8.

It was with a good degree of apprehension that Spock lay in a ward bed in sickbay awaiting surgery to restore his optic nerves. He did not fear the operation itself. Despite what he might imply to the contrary, he had complete trust in McCoy's operating skill. It was that moment of waking up that gave him pause – the knowledge that he would wake up either with the sentence of success or failure over him. He would see, or he would not see…

Cautious as always, McCoy had opted to tackle one problem at a time, settling on attempting to restore Spock's sight before he restored his voice. It was by far the best order in which to perform the operations. Much as Spock valued his ability to speak, the ability to see would restore far more functionality to his life.

He lay remembering that moment on the planet he now knew to be Villanesh 4 – standing frozen by an unknown device, as an instrument came towards his face, and blacked out all sight from his eyes. He had grown used to it in the months that followed, but he had never grown to accept it.

'Spock? Are you listening to me?'

Spock shook himself, and turned his head toward McCoy's voice. He shook his head honestly, and waited for the doctor to begin again.

'Nervous, huh?' McCoy asked, then said, 'Don't bother answering that. I know you'll deny it, and I know that you *are* nervous. Hell, you have a right to be. But you'll be fine.'

Spock nodded. There was no point in signing. McCoy's understanding of his sign language was lamentable, and none of his seven were here in sickbay at the moment. It was just him, and McCoy, and – He focussed his attention. Nurse Chapel, he believed, and another person he could not identify. Another nurse, he assumed.

'I was just saying, Spock, that we're all set up. It's time to go to sleep for a while.'

Spock's eyebrow rose. It was obvious that the doctor himself was nervous – it was always at these times that McCoy spoke in that gentle, euphemistic way.

'Christine, see to the anaesthetic,' the doctor continued in a more businesslike tone. 'I'll go get myself ready.'

'Of course, Doctor,' Chapel replied, using her own version of that professional tone. 'Mr Spock,' she said, turning to the Vulcan. 'I'm going to put this mask over your mouth and nose, and then I'm going to introduce the anaesthetic. Are you ready?'

Spock nodded. Her hand touched his shoulder for a brief second.

'There is *every* indication that the procedure will be successful,' she said in a low voice.

Spock nodded again. The reassurance was perhaps not necessary in logic, but he welcomed it. Then she placed the rubberised mask over his mouth and nose, and touched a hypo to his arm, and consciousness dissolved into nothingness.

******

'Spock? Spock, do you hear me?'

Spock moved his head feebly, and blinked. A hand was pressing something soft – a cloth, he supposed – over his eyes. He was thirsty. His tongue felt thick in his mouth, his body stiff and tired with enforced torpor. He nodded, instinctively moving his hands in an attempt to sign.

'Spock,' McCoy said again. 'I'm covering your eyes for the moment. Will you keep your eyes closed when I move the cloth?'

He nodded again.

'All right,' McCoy said, and the warm, soft cloth was taken away.

It was only his discipline that kept his eyes closed. *Light* was filtering through his eyelids. *Light!* He opened his mouth in a wordless indication of his shock.

'Spock, are you seeing something?' McCoy asked him, and Spock nodded vigorously.

'Your eyes will be sensitive,' the doctor said clearly. 'The grafts are very new. I've got the lights dimmed in here. I want you to open your eyes, Spock – but I want you to keep them still. Just look at me, okay?'

Spock nodded again.

'All right, then. Open your eyes.'

Spock slowly opened eyelids that felt damp and sluggish, like the unfurling of the petals of a flower still in bud. The light brightened, but it made very little sense. Colours assailed him – a fleshy pink colour, brown at the top of it and blue beneath.

'Blurry?' McCoy asked, and Spock nodded.

As the doctor spoke he had seen a movement in the blurred pink mass. He could make out a darker blotch where his mouth was, and the darkness of his eyes, higher up.

'Christine, hand me that scope,' McCoy murmured.

Spock turned his head towards the nurse's movement, and saw a blur of blond hair this time, surrounding another pink face. The nurse was wearing lipstick, and her smile was obvious as a blurred curve in the blur of her face.

'Spock, look towards me,' McCoy said. 'I'm going to shine a light in your eyes. It might hurt a little.'

Spock nodded, then held still as a light flashed first into one eye, and then the other. He had to force himself not to blink as the brightness assailed his sensitive optic nerves.

'That's good, Spock,' McCoy nodded. 'The light's getting straight through to your brain. You're losing a little in interpretation, and your eyes lack tone, but the grafts are working just fine.'

Spock pressed his lips together in a non-verbal sign of concern. The light was certainly reaching his brain, but it *hurt,* and the only images he could see were almost unintelligible.

'Spock, you can see,' McCoy pressed. 'Light, colour – it's just unfocussed. Do you have some pain?'

Spock nodded again, apprehensively.

