Shamrock: Home in County Wicklow

Posted on Fri Feb 27th, 2026 @ 9:37pm by Lieutenant Percival Bálor Ph.D

2,453 words; about a 12 minute read

Mission: Preservation Instinct
Location: Earth

Arriving on Earth with a stolen shuttlecraft was not exactly the smoothest process of visiting home, but it felt good when he stepped on Terran soil once again. It turned out the shuttle that he stole from Freecloud had also been stolen several weeks prior, and was suspected for involvement in a bank heist on Bolarus. Fortunately, when Percy presented his credentials and they confirmed he was in fact a Starfleet Officer on leave and several hours of questioning later, he was released without further issue. That’s the last time I steal a shuttle he thought as he made his way to a public transportation hub. At least for the rest of the year.

The intercontinental transport from the North American continent to Europe was easier than transporting from a starship to a planet or ship to ship. He then boarded a hovertrain that took him home back to his roots in County Wicklow which was rolled of Irish green hills and windswept beneath a cloudy pearl gray sky. The hills folding into one another like the pleats of an old wool cloak. The hovertrain conductor was a quirky man with an accent that Percy placed as likely being one from Yorkshire.

What was The Bálor Estate sat perched high above the coastline with a whitewashed stone exterior, and a dark charcoal slate roof giving it the appearance of something modest, vaguely rustic from afar until one noticed the sweep of glass facing the sea, the subtle security grid woven into the hedgerows, and the understated precision of wealth that did not need to announce itself. The Federation may no longer had need for monetary value or currency, but the estate made it known they were influential.

Percy Bálor stood at the gate for a moment longer than necessary. He rarely came home. In fact, he stopped thinking about this place as home years ago. Nevertheless, his parents resided here, and out of all his siblings, he had gotten the furthest away from the estate.

His father’s voice played through his mind like a broken recording ‘Unexpected visits are inefficient. Emotional. Ill-advised.’ Percy shrugged off his father’s overbearance and pressed the chime. The gate lucked and as soon as he started to walk up the stone pathway to the foyer, the door opened not with any amount of caution but with great force.

“Percival Gral Bálor!” Glathandra’s voice rang out like a velvet-wrapped battle cry, brash and loud, but smothered with love.

His mother filled the doorway. She was Tellarite, short, stoat, broad-shouldered, russet potato colored skinned. She was tusked and magnificent. Her dark auburn curls were bound in several layers of scarves. Paint was smudged on one of her sleeves. She smelled faintly of rosemary and grease.

“You didn’t send us word. It’s been months!” she accused, already pulling him into a crushing embrace that lifted him half an inch off the ground. He was much taller than her, but that woman was far stronger than he ever would be.

Percy squirmed and tried to break loose, just to get some air into his lungs. “I was aiming for surprise,” Percy replied dryly. Trying to remember how to breathe with his mum’s anaconda grip around his body.

“Well, congratulations you achieved the cardiac drama. Nearly gave your dear mum a heart attack seeing you at the gate” she said, releasing him only to grip his shoulders and inspect him. “What’s wrong? You look thin. Have you been going on hunger strike again? And you’ve that brooding look.”

“I always have that look, mum” Percy replied with a sigh.

“Well, yes, but this one has contouring to it” she retorted and continued looking him over. “What’s that” she said spotting ink on his body. “You did not have that tattoo last time you were here young man. I love it, but you could have asked my opinion first.”

Percy smiled. He could have, and because of who his mum was, artistic, bohemian, and a little crazy, she would have had no issue with it. She just liked to have a say… in everything. Then again, Tellarites for you.

From the dining room came the scrape of a chair could be heard. Ah, he’s here too thought Percy of his father. The Captain. Not of a starbase or starship, no, of ‘industry’ and order.

Cathal Bálor entered with the measured gravity of a man accustomed to command. Tall, silver threading his dark hair. His posture was impeccable even in a simple wool sweater, he regarded his son with sharp gray eyes that missed nothing. He was the sort of person that still wore an occasional pocket watch just because.

“Percival,” he said, voice resonant and controlled. “You are not scheduled to be on leave.”

His father had everything so planned out. Always did. He even often knew when Percy had shore leave. “I’m not,” Percy answered. A pause then ensued for assessment.

Cathal’s gray eyes locked onto Percy. “Then this is personal.”

