Spock took an imperceptible deep breath as he exited the learning bowl.
He was now away from the protection it offered. Away from the isolation that he both loathed and loved, away from the knowledge that served as his guard.
He was vulnerable.
As they had thirty-four times before, the three older boys strode up to him, faces blank.
'Spock.'
He schooled himself. He breathed again.
Maintain control.
His voice was calm and emotionless when he spoke.
'I presume you have prepared new insults for today.'
He already knew the answer.
'Affirmative.'
'This is your thirty-fifth attempt to elicit an emotional response from me.'
He'd been counting.
'You're neither Human nor Vulcan and therefore have no place in this universe.'
That statement is false. I do have a place in this universe. Mother presented an excellent logical argument-
'Look at his Human eyes. They look sad, don't they?'
Mother says that Humans can look as if they feel a certain emotion, even when they do not. Therefore, his statement is fraught with-
'Perhaps an emotional response requires physical stimuli.'
He was shoved backwards, towards the tip of the bowl. He momentarily struggled to catch his balance.
'He's a traitor, you know, your father, for marrying her, that Human whore.'
He could feel the anger, the emotion, coursing through his veins.
He strove for control.
His attempts to do so were in vain.
He found himself no longer caring.
My mother is not a whore!
He was barely aware of what he did next.
It all passed in a flurry of emotion, of pain, of flashes of his mother's smile, of her laugh, of her words, of her hugs...
His father was disappointed at him, angry with him.
At least, he would have been if he were not Vulcan.
Spock struggled with his meditation that night.
Finally, he reached what he believed to be an acceptable conclusion.
It is morally frowned upon to allow a being to come to unnecessary harm. Insults to my mother that she is unaware of may not currently harm her, but may cause emotional distress in the future. I have a moral obligation to defend my mother, and although my actions are likely to be judged as illogical, the intent was not.
It helped somewhat, and he eased better into the serenity of meditation.
But there was one image that continued to slide unbidden into his mind.
An early memory of his.
Being carried by his mother, looking up at her face.
A smile.
Spock stood patiently as his mother adjusted the collar of the sweater she had knitted him.
A most peculiar idiosyncrasy of hers.
'Spock, there's no need to be anxious. You'll do fine.'
He believed she may well have been more anxious than he was.
Not that he was anxious.
He's Vulcan.
'I am hardly anxious, Mother, and fine has variable definitions. Fine is unacceptable.'
She smiled, and he had to exercise his self-discipline to prevent a response.
'Okay.'
She adjusted his collar again, but he reached up to catch her hand within his.
'May I ask a personal query?'
'Anything.'
'Should I choose to complete the Vulcan discipline of Kolinahr, and purge all emotion? I trust you will not feel it reflects judgement upon you.'
I do not know. Would it be wise, be logical, to reject half of my heritage?
'Oh, Spock, as always, whatever you choose to be, you will have a proud mother.'
He believes that she will always say that, no matter what.
Stability logically brings satisfaction and comfort.
His mother is a universal constant.
She is, to use the Human expressions, his rock, his anchor.
Spock stood before the Council, looking upwards impassively.
'You have surpassed the expectations of your instructors. Your final record is flawless, with one exception; I see you have applied to Starfleet as well.'
There was something there, something in those words...
'It was logical to cultivate multiple options.'
'Logical, but unnecessary. You are hereby accepted to the Vulcan Science Academy. It is truly remarkable, Spock, that you have achieved so much despite your disadvantage. All rise.'
Something welled up inside him, something that he had not felt in so long...
'If you would clarify, Minister, to what disadvantage are you referring?'
'Your Human mother.'
The magma coursed within him, building pressure...
'Council, Ministers, I must decline.'
He knew it was rash.
He knew he may regret it later.
But this was his mother. The mother who had carried him, birthed him, cared for him, loved him...
A fissure, a crack, appeared in his control...
'No Vulcan has ever declined admission to this Academy!'
'Then as I am half-Human, your record remains untarnished!'
The fissure grew wider...his control had slipped.
'Spock, you have made a commitment to honour the Vulcan way.'
He could never understand his father.
This was his wife, his bondmate, that the Ministers spoke about with such emotionless disdain.
The magma within him began to pulse, course, out of the volcano.
He was pleased to note that the control of the other Vulcans, full Vulcans, in the room slipped also.
'Why did you come before this council today? Was it to satisfy your emotional need to rebel?'
'The only emotion I wish to convey is gratitude. Thank you, Ministers, for your consideration.'
Eruption.
'Live long and prosper.'
He turned and left, never looking back.