Part 4
The fires within the small pot were burning low, dying in the dim light of his red-hued room. Spock sat before them, wrapped loosely in his meditation robes, hands folded lightly on his lap, head bowed. He should have completed the sele-an-t'li by now but he had not managed even tal t'li - that most basic of meditative levels. He was sitting in the closed posture of the ikapirak, struggling with the kohl emotion-purge and only just managing to achieve the serenity required to maintain the tu-lan breathing exercises.
Had he been given to panic, he would have regarded his situation as disastrous. As it was, he merely regarded his circumstances as unacceptable. Instead, he had found himself immobile in front of his firepot, watching the embers throb in the dark red depths, illogically observing that the deep-glowing wood resembled the current hair colour of the Enterprise's Head Nurse. It was interfering with his pursuit of Venlinahr.
The past three months had been a strain on his equanimity. Ever since Platonius. His initial meditations on what he had been forced to endure - and inflict - on that planet had, for the most part, been resolvable. His ever-efficient logic had shown him that he had not been to blame for everything that had happened and that he, like his colleagues and captain, had been innocent victims. Those who had played them like marionettes bore the responsibility and it was upon their shoulders that the fault rested. The shame and guilt had been harder to address but again logic had been able to help him accept the reasons for their existence and - if not successfully suppress them - at least control them.
In all, he had concluded the visit to Platonius had been one more mission he had no desire to repeat but upon which he should not unduly dwell. While he had still felt a certain unease about the mission, he had at least been able to approach the debriefing with calm. Once that meeting was concluded, he would have been able to move on and think no more about that stressful experience.
And then Doctor McCoy had dropped his bombshell.
The level of skill the CMO apparently possessed to unbalance Spock's mental and emotional harmonies never ceased to be disturbing, if only for the fact the good doctor often seemed utterly oblivious to the chaos he continually brought to the Vulcan's rational, well-ordered thoughts.
McCoy explaining that the choice of women had come from the minds of the captured men had come as no surprise to Spock. The memories of the pendulous relationship between First Officer and Head Nurse had been excellent fodder for the Platonians to exploit. The emotions she evoked in him that he never admitted away from his private meditations had been a veritable harvest for those bored and cruel minds: frustration, fear, protectiveness, respect, loyalty, affection ... yearning.
Spock had come to terms with their existence long ago, had in fact found himself with no choice but to confront them, given his close working relationship with the nurse. Given, especially, her feelings for him that could not be hidden, despite her often heroic efforts to maintain decorum.
The price of his telepathic heritage that she tried to bear with stoic professionalism - a self-imposed duty to which he was a silent witness. Just thinking about it filled him with quiet wonder.
Unfortunately, the Platonians had understood the disadvantages of touch telepathy all too well.
He watched the embers spark in the pot, fighting for one last gasp of life before they died forever. He was not often given to metaphor but it felt somehow appropriate to what he was currently feeling, what his meditations were currently failing to resolve.
McCoy's bombshell.
It had been so easy to shoulder when he had blamed himself.
But then McCoy had explained that Nurse Chapel's appearance had been based on thoughts within her mind and suddenly Spock had been let off the hook.
He was only culpable for half the problem, not the whole of it.
And, quite illogically, he found that absolutely impossible to resolve.
He didn't blame her for any of it - that was something he had understood quickly. The only thing he had understood, in fact. The trouble was, he wasn't sure what 'any of it' actually meant. What was it that existed in her mind that Parmen could so twist into such a horrible Vulcan mask?
His only logical conclusion had been that, given the demands of his Vulcan upbringing, she considered herself truly unworthy to be a Vulcan's wife. Logically, he could not disagree. At least, in the sense that many Vulcans would not contemplate taking a non-Vulcan wife, that was. But many Vulcans did not truly care. Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations, the teachings of Surak that all true children of Vulcan practised. Logically speaking, the species of a Vulcan's mate-choice was absolutely irrelevant. The ability to respect and honour a culture was much more important.
Logically speaking.
Not all Vulcans were truly logical, however. Witness his upbringing - teased and mocked by full-blooded Vulcan boys for his half-Human heritage, something his Human colleagues and Human mother could empathise with because such behaviour could only be explained through emotion, not logic: hate, fear, even jealousy. His command of Vulcan discipline exceeded the control many full-blooded Vulcans were capable of and that disturbed many, he knew.
Was that because Human emotions were not as fierce as Vulcan emotions and so Spock did not have the depth of emotion a full-blooded Vulcan experienced?
But no - while his first pon farr had been late in its arrival, it had manifested with all the intensity of any full-blooded Vulcan male. The plak tow had burned with the true spirit of Vulcan - the spirit that could turn friends into enemies and which could sever the bond of t'hai'la, the unity of blood brothers. That which had pitted him in physical challenge against Captain Kirk, and tested the wit of Doctor McCoy against the rigidity of Vulcan society. That which had proven a Human's respect for life to be stronger than that of people which claimed descent from one of the Alpha Quadrant's greatest, and most successful, pacifists yet still insisted on resolving the plak tow through challenges to the death.
