An Artist's Eye

The lights in the Captain's quarters were dimmed, save for a small flame in the middle of his living room. A small torch set upon a golden bowl, filled with a fragrant brown mud, atop a golden tripod. The flame flickered gently, casting shadows that danced along the walls.

Standing in front of the tripod were Captain Anzyl Praxas and First Officer Neil O'Reilly, as the Trill Guardian slowly circled them, chanting the ancient Trill words to initiate the Zhian'tara, the Rite of Closure.

"Inora Jakala Praxas," the Guardian spoke loudly, "Zhianshee Boless tanus rem. Gandar Anzyl tor. Anzul Zhian'tara von. Tu praxas zhiantani ress." The Guardian took his position behind and between the two men. "Zhianpor Boless garukoj..." he said softly, placing his hands on both their necks, becoming the living tether between them.

A whisper-soft white and grey light appeared in Anzyl's abdomen, then traveled up his torso into his head, and from there into the Guardian's hands. The light traversed the Guardian's body, down his arms, and into Neil's head.

Neil's head grew heavy and fell forward, losing consciousness. After what felt like an eternity, Neil looked up at Anzyl and smiled a heartfelt, genuine smile.

"Neil?" Anzyl asked, concerned.

Neil's smile turned into a genuine grin. "Oh no, my sweet child. Boless." Neil's voice and posture changed, taking on the characteristics of an old man well into his 90s.

The Guardian nodded with approval. "I have a few questions before we can begin. I need to confirm the memory transference is complete."

Boless, now in Neil's body, stood up as best as his old age would allow. "As you should, my Guardian."

The Guardian turned to Boless. "What is the last thing you remember?"

The old man smiled and replied heartily, "Talking to Milian at her Zhian'tara."

Then the Guardian turned to Anzyl. "Can you tell me the name of the person who was Boless's Field Docent when he was a symbiote initiate?"

Anzyl perked up like he knew the answer, but sudden shock emerged on his face as the answer eluded him. "Um… No! I can't remember!"

Nodding, the Guardian smiled softly. "Perfectly fine, perfectly fine. Boless's memories have been temporarily removed from your mind, Anzyl."

Anzyl held his head slightly. "It's a little disorienting, like a chunk of me has been removed and is missing."

Boless grinned an honest grin. "Not missing, my boy. Sitting right here in front of you," he said, tapping his own head. He then turned to the Guardian. "And the name of my supervisor was Tural."

The Guardian nodded with approval. "Excellent, the memory transfer is complete. Unless either of you have any questions, I will leave you alone for a few hours." He bowed softly and left the Captain's quarters, leaving the two men alone to discuss.

Anzyl wasted no time and began asking question after question as Boless sat down in the chair, moving as though Neil were a 90-year-old man.

"Boless, you were the first Praxas symbiote," Anzyl asked inquisitively. "What was it like being the first to join with a young symbiote?"

Boless/Neil let out a hearty laugh. "Bahaha! My, what a first question to ask, young man!" He sat back and relaxed in the chair. "But being the first host to a young symbiote isn't much," he smiled softly with a touch of nostalgia. "Kind of like a clean new canvas, with a fresh palette of paint. Clean, white, and empty, ready to be filled with a magnificent masterpiece." His hands swung to and fro as if he were painting on a canvas. "Both Praxas and I had no prior experiences to recall, just the experiences we made together."

Anzyl smiled softly. "And you being an artist…" then something dawned on him, "Are you where I got my 'artistic side' from?"

Boless smiled earnestly. "That's the point of a Zhian'tara, young man, to discover these... quirks about yourself."

Anzyl nodded softly, taking in the gravity of the moment.

Boless grinned ear to ear. "These next few days are going to be very eye-opening for you."