10. Vren
Chapter ten
Vren
T he cultural orientation center buzzes with the subtle hum of confusion.
My fellow Zexians shift uncomfortably in their seats designed for human proportions, their attention divided between the human instructor at the front of the room and the screens of their communication devices.
News travels quickly in the digital age, and I am apparently its unwitting subject.
I keep my gaze forward, pretending not to notice the occasional glances cast in my direction. The human woman speaking about Earth's transportation systems continues her presentation, seemingly oblivious to the whispered conversations happening throughout the room.
"The purple warrior who stood against harassment," one Zexian murmurs behind me.
"With a human female by his side," another adds.
The bond in my chest flares with warmth at the thought of Felicity standing beside me, unflinching in the face of human prejudice.
Her courage still amazes me—how readily she positioned herself between danger and a being not of her world.
The memory of her hand in mine sends a pleasant ripple through the bond.
My communication device vibrates against my hip. I discreetly check the screen to find a message from my new caseworker—a name I don't recognize, not Felicity's. My stomach tightens with apprehension.
Mr. Vren, I am Caseworker Lee, your new assigned representative. Please contact my office to schedule an intake appointment.
The words confirm what I have feared since seeing the morning news. The human authorities have separated us. I should have anticipated this—their rules regarding professional boundaries are strict, and Felicity warned me of the potential consequences.
I excuse myself from the orientation session, needing space to process this development.
Outside, Earth's sky stretches above me, a shade of blue still strange to my eyes after years beneath the artificial atmosphere of spaceships.
I find a quiet corner of the courtyard and contact the one person who might understand.
Nex answers immediately, his familiar features appearing on my screen. "Vren. I wondered when you would call."
"You've seen the news, then?"
"All of Zexian housing is talking about little else," he confirms. "The human who defended one of our own, standing as an equal beside him."
"She has been removed as my caseworker," I tell him, the words feeling hollow in my mouth.
Nex's expression softens with understanding. "The human authorities were bound to separate you officially once your connection became public."
"I fear the consequences she faces." The thought of Felicity suffering professional disgrace because of our bond fills me with guilt. "She values her work deeply."
"A difficult position," Nex acknowledges. "Yet the bond itself is blameless—it simply revealed what already existed between you."
I pace the courtyard, unable to remain still with the restless energy coursing through me. "What should I do, Nex? I cannot—will not—bring her further hardship."
"Have you considered the Zhuri'ash ritual?"
The suggestion stops me mid-stride. The Zhuri'ash—an ancient Zexian practice to temporarily suppress a forming bond. It would allow Felicity time to resolve her professional situation without the physical and emotional complications of our connection.
"The ritual is not without risk," I say cautiously. "And the discomfort falls primarily on the initiating partner."
"On you," Nex clarifies unnecessarily.
I consider the implications. The Zhuri'ash would cause me significant physical pain as the bond energy is redirected back upon itself. For weeks, possibly months, I would experience intensified symptoms while Felicity would feel almost nothing—free to return to her life as it was before me.
"It would be my choice to make," I say finally, resolve forming within me. "My gift to her."
Nex studies me through the screen. "You would willingly endure such pain for her?"
"Without hesitation." The certainty in my voice surprises even me. Three months ago, I was traversing the stars seeking a new beginning on Earth. Now I find myself willing to suffer to protect a human woman I've known for mere days.
Yet it does not feel like sacrifice. It feels like purpose.
"I will make arrangements with Elder Kho," Nex says after a moment. "He is skilled in the old ways."
"Thank you, my friend."
After ending the call, I remain in the courtyard, watching humans and aliens move about their daily lives. My thoughts drift to Felicity—where she is now, what she might be feeling. Through our strengthening bond, I sense emotional turmoil, a heaviness that mirrors my own concern.
