Admiral Greyson's House

Front Lawn, near Seattle

Spock's POV

A/N: Thank you for your patience and encouragement. We're still where Raven left us, at the memorial. Rather stream of consciousness, here.

A/N II: A couple of small changes have been made based on reader comments.

Evening falls. I have been directed by my Grandfather to proceed outside to the edge of the deck. I stand with the household for a memorial: formal recognition by the Salish Nation.

I am tired, perhaps even irritable. I should meditate. My control remains faulty. I have had enough of memorials, yet I must concede to this out of respect for our neighbor, out of respect for the effort made to put together this traditional recognition on our behalf.

I look upward and study the sky, and it has the same rich shadings as any other summer evening I have spent here. Those of us with Vulcan blood can now pick out the stars that will shortly become visible to the humans here. I used to tease mother by pointing out the location of the evening star before she could see it.

She would stand-precisely here-where I now stand on the edge of this deck, searching the sky for the evening star. I recall how the light reflecting from the Sound would outline her in silver-blue, the forest a dark backdrop, her expression wistful. And I further recall how I would off-handedly point out the location of the refracting planet; Mother sighing, squinting, and shaking her head as her eyes unfruitfully followed the trajectory my extended finger marked.

With the fading of the light the air has quickly grown colder, the surrounding sea reasserting its dominance. The dank, penetrating air is rich with its intense fish and seaweed scent. Even with Sarek's cloak wrapped around me, I am shivering. I should not be shivering so; this is more than the temperature alone merits.

We face the Sound, face the Tribal dancers. The young orphans stand quietly before us, also facing seaward, hands held properly behind their backs.

Our neighbor and an assortment of his family, and the many local Tribal representatives have come to present this Tribal Honor Guard: to honor our loss, to recognize our survival.

I swallow, recognizing it as a nervous behavior-mother pointed it out to me in my early school years-literally swallowing back emotion. She knew I would not want to expose my anxieties publicly and would whisper a warning into my ear when I lapsed into the action unconsciously.

I fear the anger I still barely control. Mother should not be dead, but she is. Vulcan should not be gone, but it is. It is all so wrong…so wrong. It is illogical, even confusing, but the sense persists that I failed both mother and my planet.

I continue to shiver and I struggle to center myself, to control my breathing. I have not struggled so intensely for control since I was a child. Of course on the Bridge…no, I will not think of that now. It is appropriate that I remain psychologically present.

Father stands beside me perfectly controlled as always, eyes straight ahead, unreadable. Family, and yet truncated: I feel mother's absence like an amputation. And I am off-balance with Nyota so near and yet not beside me. With the exception of my Grandfather, the humans gather by the fire at the beachfront. I see Rob has returned with my cousin Chris. Chris and Rob have seated themselves by the fire with Grace and Nyota and Kirk, the drummers adjacent. Between us the dancers wait solemnly, arrayed across the lawn.

Nyota. Your face is bright in the firelight; your eyes animated as you study the dancers. I want to call you to me; your absence from my side is nearly unbearable: one thing more that seems wrong.

The wind seems to hold its breath, the air stills as the sodden clouds morph into mauve and orange layers, neither full day-light nor quite yet twilight: almost Vulcan colors. On the eastern horizon, the sunset skims beneath the clouds, and the mountaintops take on a ruddy glow.

Ruddy glow: the Llangon mountains glowed red at sunset. Mother would curl into the chaise lounge on the deck at home, wrapped in blankets against the dry air, to watch the sunset colors play across their escarpments. Of course the neighbors thought it odd of her.

I look down toward the cove, past the dancers, beyond the fire and the drummers to the dock. It was so mundane, the expectation that I would return here again and again with mother.

I remember mother on the dock below: full of life, scandalizing me by wearing an ordinary enough bathing suit, blue, her long legs fully exposed for anyone to see. She holds my gaze; her eyes twinkling with mischief as she lounges back on her beach towel, dropping her hand into the salty water she lightly splashes Skene.

I defend my little sister, splashing mother in response from where I stand thigh-deep in the frigid water. Mother just laughs. She is so beautiful. Of course, she always was. Skene strides off the dock in annoyance and up the bank to a bench by the firepit. She sat with her back to us, shielding her reader.

"Spock."

