Vulcan
Commander Spock says 'Vulcan' in his cool, level voice. And really, it didn't sound much different Before:
He stands so straight as he speaks to the class, his posture so perfect, always. And you'd think, as he talks in that dispassionate tone, that his lectures would be boring and dry.
But they're not. Not at all.
Commander Spock gives the Federation's name for his homeworld no more emphasis than that of the other member and independent planets, and he manages to sound as though he honors the unique qualities possessed by each. He has a comprehension and understanding that convinces you that it's all interconnected.
Cadet Uhura finds it fascinating.
Walking from class to the lab, or to his office, Cadet Uhura will ask Commander Spock questions about his homeworld, about Vulcan.
His answers will be short, and very factual.
Still, she learns about mean temperature, population density, food production.
With his arms around her, in the privacy of his apartment, Nyota asks Spock about his homeworld. Vulcan runs through his veins. She's curled in his lap, with her head on his chest; she can feel it rise and fall with his breathing, hear his voice rumble within. She listens to the nuances of intonation. She hears the things he doesn't say.
He tells her about Shi'Kahr, the city of his birth: The greatest of Vulcan cities, home to artists and artisans, scientists and philosophers. He says the name, and she hears the sum of Vulcan knowledge and culture, preserved for generations to come. She hears his own part in it.
He tells her about Na'nam-Shi'al, the province, home to Shi'Kahr and Mt. Seleya, the location of his ancestral lands and the resting place of Surak. In the depths of his voice she hears enduring echoes of ancient thought and passion.
He tells her about his homeworld: 'T'Khasi,' he says, and she hears in his fluid voice the unceasing call of a wild place, an untamed place of shifting red sands and jutting promontories, a place of dangerous beauty and mystery.
After - He says 'Vulcan' in his cool, level voice. And to everyone who hears him – everyone except Nyota – it doesn't sound any different than before. He says the word in his Vulcan voice, and it's only a word - the one usually written 'vuhlkansu': It's an adjective, never more.
After – 408 days after – she waits for him in his quarters.
It has been a long, long time, and a long, long day, and she can wait no longer.
He comes in, the door closes; he pauses. She knows he senses something in the hot, dry, scented air, and she wonders if he understands it is Human anxiousness, misery - despair, even.
He waits for her in still silence; and she goes to him, wrapping her arms around him, leaning into him. She pulls away and touches his face, his neck; he touches the back of her hand.
His face is impassive: Still he waits.
It has been 408 days – a full year. Surely a full year is enough?
She looks into his waiting eyes and almost can't form the question that she knows will destroy this hard-won peace. But her need is great. She looks into his eyes and asks him gently, "Spock - my dearest love – where were you born?"
He closes his eyes for a full second, two.
He draws breath, unmoving, and looks at her now with empty eyes. "I was born in the capitol city of a planet now gone," he answers in a voice just as empty, as sterile and cold.
"You have to tell me," she says - she begs - "Please, beloved, say the words."
"No," he says.
In his face, in his voice, is nothing. Nothing. In his eyes? Nothing, nothing.
"Those words have no meaning now," he says. "They are mere placeholders for a footnote in history." Touching his face, his hand on hers, she feels no anger leaching through his skin, she feels no righteous indignation. She feels, coming from him, nothing – nothing at all.
After a moment he nods. Her hand drops away, and his hand from hers. He turns and goes - headed, no doubt, back to the Bridge, or the seclusion of the labs.
She knows he will return when it is time for her to sleep. He will gather her in his arms and keep her with him: She needs that, and he knows it. But tonight - this solitary night - he will hold her in silence, and say nothing.
"I need to hear that name," she whispers, the words hurtling grimly toward the withdrawing back with its stiff, straight, perfect posture.
Words fall short.
After the door closes behind him, she is silent a moment longer, before names too long unsaid burst from a human heart with an all-too-human voice: "Shi'Kahr - Na'Nam-Shi'al - " She cries on a note of anguish. Her ears, alone, will hear, "T'Khasi. Vulcan."
