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He looked beneath his shirt today
There was a wound in his flesh so deep and wide
From the wound a lovely flower grew
From somewhere deep inside
He turned around to face his mother
To show her the wound in his breast that burned like a brand
But the sword that cut him open
Was the sword in his mother's hand
Though the sword was his protection
The wound itself would give him power
The power to remake himself
at the time of his darkest hour
She said the wound would give him courage and pain
The kind of pain that you can't hide
From the wound a lovely flower grew
From somewhere deep inside
Birds on the roof of my mother's house
I've no stones that chase them away
Birds on the roof of my mother's house
Will sit on my roof someday
They fly at the window, they fly at the door
Where does she get the strength to fight them anymore
She counts all her children as a shield against the rain
Lifts her eyes to the sky like a flower to the rain
Every day another miracle
Only death will keep us apart
To sacrifice a life for yours
I'd be the blood of the Lazarus heart
The blood of the Lazarus heart
~~ Sting
~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~
Ma cher Jean-Luc,
I hear more than you say, as usual, petit -- you have left Earth for the stars as you have always wished yet there is a hesitance in your joy. Your papa heard only what he wanted to hear as always; he and Robert are off swearing in the vines and wagging their heads like old men. Your maman hears the catch in your voice as you speak of your week in Paris before you left. A mademoiselle, I think. It would be so like you. Paris is the city of love and you are like all Picards, full of passion and the lust for life lived to the fullest.
You are like the stars you seek so avidly. You burn brightly and soar the heavens, and cast your light through the night -- I shall see the light in your eyes every night in the sky, petit. Your maman misses you more each day. It was different when you were in San Francisco. Only a call or a shuttle away.
I wonder too if there is someone in Paris missing you in quite a different fashion. In a way, I wish I knew who she was -- we could sit together and count the stars and guess which one you are burning circles around. Is she very like me, perhaps? She would be beautiful. You have that eye. You would not settle for exterior alone, however, not my Jean-Luc -- she would bloom from within as a flower. A rose, perhaps? A lily? Or even an orchid, exotic and without earthly attachments. Whoever she was, I am certain you left her with memories she will treasure. I shall hope that you do so for any lover you take. Never treat a woman disrespectfully, ma petit, but handle them as a flower, unique in the universe and as something to be treasured even if but for a short time.
Someday, cher -- someday you will find the madame who will burn as hotly as you do. Someday you will find your equal and she will remove the hesitance from your voice as you speak of Paris. If there is any justice in the universe she will capture you heart and soul and teach you the true depths of the passions with which you toy so casually. Your father learned, but slowly -- you are a much quicker study than he in so many ways. When you find her, you must realize that the sooner you surrender to her instruction in the way to please her, the happier you will be. A well-pleased woman will be more than happy to reciprocate.
Listen to me. You are so young and untried. So much living left to do. Indulge me as always, Jean-Luc, your poor maman misses having your ear to prattle into and your gentle kisses on her cheeks.
Be careful, ma cher. It is a wonderful and vast playground you have selected to grow up in, but it is also dangerous, and your maman does not wish to receive one of those horrid formal letters from your superior.
Until next time, cher, au revoir.
~#~#~#~#~#~#~
Ma cher,
Such a quick response, and such a heated one. Methinks vou protest too much, oui? I did not share your response with your father. He would have been less kind to you than I. He would have also broken this technological wonder out of fury at your disrespect for your maman. Then I would not be able to respond so calmly and refute your claims. Someone must teach you to appreciate the advice of your elders and the benefits of an actual marriage. So forgive me if I take it upon myself to lecture -- you will find that things you have learned from your father and I are as important as anything your precious Academy has taught you.
I am certain starships are wonderful things with many appealing aspects -- there must be something in them to draw you so far from home. But they will never take the place of a good woman, cher, and someday perhaps you will learn that first hand. In preparation for that day, I shall give you lesson one in the art of devotion to your dear madame.
I would like you to imagine you have just had a terrible argument with your madame, and she is standing before you with angry eyes and crossed arms. Perhaps you have forgotten your anniversary and she is hurt. Repeat after me -- I am sorry, cherie. I was wrong. Forgive me. I love you.
