Warnings for drug use in this chapter.

III.

Desperado

My darling son,

I hope this letter finds you well and in good health.

As for me? I am surviving. Physical therapy continues to be taxing, made all the worse for your Samekh's hovering. He argues that it is only logical he be present to offer support, but now that I am out of the woods, there is no real reason for his constant attention. I suspect he does it because he thinks i like it, but admittedly, I've found myself craving a little space, both physically and emotionally.

Do not get me wrong. There is little that brings me more gladness than his steadfast attendance. My family is my life. He is my life. You are my life. (Sorry, I promise to refrain from such sentimental statements throughout the remainder of this missive.) Still, I am feeling—a need for solitude. I expect you're familiar with this desire? Nothing is as it should be, and no matter how much we rebuild, there are some holes that will remain forever thus.

At this point, I am quite certain you are not reading my messages. But I keep writing because my therapist advises it. Yes, I am seeing a therapist. I want to feel like myself again, but part of me was lost with Vulcan. Knowing you are my son helps, that I bore you in this body, however tattered it may be now. I am me. I know this. Our cells die and regenerate everyday, and I tell myself that any medical intervention I received is no different.

The High Council has made an inquiry into your father's actions. They find his choices "questionable", which is their version of being absolutely livid at him. Researchers are scandalized, yet madly curious. The idea that humans have katras—indeed, it is exciting.

I miss you. I cannot feel you in my mind, and some days I fear that you are dead. Only faith keeps me hoping, hoping, hoping. When you did not respond to Nyota's crisis, I assumed the worst. You are on a journey, I know.

Saint Monica prayed and cried daily for her wayward son, and it is the Church's belief that her laments to God played a crucial part in Saint Augustine of Hippo's return to the faith. I am not Catholic, but her story still fascinates me. I have to remind myself you are young, so young, just a child, really. I am forever here for you. You are always forgiven. There is nothing you could do to make me not love you. If it is fear that keeps you from us, just know that we are waiting with open arms, sans judgment.

Regarding Nyota and the ordeal—I grieve with thee. She is staying with us for a while, recovering. I had thought, if nothing else, her news would bring you back to us. But trust me. I know it's not always as easy as that. We like to think we'll always be the people we want to be. But it's hard. We get so caught up in our own shit. From the moment I lay eyes on you, I loved you so much, but I know you must remember the times I was not the fierce protectress you deserved and needed. Or when Vulcan became too much for me to bear and I abandoned you and your father for my other home, on Earth, for months at a time. I am sorry, always.

Nyota is doing all right. Her spirits are back up after the pi-gel-pak. How are you handling it all? She's thrown herself into work—some new project that she's very hush-hush about. I worry about her, of course. She's become like a daughter to me. Hanif visited last month, and I think that helped to pull her out of her funk. I've grown fond of him, but things are quite tense, given he's Romulan. And now with talk of war…New Vulcan is still in such infancy. Even with the help of the Federation, I doubt we could survive violent conflict with Romulus.

It has been one Standard year exactly since Vulcan was ripped from us. Beautiful love of my life, come back to us. For I feel your absence even more keenly than that of the planet I came to think of as home.

With all the love I have to give,

Komekh

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Spock hesitates, cursor above the delete button, as he reads the most recent letter from his mother.

He's not sure what it is that made him open this message, when he's deleted all the others on-sight.

"Hurry up. The others await us," says T'Sith. Her wavy black hair hangs down to her hips, without cover, completely unbound by braid or bun. No such impropriety would be allowed on Vulcan—but then, that is the point, Spock supposes. She wears heavy makeup, eyes painted into a grey, smoky cloud. Several piercings dot her tall, pointed ears. "What are you doing?" she asks, leaning over him, pressing kisses against his neck, nibbling.

He can feel her mind through the light touch, a fog of so much pain—and he thinks, he has no right to feel grief at all. His family, though greatly reduced in number, survived. And his Nyota, his precious Nyota, still lives. T'Sith had lost her mother, father, bonded, and young daughter.

"It is nothing," says Spock, erasing the message and clicking away from the screen on his PADD. "Let us depart."

