When Safiri steps off the shuttle at va'Keshtu, he turns, and waves to his parents, a wide grin glinting in the sunlight, as bright as polished bones in the desert. They stay onboard, his mother crying, his father looking grave, his hand upraised in the formal salute, looking out the window.
They are hardly out of sight before he's pulled out his communicator, and tapped out a quick, teasing message to his mother.
"Don't cry," he chides. "Or Baba-al will call me home in a panic before the semester's even begun!"
He adds his love, and chuckles as he pockets the device once more. Acceptance into the New Vulcan Science Academy is an honor he feels acutely, and a privilege he is more than conscious of, having had to fight his father to attend.
"This is not a debate, sa-fu," his father had reasoned, when he'd accused him of jealousy, and long-held resentment. "Nor is it a discussion, for you will not be attending."
"But, Baba!" he whined, "Baba, nam'tor du kloshu'riolozhikaik! No Vulcan ever turns down the Academy."
And if he were not Vulcan, he would not have been able to see his father wince. If he were not human, he would not understand why. If he were not human, he would not have felt the cold fish hook of guilt catch on the bottom of his stomach, and pull.
"Correct," his father replied. "And no Vulcan shall."
"Dorli'sa-mekh," he begins, an apology colouring the words to near incoherency. "I did not mean -"
"You did not misspeak, t'sa-fu. And that is precisely why I shall not permit it."
His father leaves the room, eyes cast down in the way that speaks of study, and of shame. Ko-mekh has, of course, heard the whole thing. The look on her face when Safiri meets her gaze makes him feel twice ashamed.
"Dorli'ko-mekh -" he says. "Ko-mama, I did not mean what I said."
She shakes her head.
"Safiri-kam, you never think before you open your mouth, do you?"
The reprimand is real, but she softens it by offering the crook of her little finger to him. Immediately, craving the comfort of contact, he steps forward and wraps his finger in her own.
"Tonight, you'll be making dinner again, won't you?"
"I suppose so, ko-mekh."
"Then, I suggest that you come up with a more thorough, and logical presentation of your case. If you still want to go, that is."
Safiri nods, relief flooding through him. His mother won't fight his battles, but at least he knows he's got a cut-man in this match. He smiles, and hugs her. Another feeling – excitement – washes down to his toes, making them buzz like bees. Safiri bounces on them, a runner at the blocks.
"Yes, ko-mekh!"
With much work ahead of him, he makes for a quick, and jocund exit, only delayed briefly as his mother follows him with, "And it'd better not be your off-brand barkaya marak, again, Safi! It's hard to remember you're asking for forgiveness when you're feeding us poison."
"How was I supposed to know peanuts weren't a good substitute for it?"
"I don't want to spend another night with your father in the fresher!"
"Okay!" he hollers back.
That night, after visiting every market from here to Cairo (and maxing out his transit card for the month), Safiri feels reasonably confident about his traditional balk'ra.
His father and mother sit at his left, and right, two glasses of water in front of them. He's pulled out the long, Vulcan flutes his father gave his mother on their bonding day, the clarity of the glass signifying sincerity of intent, their length indicating its depth. They are a somewhat antiquated practice, as they were traditionally offered to a bond-mate as an apology for truly felt affection, something which most Vulcans eschew acknowledgement of altogether. But before Baba, the previous owner had been Safiri's grandfather, the flawless crystal offered to him by his keenly emotional wife, and now, Safiri pulls them out for his own apologies. Rarely, are they hidden long enough to gather dust. Out of respect for his parents, Safiri drinks nothing.
Then, when the first glass has been finished (mercifully, his mother threw it back with a careless, "I was thirsty" to her husband), Safiri brings the balk'ra to the table, and passes it out.
"Are there any ingredients in this dish you feel it necessary to warn me of, Safiri-kam?" his father asks, spoon poised halfway between his plate, and his mouth.
"No, Baba," he drawls. He plays disdain, but secretly, he knows his father's teasing portends good things. "I used only real ra'mashya, I promise."
"How did you -"
"Baba," his mother interrupts, "With Safiri, it's probably better not to ask."
Safiri has the length of the meal to present his case to his father. In diplomatic circles, interest or dismissal can be politely displayed by the pace at which dignitaries eat. At home, it is the same. His mother eats very, very slowly.
