PART TWO
FOUR YEARS LATER


CHAPTER Seven
Difficult Conversations Proceed


Ra'tleihfi, Romulus

Spock peered out the warped window, surveying the capital city before him. War-torn and desolate, the place no longer possessed the majestic mystique of times past. It was a war zone. Loud klaxon alarms blared in the distance, their sound amplified in the canyons created by the skyscrapers; bright fire ravaged the huge buildings unchecked, flames dancing against the darkening sky. Distant phaser fire and desperate cries could be heard throughout the stark atmosphere. However, despite all this, it was still a winning battle for the Romulans.

The sun was slowly drifting down the blood-tinted sky and the darkness of night was shrouding the city. It helped conceal the Starfleet soldiers engaged in guerilla-type battles with the better-armed and, sometimes, better trained Romulan ground forces. But the setting sun also helped the Romulans. And they knew the land better, knew the hideouts infinitely better.

It was a difficult war.

Satisfied that no one was coming, Spock turned and settled against the distressed cold wall, his eyes closing and his arms cradling his phaser rifle protectively against his chest. He was tired, desperate for rest. His drab, filthy and ill-fitted uniform - a uniform that recalled the culture of his fallen home planet, but not of Starfleet - engulfed his thin, gaunt frame.

He attempted to meditate, but it proved futile. As it had for the past four years. His control was frayed and his emotions threatened to overtake him constantly if he didn't keep tight control of them. But this was immensely draining. And he was exhausted.

The sound of movement to his left caused Spock to open his eyes briefly, to look at his companions across the former store front. Judging from the various singed fabric panels – some of Romulan design, some of other races – adorning the walls, this was once a tailor's shop before it had been ransacked.

"So I said to the guy: 'You can sit here, twiddling your thumbs, waiting for that Romulan bastard to blow your head off if you want, but I'm outta here.' And you know what he said?"

The incessant voice belonged to one of Spock's fellow mercenaries, Jonathan Nettles. Spock had learned quite early how to drown out the man's inane conversations. Ten point two days ago, to be precise. He did not like nor dislike the man. He was a good soldier and could be trusted to do his job. But he had the unfortunate tendency to speak often and loudly. And it was necessary to secure one's belongings tightly, lest they somehow find their way into Nettles' sneaky...sticky grip.

He and Nettles may not have had a lot in common, but they were both bound to one another through a mutual helplessness as the Romulan Emperor Nero destroyed their home planets with a weapon of unknown power and origin. They both had lost their families in the destructions.

Nettles spoke to a young Andorian female, who stood across the small room, eyeing their destroyed communicators with disdain. Shranya was the most unpredictable of the three. Having spent the last five years in the penal colony on Tantalus V, she had finally been granted freedom by Starfleet to help fight Nero and his Romulan allies. Her battle experience was minimal, but she certainly knew her way around a weapon. She was adept and she was adaptable. And she was ruthless. It took her the longest to place her trust in Spock, so many years of Vulcan-Andorian contempt fully entrenched in her society. It was only two Romulan days ago, after an incident in which he risked his life to save hers that she realized he was trustworthy.

A creaking sound from below brought Spock out of his musings. He jumped to his feet quickly and moved to the stairwell. Looking at his companions, Spock briefly touched a finger to his lips. "Shh." He carefully aimed his rifle down the stairs.

The others followed suit.

Suddenly a voice sounded, speaking in Romulan. "Jolan'tru?" It was a traditional Romulan greeting. (1)

Immediately, Spock found himself on edge, but he replied in kind. He turned to his fellow soldiers, to Shranya, who was already taking aim, ready to fire. "Please allow me to handle this."

Shranya looked at him briefly before nodding her assent, her antennae moving wildly, revealing her nervousness.

"Lloannen'galae?" the voice spoke again, this time inquiring about their affiliation.

"Ie." He confirmed the voice's suspicions.

Faint whispering was heard below. There was more than one. Then, "Mnean patrai krehii ssiun hwio."

