Greyson's House, Seattle

Spock's POV

Skaal realizes I am faltering: I am physically cold, and at my emotional limits.

Healer T'Qilah has gone. She indicated her intent to evaluate the Shi'Khari children and left to allow me a moment to meditate; to recover from her work. I am shaking, but it is not entirely from the cold.

"Enough." Skaal says gently. "You must recuperate in a warmer location." And he simply takes me by the arm to lead me back up the hill to my grandfather's house.

For a moment I resist. For a moment longer I must merely breathe the brisk air, thinking of nothing, letting the cold breeze sort through my hair. I consider the numb coldness of my ears and nose, my hands. Perhaps I am nearing a physical state of shock. Above the house that has stood witness to my family's life, the great cedars sway in the breeze: fragrant, unchanged. I drop my head, concede my will again to the healer; let him lead me.

Inside the doorway the heat greets us like a blessing. It is quiet; there is no sign of the children, nor Grandfather, nor Aunt Grace. Distantly, upstairs, I can just hear T'Qilah's voice, but I cannot discern her words. I realize I am standing rather foolishly, uselessly, while Skaal gathers an afghan from the living room and returns to me. He does not wrap it around me; he takes me, rather, by the elbow and propels me toward the dining room.

Nyota is there, still working at on the transponder, a meter in one hand hovering over the equipment while she studies me. As always, she seems to glow with light, her energy warm and yet controlled. She looks away, worried, but does not move.

I love you for respecting that I am Vulcan.

Skaal holds the afghan out to her. "I will make Spock tea to warm and hydrate him. You know how to warm him up."

Nyota's eyes widen and her face reddens, embarrassed. She has mistaken his words for a violation of our privacy. I glance at Skaal and see a very flustered Vulcan healer.

"I mean only, that, ah. Wrap him with the blanket." Skaal all but throws the knitted thing at her and skitters backward into the kitchen.

I seat myself beside Nyota at the table. She continues to hold herself back, so I scoot my chair a little closer to hers. When she meets my eyes, I lift an eyebrow at her, just a bit, in the way she has told me is flirtatious.

"His statement is accurate."

For a moment her face goes blank; then she turns away, breaking into a grin.

I love you for letting me make you laugh.

"You do look cold." She stands just enough that she can wrap the afghan around my shoulders, then sits again. We are almost knee to knee.

I place my hands palm up on my knees: an offer, a request. She glances from my hands to my face knowing it is unusual for me to be so forward, so public.

She places her hands into my palms, sighing, and after a moment I realize we have leaned forward, our foreheads touching. I close my eyes.

You are my refuge.

"You look awful. Are you okay?" She murmurs.

"I don't know."

"Oh, baby…" She sits back and lifts her hands to my face, warming my skin with her hands. "You are so cold." After another moment she glances towards the kitchen to ensure our privacy, then lightly cups my ears with her hands. "Oh, Spock..." For a moment I allow it, she is only trying to warm me. But then I must pull away; too much.

"Spock…?" She searches my eyes.

I turn away from her. Where do I begin?

How can I say I have lost myself? I shift in the chair, turning slightly away.

Before me on the table there is a pile of clothing. I realize it is composed of my mother's old clothing: sweaters, scarves. I place my hands on it.

"…Why?"

"T'Zel brought those down for the children."

Oh. I nod once. Logical enough, but it is quite painful to see. I go through the steps I learned as a child to control my thoughts, to keep my mind from recalling precisely when Mother wore each article last. It is difficult to accomplish, and I feel my throat constricting.

My hands tighten on the material, and I pull fists full of the items to my face.

Distantly, I hear Nyota breathe in sharply. "Don't—"

Yes, this is Mother's smell: human, female and scented by kshush. And yet there is something more, something earthy and flowery: the scent of lilacs perhaps. My reaction is terrible, the pain intense. For a moment I am completely lost in grief. It seems to come at me in waves, and the Vulcan part of my mind analyzes the oscillations of it.

I am chagrinned to find I am weeping.

Nyota places a hand lightly on my shoulder.

"She said…whatever I chose to become…she would be proud of me."

Nyota whispers, "She would be."

I shake my head vehemently. "I murdered sentient beings. I violated the mind of one." I drop the material to the table and gently push the pile of clothes away.

I feel her hand tense. "Violated…? Oh, Spock, kae'at k'lasa?"

I turn to meet her eyes, fully expecting her revulsion, her rejection.

Her hand tightens on my shoulder. "On the Narada."

I nod. "Yes."

Her hands go to my face again, and she brings her face close to mine. She is angry and her voice is quiet, a near hiss. "You listen to me. You did what you had to do. If you violated the mind of one of the Romulans, I know it was because you had no other choice."

"It is a war crime to—"

"It was your only option. I know it."

Was it? The plan that Kirk and I devised called first for seizing information on the ship's layout.

Could I have hacked the information from the Narada's system? Possibly. Could I have beaten the Narada's layout from Gethon or another Romulan? Possibly. But hatred and rage had driven my choice.

Time. Time had been the tipping point; I did not believe time allowed for any other decision. I know this one element of my choice to commit the war crime was pure logic. Beyond that...my logic failed.

I am not who I thought I was.

I am not as strong as I thought I was.

"Spock." Nyota calls forcefully, and I realize how far my mind has wandered…

"Who am I?" I choke out, my voice anguished and we are both startled by it.

I pull away from her and stand, and shudder as I force myself to regain control.

I stride away, to the living room mantel, to the hologram of Sarek and Mother and myself. I pick it up and hold it in my hands. I am only three years old in the picture, and I realize Skene is absent because my mother is pregnant with her. I gently put the hologram back in its dust out-lined spot and go to the bookshelf.

