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Lieutenant Commander Arlo Thornton - Some Enchanted Evening


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Gosh Thornton, you are on a roll recently! Beautiful and a little sad. Haunting, even.

I hope everyone enjoys reading this as much as I did.

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OOC: This is a little something that started life as a writing exercise a couple of weeks ago, but became one my favourite pieces to date. Timeline wise, my sense is that this occurs during our current shoreleave, after arriving in the Tyrellian system. I'm incredibly of this piece and I hope you enjoy and find yourself swept away to a sleepy Iberian village....

 

((Holodeck One, U.S.S. Gorkon))

 

Swept away by the melancholic guitar, bewitched by the achingly beautiful violin in the background  and entranced by the longing, earnest heartbreak of the singer, Arlo Thornton felt swept away by the music. A fusion of the ancient fado style of Earth and more modern Trill disciplines she had been a devotee of the dramatic and passionate style ever since encountering it in a sleepy tavern during her first year at the Academy. That night, the air had been as balmy, the streets as cobbled and the architecture as ancient and as fragile as her surroundings at that moment. Across the chequerboard square and overlooked by white stone walls flecked with blue and orange paint and topped with terracotta roof tiles, the band held a small but rapt audience.


Five men, two guitarists, one violinist, one accordionist and a Trill on an ethereal piano were the living backdrop for a middle aged Bajoran woman. Her darkly blonde hair was pulled back from her face into a tight bun at the nape of her neck and accentuated with a small wreath of lavender. From her ears slid two crystal earrings shaped like teardrops that reflected the orange light of the dusk. Clad in a black dress that reached from bust to the floor, every syllable of the unfamiliar language ached with bittersweet yet sparkling melancholia. Arlo could hear the grief of star crossed lovers forced to part, the faded optimism of a promised reunion that she knew would never happen and the pain that came with that heartbreaking revelation. Every inch of the woman radiated with inconsolable anguish.

 

The sole occupant of her table, Arlo could not take her eyes off of the Bajoran woman. She rested her chin on the back of her fingers, her elbow propping her up from the glass surface of the table. She was it’s sole occupant and so transfixed by the mesmerising display, the carafe of water and her glass of white wine lay undisturbed. A warm zephyr carried a heady scent of smoked meats, grilled seafood and sprinkled pepper and paprika; ruffling the hemline of Arlo’s purple loosely flowing maxi-dress and the ends of her free flowing red hair. The song came to a gentle conclusion, the notes of each instrument fading into the still of the night. The singer bowed her head as if finally accepting that she would never be reunited with whoever it was that had left her life and broken her heart. For a moment, nobody moved and the silence of the evening was deafening.

Then before she knew what she was doing, Arlo was upon her feet, clapping her hands in joyful appreciation. She sniffed and realised that the performance had moved her to tears (not an altogether unusual occurrence). She quickly wiped the tear with one slender finger and resumed her ovation, which was now joined by every person in attendance. The Bajoran looked humbled by the outpouring of applause, heartbreak replaced with meekness and embarrassment. She took a small bow and turned to her accompanists, offering her own réclame. The town square followed suit, people now offering cheers and shouts of gratitude and appreciation. It continued for a minute, maybe more. The band conferred with their singer and Arlo wondered if they were discussing what to sing for the encore.

Into this beautiful evening came an all too familiar three tone mechanical whistle followed by a disembodied voice. Breathing in, Arlo let out a resigned sigh. Not quite annoyed, not quite frustrated. Mildly irritated, maybe. But the life of a Starfleet officer met that her obligation to her duties would always win out, even over the perfect evening of beautiful music.


Qu’ila: =/\= Bridge to Lieutenant Thornton. =/\=


Arlo tilted her head up ever so slightly, looking into the orange and purple hued twilight. Stripping her voice of the exasperation she felt, she replied in a bland and utterly unnoteworthy tone.

Thornton: Go ahead.

Qu’ila: =/\= You have an incoming subspace communication from Cestus III. Shall I route it to your quarters? =/\=

Surprised, Arlo did not answer immediately. For a moment she thought she had misheard for she had not received a call from that distant world in quite some time. When she was certainly that she was not mistaken she realised with a smile what it meant.

 
Fin.
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