'That's to be expected – it will fade over time. Spock, what you can see is *great,*' McCoy told him with a good deal of human joy in his tone. 'You've got to allow for a lack of focus – you've not used your eyes in a good few months. The muscles need to regain their tone, just like any other part of the body. But *light is being passed from your eyes to your brain.* You're *seeing,* Spock. It worked!'

Spock nodded again, trying to sit up.

'Whoa there,' the doctor said quickly, firmly pushing him back onto the pillow. 'Lie still. You've only just come round. Now, Spock, I'm going to leave your eyes uncovered, because I think I can trust you to be sensible. Can I trust you?'

Spock pressed his lips together, and nodded. He blinked. The pink mass of McCoy's face was becoming slightly better defined.

'Okay,' McCoy nodded, and Spock flinched. 'Yeah, movement and depth perception are gonna be odd for a bit,' he said, correctly interpreting the Vulcan's reaction. 'Your brain needs to readjust. Spock, it's important that you don't strain your eyes in these early days. I don't want you moving them about a lot. I don't want you straining to focus, or exposing yourself to bright light. Can I trust you not to do that?'

Spock nodded.

'Good. I'm going to give you a special visor to wear. It'll let enough light through for your eyes to be properly exercised, but stop any sudden increase in the light levels. You have to keep it on until we've determined that the graft has taken properly, and until your eyes are strong enough to deal with normal sight. Now – you're pretty sleepy, aren't you?'

Spock nodded again. His entire body felt like lead. He wanted to ask for water, but his arms felt so heavy… He parted his lips, moving his tongue over their dryness.

'Thirsty?' McCoy asked.

At his nod the doctor slipped a hand behind his head to support him, and put a cup to his lips. Spock drank the pure, cold water with gratitude, letting it sink into the tissues of his mouth, reviving it to the point that he felt that he would be able to speak – if he had been able to speak… But no. His sight first. His speech would have to come later. The results of this first operation boded well, at least.

'All right, Spock,' the doctor said, taking the cup away. 'Now, I'm going to put this visor on the shelf by the bed. If you wake up, I want you to put the visor on before you open your eyes. I want you to get some more sleep now.'

Spock nodded again, no thought of arguing entering his head. He had reached his limit for wakefulness. He let his head rest back into the pillow, and slept again.

******

He woke, conscious of a presence in the room.

Ever disciplined, Spock reached out to the shelf by the bed, fumbled for the visor that McCoy had left there, and slipped the device over his eyes. Then, and only then, did he let his eyelids rise.

In the dim, short-sighted blur, he caught sight of bright yellow, very close to him – a bright yellow that came in conjunction with his sense of *Jim* - of his scent and sound and the emanations of his mind.

'Spock,' Jim said warmly.

Spock parted his lips, almost, instinctively, expecting his voice to be there alongside his sight. Then he closed his mouth, and reached out a hand instead, finding Kirk's hand unerringly, and closing his fingers around it.

'Then it worked,' Jim said as Spock turned his eyes to Kirk's face. 'Bones told me it had – but I had to see for myself.'

Spock nodded, then turned his head with great care, sensing another presence before his recovering eyes lighted on it. There was no familiarity, visually, to the blurred figure that sat at the other side of the bed. The person had obviously dark hair, a dark beard, and was wearing a moss green top. Visually, it was a stranger, but as for the rest…

Spock let go of Jim's hand, turned to the stranger, and signed, *Delash.*

'Yes,' the man's familiar voice said, his blurred face splitting in what must be a smile. 'Yes, Spockesh. You recognise me!'

Spock nodded, his eyes fixed on the man that he had never seen before.

'He came so that he could translate,' Jim told Spock.

Spock watched Delash's face – or what he could make out of it – and signed, *You came because you cared.*

'Yes, Spockesh,' Delash said, smiling again as Spock touched his hand to his heart to sign the word *care*. 'Both are true.'

'How much can you see?' Jim asked, leaning forward.

Spock signed, *Enough,* and Delash translated.

'Will it get better?'

Spock nodded, signing, *Soon.*

He could already sense an improvement on his last time of waking. McCoy had underestimated the Vulcan ability for healing, and the ability of the Vulcan mind to readjust to new circumstances. The lines of Kirk's body and face were far clearer than McCoy's had been a few hours earlier, and made far more sense to his mind.

'Bones told me he could press ahead with the operation on your vocal cords as soon as he was sure the optic graft had taken,' Kirk told him eagerly. 'He also said you're healing much faster than expected. So, maybe that'll be pretty soon.'

Spock exhaled a long breath, nodded. It would be wondrous to have both his sight and his voice restored to him. It would be like the lifting of cell walls about him.

'Spock, I need to get back to the bridge,' Kirk said reluctantly. 'I took time out of my shift to come down here when Bones said you were waking up again. We're arranging the drop off of your Villanesh friends on Starbase 61.'