Percy inclined his head once. “Yes, but…I had a lot of time to use” he said. Percy did not go into a deep explanation that he had been given some medical leave nor that he had asked Counselor Rose for it.

Cathal stepped forward and clasped his son’s forearm in greeting. It was firm and deliberate. “You are welcome to come in, son. You always are” added Cathal. He was always so procedural that it was almost theatrical. He had to make sure it was known that he was ‘the man of the house.’

Behind them, steam curled from the dining table. Glathandra beamed with content. “Good thing I made extra,” she declared triumphantly, sweeping Percy inside.

You always make extra thought Percy.

“I always make extra. Your father says it’s inefficient. I say it’s prophetic!” exclaimed his mother.

“It is statistically unnecessary,” Cathal countered, returning to his seat.

“And yet,” she fired back, “the boy has arrived, has he not?”

The dining room was warm with actual candlelight and the scent of a few dozen different herbs. A long wooden table dominated the space, scarred and polished by decades of family meals. There were abstract paintings on the walls. Some were Glathandra’s work, and hung alongside those were old Irish landscapes and a carved Tellarite ceremonial shield.

Percy removed his wool coat and sat at the table.

Soon, before him was a bowl of Tellarite-Irish fusion soup: hearty root vegetables, seaweed from the Wicklow coast, thick barley, and a richly spiced broth that carried a hint of Tellar Prime’s sharper palate. Of course, there were potatoes. Dark soda bread rested beside it, still warm and stick of butter.

Percy had faced disruptor fire with steadier nerves. He had a lot on his mind, and some things that needed to be said years ago.

Glathandra ladled more into his bowl despite its fullness. “Eat. You look like you’ve been subsisting on replicated regret.”

Percy smirked faintly. “Starfleet rations are rarely so poetic, mum”

They began in relative quiet. A clinking of spoons while the windows in the kitchen were open providing a cool breeze with a background noise of the crashing of distant waves against cliffs.

“You just missed Maura,” Glathandra said between bites. “She’s off world consulting on some terraforming project. Fiadh is sending holosculptures again. Tadhg is arguing with someone in Brussels about shipping tariffs. And your youngest brother….”

“is still ‘finding himself’,’” Cathal interjected dryly.

“A tragedy,” Percy murmured sarcastically. Dad never really appreciated spiritual journeys which was ironic for a man of proclaimed faith.

Glathandra waved a dismissive hand. “He’ll return to his senses. It’s a just a little journey.”

Percy ate, letting the warmth settle. This house, for all its polish was alive in a way starships rarely were. Loud, opinionated, and yet excessively loving.

Cathal set down his spoon and studied his son. “You did not come to catalogue your siblings’ exploits,” he said. “What has happened this time?”

Percy met his father’s gaze. The man could read balance sheets, negotiations, and people with equal acuity. There would be no easing into this tempest unnoticed.

“Mum, dad. I’ve come to inform you,” Percy began evenly, “that I intend to be married.”

The silence that followed was not shock but recalibration. It was not something either of them expected to hear anytime soon.

Glathandra blinked not once, but twice. “Married,” she repeated, tasting the word. Then her eyes widened with sudden radiance. “Married?”

“Yes, I believe that is the custom” replied Percy sarcastically.

“To whom?” Cathal asked, tone steady but intent.

“Lieutenant Commander Yivliph Ra-Gruvloveii. He’s an Efrosian, he was the Chief Intelligence Officer for the Ontario, but he’s made Executive Officer a while ago now.”

Glathandra’s hands flew to her ajar mouth. “Oh!” she managed.

Cathal leaned back slightly. He provided more of a response. “A man.”

“According to my research, Yes,” Percy said simply. I definitely did some very thorough research he thought to himself.

Another beat of silence, but this one held more weight.

Tellarites valued forthrightness above comfort. Arguments were almost always affection. Bluntness was trust. Humans from Wicklow valued story and loyalty, tradition braided with stubborn pride. Their marriage was honestly one hell of a match.

Glathandra rose abruptly, circling the table to Percy’s side. “You’re in love. Our son is in love,” she said softly, studying his face as if it were one of her canvases.

Percy hesitated not from shame, but from the unfamiliar vulnerability of naming it. “Yes” was the simplest response that he could muster.

She exhaled, a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob, and pulled him into another embrace, tusks brushing his temple. “My brilliant, dramatic boy, and hopeless boy” she murmured. “Of course you are.”

