Disclaimer: The characters and Universe of Star Trek do not belong to me. I am making no financial gain from this story.

No spoilers. AU.

This is a sequel to 'Seascape', which I have now renamed as Elemental: 1- 'Seascape'.

My thanks to Rusty Armour who inspired me to write this and whose insight has improved it. Any remaining deficiencies lie firmly at my keyboard however.

Elemental: 2 - Firelight

By GallyGee

-------------------------------

Tongues of flame crackled around the ash logs stacked in the grate. Precious apple wood – from a tree brought down in gales a couple of years ago – added a sweet scent to the warmth radiating from the fire. Bright sparks were swept upward on an insubstantial smoke column, to be carried away up the old crooked chimney and outside to the cool autumnal air.

In the deepening evening gloom, the two men sat next to the cheerful blaze, the unsteady firelight their only illumination.

Malcolm gazed deep into the fire. He saw castles and battlements created by that elemental force. White flakes of consumed wood edged their gothic arches - bulwarks against the growing darkness.

He sighed and leaned forward to embrace the heat, his arms resting along his thighs and his hands cradling a glass between them. He didn't want this moment to end - a moment of rare companionship with his father. He sipped at the fine whisky and watched as the fairy battlements collapsed.

The fire was diminishing now, eager flames yielding to glowing embers.

Malcolm couldn't delay any longer. He tasted the Scotch on his tongue, seeking courage. 'Just another moment,' he told himself. 'Then I'll do it.'

But as he waited, gathered himself, his father spoke. "I'll put more logs on."

His father placed his glass beside his armchair - his tattered favorite. He turned heavily to the log basket at the side of the grate, next to the fire irons.

Malcolm watched him. It would be so easy to acquiesce, to spend a little more time enjoying this harmonious accord - soon to be shattered at his hand. He sighed. It was his destiny to play the destructor once more.

So instead, Malcolm said, "Don't bother for my sake. I'll be turning in soon."

His father paused - a raised eyebrow in query - then dropped the log in the basket and slumped back into his chair, picking up his glass again. He took a sip. "What time will you be leaving?"

"Early. Before breakfast."

The older man nodded. "I'll be up to see you off." He stilled the murmur of protest with a single finger. "I've stood many an early watch. It's not a problem."

Malcolm nodded and gazed down again at his glass, now rotating it slowly about. He felt the carved perfection of the crystal. He had to do it. "You were right, you know, about Starfleet." He glanced over to his father who straightened at this statement, unsure of its import.

Malcolm took a gulp of the whisky, then stared down at the dregs. It was more difficult than he had imagined. To say it made it real. He said to his glass, "I've resigned my commission."

Malcolm waited, his eyes roving over the fire-lit pattern in the crystal, following the sweeps and slashes of its fine lines. Once, he would have expected his father to be exultant, but that was earlier, before their newly forged bond. Malcolm looked across at him.

The older man sat rigidly - a graven image. His eyes were still, fixed on his son. Only the last flickers of the dying fire brought life to them. Then he exhaled noisily. His mouth moved but he remained silent.

Eventually he said, "Why?" His face showed hurt bewilderment at his son's capitulation to his former wishes; this unlooked-for surrender now a betrayal of his own recent acceptance. The lowering firelight illuminated his features set in acute disappointment.

Malcolm gave the merest shrug. How could he explain it all? Perhaps he would be able to later, when it was less painful - but now? He answered only, "It was the right thing to do."

His father stared at him, wanting more, but Malcolm found any new words stuck in his throat.

Malcolm glanced away to break the spell and then swigged back the last drops of his whisky. He placed his glass on the side table. "I'm going to bed." He got up and looked down at his father.

His father turned away to gaze into the embers. He sat motionless except for a thumb stroking the glass in his hand. Without averting his eyes from the fire, he said, "Write to us, won't you?"

Malcolm grunted a confirmation, and left his father alone in the snug warmth.

END