You were not able to do it, were you? You cannot imagine having a madame, perhaps. There is no room on a ship for such things. Never mind. It will come to you when the time is right. In the meantime, you may practice by sending these words to your maman. She did not deserve your anger, Jean-Luc. You throw yourself too much into your duty and forget that there are other things in this universe than adventure and mayhem.
Take care of my son, angry one. Tell him to send me a message soon. Au revoir.
~#~#~#~#~#~#~
Oh cher, your pain is maman's pain, too. Thank you for clarifying -- I should have realized that my words would cut too deeply. It proves that even maman does not always realize the impact of her words. That you experienced such a wavering of purpose, such doubt, even after all your hard work and investing your all into your career, speaks eloquently of the depth of the feelings you had for her. Forgive maman's carelessness, petit. You must know that I would never intentionally do anything to hurt mon beau fils. If you were here I would kiss away the pain it caused you.
But you can learn from it, even as I have. Careless words, ma cher, are dangerous things. Yet I know you can forgive Maman for saying them because you understand how very much I do love you, beau petit, and you know that the blow was struck with that love for you -- it was not intended to be a blow. Love can hurt us more than anything else in the universe. Your heart, cher, is sensitive in spite of your male ego. If it hardened past all wounding you would be incapable of good judgment. Your character would suffer. When you lose the ability to love and be loved, when you are invulnerable to love's terrors and pains, you will become but a craven coward, clinging to whatever superficial trappings you have appropriated. You have but to read Dickens to appreciate the full measure of this wisdom. Do not allow yourself to harden, though you know the pain will come.
You spoke the first lesson very well. You will make a good husband when you are tamed. Do not regret overmuch -- you have made the choice already, and it remains for you to make other choices and take other paths now that you are in space. There is a point at which we must abandon regret and live. You are green and wild, and running free is what you have chosen -- so do it well and do it safely as you can for Maman's sake.
Be careful of the wild beast that is the human heart, ma petit. There will be other loves, and each will take a different shape and come to you a different way. Judge carefully how much you wish to give of yourself. Never deceive the cherie of the moment into believing she means more to you than she does, even though it will be easy to speak carelessly because you know it will reap a momentary reward. Sweet words will buy carnal pleasures, but honesty will buy you friends.
So ends lesson two. I must go, your papa will be home soon and I must be his madame, as always. Such are the roles I have chosen -- au revoire, cher Jean-Luc.
~#~#~#~#~#~#~
It has been too long. I realize you have been busy, but maman isn't getting any younger, you know. So I send this into the void and hope you will forgive my not waiting for your reply.
Robert has fought with Jean-Pierre Robideaux over that shameless Margeaux -- she plays with them one against the other, trading jealousies for trinkets and flowers. Such behavior! Your older brother, for all his obvious intelligence, can be such a fool for a pretty face. One flirt of a skirt and his head turns. I suppose that is the danger with you Picards. But I have never doubted your papa's faithfulness, even if he still looks, and I've no doubt you and Robert will prove the same when you have both found a lovely madame of your own.
Your papa reminds me of both of you -- you, Jean-Luc, have his penchant for adventuring, even though his adventures took place on solid ground and were of a more pedestrian nature. In your Academy years, I feared you might be running off to see the world instead of studying, or perhaps simply running off to see the mademoiselles in the city -- I was happy to hear that was wrong. Papa was so like that as a young man. His years at the university were a waste. He did learn something about his trade eventually, and he did meet a coquettish young lady who bore his children, so it was not a complete loss, I suppose.
But there are books and there are books, and not all those you found necessary for the Academy will feed the soul. Learn to appreciate the arts and literature. I tried to teach you when you were young, you know, and though you were passable at piano you never stopped thinking about Starfleet long enough to be better at it.
Lesson three, if you are still paying attention. Seek balance. Do not immerse yourself in duty to the exclusion of the development of your mind and your friendships. Knowledge is power, beauty nourishes the soul, and friends are indispensable.
I can hear the question -- what does that have to do with Madame Jean-Luc Picard? Well, dear heart, it gives you something to discuss with her, concerts to attend, and pretty poetry to quote as you sit looking out at the stars. I believe I have mentioned there is more to life than Starfleet?
Au revoir, ma cher.