"Baba, to be granted admittance to the Vulcan Science Academy is a great honor," he says. He repeats this more than once, not because it is his reason for going, but because he thinks it is something his father, the brightest embodiment of dignity and grace he knows, has forgotten.
"They have the most exciting programmes," he offers, outlining the biophysics, and xenobotany courses he wants to take.
"The professors have more than one thousand years experience between them," he presses, summarising the qualifications of each.
"All the facilities are practically new," he expounds, showing his father the technical specifications of each of the three laboratories.
"And," he concludes, "It would be a singularly logical way of learning more about my own heritage, and people, Baba."
His father's face is as detached as he can manage, which means he is most displeased. His brows dig deep, and his hands are steepled before him. He has listened, but listened in silence.
The thin click of his mother's spoon hitting the porcelain plate rings out, a bell signalling the beginning of a bout.
"Baba?" he questions.
At this, his father stirs. He rolls his shoulders back, assuming a rigid, upright posture, pulling in a deep breath of befuddlement.
"Safiri," he says, "I cannot deny any of the information you have presented to me, and I must confess, I have no objection to the Academy as an academic institute. Indeed, despite its -" he hesitates, "disadvantage - it stands already as one of the foremost research complexes in the Federation."
"Then what's the problem?" Safiri pushes. Somehow, he's still not winning.
"The problem is that you are not Vulcan, Safiri, and it is no place for outsiders."
"What?" That fish hook is back, but now it's scraping across his lungs, and heart. It's not guilt, but hurt, and humiliation that takes him now. "But Iam Vulcan!"
"Safiri -"
"Kroykah!"
His mother's voice rings out across the table, as she drops her utensils to her plate. Everything stutters into silence.
"I am finished," she says. "Safiri, please clear the table. T'adun, betau."
She rises, and his father rises with her. He bows his head.
"Betau-sarlah nash-veh," he replies.
They speak in a mix of languages, in the next room, as though Safiri is still too young to understand. Their words flip back and forth, his mother's often riding over his father's, who waits for the smallest pause to tuck his rebuttals into the conversation. There are several creative Orion curses upon men thrown in, a couple Klingon obscenities, and even one or two Terran phrases Safiri knows she picked up from Leonard McCoy. His father must be familiar with them too, because those are the ones that he hardly stumbles over in his response.
"Are you out of your Vulcan mind?" she demands. "Spock, that is your son, your Vulcan son. Or did you not notice the pointy ears after all these years?"
"I do not dispute his parentage, Nyota, however that does not mean-"
"Then how exactly do you figure you can dismiss his heritage when it's so blatantly plastered across his face?"
"He is not full Vulcan, my wife, and I did not misspeak by telling him so. The Vulcan Science Academy is a proud -"
"You did misspeak, Spock. You did."
"I do not understand."
"You hurt him. You made him feel like less than he is. How can you not understand that?"
"It was not my intention -"
"This is about your fear, isn't it? This is about you."
"It is about our son's foolish desire to attend an institution where he would not be welcome."
"He is welcome, though," she insists. "They welcomed him when they offered him a place."
"That is not the same."
"Just because you -"
"No," his father is stern, his voice loud, too loud to smother the emotion it holds. "I will not see him insulted, and discriminated against at such a place."
There is a hush. Safiri hardly breathes, for fear of reminding them that the dishes were few, and his presence more attentive to them than his task.
Finally, "T'wuh-rak el-ru," she murmurs, "Zat-ozh, your life will not be his life. And Safiri is not you. I know what frightens you -"
"Nyota, I am not -"
"- But this is Safiri's choice. You can't protect him forever, and you'll only hurt him by trying. You cannot tell your son who and what he is, Spock, or you do to him the same disservice that was done to you, do you understand?"
"I am trying," he replies. "I do not wish to...to hurt-"
"No," his mother soothes. "And Safiri knows that. He will forgive you. But you've got to let him go."
The next night, his father cooks the meal, and Safiri drinks from the tall, clear glass.