The rain begins gently, then with increasing intensity. Humans scurry for shelter, but I stay where I am, letting the water soak through my clothing. On my homeworld, water is precious, carefully conserved and recycled. Here, it falls freely from the sky—a gift these humans often take for granted.
I close my eyes, tilting my face upward to feel the rain against my skin. The sensation grounds me as I prepare for what must come next. If I am to offer Felicity the choice of freedom from our bond, I must first see her again, explain what I propose to do.
A sudden shift in the bond's energy makes my eyes snap open.
The hollow ache that has lingered since our separation transforms into a warm, vibrant pulse.
My gaze sweeps the courtyard until I find her—Felicity, standing beneath the shelter of a tree across the square, watching me with an expression I cannot fully decipher.
Even from this distance, I can see she carries a box in her arms, her clothing dampened by the rain.
The sight of her sends a surge of emotion through me so powerful it nearly takes my breath away.
Not just the bond's reaction but something deeper, more fundamental—concern for her welfare, admiration for her courage, desire to ease whatever burden she carries.
I cross the distance between us at a measured pace, restraining the impulse to run to her. Human customs value restraint in public spaces, and I will not add to her difficulties with inappropriate behavior.
"Felicity," I say as I reach her, the name itself a comfort on my tongue.
"Vren." Her voice carries weariness, but her eyes hold steady on mine. "I've been suspended from my position."
The confirmation of my fears brings a wave of regret. "Because of me. Because of us."
"Because of a choice I made," she corrects gently. "To visit you personally. To stand with you against those men."
Her willingness to claim her own agency impresses me. So many would seek to place blame elsewhere, yet she accepts responsibility for her actions with dignity.
"I have received notice of my new caseworker," I tell her, watching her expression carefully.
"Jason Lee," she nods. "He's good. Thorough. Fair-minded."
"But he is not you."
A small smile touches her lips. "No, he's not me."
We stand in silence for a moment, the rain creating a private world around us. Droplets cling to her eyelashes, and I resist the urge to brush them away.
"I know of a way," I begin carefully, "to temporarily suppress the bond between us. A Zexian ritual called Zhuri'ash."
Her eyes widen. "Suppress it? Is that possible?"
"For a time. It would allow you to address your professional situation without the... complications of our connection."
"What does this ritual involve?" Her question is practical, focused—the caseworker in her seeking information.
I explain the process as simply as I can, watching understanding dawn in her eyes. "The suppression would affect you more than me. You would feel almost nothing of our bond for several months."
"And you?" Her perception cuts to the heart of what I've left unsaid. "What would you feel?"
I hesitate, reluctant to burden her with the full truth. "The process is more challenging for the Zexian partner."
"Challenging how?" she presses.
"Physical discomfort. Nothing I cannot endure." I attempt to sound reassuring, but her frown suggests I've failed.
"You mean pain." Her voice drops to a whisper. "You'd willingly suffer pain to give me space."
I reach for words that will help her understand. "On Zexia, we have a concept called 'kre'vash'—the willing burden. It means to carry a weight that belongs to another, not from obligation but from care. This would be my kre'vash for you."
Something shifts in her expression—a softening, a recognition. The box in her arms seems suddenly too heavy, and I gently take it from her, our fingers brushing in the exchange.
"Let me think about it," she says finally. "This isn't a decision to make lightly."
"Of course," I agree, relieved she hasn't immediately rejected the idea. "Take whatever time you need."
We stand together beneath the tree, neither moving to leave despite the continuing rain. The choice I've offered hangs between us—a temporary release from the bond that draws us together, a chance to reclaim the separate lives we led before fate intervened.
Yet even as I prepare myself for the pain of the Zhuri'ash ritual, a quiet certainty grows within me.
Whatever she decides, whatever path we follow from this moment, my life has been irreversibly changed by knowing her.
The bond may be suppressed, our connection temporarily muted, but my heart has recognized something in her that transcends Zexian biology or human social structures.
And that recognition, I know with absolute certainty, will remain.