~#~#~#~#~#~#~
You ask such questions! You were always good at questions, cher, always coming up with the ones your papa and I could not answer.
The answer is I do not know. You will know when it's right when it is. I cannot help you with that -- it is as individual as each of the snowflakes that fall outside my window. Early winter this year, and the first Christmas we will spend without you. How my heart breaks that I will not hear you and Robert shouting at one another, either in merriment or in anger. Sometimes I believe that it is the same emotion with two labels, where you are concerned.
Robert has been seeing Charlotte Delacroix. Better than Margeaux, but I would prefer Celine -- though she was once your girlfriend, wasn't she? Ah, well. Robert dislikes being second to you so it would not work. She would ask about you. Many of them do, you know. I walk through the village and the questions fly -- 'how is Jean-Luc? Where is he now? Has he sent you Klingon souvenirs?' I would not know what to do with a Klingon anything, I say, and I claim that you are off on top secret missions saving the galaxy. You should see Claire Delacroix's eyes widen then. How jealous she is of me -- her son has decided to become a librarian. Poor cross-eyed boy, cataloging endless isolinear modules in perpetuity, while my bright one is standing proudly in uniform at his post, impressing his commanding officer, no doubt.
I miss you, petit. I sit in my picture window and cry sometimes when Papa is out. I dream of the days when you were small and asking me to read stories to you, and you would lay with your head in my lap with your eyes closed, making up your own adventures. I am proud of you, so proud that it makes me wish I could sing of it loudly and carelessly. But your father would scowl and Robert would chime in with a comment about your disloyalty to our ways -- I know you are not disloyal, but my defense of you remains unheard, whether I say anything or not. It is my destiny to be a swan, mute and sad-eyed -- I have always imagined swans to be sad. For some reason their silence seems to me an expression of some great woe they cannot express. Perhaps because of the swan song cliche -- how sad that is, to sing only once, and while dying.
You mustn't think I'm sad, petit. Not all the time. There is still much to be happy about. My sister's daughter brought over her son -- what a sweet child, though I think she could have waited to have a baby until she was more an adult than she is. He reminded me of you at that age. But all small children do that to me. He made me happy -- he laughed, and hugged me with such abandon, and we blew soap bubbles in the snow. It was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. The flakes sometimes landed on the bubbles, and they sometimes didn't pop. Then we made snow angels and Robert had to help me up. He scolded me thoroughly for it, says I'm too old for such things, but I laughed at him -- you would have understood, cher. You would have helped me up and laughed with me. I do love to hear you laugh. Please laugh for me on your next message, one of your genuine ones, the laugh that would shake the rafters. Even if you have to have a friend tell you an impolite joke -- just don't record the joke. I am a lady, after all.
Please send Papa a message. Let him know how you are, and at least pretend to miss home. He loves you, you know that, he loves you so deeply that words fail him. As passionate as you Picards can be, there must be some disconnected part between the heart and the mouth. He does not have the words to say. You do not have to say them, either. You may rattle off any old thing you have learned, so long as you are talking, and I believe he will get the message. It would help if you asked after the vineyards.
Lesson four, Jean-Luc. Love is something you do. Never permit yourself to believe that it is merely emotion. Love is a thing that takes many guises, but the basic language is the same -- respect and compassion, and always, always remembering. Remember the smiles, the laughter, the touch of a hand, the songs sung on Sunday afternoons, the clasping of arms and the slapping of backs, the touch of lips upon the cheek. Remember your papa's rushing to pick you up when you were small and the softness in his voice before he yelled at you for falling in the picked grapes. Remember to do things for your madame even though you are weary or somehow upset with the world, or even with her.
Someday your madame will thank me for this lesson -- if you remember it.
By the time you respond it will be almost Christmas. I hope you remember to ship presents early. I do not want anything Klingon. If that is too subtle a hint for you, then I shall be forced to be unpleasant in my thank you message, and doubly so because you will have forced me to be unladylike -- you know Papa dislikes that.
Au revoir, mon petit cher -- as always, be careful.
~#~#~#~#~#~#~
Oh, Jean-Luc, some days I wish I had shaped my life differently.
