A/N: Whoops – sorry this is late! I swear I thought I'd posted it! *is ashamed and slightly concerned about reliability of brain*
Chapter 30
It does not get cold in the temple during the long hours of silent meditation, but in the evening, as the sun drops low on the horizon, the shadows suck the heat from the day in a moment that the acolytes call i'karil, the tipping point between desert sun and desert darkness. They do not talk - at least, not to each other - but he hears echoes of their thoughts in the meld, and there's some kind of second-hand comfort to be had from the knowledge that everyone else is suffering as well. There is nothing to be done about the chill that their handspun robes can barely keep at bay, and there's comfort in that too. It makes it easier not to focus on the things than can be corrected, and yet remain problematic.
It has been 3.24 tevon-yonuk since he arrived at the monastery; 3.15 since he was able to satisfactorily address the Elders' concerns about his suitability to the Discipline. The need is undeniable, said Solak as Spock knelt before him, mind cartwheeling down the octaves as the Adept's consciousness receded from his own. It is his ability that I question. And Spock said nothing, simply straightened his spine and kept his eyes fixed on the sand-littered flagstones, knowing that they were waiting for him to plead, to protest, to show some sign of the fragility that they required from him in order to close their door forever.
Knowing what they'd seen in the meld.
Perhaps it was part of the initiation process; perhaps all petitioners are subjected to the same scrutiny and skepticism. He has no way of knowing. The acolytes do not talk; at least, not to each other.
The strength of T'Cora's aversion to his emotional imbalance is a source of concern to her and to the Masters, and the fact that she knows that Spock has seen this in their melds further confounds her attempts to control it. He is aware that her progress has been less than satisfactory in the seven seasons she has spent at Gol, and he can feel her growing desperation leaching into the air around her as they sit with the other neophytes, cross-legged and silent, on meditation mats on the floor of their communal cell. They have been partnered, Spock suspects, because Master T'Kel has read the vivid red streaks of distress that slice through his controls every time she traces the edges of the memories that will not diminish, and he believes that T'Cora, though she contains her story behind solid walls of Discipline and reserve, has demons of her own.
But the trance has returned. Slowly, incrementally, and there is, as yet, no peace to be found within it, but it no longer eludes his summons. This, if nothing else, is cause to persevere.
There are five of them in his cohort: the eldest is 134, the youngest 23. They sleep on reed mats on the floor of the soaring, arch-ceilinged room where they pass the majority of their day, beneath streaks of starlight that filter down from the high windows and stripe the dark floor in shades of milky white. The silence of the desert is oppressive to the ears of a man who has become accustomed to the continuous presence of noise in his auditory landscape, and the soft sounds of sleep, of ancient stone settling as it expels the heat of the day, of the quiet footfall of the Adepts as they keep the nighttime watch, though they have become familiar, are not enough to settle his restless mind. At night, the memories come, and there is very little he can do to stop them.
Don't go.
Negative.
Don't go.
Negative.
Don't go…
Over and over, like an ancient SOS call twisted into an infinite loop. And, behind that, the others:
Ri aitlu du dash-tor. Nekhau sanu.
Your world is beautiful, Spock.
It is my understanding that captivity is often a question of perspective.
Show me somewhere we've never been.
Have I ever given you cause to think that my actions are motivated by anything but a regard for your wellbeing?
You stubborn son-of-a-bitch… I won't let you do this.
What would it profit either of us?
I lost you long before I lost my ship.
Your determination to consider yourself responsible for my decision is both bewildering and insulting.
When did this become about duty?
It is not your responses that I do not trust.
Don't go.
Negative.
Don't go.
Negative.
Don't go.