Planetside, and on his own, the New Vulcan city around him buzzes with life – at least, as much as Vulcans can be said to 'buzz'. Everyone walks with industry in their steps. Their eyes are focused. Conversations are held face to face, in small alcoves carved into the stone walls of the buildings for this purpose. Each space offers its tiny, vaulted ceiling to the resonating of words spoken beneath its arch, for clear, and precise communication is highly revered here. Unlike the aimless strollers beneath clear, Terran skies, each Vulcan moves and speaks with purpose. Safiri smiles. He's been here once a year, every year since his fifth birthday, and it feels like home. This city is as much his as Nairobi, San Francisco, Riverside, or Buford. Perhaps, the only place more comfortable is above the near subaural hum of nacelles in his family's quarters aboard the Enterprise. But here,were it not for the slight pleasure on his face, respectfully restrained in public, and his gently rounded brows, there would be nothing to distinguish him from this Vulcan, or the next.
He walks, as they do, in single file, careful not to brush shoulders, careful to observe the casual policies of city life. He dips his head, and raises a hand when he meets clan-mates, or elders. As he passes from the market, through the Academy grounds, and toward the Elder Rooms, this happens more and more frequently.
He doesn't offer his hand to shake, or give in to joyous pats on the back in recognition of friends. When he presents himself to T'Pau, as all grandchildren, and great-grandchildren must do upon their arrival to the city, he doesn't embrace her, or kiss her cheeks. These are his father's people. These are his people, and he cares for them. It is their due, and their preference. He respects that, with the unthinking comprehension of a lifetime of immersion. Kaiidth.
As a child, his father had attempted to explain the concept to him, but when Safiri tried to apply the it to his own life, they were inevitably frustrated by the lack of comprehension on either end.
"Maybe he's too young for it," his mother offered.
"That is not so," his father replied, "For it is a tenant taught to Vulcan children younger than he."
"I'd wager Vulcan children aren't half as irritating in their interrogations, though, are they?" She'd said behind a smirk.
"But Baba," Safiri wheedled, "If what is, is, then why do we try to change so much stuff?"
"Because progress is a laudable aim," he said.
"But Baba, if that is so – and it must be, because what is, is – then what about people who have different aims than you, and stop your progress?"
"What do you mean, Safiri-kam?" asked his mother.
"I mean, what if – what if, what if there's a mean boy who says things that are the opposite from what you think he should say?"
"That is not precisely the same thing, Safiri -"
"Is this a real mean boy, kidege?"
His Baba is not understanding, and ko-mekh is getting distracted, so he presses onward.
"What if," he starts, squeezing his brows together, "Pretend someone says that you are wrong for being you."
"Did someone tell you that?"
"Is that someone wrong?"
"Yes, Safiri-kam," his father assures him, strong and tight.
"Then, is it wrong to feel mad?"
"No," his mother states. "What is, is."
But his father hesitates.
"Safiri," he says. "Vulcans do not feel anger. Resentment is not logical."
"But I feel anger, Baba."
What is, is.
After he's visited the Elders to declare his presence, and offer his respect, he catches a flitter to the outskirts of the city. He disembarks with a few other Vulcans, but as they take the right path towards a nearby mapi'kahr, Safiri turns left. The sun of New Vulcan is not as bright as his people remember, nor the soil quite as red, but Safiri is of the ashi'Whl'q'n, and none of them can perceive this difference.
A large, low building of dark stone rises before him. It is carved in the style of Old Vulcan, with long, straight lines, and graded corners that resemble the geometrical growth of crystals. There is a gate, which is not typical of Vulcan homes, but the right of high privacy is granted to all members of the chief clan, and especially those in politics. As a member of said clan, it is also Safiri's right to breach that privacy as a long-awaited guest.
His grandfather greets him at the door, and Safiri grins. He cocks his head to one side in affection, and wraps his arms around proud shoulders.
"Tonk'peh, os'sa-mekh," he chirps. His bag drops from his shoulder to the stone path, as the familiar address trips off his tongue with more inflection than strictly necessary. His strange accent marks him, but he doesn't mind as Sarek replies with a long blink, and a chastisement smoothed by time.
"Safiri, your insistence on poor grammar, and lack of attention to proper aspirants continues to be inconsistent with your absolute fluency," he states.
"I know, os'sa-mekh."
"It is illogical."
"It is," Safiri agrees, stepping back. "But I love you, anyway."