I know you're sitting there with one eyebrow high, that half-disbelieving, half-amused, half-cynical smile on your face -- and yes, I realize I've added up too many halves but it sounds more correct than third-amused, so don't do that silly Vulcan imitation and correct me -- and I know you're going to parrot my oft-repeated words, 'the past is a page turned.' But cher, I have had a week I cannot believe myself.
My previous messages have detailed Robert's romance with Celeste, or as detailed as a mother can allow herself to be without being gauche. I wish I had not welcomed her so unconditionally. I thought she would be the one -- that elusive one, you know, the girl who would one day bear my grandchildren. She wished to see the heirlooms in the cabinet. She loves the swan collection your Grandmama accumulated, and she loved the porcelain maidens that are so old I cannot remember their history. While she reached for the big white swan I keep in the center of the collection she knocked over the porcelain maidens.
Of course I would not hold that against her, but then she cut her finger and screamed. Oh, my poor Maurice! He had one of his headaches and her shrill voice made him bellow like Gerard's prize bull. He *will* keep refusing to keep more than aspirin in the house. It frightened the ridiculous girl and she ran from the house, and Robert argued so with Papa. I thought the windows would rattle out of their panes. Celeste has not come back and that in spite of Robert's better efforts. She is better gone, I think, weak thing that she is -- Robert would have lost his temper eventually and frightened her away, anyway.
When Robert and Papa left the house to check the latest batch of wine, I found the recording you sent me of your laughter, and played it several times. Laughter soothes the soul, Jean-Luc, and yours was exactly what I needed. I shall always treasure it, more so than the lovely shawl you sent for Christmas, though I am wearing that shawl every tea time. I am the envy of the ladies of Labarre, I have a shawl made on a faraway planet that no one had ever been to before.
You mention in your last message that some months ago you underwent a medical procedure and that was why there was a gap in your messages -- Jean-Luc Picard, you should have told me at the time. You should have allowed me to participate in as poor a fashion as this subspace messaging allows in your recovery. I am Yvette Picard, and I did not raise two Picard boys by being too delicate to cope with medical procedures. It has been a while since my last lesson -- here is lesson five, at last. Do not hide yourself away from your loved ones when you are in pain.
Perhaps that was too ladylike for mon beau enfant to understand completely. Maman is *not* pleased with you, Jean-Luc. I shall lodge a complaint with your commanding officer if you do such a thing again. You will respond within the week with details, or I shall have to be even less a lady next message. Rebellious enfant!
~#~#~#~#~#~#~
Ma cher, you are doing much better with the apologies. Madame Jean-Luc Picard will thank me one day for training you so well.
It grieves me that you went through such horrible pain and did not tell me. To lose your heart -- oh, if I could have only been there to be with you!
Robert was horrid. He said that you must have done something foolish as usual, that you needed to be taught a lesson -- I love my sons, but at that moment I wanted to strike one of them. I left the house at once and went for a long walk. Robert tried to accuse me of favoritism, but your papa stopped him -- I think they argued. Papa won. When I got back to the house neither one of them said a word about it again, nor did they speak to me the rest of the afternoon, for which I was grateful. After a while I went to lay my head upon Papa's shoulder and accepted what comfort he would give. He has learned me well, my Maurice. He knows how to handle his madame's discomforts.
Lesson six. When your madame has undergone great trauma and is very upset to the point of tears, say as little as possible and allow her to cry. The depth of her sorrows is only matched by the depth of her love for you. And I know, cher, my beau petit, that your madame will be strong and more than a match for you in this regard.
How I hope you come home soon.
My dear, dear son -- you have a heart still. That the actual organ is missing only means that the heart that matters may now grow beyond those boundaries. Your maman is holding you close now, do you feel her arms? Do you smell the perfume you sent me? I wear it all the time now. I do not brag about it as I do the shawl. Some things are best kept to oneself.
~#~#~#~#~#~#~
Cher, please forgive the wobble in my voice -- I am still not myself. Forgive also the delay in sending this message. I have tried every day for weeks but this is the first time I have been able to --
Forgive the pause. I am still crying too often.
I love you, Jean-Luc. Do not forget that. I will love you always, no matter what you do -- you are my son. I would give anything, anything for you, anything --
My heart would be empty but for you and Robert. You are all I have left now. Please don't think I am angry that you missed the funeral. As long as you come home and be with me for a while, that would be sufficient -- your papa would rather you pay attention to me than grieve for him. He was like that. Always thinking of me.
