Beautiful

Before – Before, he would tell her of his homeworld in his cool, level voice; and she would listen carefully and draw her own conclusions:

Spock's world is a world of beautiful things, of handmade things, of things made with thought, and care - and belief in the importance of a tradition of making beautiful things.

When others think of the inhabitants of that world, they think of impassive faces, physical power, logic seemingly cold.

But the truth, she learns, is very different. These are people of profound, hidden depth; of appreciation far richer than sheer intellectual understanding and classification of the perfect. They create things that are efficient, yes, but they have an inherent aesthetic that suggests that form must not just follow function but enhance and improve it.

In a world of limited resources, there developed the principle that it is important to not just make the thing one needs, but to make it mindfully, elegantly - to be used, to be shared, to be cared for; to last.

Vulcans, then, she discovers, are drawn to beautiful things. This inclination is deep-seated; deeper, perhaps, than a human can understand. Most will choose to keep few personal items around them, but each will be special and unique – beautiful. The beauty is often restrained, neither overblown nor self-proclaiming, but it is there waiting for the senses to call it out.

Sometimes the true beauty of an object is not obvious.

A musical instrument is made for sound. That much is obvious. But the choices made by the master during its creation, and by its owner in its care, all contribute to enhance the experience of a performance with that particular instrument.

Spock's own ka'athira, his Vulcan lyre, is a masterpiece from a world that made things of exquisite workmanship.

The selection of materials – the woods, blonde and red, veined with gold, glimmering with light's interplay; mahogany, rich and warm, glowing from within; and deep ebony, satin smooth, absorbing all light – reveals true artistry. The instrument's shape - form rounded to fill the space as it rests against its owner's chest; tension in the opposing curves; corners made to fill the palms and yet to allow the fingers to move freely – is a masterwork of sculpture. Even the wax used for its care – redolent, smooth; applied and polished by generations of generous and sensitive hands – sends its scent wafting as the instrument is cradled by a warm body.

The first time Uhura sees it in his apartment, she thinks, "Here is a man of unsuspected passion." It is a possession so personal that she stands mute the first time he plays for her, afraid to breathe lest she break a spell; and she cries when he offers it to her to share.

When she hesitates, he says that an instrument's purpose is to make music; that a second set of hands to play it, and of ears to hear it, would honor its purpose and that of its creator. She accepts, then, but her hands shake when she holds it.

Only Spock can coax from it the haunting harmonies of his homeworld, and Nyota sits spellbound. Hearing him play, she understands that he is worthy of such an instrument - and that, too, is beautiful.

After – yesterday, in fact, at Starbase 12 - they meet a contingent headed for the Vulcan colony. Spock enters into conversation with one of the colonists, first about archaeological artifacts, and then about music. His footsteps fall more slowly as they talk, and she recognizes the signs that his mind is truly engaged.

After – today - she notices that The Lyre is gone. In its place is a lyre.

He has said nothing. But she knows what he will say if she asks – calm and measured words about the greater good and greater benefit; of the needs of the many; of the fulfillment of intended purpose – logical words that will break her heart.

Spock has already made that decision, and she can understand.

But he has already lost so much.

His Vulcan soul is logical, generous - beautiful.

And, once again, she mourns what that has cost him.