Seasons
By Ralkana

Disclaimer – I don’t own them; Paramount does. If I owned them, I’m pretty sure they’d have been much, much happier.

Comments and feedback to Ralkana47@yahoo.com would be greatly appreciated. Thanks!

Author's Note – Four seasonal drabbles, written in response to a challenge in JC1.

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Kathryn sat before the fire, hugging her knees under the warm quilt. The snow swirled by outside the window; the wind howled in concert with her own inner chaos.

Gone, he was gone. They were finally home, and he was gone. She’d waited too long, and he was gone. He’d smiled at her, not noticing the smug half-grin of her almost-daughter on his arm, and his fathomless eyes had reflected… what? Sorrow? Regret? Unformed half-wishes of what might – should – have been?

She’d smiled back, the ice in her heart betrayed by her smile’s warmth.

The wind howled. He was gone.

Her office window overlooked the grounds. She stared at the blossoming flowers and budding trees, each one reflecting hope and new life.

Anything to keep from staring at him, asking why he was here looking fit, tanned, and civilianized. Anything to keep hope and new life from her long dead heart.

“I’m sorry, Kathryn…”

“Kathryn, I… was lonely. I didn’t know what to do. I never loved her. I love you. Always you…”

“I’m sorry. I just wanted you to know. I’ll go.”

“Chakotay, wait!”

Amazing how winter’s bleakness could look so much like death when spring was so nearby.

Sun blazed through the windows; the day was already oppressively hot, though it was early.

The heat and light woke the lovers, woke their bodies and souls. Desire. Love. Need. Bliss. Hands touched, eyes gazed, and lips spilled words of love and want and delight.

Later, rested, they walked through fields painted gold by the summer sun. Despite the heat, she never left his side, smiling up into a face she’d never believed she would see so completely joyous.

Winter had always been Kathryn’s favorite season, but now, she couldn’t remember why. Only in summer could she feel so alive.

Moonlight spilled over a yard made red and gold by drifts of fallen leaves. She stood at the window and stared out; the night was warm, though a brisk breeze spoke of the coming winter.

“Kathryn, come to bed,” he called; his voice, still so rich, trembled with the weight of so many years.

Carefully, she went to him, curling up in arms once strong as oak. She breathed in his woodsy scent, and tears filled her eyes. Soon, too soon, that scent would disappear, drift away like autumn’s last leaf. But until winter came again, she would be happy.