Chapter 3

Spock puts away the tricorder with practiced, precise movements.

"Explain your presence."

It is not a request.

Stonn had held out some hope for a civil, formal greeting, but if he is to be honest with himself, which he always strives to be, he carries enough anger himself to make it something of a relief to dispense with the ceremonial pleasantries.

Ceremony and lore is what got them in this mess in the first place.

"I came seeking you," Stonn repeats.

"You seek the oasis when the storm has already risen," Spock speaks the old idiom in High Vulcan, voice low and dark.

"Some people in the more cosmopolitan parts of ShiKahr actually borrow the English expression now, did you know?" Stonn counters, in standard Vulcan before he switches to the human tongue: "Too little too late."

Amanda, Spock's gentle, forgiving, mother, taught Stonn that English idiom. He knows that Spock's knows this. He lets the long vowels of the alien language roll around in his mouth, savoring them as he always does. He is a poet, after all.

Spock says nothing, black eyes boring into the other man, hands hidden behind his back. Stonn has been shut away in a dark freighter with aliens and a grieving devastated bondmate for three months, and he wishes desperately that there was a way, any way, to get a connection, anything beyond the cold control, here… But he is not here for himself.

"You need to meet with her," Stonn says. "She is too… she won't come to you."

Spock removes a broad armband that Stonn saw locals wear during his short visit to the dome. When it detaches from Spock it leaves a red mark.

Ignoring Stonn, Spock studies it for a moment. Then he cracks its small central container open, revealing a grey, calcite substance inside. He speaks then, in measured tones, not looking at the man on the ground by his side.

"Her needs are no longer my concern, Stonn. That was settled when T'Pau made her your property after the Kalif-fee. She is all yours now."

Stonn feels his anger flare up, lets it warm him. Although he may be drawn to them like a moth to flame, he is not one of these proud, arrogant Surakisi, with their impossible standards and eternal judgment. He will not let himself be controlled by his emotions, but neither will he seek to repress them totally. The Surakisi breed leaders and politicians, soldiers and judges, but seldom poets and painters.

ooo000ooo

"It's slavery," Stonn says, bluntly. His associates are meditating (cross-legged and with perfect postures, naturally) in the harsh glare of the midday sun behind the school. He sits in the shade by a table, a half-finished drawing in front of him. He's not going to let this go without a fight.

"It is highly theoretical issue," Spock murmurs.

"Then it's highly theoretical slavery, until it becomes highly concrete slavery. I do not see how you can defend the ceremony."

It's a controversial subject. For one thing, it skirts the subject of pon farr, and they might be able to talk about that some late night out on the Forge, but not here, not in the real and regular world. For another, Spock and T'Pring are not supposed to talk about Surakisi rituals with non-Surakisi at all.

"It is part of the traditions, Stonn," T'Pring says, voice calm as a breeze by an oasis. "Surak himself told us that we must seek and find the lessons buried in the traditions, and integrate them with the logic of rational thought."

"How do you combine a respect for the integrity and individuality of all sentient life, with a barbaric tradition that says a man can never get a divorce? And that the only way a woman can get a divorce is to become a slave to another man? How do you square a reverence for all life with enforcing a fight with lirpas to the death?"

"I do not know," Spock says. He blinks and opens his eyes.

"It is part of the mystery at the heart of Vulcanaity" says T'Pring, serenely. Her eyes are closed. Stonn wishes he could capture her likeness in clay, exactly like this.

He mustn't get distracted.

"How can you argue for an absolute application of logic to moral philosophy in class one minute, and then cower behind tradition and mysticism to defend practices that are illegal in modern Federation law and surely in the minds of all moral, sentient…"

"Stonn. No one challenges. We Surakisi are not pre-reform savages, even if we uphold the ceremonies," says T'Pring, opening her eyes and giving him one of her intense looks that regularly and frustratingly always cause his own logic to falter. "You can join us in silent meditation or leave us. In either case, please do so in silence."

He should leave, but of course he doesn't.

ooo000ooo

Author's Note: Thanks for reading! And thanks so much for the reviews, they really make my day.

I'm having a lot of fun playing around with Vulcan culture, exploring how the mysticism could exist in parallell with the rational, modern science-focused society.