Hello everyone. So so sorry for the long hiatus.

Author's Notes: I want to thank everyone for your reviews. Your questions and thoughts often inspire me and sometimes change the course of the story. I feel really bad that I am not responding to each and everyone of you each time, so I wanted to use this for a big THANK YOU.

And also to address some questions, at least those I have an answer for:

to 1ttrobinson - 1) Unfortunately, we'll never know what T'Pol's role was in the ritual. But I understand it had to do with pulling the heavy statue representing the ?milking seacow? (now if I could figure out what it looks like...). 2) I did play with the thought of the Ia'O being sentient, kind of a two-species planet. It was making the story very complicated (at the time I thought this would be a quick wrap, though we are getting close) and the muse just didn't want to hear about it.

to LoyaulteMeLie - 1) that (the Captain figuring out facts beat possibility) was a close call! Glad I kept my mind's eye on the fact Archer was a captain. 2) Malcolm was spared the embarrassing sight of the milking seacow meeting the poled fisherman.

to djkittycat - the Eylordenes are well aware that T'Pol could die on the planet (earlier chapter) but they are somewhat self-centered and very formalistic. Having the top-ranking personnel on Enterprise not attend would be a grave insult indeed. To 1ttrobinson - Same goes for Reed, by the way. He and T'Pol being the two top-ranking personnel.

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The Sacred Grounds

T'Pol glanced at the wrist reading, her mind automatically registering it was thirty-four minutes before the last canister was exhausted. A human would have added 'only' as a qualifier. Her mind automatically adjusted for variance in the life of the crystals, the possibility that Phlox would have underrepresented the data and built in a margin of safety. That would extend the time by... - there was no way to it figure out. Either that or she was already suffering the pernicious effects of reduced oxygenation and the planet's incompatibility with Vulcan physiology. She focused the part of her mind that was not occupied with attending the ongoing ceremonials on trying to arrive at an answer. It seemed a simple problem of probabilities, with the reassuring perspective of a Gauss curve distribution, extrapolating for the doctor's idiosyncratic preferences when it came to predicting medical events. Unfortunately the probabilities stubbornly refused accurate computation. She estimated the range of additional functionality to be between five and twenty-three minutes, too large to be of any practical utility in her current predicament.

She brought her attention back to the ceremonies, leaving her mental clock to tick the seconds and refocusing another part of her mind to review the progress of Lieutenant Reed's investigations. He would have picked up the additional canisters that Doctor Phlox had produced on Enterprise. The lieutenant was irreprochably reliable officer, precise and cautious in his approach. He had been showing up at least a half-hour before each agreed upon meeting time. That should give him enough time to come to the sacred grounds, all factors being equal. Which they were not. One potentiality was that he had found the shuttle and would be back early, along with the Captain, Hoshi and ... Trip. She reflexively lifted her head up at the thought of him, quickly bringing it back to level as the nose filters pinched. Trip. It was illogical to look towards the tall and airy bridge that went back to the hemicycle and check that Trip was not currently walking over, about to run to her side, but she did. A degree of illogic was allowed where one's th'yla was concerned. But the bridge was empty, the entire assembly fanned out across the rows and rows of stone seats, intently watching the elaborate pageantry taking place around the milking seacow and the poled fisherman, locked as they were in a rocky embrace.

Thirty-one minutes before the canister was exhausted. The wrist monitor confirmed her internal clock. Lieutenant Reed would arrive well beyond the point when the cartridge was exhausted. If it were not for the unexpected trek to the Sacred Grounds and the exertion of pushing the milking seacow over the crossing grounds... She mentally went over the activities, carefully considering whether she had optimized her activity, whether another approach would have been more efficient, less oxygen-consuming. The walk to the sandy ground; she had adapted her pace to maximize the pull of gravity and help propel her down the ramp. Bringing the statues over the crossing ground; her role had been mostly honorific, there were already enough Anointed apportioned to the task and she had taken pains to limit her contribution to the appearance of exertion, had been fortunate in how the weight of the statues kept the overall pace slow. The walk back up the ramp to the stone seats; she had slowed her pace down under the guise of asking many questions of her Eylordene guide. It seemed she had miscalculated the breakeven point between the use of oxygen to ask questions and to climb the incline. The mistake cost her four minutes of breathing time. A variance too small to be of much importance unless one happened to be on the receiving end of those four minutes. There was also the walk from the hemicycle. It was an impossible task to try and calculate how much less oxygen would have been consumed without the stressor of so much surrounding water. Even controlling mind and breath, the rate of success was certain to have been less than 100 percent. She didn't have the comparison data that would allow her to draw exact inferences. Possibly another few minutes of precious air could have been saved... In any case, it was illogical to dwell on what could not be changed.

Twenty-nine minutes before the canister was exhausted. Doctor Phlox had not shared data on the toxicity of the planet's atmosphere to Vulcans, he did not have any to share. He did say the atmosphere was toxic to Vulcans, not poisonous. Toxic implied a delayed effect, probably several hours, at most days. It looked like she would be doing a live experimentation. The scientific question being how many hours before she succumbed to the planet's air. Days, possibly, though she did not need to think in days, Lieutenant Reed would be back before a day had elapsed. A second more insidious question being how much damage would be wrought by the toxic air, and whether it would be reversible. That she did not know and could not predict.