Excuse my weakness, I am still -- oh, ma petit, it is like being removed from my own soul! I wish that I could have told him, just one more time. Just once more to remember the nights in Paris, the week in Rome, the way Robert cried when he was born, the way you cried -- all the joy we shared, all the love.
Never, never let a day go by that you do not hold your madame close and tell her you love her. Never. When the day dawns that she is taken from you, or you are taken from her, be certain that she knows well the love you have for her. Never let her forget for an instant that she is loved.
I am so afraid, petit. So afraid.
It is an empty house, in an empty world. Robert holds me often while I cry. But my arms long for my little boy, who brought me every wildflower he could find on my birthday when he was eight. I cannot even listen to your laughter -- it pains me now.
All is pain, pain, pain. My heart beats without blood. Empty.
I went out yesterday into the vineyard. I had to face it without him. I am a Picard, I face life standing up and head held high. Things are not going well. The workers have been idle since the funeral, and the birds are getting the grapes -- I was so angry to see them. Maurice would have been so furious that they'd let the birds run riot in the vines. I ran shrieking down the rows throwing stones and sticks and flapping my skirts, sending crows into the air. But they only descended again further away and keep pecking at the grapes.
They are pecking at my heart, too. Oh, cher, I am so desolate. I see birds, birds everywhere, on the fence, in the trees, outside my windows -- I cannot abide their song. We used to lay in bed together and listen to the morning bird song, and your father would whistle along. He was so good at it. I cannot hear a sparrow or linnet without remembering the touch of his hand, or the way he --
And when you were children, you and Robert would hear him whistling and race into the room and leap upon the bed and try to whistle -- I think you failed intentionally sometimes just to sputter and spit and be as wonderfully obnoxious as boys can be. Papa would roar angrily, and send you racing downstairs. Then he would turn to me and grin -- you have his smile, Jean-Luc. Robert does not. Please come smile for me. I need his smile, just one more time, so I can breathe again.
Home, Jean-Luc. Please. For Maman. I need you.
The sky is the color of ash today. The color of my heart.
~@~@~@~@~@~@~
Deanna left the shuttle bay and met Data in the corridor, on his way to meet her. The look on his face forestalled any greeting. "Data, what is it?"
"It is good to have you back, Deanna. We have been worried. You are a day late."
The android turned and walked with her. She rubbed her face, so recently the subject of cosmetic surgery that it still tingled. "My transportation across the zone was late. The mission went well enough, and I can't say anything more than that. I'm very glad to be back on board. It's been a long two weeks."
"The captain will be very happy to see you."
She centered herself and took stock of the emotional currents around her, paying more attention, and stopped walking. "Computer, where is Captain Picard?"
"Captain Picard is in holodeck four."
"He has been there all day," Data said quietly. "He has not responded to hails. We have left him alone. Counselor Davidson said he would give him a day before he attempted to approach, citing a lack of a death wish. I believe he is exaggerating."
"I would have sent a message if I could have," Deanna said. "I should have broken the order and sent a nonsense message -- the sound of my voice would have said all that needed to be said."
"You followed orders. He will understand -- but you should go to him now. I will make certain you are not disturbed."
"Thank you, Data." She hesitated. "How was he?"
"He held up well, until you did not make the original rendezvous, at which point he gave me the bridge and went to the holodeck. We have been holding position since then. He did not sleep well, judging from his increasing irritability, but he functioned within acceptable parameters. He was simply not himself."
"See you tomorrow, Data." Deanna patted his arm and hurried toward the lift.
Holodeck four didn't respond to any of the lock codes she knew, and finally she forced ship's counselor command codes on it, securing the door behind her. She surveyed the vineyard, shivering -- snow. It fell steadily, the vines cloaked in white. Dark emotions swirled somewhere in the holodeck, his emotions, but they were muted and confused -- he was asleep. Dreaming.
She jogged toward the house, leaving footprints in the virgin snow in the garden, and halted on the front lawn. A snow angel -- why would he have made a snow angel? But there it was, in the middle of the blanket of white in front of the house. His footprints were filling with snow, but still visibly led to the front porch. He'd started the snow while in the simulation, obviously. Otherwise there would be tracks elsewhere.