Spock's eyes met Nettles and Shranya's and wordlessly he tightened his grip on his rifle. Too many times they had been ambushed.

The other two noticed his actions and followed suit, gripping their weapons tightly, the knuckles of their hands whitening.

Spock did his best to peer down the stairwell without exposing himself, lest they were preparing for an attack. "Arhem thei'nihroi fvah?" He needed an answer. Were they about to be attacked? Why did these Romulans wish to give them something? (2)

"What is he saying?" Shranya spoke quickly, alarmed.

"He says they have something to give us."

"Fucking hell!" Nettles looked skywards, squeezing his eyes shut.

Spock looked at him, brow raised. "I concur."

The Romulans - two males, civilians dressed in the clothing of the lower classes - moved into view, stepping onto the staircase below. The eldest of the two reached into his robes.

Immediately, the Starfleet soldiers released the safety on their rifles, pointing them at the Romulans.

The Romulans halted.

One of the Romulans - the younger of the two - held his hands out, eyeing the weapons warily. "Lhi uae d'tethos!"

The soldiers did not put their weapons down.

Calmly, Spock ordered the Romulans to act first. "Lhi uae ih'hwi." He aimed his weapon, his knuckles white.

The elder one yelled out, holding his hands out. "Simhoni!" He pulled out a small canvas bag that was hidden in his robes. Not weapons. "Mnean patrai kyrr'lep mnhe. Kyrr'lep hwaehp..."

His companion rushed to add: "U'kyrr'lep Kali'fal!" (3)

Nettles suddenly broke out in a smile, his bright white teeth glinting in the moonlight, and lowered his weapon. He looked at his companions. "I may not know much Romulan, but I know Romulan ale when I hear it!" He looked down at the Romulans and motioned for them to come up. "Come on!"

Spock raised his eyebrow and cast a look at Shranya, determining her stance on the matter. It was merely bread and ale. He told her this.

She lowered her weapon and waved her arms somewhat helplessly, her antennae moving quickly. She sighed.

Spock gave a slight nod and dropped his weapon to his side. Yes, they would allow these Romulan men to join them.

The two Romulans - father and son - quickly engrained themselves amongst the unit, despite the language barrier. Spock learned that they were of the lower societal class. Their educational levels were lacking, but they meant the trio no harm.

The son, Valdore, eyed Spock carefully. He took a drink from the bottle of Romulan ale, the bright blue liquid sloshing in the clear bottle, and held it out to the Vulcan, who shook his head. With a small shrug, Valdore handed it off to Nettles, who took it eagerly. Valdore spoke to Spock. "Fvah hwiiy sthe khir?" He wanted to know why they were there.

Spock leaned heavily against the wall behind him. He looked out the window as best he could from his position. Deciding they were still safe, he turned his eyes to Valdore and Sarun, the father. "Rhifv temnnuil ohrie, Khhiu'draao errhi u'mnean fvaih kunhri." He told them of their orders to retreat and their subsequent separation when they were ambushed by the expansive Romulan Land Army.

Valdore and Sarun looked at each other. They were not pleased to hear this.

"Aei lyreth. Lloannen'Galae nnuil." Valdore's voice adopted a resigned tone. He was not pleased to hear of their impending departure.

Spock was surprised that their orders were already common knowledge in the streets of Ra'tleihfi. But he quickly realized he shouldn't have been. It would have been obvious to the residents when the Federation officers started to run in the opposite direction.

Sarun dropped his gaze to his lap. He ran his fingers absently across the folds and wrinkles of his worn robes. He was clearly upset by this news.

His son leaned into him and whispered something in his ear, patting his back, comforting.

Spock looked to his companions, but they were too distracted by the ale, smiling and sharing it with each other. Offering comfort, supporting someone during emotional distress was not an area in which he felt comfortable. Emotions and their accompanying outbursts had no place amongst the Vulcans' society...what remained if it. He was ill-equipped to handle it. And Romulan was a language with which he had no deep understanding. No, it was more Nyota's specialty. He dropped his gaze to his lap as he thought of her. He had no other words to offer as comfort. "Mnean yytaera h'rau eihssliorae."