His emotions were as powerful as any full-blooded Vulcan. Evidence had been provided when proof had been demanded. The half-breed had obeyed Vulcan tradition, even in the plak tow had behaved as a true Vulcan. The full-blood had been the one to break tradition, to attempt to hide emotional motivation behind logical reasoning.
He had been tested and found worthy.
Or was it because, as a half-Vulcan, Spock had been determined to prove he could do everything a full-blooded Vulcan could do and went on to achieve that with more success than even he had expected?
This, he was forced to concede, was entirely possible. He had, after all, melded with those who could not be melded with; he had influenced the minds of those he had not been in physical contact with. Across the vastness of space, he had felt a ship of Vulcans die. He had mastered all the Venlinahr disciplines Vulcan society demanded and if he did not have the mastery of Kolinahr that was through personal choice - a choice shared by the majority of Vulcans. Kolinahr was not popular - few Vulcans even desired to attempt it, fewer still succeeded.
He sighed and lifted the small rod that was used for stoking the embers and gave them an unenthusiastic poke. Logically then, he could not refute any concerns the nurse might have in measuring up to the standards set by Vulcan society - but it was hardly an impossibility, and she must have been aware of that. She had met his mother, after all.
Perhaps, therefore, it was not a lack of confidence in her ability to measure up to a Vulcan's standards? Perhaps she thought his personal standards were too high?
It had been this last question that had been disturbing his thoughts. If he had not already been conscious of the fact that he tested his command of Vulcan discipline more severely than most full-blooded Vulcans ever did, then Doctor McCoy's constant complaints about it would have surely made him aware. In part, it had been what had driven him into Starfleet in the first place. Many Vulcans did not look upon him as equal to them - or were at least suspicious of his Human blood, as if waiting for an unexpected situation to crack his control and let emotion escape. In Starfleet, there was no respite. The unexpected lurked around every turn, one always had to be prepared and, out here on the frontiers of space, he was proving his command of Vulcan discipline every single day.
And he knew Vulcan was paying attention. He had not set out to change Vulcan's mind about Starfleet, nor even his father's, but he was aware it was happening - and not just because of T'Pring's desire to divorce him to escape that change. Year by year, more Vulcans openly admitted there was logic to Starfleet's existence, that with Vulcan wisdom and guidance, the martial nature of Federation species like Andorians and Humans could be tempered, and Starfleet used to protect and serve.
That Spock had accidentally dug a hole for himself, was a fact that had not been lost on him. He had defied his father to establish a career that would prove to the doubters he could function as a Vulcan even under duress, but to do so required him to consciously adhere to Vulcan principles - even under duress - just to prove his point.
There was a distinct lack of logic at the core of all of this that did not sit well with Spock, compounded by the realisation that, in a sense, Sarek had actually won their long dispute after all. His father had demanded Spock follow his teachings, as he had followed the teachings of his own father and had felt that Spock was betraying that - betraying him - by entering Starfleet. In order to prove his own point, however, that he was a true Vulcan, Spock had therefore, almost subconsciously, subscribed to his father's teachings in order to succeed.
The irony, revealed in all its disturbing glory during the journey to the Babel conference a year ago, had not been lost on Spock. He had a suspicion that Sarek had noticed too, although his father had been polite enough to say nothing about the matter. It had, however, improved their relationship, in the sense that it appeared to be a compromise they could both live with.
It was therefore unquestionable that Spock's standards were very high. Unrealistically so, he now realised and was disturbed by the idea that it was Parmen who was responsible for his insight. Doctor McCoy had always known so it would not surprise him if Nurse Chapel had as well - her ability to understand him had always been rather unsettling. The Vulcan mask, therefore, had to have been proof of the fact she had known this all along.
Unless... unless it had meant something else. His theories could not explain why she had dyed her hair as soon as she had learned that her Vulcan make-up had come from her mind and not from his. The evidence dictated this revelation was the reason for her cosmetic alterations and, if he remembered the ramblings of Doctor McCoy with any accuracy, that suggested possible emotional trauma.
On the other hand, she was a natural brunette, so perhaps she was merely moving away from whatever emotional imbalances had encouraged her to dye her hair in the first place?
Perhaps it is illogical to speculate on the reasons for a Human female's cosmetic choices? He reflected thoughtfully, unsure if the rueful nature of his thoughts was a Vulcan response to the illogic of Humanity or that of a man who didn't understand the female mind.
Even if it is an improvement, his traitorous mind added before he wrested himself onto a more logical train of thought.
He had considered analysing her emotions during his physicals in Sickbay to try and understand the reason for Parmen's vision of her, and her reaction to it, but he had not followed through. It was partly because the very fact he had even contemplated breaching her privacy to satisfy his own curiosity had disturbed him. But it was also because her behaviour towards him in Sickbay had changed.