Spock nodded gravely. He knew that he would be saying goodbye to the men that had become his friends and protectors on Villanesh, without ever having seen their faces with any clarity. Perhaps regret over that was illogical, but he would have liked to have known their appearance. Of the six of them, only Delash was remaining behind, in a temporary role of interpreter to Spock, until he could speak on his own. He could feel Delash's own apprehension at being the only one to be left behind – but he at least had the assurance that he would be reunited with them as soon as he was finished on the Enterprise, and that they all were under the protection of the Federation until they developed means to take care of themselves.

Spock looked towards Delash. He could sense his ambivalence, rather than see it on his face.

*You will all be fine,* he signed.

'I know,' Delash nodded. 'I know, Spockesh. It's only – I haven't been separated from them in many years. It's – strange.'

*I know,* Spock signed.

'Spock,' Kirk said, putting a hand on the Vulcan's shoulder. Spock turned back to him, realising that he had been staring at Delash. 'I'll make sure they're sent down here before they beam off the ship. I'm sure you want to say goodbye.'

Spock nodded, signing, *Thank you.*

'Well, I'll – leave you two alone,' Kirk said, with a slightly odd tone to his voice as he looked at Delash. 'I'm sure you've got lots to discuss.'

Spock nodded, and watched the captain leave with a good deal of curiosity. Was that jealousy he had heard in Jim's voice? He suspected that Jim found it difficult that Delash, a stark reminder of Spock's life over the past half year, had been inserted so firmly into every part of Spock's new life. He seemed to be always there to guide him and speak for him, and perhaps Jim found the closeness that the relationship entailed a barrier to the closeness that Spock had previously enjoyed with his captain.

He put the thoughts out of his head, turning back to Delash, trying without straining to better focus his vision. The dark hair and dark beard were a little clearer, and on leaning forward he thought he could make out that his eye colour was dark brown, very much like Spock's own.

'You really are seeing me, aren't you, Spockesh?' Delash asked, with a joyous smile.

Spock nodded, signing indecision to indicate that although he was seeing him, his sight was far from good.

*When can I get up?* he signed.

'Dr McCoy said you could leave your bed a few hours,' Delash told him. 'As soon as you're steady on your feet and the anaesthetic's worn off. But he wants you to stay in sickbay until tomorrow.'

Spock nodded again, resting back into the pillows.

*I want to see the others of our seven,* he signed.

'Oh, they were set on coming down here before they left,' Delash laughed. 'Don't you worry, Spockesh. They're not leaving without giving their farewells, I promise you.'

******

It was an odd farewell for Spock. McCoy had given him permission to at least get up out of his bed, and he stood in the sickbay facing five men that he had never seen before, that now had specific heights and skin tone and hair colour, whose clothes he could make out colours in, whose movements and stances were visible in his blurred sight.

'Ah, Spockesh,' Lamesh said, breaking all rules of Vulcan protocol by putting his arms about Spock and hugging him tightly. 'I'm glad to see you getting your sight back. And you've been a good friend to us all. It's strange to say goodbye.'

Spock nodded, covering his discomfort at the close contact. He could not sign in reply to Lamesh, held as he was, but he knew that the man would understand.

Andresh – a man with thick, unruly blond hair, he now realised – stepped forward and slapped him on the arm.

'Spockesh, I'm sorry to be leaving you. But this is freedom, isn't it?'

Spock nodded again. Able to sign now that Lamesh had released him, he said, *Yes, this is freedom. It is large, and uncertain, but it is good.*

'Ah, that it is,' Andresh nodded. 'That it is.'

'You will call us, won't you, when you have your voice?' Salensh asked anxiously.

'Yes, I want to know what kind of voice comes out of that mouth – if it's a precise as the rest of you,' Lamesh laughed.

Spock's eyebrow rose. Perhaps his voice would be described as precise by those who knew it. He nodded, touching his heart to indicate a promise.

*You must go,* he signed. *You will be late.*

Delash touched his arm, stepping forward.

'Come on, boys,' he said with what sounded like a very human mixture of smiles and tears. 'He's right. You need to go down to the transport room.'

Spock stood still in the centre of them all as they came to him to offer their last farewells, then watched as they left the sickbay for the last time. One did not need to be human to feel that one would miss friends who had been as good to him as these men had been.

'They're gone, then,' McCoy said quietly, coming into the room as the door into the corridor closed.

Spock nodded. Delash had gone with the others to say goodbye in the transporter room, and he suddenly felt very much alone.

'I guess you got used to being with them all the time, even if it was in a horrifying situation,' McCoy said, coming over to him. 'Must be strange for you, saying goodbye.'

Spock nodded again. He did not feel like discussing it – but at least, with no voice, McCoy could hardly expect him to hold an in-depth conversation on the subject.