My face freezes and if my expression is even fractionally as bemused as my thoughts it would appear exceptionally inappropriate.

The recollection vanishes and I turn slightly to see my father staring at me with a crease between his eyebrows. "Spock. The ta'al. We are welcoming the Tribes in peace to this House."

I have no idea what I missed. I swallow in shame at my distraction and raise my hand in the Vulcan greeting, joining the other Vulcans. Savar glimpses over his shoulder at me, and I struggle not to sigh at the child's innocently curious look, the same fascination that has dogged me all my life: not like us.

I attempt to erase all emotion from my face. And yet…my lost planet, my lost culture... I have always blamed difficult emotions on my heritage from mother. I fleetingly consider the illogic of blame-

When I meet Ernie Toms' eyes there are tears there. He nods once at me before continuing, speaking to my grandfather, "Any time, Robert."

"Welcome to my home and my family. I am honored to receive you as my guests." My Grandfather salutes the guests.

"Live long and prosper." My father adds quietly, simply.

"Peace, and long life." Ernie responds in kind. "Denise, do you have Grandma's candle?" The young girl beside him holds up a bag, which Ernie takes. He pulls out a decorated object and offers it to my grandfather.

"Esther made one of her fancy candles for you. She wanted me to give you this in Mandy's memory." The glittery candle is surrounded with artificial flowers and foliage, and my grandfather accepts the object.

"Thank you, Denise, Ernie. Let Esther know I appreciate her thoughtfulness." Grandfather tucks it into the crook of his arm.

Ernie turns to my father. Before us the dancers wait attentively.

"Ambassador Sarek."

And my father nods his acknowledgment.

"As regional Chairman, it is with great sorrow that I carry to you the official condolences of the Alliance of Salish Nations."

"On behalf of Vulcan's survivors, I accept your recognition of our loss."

Ernie squares his shoulders, surveying the ragtag group of survivors before him.

"Sarek. The web of life connects us all, all life in the universe. Some might name this a quantum view. Not one light in the sky disappears without affecting the web as a whole. And within this wholeness, our peoples have entwined. We have become true relations, your people and mine. Your loss is ours as well. Your grief, ours. Nearly two centuries ago, Vulcans came to this planet with words of hope and peace. They came at a time when we had suffered greatly from war and were at a crossroads whether to grow up as a species or collapse into self-annihilation. Vulcans came to us as teachers, as mentors, bringing Earth peacefully into the greater galactic community. And for this, we are grateful. Your people's honorable example, we will remember. Thank you. The Vulcan philosophy of peace, we will remember. Thank you. We will remember all that Vulcan has contributed to civil society in technology, science, and the arts: thank you. And for the example set by Vulcan commitment to rational thought, thank you. These things the Vulcan people freely offered to the people of Earth and the Federation, demonstrating an admirable commitment, and an often overlooked generosity of spirit."

"We came to serve." My father states this so simply, so humbly. I glimpse sideways at my father, and for this moment he is the face of all Vulcan.

Sarek, you are so strong. You always have been. I am…so honored to be your son. Such power, stature, leadership.

Shame floods through me again: for my failure of control on the bridge of the Enterprise, for what happened on the Narada, for failing to support Kirk in his offer of mercy. Failure after failure.

Somewhere above us in the treetops a raven caws raucously, perhaps the same one that was stalking about in the grass.

Failure to save mother. Failure to save the planet.

I realize I am swallowing compulsively again.

For a long moment my father, Vulcan's Ambassador to Earth, and the San Juan Tribal Chairman lock eyes. Then Ernie steps closer to us and speaks more intimately.

"Now, I will offer one thing more: you can survive this genocide. You will not be unchanged. Your people will not recover quickly. But, if you so choose, you will survive. It is a difficult path, one the Salish people have walked and know well. And I am here to tell you to have hope. I know the Vulcan people are strong. I know you have good hearts. I know you have unbending will. But this may be a time for softness, for grief however you wear it. For quiet thought and waiting."

For a long moment he falls silent, eyes closed. "And for now, and in the future as you choose, let our planet receive your people as her own."

After the slightest pause, Sarek responds. "Most gracious. I will deliver your message to my people, Chairman."

"I am so sorry for the loss of Amanda." And then Ernie adds in careful Shi'Kahri, "I grieve with thee."

