A/N: What made a ten-year-old Spock flee his home three days ago, and what punishment will his parents mete out upon his return? An expansion of my chapter from "Moments" entitled "Downtime." Written for the "Dying of the Light" challenge at Ad Astra.

I have two additional chapters in mind—one for a young Kirk and another for a young McCoy. One will be humorous and the other much darker than this piece. As to whether or not anything will come of those ideas—that remains to be seen. ;-) As the events in those chapters will be separate from and have no bearing on this chapter, I will mark the piece as complete. Since all three will either begin or end with the challenge sentence, I'll fold them into one story rather than doing three separate pieces.

Before the Dying of the Light

Spock

He would need to return home before the dying of the light. He owed his mother as much. He had snuck out of his home in the late hours of the evening three days ago unbeknownst to his parents. His father was probably worried in his own logical, non-emotional way, but he knew his mother would be positively frantic that her only son, a child of but ten years of age, had been absent for that length of time without so much as a hand-scribbled note or video recording as to where he had gone, or an indication as to whether or not he had been abducted.

The latter scenario was highly unlikely; crime had virtually disappeared on his planet once its inhabitants adopted the tenets of Surak two millennia ago, but as the son of Vulcan's senior diplomat to the Federation and his planet's ambassador to Earth, his father had surely made enemies over the years, and not all races in the galaxy were dedicated to the practice of non-violence. Although only a remote possibility, it was conceivable that one of them had had a hand in his disappearance. At least he was certain that must be one of the angles his parents were pursuing; in fact, he believed wholeheartedly that his mother would have insisted on it. As much as he was enjoying this well-needed bit of solitude, this, among other factors, was the motivation behind his decision to return much earlier than the seven to eight days he had planned to be gone.

Spock sighed as he reflected on the event that had driven him to this remote cave he had discovered in the foothills of the L'langon Mountains during his kahs-wan ordeal:

It had been three years since he had made the decision that had set his feet on the course his life would take. A decision he still stood behind he reminded himself, but one that was proving much more difficult than he had initially anticipated.

Not so much on his end—having made the choice to live his life as a Vulcan he was finding the mental techniques of meditation and mastery of emotions easier to assimilate and utilize now, once his focus had been given a clear, distinct direction.

The difficulty did not stem from within, but without. Despite performing at levels—both academically and mentally—which were consistent with or even surpassed those of his peers, there were many who were still unable to see beyond the conspicuousness of his biology; those who were able to focus only on the fact that he was 'different.'

Unfortunately, he felt the sting of classification even within his own family unit. Despite his best efforts, and theirs as well, each parent still defined him by the traits of the other. It appeared to be all they could see in him. His father tended to be more vocal, demanding stricter mental discipline or tighter behavioral control as a way to purge what he considered to be undesirable qualities. With his father there was no gray area; Spock knew exactly what was expected of him.

Undeniably, it was his mother's actions he found the most confusing. She rarely, if ever, had anything negative to say, at least in his presence, but the despair visible in her eyes at times wounded him to the very depths of his soul, the feeling complicated by the fact that he didn't understand the nature of her pain. Unlike his father, for the longest time with her he was unsure if it was disappointment with him or an overwhelming, compassionate anguish meant to be sympathetic to his unique situation.

Three days ago, he had unwittingly been made to understand. Hoping to catch a glimpse of a small, inconsequential comet scheduled to pass through the heavens that night, he had slipped quietly out of bed and made his way outside to his mother's terraced garden—it afforded a much less restricted view of the night sky than the one available from his bedroom window. It was on the return trip, an hour and a half later, that he had heard muffled voices coming from behind the door to his father's study.

"He has made tremendous mental progress over the last few years, but he still needs to work on physical discipline. His face still often betrays the thoughts and emotions residing behind it," his father announced, the banality of his delivery completely incongruous with the content of the statement.

"As does yours on occasion," his mother retorted hotly. "He's not an automaton, Sarek, nor should you want him to be. It's not like he laughs, or smiles, or says or does things that are disrespectful or contradictory to the life he has chosen. He is the epitome of a dutiful Vulcan son.

