not your decision to make!" Zo'or said, breathlessly. His hands twitched uncontrollably in his anger. "You had no right to do such a thing!"
Da'an rose to his feet and reached out to place a hand on Zo'or's shoulder, but the younger Taelon jerked away from the touch. "Please, sha'min�"
"Do not call me that," Zo'or hissed, his voice grown bitterly cold. "You will never call me that again."
Da'an closed his eyes again. He felt himself growing weak from desperation. "Zo'or, you must understand� I sought only to protect you."
"Protect me?" Zo'or said incredulously. "Protect me from what? From pain? From loss? If that was your intent, you have sorely failed."
The pain. The same pain all over again. Da'an's eyes darted to the sleeping babies in the pods, remembering how he felt the first time he had lost a child to such a pod. The very same pain. He felt as though he would collapse.
"Zo'or�" he said faintly, having little strength to do otherwise. "You may not understand, but� can you ever forgive me?"
The change had been instant. Zo'or's face settled into a mask of hatred, his eyes bitter and cold as he stared at his parent.
"No," he whispered harshly. "I will never forgive you."
As Zo'or stormed out of the Mothership's womb, Da'an slowly sank to his knees. Weak with heartbreak and guilt, he placed a trembling hand on one of the glowing embryonic tubes, hit with full force with the pain he had tried so hard to avoid.
He had lost another child.