Forgive me, Jim…
-o-o-o-
In the morning, while the sun remains low on the horizon, the acolytes tend the gardens. A complex web of pergolas, shaded by a tight latticework of vine leaves, sieve the desert sunlight and provide sufficient protection from the plateau's extremes to permit the cultivation of a flourishing orchard and an extensive series of vegetable beds that, once harvested, become the rough stews and porridges that feed the Kolinahru and their acolytes in the silence of the dining hall. It is the responsibility of those on the first steps of the path to Truth to attend to its maintenance, and to the general upkeep of the temple complex, before their daily meditations begin. Spock finds that he has no objections to the work, though it is physically demanding, even before the fire has fully settled into the day: activity is more conducive than stillness to quieting the noise inside his head, troubling as this may be.
T'Cora works to his right, Sarenot to his left, T'Sil and Tural and Storan spread out along the row. Their cheeks are flushed green with exertion, eyes focused on the brittle red earth beneath their hoes as it crumbles and scatters down the banked terraces. The air is silent but for the chink of metal against soil, the languid rustle of leaves in the dawn breeze, the occasional cry of a circling shavokh, and the sound, the heat, the scent of warm foliage and water, plunges him, without warning, into another time – the piercing call of a bird coasting the thermals echoing in his ears as he strides half a pace ahead, footsteps wide on the heated, brittle sands that front the Sanctuary, and he knows his pace is too rapid for Human feet to match, but there is no way to walk beside his friend now, no way to meet eyes that read him far too well, no way to share those easy words and quiet smiles and continue to protect himself from what he must not acknowledge; even at this distance he can taste the scent of him on the air and desire scalds him with memories of hands gripping hair and flesh, mouth against mouth, body against body, the knowledge of love… And frustration tightens the muscles of Spock's arms, riding a wave of kinetic energy that drives the tip of his blade into the ground with enough force to bury it up to the handle. T'Cora glances up, eyebrow raised, and he knows that she has understood enough to guess at the direction of his thoughts. He does not meet her gaze.
Enough. His arm rises, falls, strikes the soil, pulls back. Rise, fall, pull back. Rise, fall, pull back. A rhythm, a heartbeat, a lullaby. A song to soothe the ghosts. Rise, fall, pull back: routine. Routine. Order amongst chaos.
When he twists his eyes sideways, T'Cora has looked away.
In the underground bathing hall, they strip off their soiled robes, stained red with desert dust, green with chlorophyll, and wipe themselves down with a damp linen cloth. It is not logical to feel vulnerable in his nakedness, but it requires a substantial portion of his controls to address the irrational desire to cover himself as he washes; he wonders if this is a component of his Human self, breaching the Vulcan exterior, or whether his companions are similarly afflicted. So early into the day, the shadows have yet to lose their chill, and his skin tightens in response to the sudden drop in temperature. It is not, however, unpleasant, after the strain of two hours' post-dawn sunlight; if it were not for the sense of exposure, of being obliged to witness others in a similar state of intimacy, he thinks he might enjoy this moment of respite – the one part of the day that is, in any sense, his own.
But he does not. He scrubs himself perfunctorily and shrugs on a fresh robe, and sets out to refill the oil lamps that burn in the halls by night.
It is, as yet, no easier, though the crisis has passed. Days have disappeared, drifting into night and back into day - long hours that telescope into the vanishing point, minutes that rush past like pollen on the breeze - and still his controls fail him. He does not need the wash of T'Cora's disquiet, T'Kel's disapproval, to understand this; the knowledge haunts the edge of every thought. It is at the front of his mind upon waking; it is the last thing he sees before exhaustion claims him in the small hours after midnight, and it hovers behind every action, every conscious gesture, every decision, every idle moment of contemplation. It presses on his lips in the long silence, and he cannot reliably contain it during meditation; it remains too strong to manage.
In the privacy of her audience room, T'Kel sits back on her heels and folds her hands in her lap. Her pendant shifts around her neck, falls back against the folds of her robe.
She says, "Your efforts are evident, Spock. Your aptitude exceeds our expectations."
Spock nods. The cell is silent; the monastery is at afternoon meditations and the stillness is so absolute that they might be suspended in deep space, surrounded by vacuum. He has the disorienting impression that he and the Elder are the only living bodies for miles around.
"Thank you, Master," he says.
