It's Like the Old Terran Fairy Tales
Chapter One:
The Prince
Rating: PG-13.
Warnings: For this chapter, canonical genocide and physical violence, and brief mentions of mental/psychological abuse.
Disclaimer: Star Trek is not mine, alas. No profit is being made.
A/N: In this chapter, quotes are specifically taken from Der Froschkönig/The Frog King.
-o-
Near the castle of the king lay a great, dark wood, and in the wood under an old linden was a spring: whenever it was very hot, the king's child went out into the wood and sat herself on the edge of the cool spring:
The Head of Council for the Vulcan Science Academy looked stoically down on Spock, but the gaze was piercing and curious. Spock wondered what further thing he could have to say; his acceptance to the Academy had already been announced. Traditionally, the hearing was over. Vulcans were not often untraditional. "It is truly remarkable, Spock," the councilman said, "that you have achieved so much despite your disadvantage."
"Indeed," replied Spock's stepmother, also on the panel. "His Human heritage has been the cause of much unrest and distraction, to his peers as well as to his family."
The other ministers on the council turned to her and nodded. They were scientists, processing and filing away this new information. Vulcans did not lie; his stepmother's word was fact. From their high seats on the panel, the council peered down at Spock, transforming him from student to specimen.
Spock, for a moment, did not know how to react. This was to be his moment of triumph, the proof of his worthiness. "My Human heritage will cause no disruptions to the work of the Academy," he said.
"Indeed it will not," his stepmother agreed with him, a rare occurrence, "as I have already spoken with the adepts. Now that Spock will attend the Academy, he will begin to study for the Kolinahr."
The silence was heavy in the heat of the room as the council processed this announcement with interest. Spock was already familiar with three of the members; his mixed biology was of great interest to the scientists of the planet. The scholarly intensity in their eyes reminded him of the many days and nights spent being studied in laboratories and lecture halls, his face in the grips of their fingers as they attempted to unveil his every secret. The memories brought unbidden physical responses he struggled to control. Wide pupils, trembling hands. The frantic rush of his pulse as his heart beat a faster rhythm. No, they could not do this anymore. Spock was to be the scientist now, not the subject.
"We look forward to seeing what Spock can achieve in his time at the Academy," said the Head of Council, and to Spock there seemed to be an unduly significant weight to the words.
"Council, ministers, I must decline." The sentence left him without conscience thought, but with it, his surety grew. "Thank you for your consideration."
"Then why did you come before this council today, Spock?" asked his stepmother. "Was it to satisfy your emotional need to rebel?"
"The only emotion I wish to convey is gratitude," he replied.
A pause.
"Live long and prosper."
And whenever she was bored she took a golden ball, threw it high into the air, and caught it again; this was her favorite toy.
The most intriguing thing about Terran literature, Spock mused, was that the more fantastical it was, the closer to life it seemed to come: epic journeys, gods and goddesses, imaginary creatures, New Worlds, Old Worlds, utopias and dystopias – Religion, Myth, and Fairy Tale.
He was no stranger to literary devices; Spock understood the irony in living on Earth in order to escape the stories its society had created. But Terran tales often took place in some far off land. To carry out the rest of one's life in the place where they were, indeed, merely stories was far preferable to living in the place where they were real.
The Vulcan people had their own tales. But where the Terran oral tradition had splintered over time according to class and culture, mores and memory, the Vulcan oral tradition was one. Vulcans did not differentiate between Religion, Myth, and Fairy Tale. All stories held the ancient rites of the people, the remoteness of their violent past, the hints at creatures and magic that once had been, but were now lost. Eidetic memories prevented the stories from changing once they had been told. Logic prevented historical figures from evolving into gods or heroes. New tales – songs, novels, poems – were unique, and not retellings of that which is already known. This lack of deviation from the norm meant one very important thing: Vulcan tales were history.
Vulcan tales were true.
Only half of Spock was Vulcan.
His escape from the hot desert sands of Vulcan to the cool mutable waters of Earth had seemed, at the time, the only solution, and for the most part Spock did not dwell upon his choice. The Vulcan Science Academy was touted as the best learning institution in the galaxy, but at Starfleet there was always new knowledge, and not only from within the labs. New data, new information was constantly streaming in from foreign ships and far off planets, and Spock learned, and he worked, and he grew.
For seven long years Spock lived thus: student, officer, teacher. He was efficient, his work always satisfactory, but when alone in his quarters and alone in his head, he doubted his decision. Spock could not help but believe, with one tiny portion of himself, that he had not escaped the Story but was in exile; and that someday, which would begin like any other, a hunter would crash through the woods, eye on his quarry – a nimble deer or thrashing boar – and chase Spock out. Deliverance, tragedy, or both? He could not say.
It is not that he failed to attempt a normal, Terran life; there was one Human at the SFA, in particular, that was his friend. Nyota Uhura was her name, and Spock could not help but be fascinated by her. Yet when her eyes grew soft, and she spoke in languages long dead, he thought of how his mother must have been and shied away. How different would he be with Amanda Grayson's influence? What sort of Vulcan? What sort of Human? Impossible to know, there was no use considering it, and it caused him pain.
