When they released him from the whipping post, his broken body hit the hard ground with an audible thud. His broken fingers, now swollen and twisted beyond recognition got crumpled under his weight, but he was unable to do anything to control his ungraceful fall.

His vision swam and his throat refused to make a sound. Blood leaked from the corner of his lacerated lips. Tears mingled with sweat ran down his face, further blurring the haze that had descended upon his eyes.

The fire in his back, buttocks, and upper thighs felt like acid corroding his skin. And the brand on his side that marked him as something even less than property, consistently forced more tears to leak out from his tired eyes. It was as if there was nothing left in his body to leak out. Yet, he bled and he wept, having lost his control over himself almost completely.

He allowed himself to feel the cool ground under his cheek, hoping it would provide some respite to the new wound in his side. But the cold only acted as his enemy, unlike Ishok, who Spock did not blame in the least for what had happened.

A large, calloused pair of hands roughly pulled his hands from under him. The movement made Spock want to black out, but somehow, that blessed relief did not come to him. A moment later, he was dragged away from the whipping post, broken hands now nothing more than bloated bags of torn muscles, clotting blood, and shattered bones.

Spock let out a wet cough. And had he been more himself, the sight of green specks coming out of his mouth would have concerned him.

But at this moment, his only thought was to reign in the uncontrollable hacking, in order to stop his torn back muscles from shaking so much.

They paid no heed to his discomfort. It looked like the Dafar did not care if the Vulcan died. And as long as he wasn't worried, the guards had no reason to bother about the strange alien child.

They dragged him down to a basement under the palace, where the air was much colder.

Spock's toes and knees were aching from every time he was dragged over stairs. At long last, they dragged him into a tiny room, which would have been a cell, were it not for the fire burning in the grate and the two blankets laid on the floor.

"The Dafar wanted to give you better hospitality, whipping boy. But the prince's kindness to you cannot go unpunished. You will be kept here. And should the prince choose to find you again, he will learn that your suffering is due to his actions," the guard said, pity dripping through his words.

Spock was too far gone to respond. He simply jerked his head, hoping the guard would understand it to be a nod.

The guard understood.

He turned to leave. But a moment later, he turned back. From a pouch sewn into his robe, he brought out a small canteen of water and a tiny bottle of a healing salve. He placed these near to Spock, and then proceeded to cover the Vulcan with the softer of the two blankets.

"It is not much, but when you feel slightly better, drink the water and apply the salve to your wounds. That brand on your side will need it," he said. "I would have done it myself, but I will be missed soon, and I do not wish to rouse suspicion.

At first, the guard thought Spock had fallen asleep.

But then a tiny, childlike voice whispered brokenly, "Tha…tha..nk You."

The guard's heart squeezed painfully. He wanted to hit something. A part of him wanted to hit the child hard enough to knock him out, or better, knock him dead. Another wanted to kill the Dafar for brutalizing a mere boy.

However, he could do neither. He had children, a son and a daughter, probably close to the young Vulcan's age.

And he did not even want to think about what would be done to them if he were caught engaging in an act of defiance against the Dafar.

He did not say anything to Spock. What could he say to a child who had been treated so unfairly? He wondered if the Vulcan had a family. His eyes went to Spock's bound hands, now resting awkwardly in front of him. The hands looked so painful. The guard regretted the amount of force he had used to drag the kid.

But then he had resolutely refused to look at his face until now.

And that had been a wise decision. Because after putting a face to the disgraced whipping boy, he could not think of the child as just a tool for the prince's education.

He wished he could open Spock's bonds. Surely that would allow him to place his arms on his sides, which would be a lot more comfortable. But the Dafar had not said if that was allowed. If he remembered correctly, the boy had been brought to the whipping post with his hands bound in front of him.

And that meant that his bonds had not been released since yesterday.

Another surge of emotion passed through him, beseeching him to be a better man.

But in the end, his cowardice and his love for his own children got the better of him. And that is when he realized that being a parent demanded sacrifices. Even immoral ones like those of his conscience and compassion.

XXXXX

Ishok walked back with his father to the dining hall. He felt oddly detached from his body. Gurokh pretended as if nothing had happened. As if they hadn't just beaten a helpless, injured boy to a bloody pulp. As if they hadn't just sold their soul to the God of demons, in order to continue holding Zarmal in their suffocating royal grip.

No. Gurokh sat at the table, joined by his wife at his side. And Ishok sat at his regular place, refusing to let his eyes stray to the seat where Spock had sat yesterday at lunch.

"He hadn't eaten much. And he wasn't allowed to eat after yesterday's beating," Ishok thought to himself, wanting nothing more than to grab the large bowl of fruit, and find Spock to feed him with his own hands.

And while the urge to do so was strong, Ishok wasn't sure he would. He didn't dare be caught helping Spock again. He wasn't sure Spock would survive what had been done to him today, but he knew that he definitely won't make it through another torture session.

In that moment, he hated his compassion. He hated every little animal he had petted in front of his father. He hated every beggar he had ever given credits to, under the disapproving gaze of the Dafar. But more than that, he hated himself for not realizing that he needed to hide himself from his father. He wished he could go back in time and warn his younger self that these little acts of kindness that filled his heart with joy, would have to be entirely discreet, invisible to the Dafar's keen eyes.

But that was a useless thought. It wasn't as if he could actually go back in time and change anything.

So he sat down to eat, his thoughts with Spock, willing his love and warmth to reach the child who he knew was alone, freezing, in pain, and possibly dying slowly in unimaginable agony.

XXXXX

"What is our ETA, helmsman?" Sarek asked, not bothering to waste time in courtesies.

Sabar took a few moments to check the status, before responding to the ambassador.

"We shall arrive at Zarmal in 1.8 days Sir."

Sarek nodded, disappointed that they would not arrive sooner. If his bond with his son was anything to go by, they were losing precious time. And that had become more clear than ever after what had happened exactly three hours ago.

Sarek had felt the sharp pain of his son's renewed torment. And this time, he had been prepared. A part of him had wanted to experience every single fiber of the pain his son was being subjected to.

But that would have been illogical. And potentially disastrous for this rescue mission.

He could not afford to have been weakened by such a stressful telepathic experience, particularly when the channel was being suppressed by something. And he could not have allowed Amanda to suffer through it either.

Before she had been able to connect the dots, he had sat down to meditate beside her, fortifying his shields again and extending them to her mind.

"He's being hurt again," she had said, her voice barely above a whisper. He hadn't responded. He had taken her soft hand in his and waited for this new test in his child's never ending list of trials, to end.