Not to Die Alone

Summary: Spock's thoughts on the brink of death. NOT a Wrath of Khan fic. Takes place during the five-year mission. No slash.

Warnings: Angst

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Note: This is NOT slash. It is a friend-fic, but if slash is your thing, then I've left it open ended for you. So I guess this is possible K/S, S/Mc, or even K/S/Mc depending on who you ship.

Dedicated to Allergic to Paradox because she asked nicely and because I left my other one-shots at my dorm.

Rated: K+ for mature themes.

Spock pressed his hand to his side, attempting to stem the flow of his blood. It was an arterial cut, close to his heart and the gray earth was being stained green with his blood. He slowed his breathing and tried to slow his heart rate, but his focus wavered as fear of death and pain swept past his control. He was dying. This was not how he wished to die – not for some meaningless battle on a planet that they had only stumbled upon this morning. And with every beat of his heart his blood gushed out, taking some of his control with it. He knew of no greater agony.

Around him he could see the corpses of men he had attempted to befriend on this first contact mission. Yrnall, Kripst, Englar, all these men and others lie dead at the hands of their warring tribe. A new pang of despair cut through him as one of these people's enemy's swords had. Men he had befriended and come to know would never be able to return to their homes or families. They would be missed.

And he had no one there to miss him. Jim would grieve, but Spock was a soldier who knew the risks and Jim was his captain. His friend. Kripst's wife had damned the military – damned the war – knowing it would take her husband from her. Spock had no one who would damn the military when he did not beam aboard the Enterprise that evening. They would record in their logs that he had died in the line of duty and they would 'soldier' on.

Damnit, I don't like this idea, Spock. Why do you have to be the only one who can go? I can give people artificial points for their ears… It's not safe sending you alone.

Was the good doctor right? Had it really been a good idea to go alone? Was it logical? It had made sense at the time. One man could blend in better than two or three, and the Vulcans shared more in common with these people than mere physical resemblance. He had barely matched his strength with Englar, and Yrnall sang old songs that sounded like a rough dialect of ancient Vulcan. Spock had postulated that these people, like the Romulans, were an offshoot of the Vulcan race. Or, at the very least, this was a planet that had adapted in a Vulcan-type parallel. Now he had no one to return to in order to share these hypotheses, no one to discuss them with.

He coughed twice, and saw his blood on the armor his new friends had provided him. These were people as passionate as Humans, but twice as violent. Like the Vulcans in the time of the beginning, these people had rushed blindly into battle over a trivial offence. Even he, so much more refined, more logical, more controlled, even he had killed with a sword for a war that was not his own. Perhaps on some level he had wanted to immerse himself in the ways of his ancestors. He did not want to die like this. He wanted to go home. He wanted to return to the Enterprise.

His vision blurred and his breathing became more labored. He could not die here. He could not let his katra be blown away on a foreign planet. No would be no one to hold him in death as there had been no one to hold him in life. He did not want to die the same way he had lived: fighting against something he could not control, an outsider even among friends, alone…

In the distance he saw fire. Three tongues of red flame swept across the battlefield. They roared with a noise he could not comprehend. This helmet he wore was too thick and his mind was too weak. A gold flame, tall and bright and beautiful, hovered in place roaring louder and with more clarity, but still the sound was mangled. Spock stared at the fire, wondering how and when it had come about. Amid the flames a single blue figure… It was no creature Spock had seen on this planet; it seemed to have wings and to soar silently from body to body of his fallen comrades, perching beside them. Perhaps it was searching for carrion, but it seemed too lovely, too pure to want to feed on the dead. Perhaps it was a creature from Terran mythology –what had they called it? – An angel? The flames even seemed too pure to be burning and Spock could smell no smoke amid the stench of death. The blue creature pulled away, heading toward a crowd of his dead foes.

"No…" Spock whispered. He could manage nothing more. He tried to lift his sword, but it was too heavy. He dropped it and it clattered uselessly against his armor. The noise hurt Spock's ears. The flames and the blue creature ceased and turned to face him. They were so far away and seemed to him to be fading. Spock reached feebly toward the fire, hoping that these strange incarnations would not leave him.

Noise echoed across the battlefield and the brightest flame and the strange creature advanced on him, the red flames in close pursuit. He was not certain if he should be afraid or embrace the possibility that these figures would carry him into the worlds beyond. He slid his eyes shut.

Heat engulfed him, under his arms against his face, holding his legs up in an odd way. Spock could not even breathe he was so frightened. It was not logical to fear death. The flames roared and crackled around him. Soon even the sound seemed distant as something pressed against his wound and filled him with agony.

Something seized his nose and then something else, something warm and moist, pressed against his mouth. Air was forced into his lungs and it was hot like Hellfire. What had he done to warrant such torture? Moments later the fire was forced into his lungs again, but it was less agonizing. It was air… He needed to breathe. When again his lips felt the moist pressure, he let the air in willingly, opening his mouth to enjoy it. This breath was to great for his lungs and he coughed the excess air out. His eyes managed to focus on the faces of the strange specters.

"Jim… McCoy…" He breathed. Oh how he breathed. Every breath was new and necessary and utter torture. He knew he was not getting enough air…

"Don't move, you've lost a lot of blood." Jim whispered.

"Am I going to…" Spock did not finish the thought.

"Not if I have anything to say about it." McCoy muttered, helping to hold his head in a comfortable position. "I wanted to stabilize you before we tried to beam you up. You'll be fine, I promise."

Spock nodded lightly. "Which of you resuscitated me?"

McCoy and Jim exchanged a glance. "I did at first, after I put a bandage on you, but when it began to leak I had to replace it so Jim took over."

"If you say 'Thanks for the kiss of life' I'm never letting you watch my old James Bond films ever again." Kirk joked. "And I might have to kill you for picking a bad time to develop a sense of humor."

"Should we call Scotty, Captain?" one of the Security officers asked.

Jim nodded and put a hand on Spock's shoulder. "We've got you. We're going to take to home."

Home… Among friends… He would not die here. He would not die the way he had lived, and he hoped that henceforth he would not live the way he had feared he would die. He would not be alone anymore.