Involuntarily, I close my eyes. I imagine my grief transient as the wind, blowing through me, filling the sky and shredding the clouds.

Beside me T'Zel makes a slight sputtering sound, more restrained than a gasp, but a reaction nonetheless. I don't add to her shame by turning to her. A courtesy I am sure she affords me, too: my chin has dropped to my chest so unsure am I of my control. The brief press of a hand on my shoulder startles me, and I glance up—Sarek?

"I am more fortunate than most, Chairman." Sarek's hands swing to a clasp behind his back.

"Indeed." Ernie responds in our language, looking from Vulcan child to child, with his eyes including me in his benediction: "Our children are our future."

"Yes. Where any hope resides."

My father must resort to obsolete, pre-reformation Vulcanir to respond with such an emotional concept as 'hope.' He turns slightly, meeting my eyes, as expressionless as ever.

Sarek turns back to Chairman Toms. "I must endeavor to be as courageous as my son."

Both a fault and strength of Vulcan culture, my mother would say, is our intense disinclination to lie. My father perhaps more than most. It is…hard to understand how he could hold this perception of me.

"Speaking of courage…" Chairman Toms turns toward the fire and gestures toward the humans. It is Kirk that stands and strides up the hill toward us.

T'Zel steps aside, and without hesitation, Kirk takes position to my right. He squares his shoulders and nods to the Chairman.

"The Salish Nations recognize the service and sacrifices of the USS Enterprise, and the terrible losses of Star Fleet in the defense of the Federation, the defense of Earth." Ernie steps closer to Kirk and speaks quietly. "Captain Kirk. I have a few 'contacts' of my own. I'm aware of your actions, how close Earth, too, came to destruction. Thank you for saving us. Thank you for saving Earth."

Kirk gives a nod, "I'll forward your regards to my crew."

Ernie shakes his head. "You acted as a great warrior, Kirk. As did this one. You were a true warrior, too, Spock. And this is the lesson." He pauses to walk before the children, again studying the face of each one. "Our strength, our power, is in working together. This is the Vulcan lesson of IDIC, infinite diversity in infinite combination: we are stronger for our very diversity, for Vulcans and humans working together and creating a greater whole." Ernie stops before Kirk. "As you two…finally found. And became undefeatable." He returns to stand before me. "You transcended your personal losses, Spock. You kept fighting. You, too, saved Earth, saved us all."

Earth was the only home I had left. It had to be saved. I had to stop Nero.

"Thank you, Kirk. Thank you, Spock." Chairman Toms turns away from us and gives a slight nod.

BAM! The drummers as one strike the dance drum and the sound reverberates through the trees, through my body.

The Chairman raises a hand in benediction, his voice firm and resonating. "Peace to all here. Peace to the spirits of the Vulcan people, to the all those lost in the destruction and battle of Vulcan. To Amanda Jane Elizabeth Greyson S'chn T'gai. To the families of all you little children; peace to our warriors; to all of us who are survivors of this disaster. Peace. Peace. Peace."

Down by the fire, Chris stands and shakes a Vulcan sistrum, the clamor of the familiar ceremonial bells both right and wrenching. I wonder where Chris obtained such a traditional Vulcan instrument, especially now.

One of the drummers begins to sing, nearly keening a mourning song. The drummers repeat the caller's phrases and begin to beat the quiet, even rhythm again. One by one in a snaking line, the dancers circle to file past us in slow rhythmic steps, their regalia quietly clattering. They do not touch us, but each makes eye contact as they pass, an acknowledgement. The dancers then file across the lawn, past the Healers and Doctor McCoy; past Nyota and Grace and my cousins by the fire; on into the shadows past the boathouse. The dancers disappear as they follow the pathway into the trees, toward the neighbor's house.

Chairman Toms stands face to face with my father, and the silence seems sudden and deep. I can hear the crackling of the fire below, the soft sound the water makes as small waves wash the shore. The children are beginning to shift their feet impatiently. Ernie bows his head, perhaps even in prayer; he seems to be speaking softly to himself. He lifts his hand in the ta'al, the Vulcan gesture of peace. Chairman Toms nods and Sarek responds in kind, in some kind of understanding. Then Ernie turns away from us to silently retreat down the hillside.