A/N: 100 reviews! HAPPY! A personal milestone for me, and it would never have happened without all of your support and input. We did it, my loves. Thank you!

I have a new favorite term: angst-muffin! Thanks to Kaeghlighn for coining that one. Everyone use it well.

Vulcan words acquired from the Vulcan Language Dictionary (VLD): /vld

Continuous thanks to Hannah, my co-conspirator and center of inspiration.

It was quickly becoming Lauren's favorite spot. Trees loomed high overhead, casting the sweet relief of shade over her form. The coolness granted an opportunity for her to pull the scarf back from her head, as the need for protection from the sun had diminished here. The forest located a mile from home might have been considered small, but it suited her perfectly. She loved feeling as though she was being embraced within its green arms. Eyes closing, she pulled a long breath into her lungs. Here, she could even breathe easier, since the plants and trees created more oxygen in the area. Quite the contrast from the planet's otherwise thin atmosphere. T'Nuur had brought her out here a few times in the past week, and Lauren wanted Spock to see it.

There was a purpose for them being here today. Sarek had suggested the three of them hold a memorial service in the evening, which would honor the passing of Jonathan and Sarah. Lauren had attended their funeral on Earth, but she had mourned alone, making it all the more painful to deal with. Having this memorial would let her grieve with family members, and perhaps provide more closure. She instantly liked the idea. The ritual on Vulcan II would, of course, be different from any she was used to on Earth. Case in point, Sarek instructed her to collect two leaf samples while she and Spock were in the forest. They would be used to symbolize each of her parents during the service.

Sitting on the forest floor, Lauren scanned several species of plant life. Once in a while, a bird would flutter by, distracting her temporarily. She peered at the small gray bird that had perched nearby, transfixed by its four tiny feet. Pretty unusual, compared to the two-footed varieties of fowl she was used to on Earth. Soon enough, her attention returned to her vegetation research. There was nothing in particular she was looking for; just a leaf that stood out the best to her. On occasion, Lauren would climb some of the trees, heeding Spock's advice to be careful as she ascended the limbs with unexpected nimbleness. Sometimes, she would summon him if a branch was too high to reach from the ground, and he obliged by hoisting her up effortlessly. She enjoyed this greatly, smiling to emphasize her delight.

Spock remained close by, also taking in the wooded surroundings. He was curious about the geography of their new home world, and there was still much to be discovered. He did not choose leaves for the memorial, but assisted Lauren with her personal assignment. She would ask a few questions about the animals and plants, and he would check his own data screen and tricorder for answers.

Intermittently, he would quiz Lauren on a few Vulcan phrases. He had done this sporadically in her youth, teaching her the language of his people. She recalled some, but had difficulty with pronunciations. To assist her, Spock handed her one of his data screens, which provided visual representations of the language. Three or four tries later, she improved. She also inquired Spock and the screen on how to say certain words or phrases to help broaden her Vulcan vocabulary. Even though the language had been practiced at home with T'Nuur, she wanted to learn more.

Spock decided to offer one. "Krei," he said, pointing to her.

When she interpreted it, she smiled. "Itaren."

He nodded, pleased, and both returned to their work.

Later on, Spock glanced at his cousin, who sat on a low branch, munching on one of the large yellow fruits she brought. She appeared absorbed in what she was doing, hunched over the data screen and requesting more phrases. It would please Sarek to know she was working to assimilate herself into their culture, little by little. Logically, this would be a gradual process. He kept eyeing her, however, making mental notes to himself about evidence of accepting her new life. The most apparent of indications, thus far, was her wardrobe. While she chose to still dress in Earth clothes, the Vulcan head scarf had become a daily accessory. His mother often wore scarves…a way in which Lauren channeled Amanda Grayson. It was pleasing to see.

Perhaps what he noticed were not outstanding clues, and perhaps she was unaware of them herself. But to him, it indicated a growing reception of her new life.

