Fortress of N'Mut
Shi'al Province, Na'nam

T'Pol washed the sand and dust from her face and hair. Then, in the long mirror on the wall, examined her appearance. To ensure that it was acceptable, of course.

She didn't appear to be…dirty…so…she supposed that must be good enough.

But she washed again to be sure. Before attempting to discern how the extremely complicated outfit that had been given her was supposed to be worn. It was no sort of robe, as she had expected to be given. Nor a proper working outfit, as far as she could tell.

It had pants of a sort, far too short to be of any use, falling only to mid-calf. And a garishly embroidered…loincloth? But what sense did it make to wear that over pants?

And what was the point of the band designed so obviously to compress the breasts? And the sash, worn over that? Weren't men in plak'tau supposed to be aroused by breasts? Wasn't that the whole point? To attend to his need and be done with it? So why hide them?

And the sandals…they weren't sandals at all! They were…long bits of leather strap she couldn't figure out what to…and…some kind of…stupid…

Ugh!

T'Pol closed her eyes and sought peace. Viciously. As if to throttle it once she found it…

But it eventually was found. So she didn't throttle it.

Yet it all still seemed intolerably unnecessary suddenly. In fact, as she understood the matter, her appearance would matter very little to S'Guya in a few days. Perhaps sooner. She might just as well have been dressed in filth. He would be compelled to use her anyway.

The entire line of thought served only to force her to suppress a variety of chaotic impulses. Chief of which being to stomp petulantly across the courtyard to the sehlat house, rip off all her garish clothing and jump fully into the waste pit. Gyrate about in there. Until she was covered entirely in sehlat droppings. And present herself to S'Guya in that fashion.

Force him to take her then.

Because he would! He wouldn't care! Which was the point!

Ugh! Stupid straps!

…

Calm, T'Pol. Calm…

By the time someone figured out she was taking too long getting dressed, the women were sent in after her. Probably to be sure she hadn't jumped out of a window and fled.

As she understood it, that sort of thing happened a lot.

Of course they were fussing over her soon enough. Because she'd done it all wrong and they had to fix it. So it was actually good they had been sent in after her, she supposed.

She couldn't help but reflect, though, that if her mother were here it would all have been a lot easier. She could have answered all her questions. And she would have known how to wear the sandals. Which were sandals, it turned out. They just had far too many straps and strings.

The questions, though. That would have been most helpful. It had been some time after their last conversation before she realized her father had never answered that one in particular…

"Father, you never answered."

"Answered what?"

"What's it like?"

He'd hesitated for a long time. Which had tempted her to some frustration. It seemed a rather important point to establish. How else would she know if she were doing it properly? Or that he was?

What if they did it wrong and died? Because they would die if they weren't…successful. Or whatever it was called.

And what was it called, anyway?

She knew where his was supposed to go. And what he was supposed to do with it there. Just…in and out, then again, repeatedly, until there was seed. That was simple enough. Even animals could do that. And they were supposed to touch a lot. Constantly, in fact. Which seemed something that would be difficult to avoid doing in that sort of situation anyway.

But if she hadn't known that? Because father had never even told her that part. T'Lin had. And, of course, she had seen animals do it. But if she hadn't known…and he hadn't known…and they did it wrong…what would happen then?

And what else had he neglected to tell her about it? He just kept saying it would come naturally. None of it seemed natural in the slightest, though. In fact, it seemed decidedly unnatural. All of it.

"When you have a scratch that has become infected…" He said suddenly. "You scratch it, because it itches. Yet, it hurts to scratch because it is infected. You scratch it nonetheless, because you must. And you continue doing so, experiencing both pleasurable relief and barely tolerable pain. Until you reach satisfaction. Pon'farr is like that."

T'Pol had stared at the back of his head for a while. And he'd stubbornly refused to turn around. So she went over that a few times in her mind. To be sure she understood everything…

"It itches?" She asked.

"In a way." He said. "It has also been described accurately as fever or heat. Also as hunger."

So.

A painfully itchy, hot, hunger.

That was not at all natural. It could not possibly be.

"Are you certain, father?"

"Of course."

T'Pol contemplated that.

"Beyond the pon'farr, it is much the same. But without the discomfort."

Which established the matter firmly, in her opinion. It was clearly not a natural process. In order to encourage procreation the pleasurable experience devoid of discomfort should have been during the fertile period.

Not at every other time in between! That was entirely illogical!

When S'Guya finally appeared, T'Pol was forced to suppress panic again. Because he looked almost to be in full plak-tou already. She was supposed to have at least three days to prepare but…what if there was no time?

He was sweating slightly. And his eyes were not narrowed. Typically when one focuses with intensity, the eyes were narrowed. To focus so intently with the eyes not narrowed was…disturbing. Because it was unnatural.

And he smelled…strange. Almost as if she should recognize the scent but…she never smelled that before. Or anything near it. Some animals smelled differently in their time, she knew. She'd smelled that before. Sehlat, for example. But…he didn't smell like anything she'd ever smelled before.

It was admittedly fascinating but…it made her very uncomfortable as well.

Her father stood across the room from her, with S'Guya's father, N'Mut. And his mother, T'Ras. She was alone in the center of the room when he approached her.

She wanted her father with her then. She suppressed her fear but…she would have preferred that.

"I am sorry, T'Pol." S'Guya said.

Which surprised her. As if he had brought this upon them both himself somehow. It was hardly anyone's fault, was it?

But the look in his eyes…it did not match the appeal to sympathy he verbalized. Not at all.

Not in any way.

And then he held out his hand to her. Wanting to reach out fully to grab her, she knew. Drag her away somewhere or throw her down on the floor. And…do that to her.

But he waited at least. And she didn't want to make him wait…but…it was an important moment, requiring significant preparation. Because this was the beginning of it.

She reached out tentatively to touch his hand, though. She was supposed to do that. That's how it happened. Otherwise she wouldn't be ready for him when the time came. And that would be…if her father was right, then there would be no pleasurable aspect to it. Nor even any driving need.

And she wondered if that wouldn't really be preferable. To simply remain detached and allow him to satisfy his requirement. Wouldn't that be preferable?

But she touched his hand. Because she was supposed to.

And she felt it. Immediately. Like a flame that leapt through his nervous system to rip and tear and burn through her own. Until it ravaged her to the core. And left a spark there, burning.

And then he was gone. Stumbling away out of the room. His duty done.

Her womb still lit with that spark. Waiting to be stoked into a flame. A fire. A bonfire.

A flaming, roaring holocaust that would combust every fiber of her being…

She knew. She understood then.

So when her father came to reclaim her, she stumbled back. Already sick, shaking her head. Denying it. Choking with sickness and the violent awareness of what had been done to her.

And turning to flee into the garden. Flee from all of them who had done this thing to her.