But whenever his thoughts so strayed, Spock would fold his legs beneath him to meditate. Before shutting his eyes and slipping into trance, he would gaze out the window, drinking in the sight of the stars. And catching sight of Vulcan's golden sun, he would briefly wish to speak with his father.
Now once upon a time it so happened that the princess's golden ball that she'd thrown so high did not fall into her little hand, but went past it to hit the ground and rolled right into the water. The princess followed it with her eyes but the ball vanished, and the spring was deep, so deep, that one could not see its bottom.
And so it was; after seven long years of exile on Earth Nero came hunting him from another world, and Spock found himself back home. But what is the return home for a child of the Story? A mother buried, sibling long since run away, and a distant father under the watchful gaze of a stepmother.
Still, Spock may have found it within himself to create his own plotline, for the sight of his father in the dark cavern was hope unlooked-for and he thought to take him by the hand. Yet the eyes of his stepmother were just as powerful even for lack of their expression. Instead he beckoned the council to follow, and his father ran at his side. When they again reached the open air, the Vulcans stood stoically as they watched their planet crumble, no reaction but for the two further steps his father took, maybe disbelieving, maybe wanting, perhaps merely seeking a better view. But then he turned to look at Spock, look him right in the eye, and there, there, THERE was emotion, a grief, a longing, a wish –
And gone.
Spock appeared in the transporter room of the Enterprise, arm outstretched. It was, of course, too late; it had been too late from the moment Spock chose not to take his own father's hand. When he found the strength to stumble toward the nearest window, he saw the black hole where Vulcan once was, and despite the fact the ship was pulling away from it the hole grew bigger, and darker, and deeper, and it matched the ache in his gut.
She looked around herself to see where the voice was coming from, and there she espied a frog, whose fat, ugly head was stretching out of the water. "Oh, it's you, you old water-slapper," she said.
With the death of his father, everything snapped into place. There was no escaping the Story, Spock now knew. What was left was only to live it; he need but perform his given role. So Spock sat down in the captain's chair, rightful heir to the throne, and gave his orders with command and grace. His subjects nodded, silent and dutiful, but for one.
James Kirk: neither subject nor officer, failed student and soldier. Loud, emotional. Irritant of Spock's ear, quaking his careful calm. Questioning his rule. Demanding equal voice, equal status, equal command. It was Spock's to give, but not the Human's due.
"Wait! Wait!" cried the frog, "Take me with you, I can't run like you can!" But what did it help him, yelling his croak croak as loud as he could in her wake? She gave it no heed, hurried home, and had soon forgotten all about the poor frog, who again had to climb back into the spring.
This was not the way of the Story. It had run its course, and Spock was to rule. Spock alone knew the way of the universe. He alone had that power.
So he utilized it.
Marooned on Delta Vega, Kirk was no longer his problem.
On another day, as she'd sat herself at the table with the king and all the courtiers and ate from her small golden plate, something came – slip slap, slip slap – creeping up the marble steps, and when it had reached the top and knocked on the door, and called out, "Princess, youngest one, open up for me!" she ran, wanting to see who could be outside; but as she opened up, there sat the frog in front of her. Upon seeing him she hastily slammed the door, sat once again at the table, and was very afraid.
"Keptin!" Chekov announced into the tense silence that had fallen on the bridge. "We're detecting unauthorized access to a water turbine control board!"
Spock nodded at the ensign. "Bring up video."
"Aye," said Chekov, swinging his chair back around. The young Russian's fingers flew over his station, and almost immediately live footage popped up on the main viewscreen. The one who had accessed the computer was no stranger: it was Kirk. He had somehow, quite impossibly, returned to the ship despite its travelling at warp speed.
No. This was wrong. This was Spock's Story; not Kirk's. There was no room for Kirk. Spock had suffered the loss of his mother, his father, his home; his was the due of the ship and the right to command. Spock did not want it, he had never wanted it, for he was Vulcan and did not want, he was Human and did not believe: but the Story had taken its toll, a force greater than his will, and so he did want, and he must believe.
Spock pressed the comm button that connected directly to Security on the armrest of the captain's chair. "Security, this is Acting Captain Spock. Seal the engineering deck and bring me the intruders in turbine station three."
There was no role for Kirk to play.
"Set phasers to stun."
And so she grasped him with two fingers, carried him upstairs and set him in a corner. But when she lay in bed, he came crawling up and said, "I'm tired, I want to sleep as good as you: lift me up there, or I'll tell your father." At that she was bitterly angry, picked him up, and threw him with all her might against the wall. "Now you can rest, you nasty frog."
"We are travelling at warp speed. How did you manage to beam aboard this ship?"
"You're the genius, you figure it out." Kirk smiled a strange smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Spock had command; he was in control. "As acting captain of this vessel, I order you to answer the question."