A tinker of bells brought her attention back to the stone platform. The sound reminded her of a wedding ceremony. Of being on Vulcan. She focused on the mental image of red mountains and desert sands, a soothing counter to the blues of A'Er'Orl. Fortunately the extended ceremonial did not require her involvement. She glanced at the wrist monitor, noting the expected decrease in crystal levels. She scanned over the crowd with her ears, trying to catch the sound of a vessel flying over, coming to the island... but there was nothing. Twenty-five minutes left.

It was time.

She slowly got to her feet, knowing the motion would bring her Eylordene guide to her side. It only took a few minutes before the diminutive alien showed up, asking if everything was alright.

T'Pol nodded, "I need to repair to our sitting room at the hemicycle."

The Eylordene's robe blanched in a myriad of white circles. "Waterebb, Dignitary," she softly gurggled, "nobody may leave the sacred grounds during the Joining."

T'Pol inclined her head, thinking she should have suspected as much. But there had to be somewhere to retreat to, even on the sacred grounds. It was impossible to organize that level of pageantry without a modicum of organizational structure. "I do not want to disturb the ceremony," she tacked, "I need a place offering privacy in order to see to my needs," she added, mentally impressing on the listener the sense of something alien, important and mysterious.

A ribbon of white foam ran in concentric waves across the Eylordene's coat as she considered what unknown and strange alien needs were being alluded to. Incultured respect for hierarchy and ceremony would not let her to ask. But hers was the duty to attend to the alien dignitaries every need, see that they were ever comfortable. "Waterebb, Dignitary," she turned purplish with embarrassment at what she was going to say, "the only places of privacy on the sacred grounds are the cliff-caves that serve as storage units. They are not fit for dignified officials such as the Dignitary."

T'Pol canted her head to the right, considering. The statement from her guide was highly illogical. Why would she mention the cliff-caves and contemporaneously bar her from using them? Unless this was another Eylordene social construct, a question of form over function. She did not have the luxury of diplomatically finding out which. "I need a place of privacy," she repeated, "those will do."

"You cannot use a storage area! I cannot bear the thought!" her guide exclaimed. Deeper green was edging the purple blotches on her robe.

Once again the illogic of the statement gave T'Pol pause, even as her mind remained aware of the seconds clicking by. She did not have a choice. She needed to go to the cliff-caves. The Eylordenes were exquisitely authority-conscious and her guide would yield. "Take me to the cliff-caves!" she demanded, unaware of the hint of anger edging her voice.

Her guide's robe turned the opaque of troubled waters. "I will, I will," she said in slushing obsequiousness, swiftly turning away from the Vulcan.

T'Pol followed as calmly as she could. Twenty-one minutes. She may be sacrificing precious minutes of air by changing location but she ran the risk of disrupting the ceremony when the crystals ran out. That was a bigger risk.

The cliff-caves were exactly what they were, a natural formation of caves along the edge of the cliffs, most of them unprotected. From what she could see they were used to store equipment. A few were closed to the elements. Her guide brought her to one of those, her robe lightening and darkening in continued embarrassment. She keyed a simple code and the door opened. "Waterebb, Dignitary, Waterebb," she gurggled breathlessly, "privacy is afforded, Waterebb."

T'Pol stepped into what was essentially a supply closet, turned to the Eylordene, graciously inclining her head, "Waterflow, this will serve. I will find my way back when I am done." She shut the door on the standing Eylordene.

The Eylordene hesitated for a while, then left, slowly, snatching backward glances at the door. The alien dignitary had not expressly said she was dismissed, though she seemed to indicate such was the case. If she stayed, she might anger the alien again. That would be in very bad form. If she left and the alien expected her to stay, that might anger the alien as well. The quandary was agitating her robe. She decided she would wait right on the path to the cliff-caves, ready to run back if she was summoned. She could always explain she had been preventing others from disturbing the dignitary's privacy. Yes, that's what she would do.

T'Pol closed her eyes, leaning against the wall of the closet. She looked at the levels on the cartridge, now blinking orange. Eight minutes. Of course, getting to the cliff-caves had exhausted the supply. It could not be helped. She needed to take off the breathing apparatus, it would soon be useless. It took almost no time to divest. As she reached to pull the line to the canister, a thought stayed her hand. Lieutenant Reed would be back, with canisters. Keeping the apparatus connected would ensure faster access to filtered air. It would be illogical not to improve her chances.

A hiss brought her attention back to the cartridge. She watched as the crystal levels slowy reached empty. There had been almost no variance. There were only a few seconds of air left in the lines. She briefly closed her eyes.

The dying hiss told her the canister was fully empty. She pulled the nose plugs out, letting the line fall on her chest, holding her breath. She braced herself firmly against the wall and breathed in slowly.

The effect was immediate.

She doubled over in a painful cough, wheezing as her lungs tried to manage the oversaturation of A'Er'Ord atmosphere. Great gulps of air followed as as her lungs tried to process the sticky humid atmosphere and she started retching.

Finally the retching stopped, the cough quieted down. She took a final gulp, taking note of her elevated hearbeat. Her lungs hurt with each breath, but she was breathing and not incapacitated. It seemed the atmosphere was not immediately poisonous to her species. It felt as if there was a resistance that slowed down every gesture, as if she was moving in a viscous substance.

She slowly turned to the door, watching as her hand palmed the opening mechanism, slowly. She brought it closer to her face, looking at it closely. The skin was darker, a faint mottling showing upon close examination. Her body was adjusting to the suboptimal oxygenation. She surmised her face must be darker also. The Eylordenes may notice without noticing, she was an alien after all.

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