He just watched. It was moments like these he appreciated most, when he and Lauren had quiet time together. No pressure to speak at every second, no other adults to invade their privacy, and no rush to get through their tasks. Simply being with one another, and taking comfort in each others' presence. Peace. Much like the element he strived to reach during meditation.

A long time passed before he lifted his head to ask, "Is your selection process yielding any possibilities?"

Swallowing her last bit of fruit, she hopped down from her perch, coming over to where he stood, matching leaves in hand. "Here," she said, "look at these." They were small, triangular shaped leaves, no larger than the expanse of her palm. They would be considered rather ordinary, save for the vibrant blue trim lining their edges.

Spock took one of the leaves and activated his screen for information. "Penolt leaves. Genus spelronus androfus. A plant that thrives in shade, and is often found covering forest floors. No known medicinal purposes, but used by numerous species of wildlife as material for constructing nests." He glanced at her. "In other words, a plant that nurtures and benefits many other life forms. I find them to be fitting for your parents."

She giggled. "I just like how they look."

Human perspective versus Vulcan perspective. He nearly smirked; facial expressions tended to be more frequent when she was near. They seemed appropriate for once. "I find your description fitting." He returned the leaf, angling his head when he saw the contents of her hands. "You have collected three samples instead of two," he observed.

"Yes," she was careful not to look at him as she wrapped the leaves in a small cloth and placed them in her bag, "two for my parents, and one for Aunt Amanda." He was very quiet when she said this, and she met his brown eyes again. "We had a service for her when she died, but I'd like to honor her here, too. With you guys, I mean. I don't feel like I got the chance to do it for real."

He tilted his head ever so slightly, letting warmth shine through his eyes to her, contradicting the calm he kept on his face. "I believe she would greatly appreciate your gesture, being that you are her niece. And I would be pleased to have you honor her memory." Amanda Grayson's katra had been lost when she died, falling with her when the rocks gave way beneath her feet. When she had died, it was for forever. A characteristic Lauren might share one day…No, he pushed the thought down, down, buried it in a deep, dark place. She is here, he thought, she is here. It is not logical to conjure up such thoughts. He looked at her again, verifying that she was there.

As if reading his mind, a bright smile crossed her face. Peace re-entered his heart at the sight. She pulled out the other fruit she had packed, offering it to Spock. Accepting it, he softly said, "Itaren, krei." A pause. And then, "Father was right."

"About what?" She asked.

"Your smile bears an incredible resemblance to Mother's."

Normally, the comment would have made her beam, but she could sense him withdrawing, guarding himself, no matter how hard he fought to cover it. It caused her to frown. "You alright?"

He gave a nod. "Yes, Lauren; I am well."

She studied his face. Locking eyes, neither moved nor spoke for several minutes. Spock could tell her mind was unconvinced with his answer, but she was not pressing for elaborations. He had, however, triggered a thought in her mind. Timidly, she brought a hand to his face, not touching, but hovering over skin, fingers spreading across the expanse of his cheek. Spock did not stop her. It was an awkward attempt to imitate…Half-smiling, she said, "Wish I could do that to you."

He understood immediately. "You are familiar with mind-melds?"

She nodded, letting her hand slide away; he caught it as it fell. "Uncle Sarek did one to me a few days ago."

His eyes remained on her. "You suggest the desire to meld with me. Am I correct?"

"Yes," she said. "Is that possible?"

"It is, yes. Vulcans can transfer their thoughts into the minds of humans when required."

She seemed hopeful. "Would you?"

He hesitated, uncertain of the burden he could potentially transfer to his cousin. "This is something you and I have never attempted before, Lauren. I do confess a curiosity at your request. Tell me: what is it you wish to see?"

She looked at him for long moment, and then sighed, knowing he was not fooled. "What happened…when your mother died?"

An almost invisible pain shimmered across his eyes. It was not as though he never expected the question; he had anticipated it eventually. Still, to hear it made his heart sting with a hidden agony.

Swallowing, she went on. "Mom and Dad told me how, but they weren't there. I want to hear it…see it from you."