"Thanks are illogical," she counters. "There is only what is. Your hybrid biology appears to offer no particular resistance to the path you have chosen, though it has clearly problematized your attainment of Venlinahr. This is not unusual. I have seen many acolytes pass through these halls whose mastery of the Disciplines was less than satisfactory. Kolinahr was their Way, and so, I believe, shall it be for you. We were correct to admit you."
He nods again, but says nothing. The thanks were a mistake. Moreover, he knows better than to think that he can conceal his turbulent thoughts from her, in or outside of the meld, and he knows that she is troubled by what she has seen.
"Kolinahr is within your reach, Spock," she says. "Your determination to achieve it has not diminished since your arrival, and some might find this admirable."
Spock's face does not betray him, though he knows that she will have observed the sudden skip of adrenaline in his stomach, the delicate color that his risen in his cheeks. He says, "You do not share this view, Master?"
She inclines her head. "I would invite you to consider," she says, "the possibility that this determination is a manifestation of the emotionality that you seek to purge."
It is not your responses that I do not trust.
Don't go.
Negative.
When did this become about duty?
Don't go…
His hands are already folded in his lap, but he straightens his fingers, stretches them against the rough weave of his robe, folds them again. He says, "What is your advice, Master?"
"Your path is your own, Spock," she says. "I do not advise; I merely guide. I have seen the disorder in your shields and your controls and I do not question your decision to seek your freedom from the bonds of emotion, but Kolinahr is neither a refuge nor a balm to soothe a troubled katra. We are not mind-healers. We are Kolinahru."
He wants to tell her that it is not a mind-healer that he seeks, but that is not strictly true - at least, not yet. He has not let go of the desire to desire; it is simply that it is incompatible with continued functionality, and the mind-healers could not help. So instead he says, "I am ready to receive your guidance, Master."
She nods, but slowly, as though she had expected something more. "I am ready to provide it," she says. Her hand rises, folded once more into the familiar pattern, and she says, quietly, "Your thoughts - give them to me."
He cannot suppress the twist of nausea that tightens his gut as he leans forward to fit his face to her fingertips, as they settle into place with the customary frisson of energy transference. She reads it, as clearly as if he had spoken it aloud, and she says, "You must not resist this, Spock. Let the thoughts, the memories, come. You must break their hold over you before you can take your next step upon the path to Truth."
"They are the source of great emotion," he says with difficulty, but she only bows her head in silent acknowledgment. Such confessions are no longer shocking to her; he understands this, but he has not yet learned to dismiss his father's teachings or the pride and the shame that they invoke.
"This is why you must let them come," she says. "It is not possible to purge the emotion they bring while you continue to hide from their power. My mind to your mind…"
"My thoughts to your thoughts…" he finishes, but she's there before the words have left his mouth, surging forwards like a tidal wave crashing through the flimsiest of breakwaters and leveling the streets behind.
/Let them come, she says, a whisper in the silence of a room that stretches into infinity, and he feels his mind contract, shrinking from her touch.
…don't g…
/Let them come.
…responsible for my decision…
/They have power over you while you resist. Lock them in shadow, and they cannot be purged.
…stubborn son-of-a…
/They are words. Memories. They have no form, no substance. They are the simply the path to the emotions that you must confront.
…not your responses that I…
/Speak the word. Bring it out of the shadow.
/I cannot.
/Illogical. The word is known to you. It is within your ability to speak it.
…profit either of us…
/Speak it. It has power over you while you refuse.
/It has power also when acknowledged.
/Illogical. It is so; denial cannot change this.
…don't go…
…negative…
…rgive me, Jim…
…Jim…
…Jim…
…Jim…
/Speak it. It unlocks the path that you seek. Speak it, and bring it out of the shadow.
…profit eith…
/Speak it and break its hold. It is a word, nothing more.
…ive me, Ji…
/Speak it.
/I cannot.
/You must.
…Forgive me, Jim…
…Don't go…
…Negative…
/Speak it.
…Forgive me, Jim…
…Jim….
…Jim…
/Speak it.
Jim.
T'hy'la.