They would be leaving as soon as the sun rose in the sky.

Valdore sat up and looked at Spock. His words were grave. "Mnean iyhwe en fvheisn, ehludet en yy'ar. Emael en Rihanh rrhuieh temthech nnea Rhiyrh Nero, isahhae'edh nnea Lloann'mhrahel." Not all of Romulus' citizens wanted to see their current emperor, Nero, destroy the Federation. It was a risk of lives they did not wish to pay.

Spock's eyes dropped. Yes, the destruction of the Federation. At the hands of this seemingly unstoppable Romulan. Vulcan. Earth. How much longer would it be before Nero decided to seek out another Federation planet? And which one would be next? Tellar Prime? Bolarus IX? No, Nero had to be stopped. No matter the price. Starfleet would not let this rest. They would return. He returned his gaze to Valdore, to Sarun. "Mnean mnaer'ti llhnae. Mnean mnear'ti nnaen Nero." He then uttered his first decidedly illogical words. A promise. A promise that Starfleet would return. "Arhem culhas hwi." (4)

Eventually, the ale was finished and the bread eaten. The Romulans stood and took their leave of the Federation members.

Sarun smiled at Nettles and Shranya. "Bed aoi." (5)

They nodded in farewell.

He then turned to Spock, who stood with his hands behind his back. Sarun raised his hand in the traditional Vulcan ta'al.

The movement surprised Spock. It had been years since he had seen anyone perform the action.

Sarun spoke in the words of Vulcan. "Dif-tor heh smusma."

Spock replied in kind, raising his right hand. "Sochya eh dif." (6)

Sarun smiled sadly at him then bowed slightly. Turning, he joined his son below.

With the Romulans gone, Spock settled himself back against the wall, his exhaustion threatening to consume him. He felt eyes on him.

It was Nettles. "How come a Vulcan like you, speaks Romulan and everything, ends up a mere mercenary soldier?"

Spock hesitated. It was not that he distrusted Nettles, but Vulcans were a private people. And the circumstances still stung and tormented him, when all it took was a swift second before his newly-founded happiness was ripped from his hands by an overzealous cadet. He lost control briefly and his breathing hitched.

Nettles immediately realized he stepped over the line of proper decorum. "Uh, you don't have to answer if you don't want."

"I was a Commander of Starfleet, preparing for my position as Chief Science Officer onboard the USS Yorktown. However, due to an incident that was grossly misinterpreted by a cadet, I was ordered to resign my commission or face a court martial. I chose the former."

Nettles gaped at him. "You're fucking shitting me."

"I am not. I resigned my commission and had expected never to return to Starfleet. However, due to the current situation, with Starfleet's numbers greatly depleted, I was allowed to return as a mercenary soldier to aid in the war against Nero's forces. Due to the previous incident, however, I was not allowed to retain my rank as Commander within Starfleet." Spock nothing further and closed his eyes, lost in thought.

Fourteen Days Ago

She saw him before he saw her.

Nyota felt awkward in her Andorian-style attire. She glanced down at it briefly, wishing she had had time to return home and change before meeting him. But she didn't. She had a difficult time with one of her charges, who had been calling desperately to his bond mate, not comprehending that she had died two years ago when Vulcan imploded. It broke her heart. Her dress was stained with the blue-green juice of a kaasa plant, which had been thrown in frustration by the broken Vulcan.

Watching him now, she desperately wished she had some way of removing the stain.

Spock stood in the doorway of the nondescript café near the prestigious Andorian Academy. He had changed much since she last saw him. Tears filled her eyes as she gazed at his thin form, his gaunt cheeks. He seemed awkward and uncomfortable in his uniform. Not one of Starfleet science officers, like it should have been.

She squeezed her eyes closed and when she opened them again, the tears had retreated. But they threatened to return when she watched as he turned away from the café, as though he was about to leave. Her heart wrenched at the thought. She clutched the edge of the table tightly, her knuckles turning white, and watched.

