The BLTS Archive- My Love Has Wings by Ragpants (mhkurtz@earthlink.net) --- Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. No profit is made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended. VoyagerTM and her characters are the sole and exclusive property of Paramount. Author's Note: The quotation and title is taken from a line of poetry cited by Gary Lockwood in "Where No Man Has Gone Before," Star Trek's (TOS) second pilot (and the second episode aired). Supposedly this poem is considered the greatest love poem of the modern era (post 20th Century). Feedback is most welcome! May 2000 --- She thought she heard something. A distant susurration. The rhythmic whisper of thin fabric fluttering in the desultory Indiana breeze. Flit. Flit. Flit. She smiled, recognizing the sound. She knew where she was. Home. She was home. She turned onto her left shoulder. And slept. She woke. Another sound. Different from the last one, but no less subtle. She strained to hear above her own rough exhalations. Waiting. The sound of waiting: the small rustle of clothing against furniture; the small restless movements; the small sighs. Slowly, she shifted, bringing the straight-backed chair arranged beside her bed into view. Chakotay? Yes, Kathryn. You're not supposed to be here. I know. But I was never very good about obeying orders. I remember. She slept. More noises. Narrow, sinewy fingers crept up her arm and replaced the med patch under the sleeve of her bedrobe. She unfurled, more comfortable now, with the fresh dose of painkiller insinuated into her veins. She rolled her head to look at the empty chair beside her bed. Was he here? I thought Chakotay was here. Was he? The Andorian med tech stepped silently back and a doe-eyed Betan nurse replaced him at the bedside. Warm hands stroked her forehead, gently pushing the brittle, yellowed hair away from her face. Who was here? Chakotay. Sympathetic hands covered hers. We can send for him. No, I just thought...I just thought he was here. Sighing, she let sleep enfold her. The drag and stutter of a chair being moved woke her. Chakotay sat in the ladderback now turned at right angles to the bed. Kathryn? She nodded, too numbed by drugs and sleep to speak. He took her thin, wasted fingers between his own strong, tanned palms. It's time to say goodbye. She sighed soundlessly, noting with some detached scientist part of her brain that she felt neither joy nor fear nor sorrow. Only a mild sense of relief, of letting go. I know, she whispered. I know. An errant gust of wind belled out the lace curtain behind the chair, momentarily wreathing her visitor in white. My love has wings, she though irrelevantly, wishing she could tell him. I love you, Chakotay. --- At the hospice's nursing station, a tell-tale lit. The Betan nurse, accompanied by an orderly, entered the room. At her signal, the orderly turned off the holographic projection of an Indiana farm. The nurse began to straighten the body, arranging the corpse's hands loosely over her waist and gently removing the medical sensor pads. The orderly stood at the foot of the bed, staring rudely at the fragile shell that had once been Kathryn Janeway. He jutted his chin toward the corpse. "I don't want to die like her." The nurse looked up from her task. "Of non-responsive cytomyoma?" "No. Alone. No one should have to die alone." A faint, knowing smile bent the nurse's lips. "What makes you think she did?" --- The End