The haze of plak'tow had lifted, leaving Spock all-too aware of the emotions stirring inside him. Guilt, despair, grief and anguish all threatened to overcome his barely-recaptured control. As he wrestled with the growing, contradicting desires to rage, to weep and to flee, T'Pau's calm words reached his ears.
"I grieve with thee, Spock," T'Pau said solemnly. She was the matriarch of his clan, one of the oldest Vulcans alive even before the destruction of their planet, and her control was impeccable. Spock knew this, knew that though her face was stone her words were sincere, and yet he was human enough to need some expression of that grief for the sentiment to seem real.
That humanity wanted to say "No, you do not." It wanted T'Pau and T'Pring and even his older self to feel remorse, to ache with guilt so strong it bled from their inhuman eyes. So he inclined his head to her, matching T'Pau's solemnity with his own, not deigning to speak to her as he turned his back. Carefully avoiding the congealing pool of blood staining the sand, he approached Selek.
"Did you expect this?" he asked of his older self. Multi-layered sadness filled the other's eyes which were wet with tears. The elder nodded, his aspect bordering on guilty.
"It did not happen quite the same way in my universe," he clarified hesitantly, "but yes, I did experience something similar."
Spock glared at Selek. "You said nothing."
"There was nothing I could say, for I swore not to interfere with your destiny."
"Khan," Spock accused, the single, damning word summarizing his thoughts on the matter. Selek inclined his head in acquiescence.
"Khan was another matter. While I did inform you that we had also encountered him, you will recall that I did not tell you what happened in my time, nor how to defeat him in yours." He inhaled deeply, releasing the breath on a heavy sigh. "Our paths have diverged; my history is not your destiny. I had calculated that your path would differ from mine — unfortunately, it is your Captain who has paid the price for that miscalculation."
Spock had no sympathy for his elder counterpart, lashing out at him in reply with direct intent to injure.
"Did you kill your Captain, as well, Selek?"
Selek flinched, and actually seemed to struggle for words. "All I can tell you is that my captain did not die on Vulcan."
"Look around you; neither did mine." With that, Selek ceased to exist for Spock; the elder was beneath even the younger's contempt.
Spock turned away, facing his father and giving him the Ta'al.
"Live long and prosper, Father," he stated tersely, ignoring the worry flickering around behind Sarek's eyes. He and Spock had grown closer since Amanda's death; part of Spock knew his father grieved with him, was concerned for him, but the forms of comfort available for his all-Vulcan father to offer him seemed hollow and worthless. Simply being Vulcan, even in part, caused waves of disgust to grow within him; he had no desire to take part in 'appropriate' rituals of grief. "T'Pring," he continued, casting a glance at the trembling wreck of a woman, "You are free."
Moving away and putting his back to them, Spock drew his communicator. T'Pau spoke his name and he froze, but did not turn.
"Live long and prosper, Spock," she said. At that, he faced her.
"As my captain would have said, Lady T'Pau," he said with all the passive-aggressive sarcasm in his tone he could muster, "yeah right." He had only ever spoken with that attitude before; when turning down a place at the Vulcan Science Academy. It felt just as good now as it had then. Flicking his communicator open, he commed the Enterprise. "One to beam up."
When he materialized, he was greeted by a firmly at-attention Scotty with damp eyes and a carefully neutral expression.
"The Captain…McCoy took 'im to the medbay, Sir. Told me to have you report directly to 'im for examination after getting your…orders."
Spock stared at a point over Scotty's shoulder as he paged the bridge.
"Sulu here."
"Lieutenant, as per regulations I am hereby turning command of the Enterprise over to you and promoting Chief Engineer Scott to First Officer. Your orders are to proceed with all reasonable haste to the nearest Starbase where regulations require I turn myself over to the authorities for immediate court martial."
"Sir?" Sulu questioned when he stopped for breath, a muted "Commander?" sounding in the background from Chekhov. Concern and confusion colored their voices.
"Pleases note in the log that as of this star date Captain James Tiberius Kirk is dead, at my hands," he continued stiffly, ignoring the gasps and dismayed protestations. "You have your orders — Spock out."
"…You…killed the captain, Sir?" Scotty sputtered hesitantly. "I…I dinnae believe it! What happened, Mr. Spock? Whatever happened on that bloody planet I'm sure must have just been a terrible accident…"
"It was no accident, Mr. Scott," came the reply, bitterness dancing on the edges of the Vulcan's tone. "I murdered Captain Kirk in cold blood. Excuse me."