"Pi'bol-kan," he mutters, and though his tone hasn't changed, Safiri can see the affection in the glimmer of his eyes.
Sarek grasps his upper arms, steadying him, the closest to a returning embrace he usually offers, but Safiri remembers an exception.
"Grandfather has sad eyes," he whispered once to his mother, during his Vin-masupik.
His father, hearing this, leaned toward him to reply, "Eyes can be neither sad, nor happy. Their expression is altered only by the surrounding orbital muscles, and their effect on the flesh thereby."
"Of course, Baba," he says, as though his father is a particularly dense child himself. "But I mean the things behind his eyes look sad."
"Shh, kitoto," his mother sighs. She sits upright beside him, her fingers twist in her lap, and he's glad she isn't allowed to touch him just now, as her heightened anxiety is working in him even at a distance.
Still, he thinks, the ceremony is long, and her lap would be a logical place to rest, because he is tired. But his pride overtakes his fatigue.
"Do not call me that, ko-mekh," he protests in a fierce hush.
"Forgive me," she grins, and turns her head to him, just enough to catch his eye. "Today, you are sa-yonuk!"
This pleases him, and for a moment, he forgets that he must be still, he must be stone, and he giggles. His father frowns. He can feel his mother's stomach clench as though it were his own. Sarek says nothing at all. It is only Safiri whose voice clatters through the silence, like an ancient, runaway cart.
Then T'Pau, presiding over his presentation to the clan, looks askance at him, as though he's a strange curiosity, before she tuts obliquely, and says, "Mau-kahwa'ath al'a'nirih."
This delights him even more, and he kicks his feet. He wants to share this joy with his Baba, and he swivels in his seat, careful to keep his hands tucked beneath him, as he was instructed. But the sight that greets him is not at all the tilted head, and crooked mouth of amusement, but a rather more alarming one.
"Baba!" he exclaims. "You've gone all green!"
His mother's laughter tickles his belly as she fights to repress it, and it's hardly his fault when his own voice joins hers in mirth.
After the ceremony is complete, his father stands with his mother. From his place at the edge of the circle, he cannot hear what they discuss, nor can he sense his father, and he supposes that he's carefully shielding his thoughts along their bond. This doesn't worry him particularly, as Baba has sometimes blocked him before.
"Oh, kidege," his ko-mekh consoled him, the first time he woke to the blunted presence in his mind. "Sometimes, Baba just gets stuck."
"Well, then he must learn to get unstuck," he countered. "It is not logical to stay in the dark."
"That's what you're here for," she replied.
"And you?"
"And me," she agreed. "I am named for the stars."
"And I, for the journey."
"That's right, Safiri-kam. So, you see, Baba would be lost without us."
This time, however, it is his mother's job to find Baba, and Safiri can see her fingers pressed to her husband's in the ozh'esta, keeping him tethered as his father's deep, serious voice hums along the desert floor. It is T'Pau they face. His father keeps his head bowed, his chin tucked, but his mother's chin never dips below its perfect parallel.
Sarek slips with perfect grace onto the stone seat beside him.
"Hello, os'sa-mekh!" Safiri says. He is pleased to see his grandfather, but rather hungry, and his patience for his father's tendency toward debate and discussion is wearing thin.
"T'nar pak sorat, sa-fu t'sa-fu," He raises his hand, fingers split in couples, and thumb wide.
Safiri twists his own small digits into the best approximation he can muster. His father spent the whole evening previous helping him learn the contortion, but without his guiding hand, Safiri's fingers refuse to align themselves, properly. Ko-mekh said he'd once not known how to wave, either, and that it's only practice he lacks. This, he decides, is a much easier thing to overcome than ignorance, so he does his best for Sarek, now.
"Dif-tor heh smusma."
"You do me honor," Sarek says. "However, that salutation is more appropriately applied to a leave-taking."
"Yes, os'sa-mekh."
"And you know that such a title does not exist. I am sa'mekh'al, or perhaps, on a day such as this, sa-mekh t'sa-mekh."
"Yes, os'sa-me – I mean, sa-mekh t'sa-mekh." He is silent for a moment. "That is too many words for my mouth."
"Words take up no space, Safiri. There can never be too many for one mouth. It is impossible."
"Baba says there is no such thing as impossible."