Somehow, she rarely seemed to be the nurse who attended him anymore. At first, he had thought it was a simple matter of avoidance - the situation on Platonius had been deeply humiliating for them all and he could not blame her for needing time to assimilate the events that had occurred. But then he had noticed that when she was forced to deal directly with him, she kept physical contact to a minimum, and he had realised something else was happening.
Chapel was a hands-on nurse. He had learned that from the first moment she had dealt with him. She came from a school of thought that believed in the power of touch as a source of healing and tranquillity. Initially, she had not known that Vulcans were touch telepaths and when she had been informed, she had incorporated that knowledge into her treatment of him. When he was conscious, she had worked hard to remember physical contact should be kept to that which was necessary even if she seemed to have a harder time remembering when he was very ill.
Through the contact, he had learned that it wasn't simply because her love for him drove her to be close to him. Her behaviour towards him was not unduly different to her behaviour towards any other patients under her care, only the emotions that flowed from her skin were different - an intangible discrepancy unnoticed by most except by him. Often, mingled with this he would feel a constant, muted, sense of guilt - her knowledge that she couldn't keep her feelings hidden from his telepathic abilities and that she was doing her best to control them to spare him discomfort.
She had no idea, of course, but her touch had never brought him discomfort. Her emotions had not been a flood that battered his telepathic barriers from the day they first met. There had been a subtle growth over time and had it not been for her forced declaration when affected by the Psi 2000 virus, he might not have immediately recognised them for what they were.
Ironic really, when he compared that experience to the unrestrained and overwhelming feelings that had always poured off Leila Kalomi's skin whenever in his proximity. Touching Leila had been disconcerting - briefly intoxicating but mostly quite uncomfortable. It wasn't that he had been immune to her charms, or had not returned any of those feelings - but even under the influence of the spores he had not felt inside his soul even half the power he had felt emanating from her. For a Vulcan - who had more powerful emotions than a Human could comprehend - that had been an important revelation: he cared deeply for her, and probably always would, but it was not the kind of love she was looking for.
Even after Psi 2000, even after Omicron Ceti III, Spock could not have said that Nurse Chapel's touch bombarded him in the way that Leila's had. Or ... or Zarabeth's for that matter.
Had it been because she had attempted to control the intensity of her feelings whenever she had touched him and that the other women had not? There had been times when the feelings from her touch had been much more intense than normal but nothing that had truly overwhelmed him. Despite being a Vulcan who disavowed love and shied away from emotion, her touch had always been the one tolerable part of his Sickbay experiences.
And he was entering into illogical speculation again.
On Platonius he had been truly overwhelmed by her emotions - it had been as Parmen intended. The Platonians had succeeded in their attempts to confuse and disorient him through emotionally powerful experiences - Nurse Chapel had indeed been the right choice for that. But in a sense, she had also been the wrong choice - for she had, as usual, been the one woman he had ever met who had attempted to ease the discomfort her touch would cause him by attempting to seek control in a situation that could not be controlled.
It was a puzzling fact that, of all the women who had ever professed to love him, she was the only one who had never been afraid of his Vulcan nature. The other women had seen it as an inconvenience to what they truly wanted - overtly emotional behaviour. Chapel, however, had never expected such a thing and indeed, if her infected declaration had been accurate, for him to deny his Vulcan self would have actually disappointed her. The emotions he had felt from her since that time had never suggested duplicity, which meant she held the unique position of being the only woman he had ever met who had loved him because of his Vulcan nature rather than despite it.
It is possible, he reflected with a strictly internal shudder, that she is, in some situations, a better Vulcan than I am.
It was a disturbing thought. In light of what Parmen had done to her appearance, it was also a painful one.
Since Platonius, she had reduced all situations involving physical contact between them down to the absolutely unavoidable. Was that to protect him? Or to protect her? He didn't know. What he did know was that Sickbay had become an intolerably sterile place since she had made this decision. Some core of illogic within him persistently pointed out that he was feeling empty, sometimes he had even found himself awaking from deep sleep or meditation feeling ... starved.
Brief encounters with Droxine had not filled the void and the absolute debacle of Sarpeidon had ... he paused, speculating. Zarabeth had left him reeling, in the same way separating from Leila after Omicron Ceti III had left him reeling. A loss of emotional excess, he had come to realise - like a recovering addict, he had felt cold and empty for a time before regaining his balance and moving on.
Except he hadn't regained his balance, not entirely. He hadn't been in balance in the first place when visiting Stratos and Sarpeidon. It was quite illogical that the absence of one person's touch could throw him out of balance, but the facts of the situation were indisputable.
And disturbing.
Everything disturbed him at the moment. He hadn't realised just how much Nurse Chapel had, in her own way, come to benefit his meditations, just as his meditations had brought benefit to his interactions with her. With one missing, the other ... didn't seem to work so well.
He watched the last of the embers die before rising to his feet. Of course, with thinking this illogical, it was no wonder his meditations were struggling. He looked up at his chronometer ...
... And stared.
He had spent too long in thought and had lost track of time. He was going to be late for dinner.
That was disturbing too.