He was still holding her hand, not speaking as he breathed evenly to contain his sudden emotions. Ever so slightly, he turned his head. "You ask me to relive events that were less than pleasant to experience," the greatest understatement he had ever uttered. "Events that caused me to feel as though I had lost myself entirely."

She felt her stomach drop, understanding exactly what he meant. It was a similar feeling she had shared when the Starfleet officers first brought her the horrific news. But for him to be half-Vulcan and have to cope with his feelings…God, how had he?

He went on. "What information did Father seek from you?"

"Wanted to see what I went through after Mom and Dad died."

"Could you describe what the experience with the mind-meld was like?"

"It was…" Trying to find a way to adequately describe a mind-meld was not an easy task. In addition to this, she preferred not to voice the memories aloud. It was more difficult to speak about them. Probably why Spock was avoiding talking about Aunt Amanda. She finally settled on, "It felt sad."

He sighed, long and inaudibly, then nodded shortly. "He sought events that caused you great pain. However, it appears to not have affected you negatively, as you desire to repeat the act."

She nodded. "I think it was good that he did it. And don't ask me why because I don't know how to explain it," she said sincerely.

Spock comprehended, though. The mind-meld created a link between them, one which both had desired, and would live on in their minds and hearts. The same would occur with him and Lauren, a thought which did not displease him. He placed his data screen and other items in his bag. "You have exposed your memories and emotions to another without a second thought. In fairness to you, I find it logical to comply with your request, and share the contents of my mind with you."

She was grateful to hear him say this, her eyes softening. "Do I have your trust?" Sarek had asked her this when he wanted to examine her thoughts. Now she felt it necessary to ask for Spock's permission.

The corners of his mouth upturned. "You have my trust, and need never ask for it again." They faced one another, mere inches separating the two relatives in the picturesque forest. One hand continued to hold hers. Bringing his other hand to her face, he positioned his fingers on Lauren's pressure points, and she breathed evenly, preparing to let his mind enter hers. "Our minds, one and together," he almost whispered. And then, closing his eyes, he was falling deep into her subconscious.

When he entered, he could tell that Lauren's brow was furrowing beneath his touch, her hand tightening around his. Her breathing was calm, though her heart rate had accelerated, but he concentrated on letting his thoughts pour into hers.

He shared with her the moments leading up to Amanda's death, scrambling across the disappearing planet of Vulcan, which was minutes from collapsing into a black hole, desperately striving to retrieve his parents from the katric ark. He shared the last time he and his mother had looked at one another, as the cliffs tumbled down angrily around them. Spock would never forget the look in her eyes, as though she was aware that this was the last time she would see her son, reassuring him that no matter what, everything would be fine, and it was alright to be afraid…then her eyes fell when the ground gave way under her, and even though his hand shot out to grab her, his voice screamed for her, she became part of the vanishing world…

But it did not end there. He showed her more; he had to. He shared the despair that had consumed him following her death, when he and the others had been safely beamed aboard the Enterprise. Lauren saw herself becoming him, seeing the events through his eyes: gazing longingly at the transporter pad, where she should have appeared; watching as she took command of the vessel, a mess of emotions hidden carefully beneath a well-trained mask; seeing herself interact with his crew, and feeling him react to things they did or said; seeing herself antagonized by James T. Kirk, and responding in such a violent manner, his blood staining her knuckles where she had repeatedly punched his face, disbelieving when she felt herself attempting to crush his windpipe, to show him exactly how he…felt…about watching his mother die...

Spock released her, taking his hand from her face. Instantly, her eyes went wide and she gasped harshly for breath, a hand clutching her chest as she backed away unsteadily. Spock reached for her, but she lost her balance and fell on her rear. Thankfully, the ground was soft enough to break her fall. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and had been unnoticed for several minutes.