Sarek tilts his head, to regard his son, a small, bowed, silhouette in the middle of the amphitheatre.
"Indeed," he responds, the slight lift on the second vowel giving away his interest, and perhaps, some degree of approval. "Then he is a wise sa-mekh."
"Baba is the wisest, and best sa-mekh," Safiri stoutly declares. He glares at Sarek, daring him to say otherwise, before clinching the argument with, "And he gives the best hugs."
"Does he?" The voice that comes is weary, like wind that's blown over the sand from the sea, and carries only dust, and the memory of water.
"Of course!" Safiri cries. "Haven't you ever been hugged by Baba?"
The lines on Sarek's face deepen, the sad things behind his eyes shine, and Safiri wonders if his grandfather isn't truly ancient. It seems to him, that the man beside him is much, much older than even T'Pau, and he wonders if they haven't mixed up who's father to whom in his clan's family tree. After all, one-hundred and fifty-one years is an awful lot to remember.
"Vulcans do not hug, Safiri."
"That is not true," Safiri argues.
"Safiri," his grandfather chides, "It is impolite to contest the word of an elder."
"I do not mean to contest you, os'sa-mekh," Safiri says. His brow furrows in sympathy. "Only that, perhaps you do not realise you are in error, and it is only logical to educate you so that you may proceed with more knowledge in the future. Baba gives the best hugs, and Baba is a Vulcan. Therefore, your statement is false."
Sarek regards him for a moment, his gaze finally drawn from its soft study of his son. His mouth bends upwards in the middle, but it is not a frown that stretches the muscles out there. Instead, Safiri watches his eyebrows pull together, straining downward to his mouth, and decides that his grandfather is trying to squeeze his brain into better understanding. He knows this expression because he sees it on his father, his mother, and on school days, he wears it himself.
"Do you know," his grandfather says then, "I have never been hugged by your father?"
"That cannot be true!" Safiri says.
"It is," Sarek assures him. "But his mother - your ko'mekh-il - embraced me more than once."
He considers this for a moment, as he watches his father raise his hand into an effortless farewell. T'Pau returns the gesture, while Safiri squeezes his brain.
"She must have been almost as good as Baba, then," Safiri concludes, "For he must have learned it from someone, and it could not have been you."
"I believe she was most skilled," Sarek nods. "However, there is no way to compare her skill to your father's, for she is long departed, and my own experience is limited."
"This is true," Safiri agrees. A frustrated sigh escapes him, as he contemplates how to convince Sarek of his father's competency, but then, his mother calls to him. He stands, starting toward her before he remembers himself, and turns back to his grandfather.
"Goodbye, os'sa-mekh." he says. Then, after the briefest consideration, he launches himself at the aged Vulcan, arms thrown open like doors on a summer day. He collides with a very surprised body, encased in the thick folds of ceremonial robes, and burrows as deeply as possible. The fabric is cool, and he gets pleasant goosebumps along his arms as he rubs his cheek over the weave. Eventually, the academic hands of Sarek fold over his shoulders as though he's a small, and precious book, and Sarek hugs him back.
It is only a brief moment before he steps away. Sarek's eyes are bright again, but Safiri doesn't see anything dark, or lonely behind them like he had before.
"Do you see, os'sa-mekh?"
"Indeed," Sarek replies. "In this, I believe you may be more proficient than il-se'sa t'adun'a."
"That is because I learned it from Baba," he says. "Dif-tor heh smusma, sa'mekh t'sa-mekh. Love you."
Sarek raises his hand.
"Sochya eh dif, t'pi'sa-fu-al."
He races over the stone, raising the dust, and swinging at stray pebbles that cross him on route to his parents. His mother is smiling, and he can feel her steady, and calm, like midnight in Kenya. His father is cold, too, but it is not a comforting chill. When Safiri hooks his smallest finger into the crook of his father's, he's met with a stern glare and a still faded bond.
"Safiri," his father begins. "You know that it is improper to embrace a Vulcan."
"Yes, Baba," he agrees. "But I only did it because ko'mekh-il cannot, anymore, and os'sa-mekh did not remember how."
Then, his father's finger tightens on his own, and such warmth floods the threads between them that Safiri can't help but laugh. He watches the trick of his father's mouth, and feels him smile back.