The kitchen table held clues. The box from the captain's safe, open and spilling its contents across the antique wood. Commendations and awards everywhere. His Academy diploma. His photo album. The swan from the curio cabinet in the simulated living room. An empty bottle of Chateau Picard and a glass with a hint of burgundy in the bottom.
She picked up an isolinear chip and read the tiny label: 'letters from Maman.' He'd programmed a reader into the wall nearby that hadn't been there the last time he'd brought her into this simulation. As she climbed the stairs, she realized what was so overwhelmingly absent from this wintertime version of the chateau -- noise. The springtime visits had featured bird song and wind in the leaves, and other sounds. Not even the house noises were present in this one, the occasional creak of a stair he'd added for authenticity.
At last, there he was, in the master bedroom. Sprawled face down across the covers, his uniform jacket draped over a chair nearby. Her boot came down on something -- she picked up a pip, then another. He'd thrown the comm badge on the carpeted floor, too. The window was open and cold breezes drifted in, bringing snowflakes with them. Silently she closed the window and turned back to the man on the bed.
He slept on, obviously exhausted -- his face bore the remnants of despair even in slumber. He looked older than she'd ever seen him. Pressing her fingers to the spot where her swan pendant usually rested beneath her uniform, she realized he still had it, holding it for her while she went deep undercover behind the Neutral Zone. The chain lay on the dark green bedcover under his fingers; he lay with arms open, elbows bent, as if caught in the act of pushing himself up. Her engagement band had been threaded on the chain along with the swan.
Heart caught in her throat, she understood that he'd believed the worst. He hadn't wanted to -- this must have been a distraction on a grand scale, an attempt to stave off the fear and despair. He knew that a day's delay could mean little or nothing. The fear had been that it would be more than a day, and knowing that the longer she was missing the less likely it would be that she lived.
Separation had torn her own chest open as well. Without the heart fire, without his presence, she'd suffered -- but she'd had the distraction of the mission. Every moment she was undercover she had to immerse herself in the persona of her alias. Only when she allowed herself to rest had it become excruciating.
But Jean-Luc -- poor Jean, who couldn't resort to tranquilizers. . . the captain had to be ready for anything at all times this close to the Empire. He looked pale.
She sat slowly and placed her hand on his shoulder. He tensed immediately, as expected. The hand on the necklace moved slightly. Slowly, a smile brought life and color back to his face.
"Dee," he whispered. "Ma belle cygne -- I missed you."
"It went well. You thought I was missing in action, didn't you?"
He propped himself up on his side and pulled her sleeve until she lay down in front of him, facing him. Fastening the necklace around her neck, he returned the ring to its rightful place and kissed her hand. "I almost believed you were. I fought it. Maman and I battled the crows together today. And now we've won, and the color of my heart is you, ma petite -- the color of my heart is you and the touch of your hand makes the sparrows sing."
Whatever he was babbling mattered little -- Deanna cared only for the rising joy and the open arms he offered her. He rolled on his back and cradled her, stroking her hair and whispering endearments in French while she kissed away his tears.
"Alive," he whispered. "I am alive again. I'm sorry, Maman -- I never understood -- I understand what you were trying to tell me now. I understand -- Deanna, I love you. You know I love you? Don't forget that -- please -- "
"I won't forget, Jean. You forget I can always tell -- "
"No. Not when we're apart -- you can't sense me all the time."
"Jean, look at me." She looked him in the eye intently. He was too confused, too caught up in grief and anxiety, and the turmoil added lines to his face. "I'm here. I love you. I will never doubt that, no matter how far apart we are. You show me you love me in everything you do and everything you say. Why are you so afraid?"
The confusion ebbed. Placing a hand alongside her face, he smiled and let his body start to relax. "It's been an eternity without you. Hold me. Let me hear your heart beat. Are you happy, Deanna?"
She smiled and kissed him. "You always make me happy, cher."
"Good. Then I have completed the longest-standing orders I've ever received."
"Are you going to explain this to me someday?"
"I'll introduce you to my Maman after dinner. She will explain it to you best, I think."