"Well I'm not telling, Acting Captain," Kirk drawled.
Wrong. Anomaly. Unacceptable. He had ejected Kirk from the ship, and that was both proof and protection of the Story. As the current leader of this crew, he knew he had responsibilities. Who was the man that beamed aboard with Kirk? What technology had allowed them to do it? How did it affect the situation with the Romulans (or how had it)? But Spock had lost both his home and his father in one fell swoop; he could not allow the Story to be taken from him as well. His eyes were only for Kirk. "You will answer me."
"What is it with you Spock? Hm?" Kirk asked, ignoring Spock's command. There was something, something Spock was missing. What was he not doing right? How was he not fulfilling the duty that was demanded him? Kirk's eyes gleamed, and he took a step closer. "Your planet was destroyed, your father murdered. You're not even upset."
Upset? No. Spock was not upset. He felt no emotion. He was merely an empty vessel, continuing because he must. "If you are presuming that these experiences in any way impede my ability to command this ship, you are mistaken." It was, in fact, better than before. He knew his place.
"Doesn't it? Your father just died." Kirk laughed, and it was sickening. "But maybe you're right. Maybe it doesn't matter. You're just a couple of Vulcans. You don't feel, yeah? He probably didn't even care when your mother died, so why would he care if he died himself? It's not like he was leaving anybody behind who would grieve him once he'd gone."
"Jim-" started Dr. McCoy, grabbing at his arm, but Kirk shoved him off.
Something yawned inside Spock, and he noted with some surprise that the gaping hole he'd felt earlier was still there, clawing, gnawing, drawing in his body, his mind, imploding. He fought to breathe. "You will- cease-"
"It must not even compute for you!" Kirk shouted, and his warm breath gusted across Spock's face, so close were they. "The death of billions and the death of your father, all the same, pointless, they meant nothing, you'll forget them. But who cares? You never loved him. And he never loved you."
The implosion inside Spock twisted, writhed, and before he could stop it, it turned inside out and began to explode. As the fire ran through him he knew, Spock gasped at the force of it, the realization that there could be no resolution without violence. He had experienced hardship, and loss, but he must still do something for himself. There could be no ending if there was no death, and by himself meted out. It meant he must eschew every value that made him at once Vulcan and Human, but the Story would have its way. In order to keep himself, Spock must destroy himself.
And destroy Kirk.
The moment the fire lapped at the base of his brain he snapped. He picked Kirk up bodily and threw him against the nearest console. The Human grunted and stood back up, but had no chance to defend himself. Spock was there, punching, slashing, chopping. Kirk moved to block his attack, but did little more than blunt the force of Spock's movements. It was all so quick; no one interfered; there was no one else in the room. It didn't take long for Kirk to slow. He left himself vulnerable and Spock pounced. Grabbing the Human's neck with one hand he pushed him back onto the console, cracking the frame. It was the first prolonged contact with a Human Spock had ever had. Kirk let out a final gasp before Spock squeezed his airway shut.
Yet when he fell down he was no frog, but a prince with beautiful, friendly eyes.
The two locked eyes. Spock's: dark, and fathomless. Kirk's: bright, and desperate.
Spock's mirrored a hole in space, a planet that had been and was no more, an immeasurable loss.
Kirk's reflected blue skies and bluer water, tears and emotions acknowledged and flowing freely, an incalculable grief.
The Human's eyes were not full of desperation for his life. They were full of desperation for Spock. As soon as that thought broke through, he perceived the feelings pouring from Kirk's skin into his bare hand. A deluge of anger, of horror, of misery. But not sympathy, no.
Empathy.
How was that possible? Spock removed his hand and examined the palm, expecting to see the answer written in its lines and whorls. He barely registered Kirk coughing and crumbling to the floor, nor Dr. McCoy running to kneel next to him. Spock was still, and silent. How was that possible?
He heard a dim croaking in the background. "I'm fine Bones, I'm fine."
And then suddenly Spock's vision was filled with the doctor's face, pinched with emotions, emotions Spock did not bother attempting to identify. His lips were moving, mouthing words Spock did not bother attempting to understand. Empathy. There was someone else feeling exactly what he was feeling. Spock pulled out of the mire in his mind, and everything reasserted itself.
I am not the only one who feels.
This is not my Story.
The Story is not the universe.
There is no Story.
I have not believed in the Story since being a child.
And he had not. And yet, since his return to Vulcan and the subsequent disaster, he had believed in it again. A flight of fancy, the crutch of a child whose mind was constantly under attack and needed a reason why. Illogical.
"Spock!"
Spock blinked, and his hearing returned at full volume. He could now understand McCoy; he had been saying Spock's name. He hid his shaking hand behind his back. "Doctor, I am unfit for duty. I hereby relinquish command due to the fact that I have been emotionally compromised. Please mark the time and date in the medical log."
The turbolift doors opened and Spock gratefully entered its sanctuary. He needed to meditate. There was no Story.
And no Vulcan sun to lock onto.