Spock departed, leaving Scotty staring after him in mute shock, tears welling in his eyes.
Logically, Spock's quarters were probably the last place he needed to be. Regulations required he be in the brig; friendship dictated he be in the Medbay, apologizing to McCoy and assisting the doctor as he made arrangements for the Captain's — Jim's — body.
Logic had little to do with Spock's actions now, however - or at least, conventional logic had little to do with them. In another universe Spock proceeded with calm solemnity to a sickbay inhabited by a living Captain; but that Spock had not watched his planet be devoured by a black hole, he had not despaired as his mother fell to her death just out of reach, and he certainly had not violently pursued an Augmented murderer through San Francisco to avenge the untimely death of his Captain.
If it hadn't been for those agony-filled moments spent watching his friend die afraid, isolated, and in pain, perhaps he would not have been so set upon his current course.
When the door to his cabin slid shut behind him the veneer of self-control fell away. Spock trembled, gasping, stumbling as he crossed to the far corner of the room. With shaking hands Spock lifted a ceremonial Vulcan dagger from its place on the wall and knelt on his meditation mat. Blade cradled reverently in his hands, he slipped into a trance, remembering…
Heat burned under his skin, stung his nerves, drove him forward against the panicked entreaties of his rational mind. The face before him, familiar, teasing, those vibrant blue eyes wary, yet trusting all the same.
Friend some small part of him whispered in agony. Friend. His soul flamed hotter; how dare a friend burn for his intended? How dare she challenge, how dare she choose him?
The lirpa struck the ground and he charged, taking swift advantage of his enemy's defenselessness. Voices cried out around him, and the blue eyes widened as his opponent ducked. Weaponless, the enemy — friend, his heart murmured — backtracked, sidestepped, dodged, evaded.
Spock was furious. He pressed the attack, watching as calm acceptance filled those saddened blue eyes with resigned determination. The enemy knew he would die, yet still he avoided the lirpa's blade.
Mistake.
The enemy stood too soon, and the counterweight was already in line with the blonde head. Spock accelerated the backswing, reveling in the solid thump of contact.
The enemy dropped.
Clarity.
Ice.
Spock no longer burned, and with the abrupt return to sanity came shock and panic.
Kirk lay crumpled on golden sand that adhered to his bleeding skull. Spock dropped his lirpa, sickened by the sight of his Captain's blood staining the counterweight, a lock of his hair sticking to the metal.
A horrible pain twisted in his side by his pounding heart as he fell to his knees beside Kirk, reaching hesitantly for his Captain's pulse. A body, heavy and too-warm, knocked him aside, an angry, grief-stricken voice confirming his looming suspicions.
He'd murdered his friend.
Reliving that moment of anguish broke Spock from his meditation. His eyes watered, but he firmly denied himself the solace of tears. He did not deserve the comfort of their warm flow; he was guilty, and there could be no comfort for him. He raised the dagger, curling his long fingers around its hilt as he lined the blade up with his heart. Breathing deeply and slowly, he spared a final thought for Nyota. A fledgling bond had sprung up between them, a tiny awareness of each other, and through it he could sense her panic, the sharp echoes from the pain of his betrayal only enhancing his guilt.
She was coming for him, he realized, wondering if his intentions were bleeding through into her awareness. His door chime sounded, her voice passed stridently through the door. Jim, alive? No, Nyota, you are misinformed, mistaken — perhaps you lie.
"I am sorry," he whispered — and then sheathed the blade in his side.
The pain was sharp and icy-hot, the wound burning as it tore him through with numbing cold. Vision blurring, he pulled the dagger from his body, hearing it splat with a wet sound into the spreading pool of his blood. Hidden under the rushing sounds in his ears he thought he heard voices calling him; shouts of fear and anger, heavy tears and frustrated grumbles.
The pain and burning faded, leaving only the cold, which seeped into his ears, freezing them until he heard nothing.
Saw nothing.
Felt…nothing…
TO BE CONTINUED:
All errors belong to my beta.
(Nah, she's actually wonderful, has been both carving out time to keep this story going and to help support me through some rough stuff.) I gotta say, I've met some of the best friends in my life on this site, guys. Thank you.
So, errors are MINE, hope you like the update, and I'm sorry to do this to you, but you'll get to hear from Nyota next chapter, so hopefully that'll help!