'But Delash is staying on for now, isn't he?' the doctor continued. 'He's a good man, Spock. I like him. And he certainly likes you.'

Spock turned his head sharply towards McCoy, his eyes narrowed. He wished he could ask the doctor what he had meant by that question in that tone of voice.

'He *likes* you, Spock,' McCoy said more meaningfully. 'And if I know you, you don't like him in quite the same way.'

Spock sat back down on his bed, troubled by McCoy's words. He had sensed for a long time that there was something deeper than simple friendship behind Delash's feelings towards him, but he had never felt the need to actually deal with that fact. It would be extremely difficult to deal with it without the fluency of speech.

He exhaled. The matter would have to wait until after the second operation.

'Well, Spock,' McCoy said, as if understanding his desire to drop the subject. 'I've been looking over your readings. You seem to be recovering with your normal verve from what should have been a very delicate and difficult operation. It seems that I can drill into your head and graft new tissue between your eyes and your brain, and it doesn't affect you more than removing a splinter. I take it you can see a good deal better than you could when you first came round?'

Spock nodded.

'Can you make out the eye chart I've put up on that wall over there?'

Spock turned his eyes to the opposite wall, making out a white blur against the grey-green wall, and nodded.

'Can you make out any of the letters on it?'

He shook his head.

'How close do you need to be to work out any of the type?'

Spock stood, moving closer to the chart. He reached the wall, and stood with his eyes only a few inches from the chart. Then he gasped, tracing his finger over the large capital M that stood at the top of the chart.

'You can see that?' McCoy asked with glee, coming over to him. 'What letter is it, Spock?'

Spock traced his finger over the letter again, then retraced an M on the wall beside it, for McCoy's benefit.

'You can tell it's an M? Can you see any further down?'

Spock reached out again to the chart, moving his fingertip hesitantly over the blurred lines he could see there. He managed to make out some of the letters on the second line, but the rest was a mystery to him.

'You're doing just great, Spock,' the doctor reassured him. 'Ten times better than I expected. I wouldn't be surprised if you're close to normal by the end of the week. Now,' he said firmly, touching the Vulcan's arm. 'Enough work. I don't want you straining your eyes. Come through to my office and have a coffee. I've missed our arguments, and sitting in that office wondering about Jim's sanity together, and working on save-the-galaxy remedies. I want to discuss ways to persuade Jim to get this ship some R&R.'

Spock nodded, his eyebrow quirking upward in agreement. Much as arguments were an illogical waste of time, he had missed them too.

******

It was less than a week before McCoy went ahead with the second operation, and by the time that Spock's vocal cords had recovered his eyesight was almost back to its normal focus and clarity. It was at that point, strangely, that what had happened to Spock on Villanesh 4 seemed to hit him the hardest. Up until that point he had still, in some ways, identified himself as Sarkesh, the slave, who had suffered as a slave would expect to suffer on Villanesh, and bore it as stoically as a slave must bear it. But standing in front of his mirror in the bathroom, on the first morning that his voice and eyesight were truly recovered, Spock stared at himself in horrified amazement.

McCoy had focussed all of his efforts on restoring Spock's sight and voice, and his other scars had gone untreated for now. The scar from the kettle of ny'ar still puckered and deformed the skin on his thigh. There were still tight greenish scars reaching onto his shoulders and chest from the frequent whippings that he had endured, and he knew that they lay in a mat across his back, ridging his skin like a field ploughed in many different directions. And there were other scars too – scars that he could not see, but that made him want to wrap a robe about his body and conceal it from his own sight. Was this the body that Milaresh had seen, taut and trembling, waiting for his attacks?

Spock shuddered, unable to tear his eyes from his own pale skin. Milaresh had seen him, and wanted him. That was the initial reason for his abduction. Milaresh had desired him as a chamber slave, and he had taken him…

He turned away from the view of himself, disgusted with his own lack of control. He had thought that he had come to terms with what he had been. He thought that when McCoy restored his speech and his sight his self-respect would return along with them.

He drew on a thick towelling robe, and went through to his quarters. The communicator was flashing on his desk. Spock sighed. He had no desire to talk to anyone at this time – but he could not ignore the summons…

He pressed the button on the desk, and closed his eyes briefly in disappointment as the screen came to life. This was a visual communication, not just an audio one. His apprehension only grew in volume as he recognised the slant-eyebrowed, pointed-eared figure on the screen. This was the very last person he wanted to face at this moment in time.

'Sarek,' he said in a level tone.

'Spock,' his father said. Sarek's voice was unusually gentle, his eyes holding an unusual amount of warmth. 'I had wanted to speak with you. Is this time convenient?'

Spock exhaled, then pushed aside his personal feelings on the matter and nodded.

'I am not busy,' he said, pulling the sides of his robe more completely across his chest and seating himself behind the desk. 'What did you want to discuss?'