Tears. They were partially tears of sadness, but more so, they were tears of…anger. Overwhelming anger. Rage. It consumed her, had been as intense as the furious fires of hell. It even made the tears feel hot. Never had she felt how powerful that one emotion could be. It had been the dominant sensation all throughout the mind-meld, after Amanda and the planet had been destroyed, and when Kirk provoked the Vulcan crewmate into reacting. Where had this feeling come from? She wondered frantically. It wasn't in me. At least, I don't think it was. This was very different from the mind-meld performed by Sarek. The hand remained firmly against her chest, as though she was holding something to her. Or inside her. Something that wanted to be freed, but she was restraining it with all the effort she could summon. A difficult task to accomplish while so bewildered.

He stood above her, giving her a chance to calm down. "Forgive me," Spock spoke, concerned, "emotional transference is a side effect of the mind-meld."

Her breathing was still heavy, and she fought to gain control over it, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth. She scanned her mental dictionary for what he meant. Okay, emotional transference, she thought. Transfer means to move something from one place to another; got it. So then emotional transference means moving emotions from one place—her breathing had slowed, and her eyes opened—to another. The emotions came from…

That was why she clutched her chest. The emotions were in her heart, and she was trying to soothe it as best as she could, lest they jump straight out of her torso. Her face turned to Spock. "You felt that?" She whispered incredulously. "That was in you?"

He knelt beside her, his face serious, his eyes caring. "Everything you feel now was what I experienced in those days. Losing Mother set off a chain reaction of emotions that I was unprepared for, and that I was not ready to control."

The sobbing had ended, but tears insisted on being shed. What had struck her most was how much closer she now felt to Spock. Many of his feelings had been similar to what she felt when her parents died. Anger, sadness, loneliness, despair. "But you learned to control them," she breathed.

"I have learned to coexist with them, yes," he grazed her damp cheek with the back of his hand. "Being half-human, they will always be part of me, no matter how much I repressed them in my adolescence. Therefore, I must learn to manage them."

Her breathing finally under control, she thought about her aunt and looked at him sadly. "Do you hate being able to feel?"

He considered his thoughts carefully. "Had you asked me that question years ago, I would have responded in the affirmative. I have had much conflict in my life due to my differences. It's not pleasurable to exist in a society where you are constantly rejected for…not being 'pure.'

"However, the experiences I have had in coping with emotions has allowed me to understand who I am better than I ever thought possible. I am half-Vulcan, half-human, the son of my father and mother. This is not something to be ashamed of; it is something to aspire to. So in response to your question, no. Being able to feel is a trait I had in common with my mother, whom I did admire for the strength of her heart, especially in a world not her own." He leaned in close to her, touching their foreheads together. "And being able to feel is something I share with you, Cousin Lauren."

Fresh, quiet tears squeezed forth, but out of heartache this time. His words really demonstrated how much he loved her.

Spock kept holding his head to hers. "I am aware that another was at fault for my mother's death," he said. "But there are still times when I partially blame myself for not being able to do more. I just wish I didn't feel as though I failed her the day that Vulcan was destroyed."

Sniffing, Lauren pulled back slightly, making sure she had eye contact. "I was twelve when the Narada attacked Earth. It was two years ago; I remember. I also remember finding out that it was you and the crew of Enterprise who stopped the Romulans from destroying Earth." Cupping his cheek, she proclaimed, "It's because of you that I'm still alive."

He said nothing. The impact of her words...he could not define it himself. It was not something he took into consideration until she mentioned it. Of course he had been aware, but he had not dwelled on it. She was informing him that in saving her, he had not failed his mother. In a way, he had honored Amanda Grayson by not only defending her home planet, but also by defending her niece. His cousin. Their blood.

"Remember that," she murmured.

In his heart, he promised.

"Itaren, Spock. Thank you for your thoughts."

Looking at her reddened eyes and swollen cheeks, Spock realized how fatigued she suddenly appeared. A mind-meld could have that affect, depending on the kinds of thoughts transferred. Wiping away errant tears ineptly with his thumb, he made a suggestion to mutually benefit them. "I believe now would be an appropriate time to practice meditation techniques. Both you and I."