He took a deep breath and then turned back around. His eyes scanned the room before finally landing on hers.

She slowly stood and they looked at one another from across the room for several moments, until the spell was broken when an elder Andorian man moved past Spock, forcing him to take a step back, to allow the man to past.

He slowly walked toward her. Then he finally spoke. "I apologize I am late. I had difficulty locating this establishment."

She gave a small nod. "Hello." Her gaze dropped and she looked around helplessly. Why was this so difficult?

He followed her lead. "Hello." His voice was calm, strong, despite his disheveled and tired appearance.

Their eyes met again.

"Shall we sit?" she suddenly spoke, motioning to the table. He followed her gestures. She had already ordered some Vulcan tea; this particular café on Andoria was one of the few such places that offered a variety of Vulcan and Earth teas. Such things were a scarce commodity, now that the two planets had been decimated by the nefarious Nero.

"Yes, of course." He pulled out her chair and she took a seat before he moved to his chair.

Nyota busied herself with the tea preparations, an act she had grown so comfortable doing when she was his assistant. She had always made sure she had placed his cup of tea on his desk before he arrived in the morning. It had become one of their customs. But now, after pouring him a cup, she hesitated, hand over the sugar bowl. "I'm...I'm sorry. I can't remember –"

Spock didn't hesitate in his reply. "Two. Thank you." He took no offense to her slip, just as she knew he wouldn't. She was thankful for that.

Nyota nodded jerkily and dropped two sugar cubes into his cup. He took it from her and picked up the spoon on the table and stirred his tea. His eyes rose to look around the café again, taking in the crowd. No one was paying them any mind.

Nyota reached out and placed a hand on his. It startled him slightly and he dropped his eyes to look at their hands. Slowly, he turned his hand over and linked fingers with hers. His eyes closed briefly and then he gently took his hand from hers.

"May I ask what it is you do here on Andoria? I noticed you are no longer wearing your Starfleet uniform, so I must conclude that it is not because the headquarters has been relocated here."

Her eyes dropped from him to her stained outfit. "No. I, uh, I'm not in Starfleet anymore."

His eyes widened in surprise before he managed to tap down his emotional response. "I must admit that I did not anticipate that."

She looked away. "I couldn't. Not afterwards." A moment of silence resided between them. She cleared her throat. "I'm here helping at the Shelter."

She didn't elaborate. She didn't need to. He understood that she meant the shelter the Andorians helped establish to aid the broken Vulcans, those who had been irreparably shattered by the destruction of their home.

"You look the same, apart from the lack of Starfleet uniform, of course."

Nyota felt the back of her eyes burning with unshed tears. "I have to be back at the Shelter in thirty minutes."

He released a gasp, his Vulcan resolve slipping. "That's –" He broke off, his eyes closing and he focused on mastering his emotions.

She knew what he was going to say. It was awful, horrible, traumatic. And it was. It was every time she entered to see those once noble and proud Vulcans reduced to mere shells of themselves, crying out to their mates, their children that were no longer with them.

As she watched him fight to maintain that cold Vulcan façade, she could hear the two Andorian women behind them discussing matters of little importance. Their laughter bounced off the walls, amplified, and creating such a dissonance with the emotions weighing between Spock and her. It was grating. It was out of place.

"I am sorry." He opened his eyes and looked at her earnestly.

"Why?"

"It was I that has placed you in this situation. I forced my –"

"Spock, no. You didn't force anything on me. You know that. I've told you." She shook her head fiercely, grabbing his hand.

"Nyota, you do not...owe me anything." He, once again, removed his hand from hers.

She felt him slipping from her and was confused and hurt. "Didn't you read my letters? Had I been allowed to visit you, had they let me...I would have been there every day. Every day."