Cathal remained seated, hands folded before him. “You understand,” his father said carefully, “that such a union will attract scrutiny. Starfleet is progressive, yes, but not everyone is. It remains… layered and complex even for 2397.”

Percy’s jaw tightened. “I am aware, Sir.”

“And you are prepared for that?” countered his father.

“I have been prepared for conflict since childhood,” Percy replied, a flicker of wryness in his eyes. “This at least is a chosen conflict.”

Cathal studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. “Then my concern is not his gender,” he said. “It is of his character.”

Percy almost smiled. I have to defend his character? Him? “You would like him, Sir.”

“Would I?” asked Cathal. “Explain” he added.

“Dad, Yiv is precise. Disciplined. Capable of arguing without emotional flailing.”

Glathandra laughed. “Oh, I already adore him.”

Cathal ignored her. “Does he value you though? Efrosians are not known for… they get around. The fathers do not stay with their children. They often have multiple tristes.”

The question struck deeper than expected. “Yes,” Percy said quietly. “Even when I am… difficult he values me, and we’ve talked about our cultural difference.”

“You, being difficult? That is often,” Glathandra inserted cheerfully.

Percy huffed. It was true though. He was half-Tellarite and Irish. Of course he was difficult.

Cathal’s stern expression softened by degrees almost imperceptible. “Then he will be welcome at this table.”

Glathandra released Percy only to cup his face in both hands. “My sweet boy” she said.

“Tell me everything,” she demanded. “How did you ask? Did you nearly die first? You must always nearly die first. It’s tradition!”


“I haven’t asked yet,” Percy admitted. “Not formally with a ring, but yes, I definitely nearly died first. More than once.”

Both parents froze. “You came here before asking him?” Cathal said.

“I required clarity,” Percy replied defensively. “And a ring.”

Glathandra gasped. “But you have one right? No son of mine is going to propose without a ring.”

Percy reached into his inner pocket and withdrew the small box. He opened it on the table. The jewel caught candlelight, scattering it in prismatic shards across the room.

Glathandra let out an audible, reverent sigh. “It’s…”

Cathal leaned closer, analytical even in admiration. “Gold-pressed latinum. Sensible investment. Very masculine. Definitely for him, not yours.”

Gee thanks, Dad. I really appreciate not being ‘masculine’ thought Percy.

“It’s beautiful,” Glathandra whispered. “Where did you find such a stone?”

“Oh… In a jungle,” Percy said.

“Of course you did” his father replied.

Glathandra straightened, wiping her eyes. “You must bring him here. We need to meet him soon. We’ll cook. Oh stars, I’ll cook for a week. Does his people eat potatoes? Does he prefer sweet things or savory things? I must know.”

“Mum…” Percy interjected. “Both… I think. I mean he likes me” said Percy.

“And we’ll need music. And flowers. Irish ones. And perhaps a Tellarite bonding ritual incorporated? We can argue about guest lists!” he mother continued.

Cathal stood, lifting his glass. “To Percival,” he said formally. “For choosing courage not only in battle, but in devotion to his future husband.”

Percy rose instinctively, lifting his own glass. Husband that had felt nice to hear aloud.

Glathandra raised hers last, grinning fiercely. “To love,” she declared, “in whatever form it stubbornly insists on taking, especially for my boy.”

Together, they drank. Outside, Wicklow’s wind battered the cliffs, indifferent and eternal, but inside was warmth gathered around the table…. bohemian chaos and disciplined strength intertwined as they always had been. Percy looked at his parents. His mother radiant and untamed and his father composed and resolute, and Percy felt something within him settle.

“I wasn’t certain,” he admitted quietly, “how you would respond.”

Glathandra barked a laugh. “Percival, I fought three Tellarite matrons, and some crazy Betazoid woman that was heir to some sort of holy rings in order to marry your father. You think I fear convention?”

Cathal’s mouth twitched despite himself. “You were… persuasive.”

“You’re our son,” she said firmly. “Half stubborn Telarite mixed with an Irish tempest. We want you happy. Preferably alive, but happy first.”

Percy glanced down at the ring again. For once, the weight he had always carried felt lighter.

“I will ask him soon,” he said “formally this time, with this ring.”

“Yes, you will,” Cathal agreed as though it were an order.

“And when he says yes,” Glathandra added confidently, “we’ll argue about the seating arrangements like civilized beings.”

Percy allowed himself a rare, unguarded smile. “Yes,” he said. “I imagine we will.”

 

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