They descend the stairs together, meeting Torvas and Suneh in their shared living room. The two men are bonded, but only recently so, each losing their first mates with Va'Pak. They'd come together in their grief despite the wishes of their parents. They stand close, fingers touching, looking every bit the epitome of tash-tor. Torvas's tightly curled hair is cropped closely to his scalp, and Suneh's fringe lays in a neat row several centimetres above his forehead. Dark robes over black trousers. No one would guess that they had fled New Vulcan together. There is no Vulkhansu word for elope because it simply does not happen, not until these two.

As the group of four walk the streets of Zaprah Aikum, Spock finally asks, "Are any of you familiar with the term pi-gel-pak?"

Generally, Spock would seek out electronic resources to research, but he suspects it's a rather old term, given its clear metaphorical meaning. His komekh's study of Ancient Vulcan poetry has given her an extensive idiomatic handle on Vulkhansu that Spock, and ironically, most Vulcans, lack. She tends to rely on those old Golic phrases when speaking on emotional matters.

T'Sith says, "Loss of a seedling or young shooting plant?"

"Yes, I am aware of the literal meaning. I thought there might be a deeper meaning I was unaware of," Spock clarifies. "It was likely used in pre-Surak language."

They pass Vulcans of varying levels of intoxication on the streets—which is to say, some of them merely smirk, others smile more earnestly. It resembles nothing of what Spock had experienced of drunkeness from other species. He should feel at peace here, among Vulcans who accept him despite his bi-species heritage. But when he looks into the lit desert, beyond the main square, he thinks only that this tiny planet is too red, too teaming with life, too not-Vulcan.

Loud music from several clubs make the pavement throb and hum. T'Sith presses toward him. "I will find out for you. It is a most curious phrase," she says, because she is a scholar at heart. She'd been at a facility near the Neutral Zone conducting research, so she could complete her dissertation on ancient war epics. Her love for literature survived Va'Pak, at least.

The club they end up at is a mix of Vulcans and off-worlders. Some human. The settlement, founded by a vulcan named K'Ter, is meant as a haven for Vulcans, but there is a general culture of openness on Zaprah Aikum. Pacifist Klingons. Gentle Romulans.

It does not take him long to 'pick his poison.' A Vulcan woman about his age with dark brown eyes and skin. Thin, short. She has a provincial accent, mixed with Golic, and it's a pleasing contrast. Her stony face is beautiful, though it does not rival that of his ashalik—who has by now moved on, which is as he'd wished it.

"Come," she says, when they make eye contact. They weave through the crowd at the club, stopping once they reach the toilet. "Here," says the woman, and hands him a tiny baggy. "You are in pain. Is it not logical to relieve it?"

"I am not particularly logical of late," says Spock. "Nor are any of us."

"Then do it becomes it feels good."

She shows him how, sprinkling the fine powder onto the meaty part of skin between her index finger and thumb, inhales deeply with her nose. Following her example, Spock snorts his first line of opiate.

They fuck. It is not gentle and she cries and he touches her mind with his so he can share the burden of her loss. She calls him nirsh'ulef. It means 'not-half.' Because it's what he wants to hear. She can see into his mind, after all, and knows that in being half Vulcan and half Human, he is neither, and therefore nothing. And what right has he to grieve a loss that technically does not belong to him? Nirsh'ulef, she repeats.

But all he can think is that is a lie. Without his aduna'a, he is only half.

I am sorry for the wait. I'm at a loss with this fic because it's perhaps too close. Personal life is a bit out of sorts. Disabilities have made it difficult to generate as quickly as I'd like. I've also had second thoughts about the order I've posted things. But the nature of a WIP is that everything is sort of set in stone, with no real chance to edit once you publish. Thanks for your support. I truly do cherish all your words, and I'm so sorry I don't always answer. I always meant to, then-life. Please let me know if the order of things gets confusing. This is just not a story that makes sense to tell chronologically. Finally, I know this isn't really the typical fic. So thank you to those giving it a chance despite the weirdness. Your comments are cherished.