He's falling.

I run, with such haste, the most full-tilt speed that my body can carry me...but I can't catch him. I can't help him. I can't save him.

No matter how desperately I try.

Oh, how I try...but it's not enough. And I fail.

He's falling.

"Spock!"

The blond Captain jostles awake, his body soaking with perspiration so cold, sky-tinted eyes wide and darting about, hair dishevelled. He seems to have forgotten the number of times this dream has marred his sleep, stirring him so abruptly. Vividly unnerving, the imagery is forever repeated with each occurrence: a cliff face of dusty brown, rugged, jagged, dry; the sight of his friend, thrust over the precipice; the frantic dash to reach him; a hand extended, yet always so short of grabbing him; the plunging, oh the terrible plunging; the hard impact of a body onto sharpened rock; the formerly crisp azure tunic, rumpled and dusty, marked with slits and tainted with blood; and, oh, the blood, dark emerald, pooling 'neath the mangled form. Not a sound from the friend, no yelp or cry...nought. The horrid, eerie silence, ghostly in the wafting breeze. Unknown to him is the locale of this vision; a planet, yes. Perhaps Earth, perhaps Vulcan, perhaps neither. A detail such as that is of little importance to him. Trivialities of that nature matter not; only the prophecy of a falling friend, and the desperate need to pull him free, are what plague his mind. The urgency, the dread...the demise.

He huddles his weary body among welcoming covers, his mind trailing back to the friend about which the dream revolves. Wondering if he, too, experiences such visions, so unnerving and jolting in their nature. Quite possible, it is, that he encounters similar imagery. Yet, the human also wonders if the woman by the Vulcan's side would be a balm for such perturbations; or, perhaps, the tranquillity of deep meditation. Or, a concoction of both. Now, he contemplates how fortunate the friend is, access to such resources so easily within his grasp, and the idea brings comfort to worrying thoughts.

With that, there come fresh thoughts. Perhaps, some exchanged words with the good doctor may offer some kind of aid; a remedy of sorts. In the morning's arrival, he may just employ such aid. For the moment, however, the haggard eyelids of the blond Captain shut once more, seeking that which continually evades him. Slumber, its arms all encompassing and welcoming...yes, and oh so alluring and tormenting all at once.

True, the mind can be a cruel mechanism at times. Quite cruel, indeed.

Oh, sweet, warm embrace of somnolence, how he longs for thee.

THE END