Lauren knew meditation sessions were important to the lives of Vulcans. Exhaling slowly, she nodded. "Okay. But I don't know how."

He gave her a tender look. "Then I shall guide you. This would be a good skill to practice each day, to give serenity to your entire being. Do as I do, Lauren."

Bringing his hands before him, he joined his fingertips, placing them before his face in a practiced manner. Lauren copied his movements, watching his face as he went on. The lack of ability on her part was obvious, but Spock was incredibly patient. As always. She did not comprehend the point of meditation, but he was willing to teach her. And she was willing to learn. He spoke gently to her now and then, explaining the process, and the achievement of peace and discipline in the techniques. Considering the events that had taken place in the forest, she decided it was a good idea. With everything she and Spock had just shared, she wanted to do even more. Here he was, right beside her, looking wise and certain in his state of concentration. Closing her eyes, she let herself focus on the sound and pace of her breathing. Let herself focus on the steadiness of her heartbeat beneath her chest. No need for tears, no need for anger, no need for sadness. After a while, she did begin to feel more relaxed.

For the next half hour, the cousins sought peace in the confines of the green woods.

The courtyard outside their home had a privacy wall around it. Within the wall was a ring of glowing hot coals, which showed orange and bright through the darkness of night.

Three figures stood around the ring of coals, equally distanced apart, all dressed in black ceremonial robes. Sarek, Spock and Lauren had never looked more like family until this very moment.

The two Vulcans raised their arms, eventually bringing hands before them as they would for meditation. They felt their spirits reaching outward, touching one another, and seeking to touch those who were absent from them. It was not a traditional ceremony, but this was how they chose to honor their family. This was how they mourned, through discipline and reverence.

Lauren said nothing. Only once did she dab sweat from her brow, as her proximity to the burning coals was so close. She had originally planned to play her violin around the hearth, to honor her fallen relatives with a song. Something she could contribute. However, she opted against it, choosing to respect and adhere to the Vulcan customs she was witnessing. Besides, it would benefit all of them to have a quiet memorial, to let their thoughts linger to Jonathan, Sarah…and Amanda. Instead, she watched the graceful movements of Sarek and Spock vigilantly, holding her trio of leaves in front of her. Symbols of the departed.

When Sarek and Spock completed the first cycle of meditation, he motioned to Lauren with one hand. She took this as an instruction to place her leaves on the coals, and she stepped forward to do so, feeling the intensity of heat increase. One by one, she released the leaves from her palm, watching as each floated down to the glowing embers, igniting instantly when they kissed the orange lumps. Flames reached up from them, blue-green at the bottom, bright yellow at their tips. The fire represented the lives of those who had passed on. The flames started small, symbolizing birth and childhood; then they would grow in strength and height, showing the progression into adulthood; finally, the fire would wane, diminishing gradually until the crippled leaves became small piles of ashes, signifying death. The last stage. She grasped this concept, and found it to be beautiful. Unique. She was proud to be included as part of the ritual. Through the silence, she thought about her father's outgoing nature, her mother's kindness, and her aunt's warm eyes. Never again would she see these beloved family members, not in this life, anyway. The resurging thoughts brought another wave of sorrow over her, and she took a breath to soothe herself. Stealing a quick glance at Spock, he met her eyes, and gave a subtle nod. She smiled sadly in return.

Across the coals, her uncle and cousin raised their arms yet again. This time, in lieu of just observing, she imitated their physical gestures. The long sleeves of her robes extended with her arms, giving the appearance of having wings. She then brought her hands in front of her to perform meditation alongside them. This would be good for her, as Spock recommended she begin the habit of daily meditation. Exhaling slowly, she closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, letting melancholy thoughts melt away.

Sarek was mute, but secretly appreciated his niece's actions. Spock thought about his mother, his emotions only apparent in a squeezing of his shut eyes. And Lauren. Lauren was glad to be with her family.

Together, the three stood in darkened silence as the coals continued to burn.