Personal Log | Captain Rochelle Ivanova - "It Never Feels Right"

Posted on Sat Oct 11th, 2014 @ 5:10am by Admiral Rochelle Ivanova

1,029 words; about a 5 minute read

Mission: Are You Touched?

Part of the luxury that came with being a Captain was the fact that things were generally granted when you ordered them. The beauty of the Captain’s suite, however, was that she hadn’t had to order the installation of a soaking tub, the massive vessel had been built with comfort and luxury in mind – a bathtub simply wouldn’t do, but a true garden tub complete with a spacious shelf just begging to be filled with pillar candles and votive holders? That apparently hit the spot and suited perfectly to a Captain. How Landon had ever even desired to spend free time elsewhere was completely beyond her, she did it out of sheer necessity and a building desire to kill the loneliness, guilt and memories that threatened to consume her.

A cup of lavender salts soon dissipated under the running faucet, the water swirling in a combination of pale color and luxurious scent that beckoned her forth. Rochelle denied temptation, reaching across the white marble oasis to fetch a bottle of cream colored liquid. It was a well-rehearsed dance, her chosen aromatherapy goodies sat close enough that her short frame was never in threat of falling into the tub as she reached for them and the candles flickering flames were never close enough to be able to singe her skin or the fluffy cloth of her robe as she set about preparing heaven.


A capful of pearlescent cream later and the sweet smell of vanilla came forth in undulating, steaming bubbles. With a sigh she left her marble perch, her fingers making quick work of the bow and knot of her robe’s sash. It was quickly discarded, draped across the vanity with minimal care and the clip that held the woman’s copper mane in a knot quickly joined it like some sort of trophy proclaiming victory in the name of hot water. Hot water, that is, that was tantamount to being heaven. It’s fingers caressed and embraced the little Captain’s delicate frame, soothing her as she slid beneath the surface and basked in aromatic glory after turning off the tap.


“Computer… Reduce light to fifteen percent.” She breathed and the computer beeped, the room suddenly bathed in nothing but the dancing light of candles. She watched as they played across the vanilla foam, breathing life into each incandescent bubble while the soft sound of a children’s choir replaced that of running water and the splashes made as she settled into the tub. Libera had always been a favorite, their angelic voices long ago lending themselves to Christmas parties and bath times along the course of her entire life. Now more than ever she needed the tranquility and serenity the music would lend her if only she allowed herself the chance to listen.


Rochelle closed her eyes, blocking out the flicker of candle flame, and sank further down into the water and bubbles. She wanted peace. She wanted to be alone to battle with her thoughts and most of all… She wanted to forget. Forgetting, however, wasn’t an option. To forget would be to end a legacy, to give up on preserving the past and deny salvation in the form of forging on with the future. To forget would be to give up… It wasn’t an option. Even with the sound of tiny bubbles popping in her ear as the foam began to collapse, the lilting music strove to reach her and guide her to the clarity that came with relaxation – but when could a Captain ever truly relax? Wasn’t relaxation disallowed by some regulation or another? Certainly it was written between the lines somewhere. She was sure she could find some piece of literature that could be twisted and folded into that perception even though it would take her a bit to find it, and she would… Just not right now when the forbidden felt so delicious.


The water sloshed against the sides of the deep tub as she languidly rolled on her side to observe the candlelight. The glistening wet skin of her bare hip breaching the surface only to be laced with the remainder of bubbles as they slid across her skin in a slow escape back to the water’s hot surface as the cooler air chilled as it dried and chased the suds away. Rochelle’s eyes searched the flames as if their zaftig movements held the answers to her questions. If they did, they weren’t giving them up easily. Flame and candles often represented hope when the darkness of despair closed in, she could practically hear Logan reciting the case studies surround the myths and legends that had incorporated the magical cylinders of wax and wick. But these chose to keep their magic localized to them and them alone. Rochelle smiled wryly at them and set about moving wet curls away from her face and ears, the heaviness of her hair providing more of a source of irritation as it clung to her skin and hung in the water like spiraling tendrils of copper seaweed.


Hope seemed so much like a four letter word now-a-days, but still it beamed brightly on and chose to brand and immortalize itself. It swore, between the calming heat and scent of her bathwater and the ephemeral flickering of the candles, that life could begin again, that there was light at the end of the tunnel where mourning and the pain of grief was concerned. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to let go. Not give up, but… Let go. The question then became not whether she could let go, but rather if she would.


And that was a decision best left tabled for a time when music and candles and water and the scents of lavender and vanilla weren’t all beckoning the stress from every fiber of her tiny little being. A task that she had fought against for long enough and finally, with a sigh, gave in to.

Finally… She allowed herself the reprieve of peace, however momentary it may be.


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Captain Rochelle Ivanova
Commanding Officer
USS VINDICATOR, NCC-78213-E

 

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