After a moment, I find what I am looking for. It is an old-fashioned thing: Grandmother Greyson called it her scrapbook, but it is actually an album of holograms. I return to the table with it, and I am relieved to find Nyota waiting there for me.

"May I?"

"Please do." She sweeps her hand over the empty chair beside her, playing along. I place the album on the table between us and open it.

Nyota leans forward, interested.

"This one is of my parents before they were married."

She looks from the page to me, and understanding is dawning in her face. Yes, she understands: I need to re-ground myself, to begin at the beginning.

I walk her through my family's story, from my parent's courtship and marriage, my father's ambassadorial peregrinations, their struggle to conceive me.

Skaal places tea before both Nyota and myself and excuses himself to go upstairs. He studies me intently, but his eyes linger approvingly on Nyota. As do mine.

"And this one?"

"A birthday party for my mother."

"How did they get you to wear that silly hat?"

"With great difficulty." I say lightly, then pause. "To please her." I add more seriously.

"You loved her." Nyota says, more to herself than to me.

I look away. Would it be such a betrayal of my Vulcan heritage to simply allow it? Even Father had finally admitted as much.

"Yes."

"And she loved you so much." Nyota's elegant fingers tenderly trace the edge of the hologram. "I can see it."

"Yes."

There are only a few pages left. Nyota does not comment on the spaces of obviously missing holograms.

Here is the hologram of the last family reunion. And a hologram of my Grandmother, Robbie, myself, Skene.

"Your Grandmother…Grace told me she was killed in the battle for Vulcanis."

"Yes, by the Romulan Commander Vehkris. The Vulcan Defense Force rescued Sarek and my grandfather, but not before my Uncle's ship was destroyed. That battle contributed to my decision to choose to the Vulcan way following my Kahswan."

Nyota turns and silently studies my face.

"Grandmother and Uncle Robert's murders…were the first family deaths I experienced. And for them to have died violently…"

"I'm so sorry."

I nod. The wound is old. "I knew I could drown in hatred and live for revenge or I could follow Surak's way, and commit myself to working for peace with the Romulans." I shake my head slightly. "I was an idealistic child."

"You were a good child."

I fan my hands out on the tabletop, thinking of the time traveler, my older self who calls himself Selek. On our return to earth, Kirk had filled us in on Selek's story. That Selek had failed in his mission to save Romulus, to stop the Romulan sun from going supernova. That Selek had been captured by Nero, which placed the red matter in Nero's hands.

"Selek…" It appears my commitment to forging peace with the Romulans had ended up destroying Vulcan. I…cannot begin to parse out my guilt or lack thereof for this outcome. I did not cause this, but "I" evidently did.

"Evidently trying to make peace with the Romulans doesn't work out very well." My attempt at dark humor only causes tears to well up in Nyota's eyes.

We sit in silence for a moment.

"Grace said your father saved her life." Nyota says softly.

I did not realize Aunt Grace felt so. Yes, perhaps it is true. It was not typical for humans to receive medical treatment on Vulcan. But within the family, Grace's disability is never spoken of.

"Father was…he believes he bears a great moral debt for causing such damage to my mother's family. He recruited them for the undercover mission."

Nyota takes my right hand between hers and presses my fingers to her lips.

"My mother lost her mother and brother. Yet she never blamed my father for it. She could have."

"She was strong, baby. Like you."

I love you for your faith in me.

"The little girl in the hologram is Skene, isn't it? The one between you and Robbie?"

"Yes."

"Oh, she was really beautiful. Look at those eyes. They're like your Grandfather's."

Little sister: in the defining memory I hold of you, you stand at the water's edge, the wind in your hair, looking up at me with those striking eyes. But more important to me…was the expression within them.

"When my sister was killed…I swore I'd protect Mother from ever experiencing such pain again. She had already lost so much, and then the accident…" I do not mention the many long nights I stayed with her in the hospital, as Mother recovered from the same accident that had stolen my sister's life.

"Oh, Spock…It's not possible…You can't…"

"Of course such a thought was illogical." I add quickly. "Nonetheless, I decided it was my duty to protect her."

I close the album, letting my hand rest on its cover.

"It is my fault Mother died. It was unnecessary."

"What do you mean?" Nyota asks levelly, her eyes narrowing, not liking something about my tone.

"When we exited the Katric Ark, Vulcan was collapsing into itself. Shi'Khar was collapsing before us. Had these things not distracted me I would have noticed the fracturing of the ground, the fault that took her. I murdered her as surely by inattention as I did the Romulans by phaser fire."

Nyota is shaking her head, her expression frantic. "No, no, no. You can't blame yourself. You can't."

I am puzzled by her reaction, but…my field of vision is narrowing oddly. I press the heels of my palms to my eyes.

She stands and calls toward the stairs. "T'Zel? T'Qilah? Admiral!"

I hear rapid footsteps, and Healer T'Qilah is running to me and, with a glance at Nyota, she places her hand on my face.

"Your alarm was merited. He is destabilizing. It is fortunate you recognized this." The Healer directs her words to Nyota, not me. "We need to act now."

"Tell me how you have helped him." Nyota demands, her voice shaking with anger and fear.

I did not even notice Skaal's return until this moment. "Let us move into the other room, Healer. Away from this equipment."

T'Qilah takes Nyota's hand, helping her rise. "He can speak of the battle within the Narada. The memories of the mind he violated no longer torment him. Now, quickly. Come."

The Healers pull us both toward the living room.