"And for anyone who doesn't know of his parentage, he presents a totally Vulcan face to the outside world. Most people are shocked to learn of his mixed heritage. And you know, after thirteen years of living on this planet, I can often read the thoughts and emotions of my co-workers in their eyes or on their faces, not to mention yours," his mother quipped.

"I am aware of that, my wife, but as I have indicated to Spock, there are those who will judge him solely by his hybrid nature. In many ways, Spock will need to show himself to be superior to his peers if he wishes to be held above reproach."

"I don't understand why our son has to be held to a higher standard than those around him..." his mother had responded, her tone fueled by bitterness and exasperation.

Most assuredly, the conversation had continued, but he had not paused outside the door, unwilling to actively participate in the act of espionage. Regrettably, he had heard more than enough in passing, the callous remarks not meant for wider dissemination producing feelings of remorse and inadequacy within him. It seemed no matter how he conducted himself he was unable to please his parents.

These voices and images faded into the background as he basked in the serenity of solitude. While at home, trying desperately to fit into a world not made for him, he found himself pulled in numerous, conflicting directions; here there was only tranquility, and harmony, and a refreshing lack of scrutiny. The decision to flee had apparently been correct, at least for him. The punishment his parents would mete out once he returned home remained to be seen, but at this juncture, that was secondary to his peace of mind.

Over the last three days he had meditated long and hard on what he had overheard in an effort to find a solution which would appease everyone. Sadly, the answer had not been forthcoming, but during his time here alone in the desert he had found it strangely liberating to be away from it all; to be far removed from the stress and pressures of what had become his everyday life. He had reveled in the freedom, the independence, the respite, however brief, from constantly being under a microscope. This represented the first time in his young life he had been free to simply be without outside influences shaping his future path and squelching his unique personality.

While he may not have discovered the key to conducting himself in a manner that would appease everyone who held a position of importance in his life, he had sorted out what he needed to do for his own sanity and survival.

Once he had mastered self-control, was no longer a slave to physical or emotional outbursts, the taunts of his peers had died away. Now they mostly left him to his own devices, although they were still quite careful to maintain their distance and exclude him from the typical personal connections experienced by the majority of beings throughout the galaxy: his classmates didn't invite or encourage him to participate in various extra-curricular clubs, sports or other social activities.

He accepted this willingly, and with a modicum of relief, for aside from the brief time his older brother had spent living with the family, he had not known the companionship of others his own age; had never experienced what it meant to 'belong' to a specific group. He found that it was easier being on his own—if there were no expectations save his own to live up to, then it would not be possible to fail miserably in the eyes of others.

He had grown complacent and comfortable with his place in Vulcan society, and had falsely believed that his parents had left his youthful indiscretions of the past behind them as well. The conversation he had unwittingly overheard had proven otherwise. Initially he had fled hoping to somehow remedy his parents' views of him, but over the past three days had come to the realization that he must proceed in the manner best suited to help him survive on a world ill-equipped to deal with one such as he. If he were true to himself, ultimately others would come to respect him for it, his parents included.

Armed with that knowledge he gathered up the few items he had brought with him and set off resolutely for home as the sun began its journey toward the horizon. He would arrive shortly before darkness fell and he steeled himself for the punishment that was certain to follow, for he had decided with an unflinching tenacity that he would not disclose that which had ultimately driven him from his home. He knew that running from his problems would be viewed as emotional weakness on his part by his father, and that knowledge of what had compelled him to escape the disharmonious atmosphere pervading not just his home, but his life in general, would only add to the sorrow and desperation he saw in his mother's eyes. As he trudged through the sandy soil, the red dust swirling about his feet, he could not help the feeling that, as the light in the heavens died, so his several days of freedom would be forever extinguished as well. The breath of fresh, unfettered air he had experienced during this short-lived hiatus from reality would once again become stifling and constricting. Like a condemned man walking that last mile to his own execution, so he would return to his previous life—that of a powerless prisoner of fate, subject to unmitigated, inflexible circumstances that were beyond his ability to control.