He had been sent to P'Jem, the Vulcan monastery, by orders of his father. She had been heartbroken she had learned of it. A place intended for peace and serenity, a place to gain enlightenment. A place Vulcans went to in order to partake in the ancient Vulcan rituals of Kolinahr, to purge emotions. She couldn't imagine how much of a prison it must have felt to Spock, who, despite his great emphasis on logic, cultured his emotions within himself. It must have been so suffocating for him to have those rituals forced upon him by Vulcan monks who were detached to his plight, having undergone the rituals themselves.

His eyes closed. "Yes. But if all we have rests on a few moments in a darkened Starfleet office three years and six months ago, then I am not sure...I do not know if-" His control slipped again.

Nyota reached out and cupped his cheek gently with a hand. "Come back. Come back to me."

"I do not know if that will be possible, k'diwa. The Federation has been decimated. We are at war, fighting a battle I do not know if we can win."

She nodded sadly. "Just...just promise me you'll come back to me."

He leans into her touch, his eyes closing. He no longer cared that they were in sight of others. She felt his exhaustion through the tentative link. Her eyes shone bright with tears.

He walked her to the Shelter, grasping her hand tightly. On Vulcan, such displays of affection would have been regarded with cold consternation. But they were not on Vulcan; Vulcan no longer existed. And he tired of maintaining his emotionless disposition. He was simply tired.

They passed many Andorians and other species. Not one paid them any attention. Spock found it refreshing. To be here with her and not be judged. It was freeing. But it wouldn't last. He was due to fly out tomorrow. And she was due to work here.

"A friend of mine. She has a place up in the mountains. I haven't been to the mountains here yet, but I hear they're beautiful." She spoke when they arrived at the Shelter.

He refused to look at the building. He refused to be reminded.

"Yes." He had heard this too.

"She says we can use it the next time you're on leave. Large arches, gorgeous view."

The two lovers looked at each other. Suddenly, realizing their brief time was ending and no longer caring who saw or about propriety, Spock wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her into a deep kiss. She tangled her hands in his hair and drew him closer still. He felt the tell-tale signs of tears and she began to cry.

"Nyota," he breathed against her lips. He broke the kiss when he felt her slip something into the pocket on his uniform jacket.

She looked at him, finally letting her tears fall. "Something to think about when you're away."

"I love you." His voice was a whisper. He did not know what precisely possessed him to vocalize his emotions at that moment, but seeing how it affected her, how it seemed to fill her with a confidence he didn't realize was missing, made him glad that he did.

She gave him a teary smile, cupping his face with her hands. Leaning toward him, she gave him another final kiss before tearing herself away from his grasp. Without another word, she entered the tall foreboding building.

Present Day

Spock stood outside, watching as Romulus' sun rose high into the sky. His comrades still slept in the makeshift shelter behind him. He reached into his uniform pocket and pulled out the battered holophoto Nyota had slipped in that day. He kept it with his small PADD that contained each and every letter she sent. He gazed at the photo. It held so much hope. Hope that when everything was over, when the battles were won, they could be together. That they could live their lives out peacefully.

He sighed slightly and returned it and the PADD to their pocket. Then, after glancing back to ensure no one was there, he pulled open the jacket and ran his hands across his chest to his solar plexus. A wound – the result of a phaser battle – stood green and angry against his pale skin. It was small, precise.

It did not appear to be too serious.

He pressed against it and suddenly struggled to contain a gasp of pain. A colorless liquid oozed from the small puncture.

It was worse than it appeared.

Translations:

(1) "Hello?"

(2) "Federation Starfleet?"
"Yes."
"We have something for you."
"May I ask what?"

(3) "Put away your rifles!"
"Put away yours first."
"Wait! We have some food for you. Some bread..."
"And some Romulan Ale!"

(4) "What are you doing here?"
"When the retreat was ordered, the Land Army attacked and we were separated from our crew."
"It is true. The Federation is retreating."
"We leave at sunrise."
"We fought all those years, lost all those dead. Not all Romulans desire Emperor Nero's reign, his destruction of the Federation."
"We shall return. We shall remove Nero. I promise you,"

(5) "Goodbye forever."

(6) "Live long and prosper."
"Peace and long life."