Innumerable hours passed as he read and re read texts of the Vulcan Masters. He stood before the computer until even his Vulcan muscles protested. The he moved to the peg on the wall, took up his robe and walked the long dark passage way up to the surface. Once in the open he moved to the flat stone courtyard and took up a D'vun Kaltor stance. He moved tightly and precisely for hours on end stopping only when his limit had been reached.

Thus his days were spent without paying heed to man made schedules or planetary cycles. On some occasions he left the deep recesses of the monastery and walked out into bitter darkness. The numbing cold of the desert seeped into his bones as he held each posture with mathematical precision. On other days the blistering heat took its toll on his will and the bright sunlight literally blinded him as his second eye lid closed.

Even on those days, when he could not see to find his way most observers would not have known that his measured steps back to his empty cell were from memory.

Days and nights passed. He forced his body and brain into submission. After a time the words of Surak replaced the Klingon mutterings. But nothing could remove the sensation of bones and flesh yielding in his hands. Nothing satisfied as much as that first killing. Nothing.

It was shocking and repulsive to consider. So he didn't consider it. Not intentionally. Of course as Surak had taught, the undisciplined mind could not be stilled and it wandered into the emotional recesses of his memory.

Spock had known more than his share of loss of control. He had eaten meat with Zarabeth and excused it as time travel. The Platonians had stolen his dignity and for that he had lost all control in the presence of a complete stranger and his two most loyal and vulnerable friends. He had even behaved shamefully to Christine. Never speaking to her of the forced embrace. How was it that he could pride himself on his Vulcan heritage and not honor it when it came near her?

How could he not control so small an emotion as doubt? It was no wonder that he had behaved so abominably on the Orion Pirate's vessel.

As time passed his mind found dozens of solutions to their captivity that did not end with the animal like slaughter of those men. Several options ended with his own death but spared Christine the indignities she had suffered.

Each time thoughts surfaced about their ordeal he tried to push them away. There was no room for emotionalism here in the monastery, where masters of the Kolinahr taught.

It no longer mattered how he had reached the decision or what brought him here, the fact remained that he was here and it was time to work on his control.

And his emotions had caused so much pain and death in his lifetime that the only logical solution was to eliminate them.

But each day the doubts lingered and the questions rang out. Is this all that I am? An uncontrollable animal? Is there nothing more? Is there no hope for peace and balance?

So each day he focused his will on his goal, sparing only the barest of moments for his bodily needs. He hardly ate, rarely slept and never spoke. Determined to find an answer to end his pain.

"What the hell is going on, Don?" Christine stormed into her latest counseling session.

She had had enough. She couldn't say what was the final straw, but it didn't help that she couldn't explain to Nyota.

The Deltan did not look up from the replicator he was reaching into. He turned in his even measured steps and brought her a cup of steaming hot coffee. Normally it would be waiting on the table in front of her, however this morning Christine had been rather early.

He moved quietly, letting the silence work its annoying magic on the human woman. He sat in his usually chair with a slightly amused look.

"Good Morning, Christine. How are you doing this week?" He said to her, picking up his cup. It was exactly what he said every week.

"Damnit Don, cut the crap. What's going on here? Why am I still coming to these stupid sessions?"

"I don't know." He said sipping his tea. "Why are you still coming to these sessions?"

"AUGH! You're infuriating!" She groaned as she threw herself heavily into her usual chair.

"What is it you are trying to ask, Christine? Be very specific." He offered in a fatherly tone.

"Don, it's been 6 months and all we talk about is the past. I'm sure you're very interested in what sort of Freudian shit I have going on with my family but I need to cut to the chase. I'm tired of these sessions. I want out of here."

"Hm." He murmured noncommittally. "I'll be honest with you Christine, I don't really care about your past or your family."

"What?!" she shouted jumping to her feet. "Then what the hell have we been doing here!?"

Don sighed with the air of a parent whose child simply did not get it. "Christine, do you remember our first real session?"

Christine sat heavily once again, "Yes, we talked about my parents."

Don shook his head, "No my dear, you talked about your parents. I asked you 'Where shall we begin?' You began with your parents."

Christine's jaw dropped. "But I just assumed..."

Don smiled and leaned back in his chair opening his data pad of notes on their sessions. "You talked about your parents for the whole session. In our third session I asked you if you had anything you wanted to talk about or did you want to pick up where we left off last time."

"And you ask the same goddamned question every time!" She was so angry she could barely control herself. How could she be so stupid?

He chuckled easily, "For someone who didn't want to talk about their family, you sure had a lot to say."

Christine picked up her cup and took a long draught off it not wanting to comment. Yes, she had talked a lot about her family. She supposed it was because she never spoke of them to her friends. Too much history, too many petty problems.

Don continued to scroll through the data padd, "Then there is Mr. Spock."

She shot him a withering look.

"I had no idea when I read your file that your feelings for him were so deep. It must have been a horribly traumatic thing to have him there." His eyes were tinged with sadness. "Christine, when you came to me you were filled with so much anger and frustration. Why do you think I asked you to figure out why you were coming?" His eyes narrowed slightly willing her to understand.

"So that I would commit to being here. That's what I thought at the time anyway." Now she sighed heavily. "But you're saying you wanted me to figure out my own counseling agenda. Damn! I'm such a moron sometimes." She was shaking her head.

He smiled a genuinely happy smile, then continued with authority "As I said it must have been important at the time. But you are quite correct enough time has passed. You weren't ready to talk about your ordeal when you came here, but now it is time."

Christine was oddly uncomfortable at the thought. She didn't want to talk about it. She had been dreaming and reliving it since the day she returned. Oh sure, the dreams were a lot fewer and further between, but their effect was the same. Now that it was really time to talk about it she found herself trembling. She sipped her coffee again.

He spoke again, his voice soft but certain, "I know it's going to be hard, but you're ready. Are you familiar with the story of Baba Yaga?"

She smiled slightly, "Yeah. I've just discovered it. I don't know why but I really love it."

He smiled and pointed to a large mural on the wall near the door.

She had seen it dozens of times but never paid it much notice. She assumed it was just a mother and child. But now she could see that it was distinctly Russian in style and the mother was painted in wispy pale colored brush strokes. The brightest point, in the center of the swirling picture, was the doll clutched tightly in the young girl's arms. Her dress was a hodge podge of fabric pieces matching both the mother and the daughter. "It is one of my favorites." He said.

Christine nodded thoughtfully, "My friend told me that it was a great story for her daughter because it taught the deeper lessons of life. Do you know what she meant by that?"

Don smiled widely. It was the perfect question, a subconscious attempt to begin the path to healing. She did get it. She just didn't know it yet.

"Yes, it is an allegory for healing. It tells us that we are all orphans in the world, but that the wisdom of our experiences and the intuition of our hearts will always be enough for us to break the evil spells and overcome the most horrific obstacles. They are the voice of the little doll that speaks to us, the voice of our inner strength."

Christine looked at the picture for a long time digesting what he said. Then with tear-rimmed eyes she turned to face the very patient man.

"Okay Don, I'm ready. Let's get the hell out of Baba Yaga's house."