Governor Sarek's Grief (The Sorrows of Empire)

Sarek turned off the comm unit on his living room wall and stood in silence. The voice of his aide, Lokor, echoed in his thoughts, but the words still did not feel real; the message they conveyed was too terrible for him to accept. "The shuttle exploded en route to Earth," Lokor had said. "Preliminary sensor sweeps indicate it was an accidental warp-core breach. The crew likely had no warning and no time to attempt a correction or evacuation." Almost as an afterthought, the young man had added, "There were no survivors, Governor." Long rays of fading crimson slashed through the blinds shielding the windows. Outside, another day was dying, the sun a lonely ember sinking into a spreading sea of black.

Inside the home of Sarek, silence reigned. He wandered, mute and alone, through empty rooms. Though he plodded in graceless steps, he felt weightless and insubstantial. No thoughts formed in his mind. Introspection revealed nothing but a gray void. The chambers of his dwelling felt unfamiliar. It was as if he had never lived there, never owned any of those possessions, never known the place at all. Drifting back into the main room, he was drawn to the wide, westward-facing window. He opened its blinds and stared out, past the towers and stalagmite-inspired cliff dwellings of ShiKahr, toward the ragged line of mountaintops on the horizon. Vulcan’s primary star, Nevasa, vanished behind them. A ruby-hued flare pulsed low in the sky … and then it faded away, vanished into darkness. Sarek spun away from the window and flew into a rage, hurling antique vases against the walls, smashing priceless statues on the hard stone floor, battering the comm panel’s screen with his bare fists. With strength fueled by grief and madness, he lifted a stone coffee table and launched it at the picture window. The table shattered but barely blemished the window, which was made of transparent aluminum. Chunks of rock scattered around Sarek’s feet. He fell to his hands and knees, gasping for breath and fighting to hold back hot tears of bitter sorrow. My wife … my love … my Amanda … you’re gone.