Chapter 35

Routine is useful. The chemical processes of the brain are routine, and, where they are not, there is always something to be learned. Emotions are simply a series of patterns that are not yet obvious, but they all devolve, eventually, into numeric predictability. Fight or flight. Herd mentality. Hormonal responses that foster an imaginary link between individuals based on risk/reward and a collective survival instinct. It's not quite the same thing as waking each day in the long hours before sunrise with an ache like grinding metal in the pit of one's stomach and a shadow hovering at one's shoulder with a voice that will not be silenced, but the principle is the same. Routine. It's the order beneath turmoil. It serves to iron out the glitches. It's an acolyte's refuge.

He managed four hours and twenty-seven minutes of sleep last night, burrowed beneath the thin fabric of his sheet, before a stray thought jolted him out of unconsciousness and ejected him into the chill of pre-dawn on the floor of his drafty cell. The sanctuary was silent, hushed and motionless as the last strands of night teased out the black fabric of a moonless sky, but he knows from experience that there is nothing to be gained from attempting to restart his sleep cycle once his body has made the decision for him, and he has become accustomed to beginning his day in darkness and meditation while his colleagues lie, prostrate and dreamless, on reed mats around him. He has come to prefer this, in any case. The trance is less capricious than sleep, and it is easier to control.

The weeks following srashiv are for reorienting the self, readying the mind for the next stage of its journey, and they are a time for solitude, reflection, and preparation. Kolinahr is achieved in isolation: days or weeks of nothing but sand and water and whatever can be scavenged from the scattered desert brush, and an acolyte on the second step of his Path requires a quiet place to learn how to keep the body alive while the mind adjusts. And so, as the sun begins its ascent, rippling veins of amber and gold through the shadows that hug the horizon, Spock sets out into the southern wastes of Vulcan's Forge along a path that is marked only by the fall of his own feet. The sand feels cool beneath the thin sole of his boot, but not yet familiar, though he understands that this will come in time.

The place he has chosen is a shelf on the spine of an ancient, rocky spur that spikes a jagged column out of the plain. Already it feels, illogically, as though it is his, linked to him by the same instinctive urges that he spends his days in a race to deconstruct, but he finds himself unwilling to challenge the sense of homecoming that settles in his chest as the canyon floor gives out onto flatlands and the familiar shadow slices across the sand. Sheltered on two sides by a cloak of black igneous rock, laid open to the glare and fury of the desert sun as it arches above the plateau, silent enough as the hours linger that he can hear the passage of blood in his veins, it is sufficient for the needs of an acolyte recently granted srashiv. And routine is important. It has been no more than three weeks, but Spock has become accustomed to the lonely desert path, the feel of the rock under his feet as he scrambles up the slope, the contours of the plateau beneath his crossed legs as he passes his days in meditation, burrowing deep within himself for the memories that he seeks to dissolve.

You must labor hard to find the root of your partiality, T'Kel told him once, and he has; he does. It would be simpler if he could isolate the moment itself, the transition between then and now, but it appears to have taken the form of a gradual process over time rather than a discrete event, and there is, unfortunately, no obvious mode of attack. So, logically, it follows that he must work backwards along the timeline of their connection, like spooling a skein of wool, feeling his way along a path of excessive emotionality and laying it to rest.

This is the theory. The practice is… more complicated.

He begins, as always, with a light trance, easing through the murmurs of protest from that part of his mind that refuses to let go, settling him, centering him, and he holds it for as long as necessary, until the rush of voices subsides. Jim is here, as he always is: a golden smile turned sideways across the bridge, a warm hand on Spock's shoulders, a taste of salt and rust in his mouth, a hollow ache that spreads slowly from the depths of his belly to close a fist around his chest. Yes, he says quietly. You're better at this than I am. But he is one voice in an unquiet multitude, and his smile is softer now, fainter; his grip on Spock's skin less certain than it was. Once, Spock would have asked his forgiveness as he brushes him aside; now, he simply turns his back and feels a little of the light and warmth subside.

You stubborn son-of-a-bitch, says his friend as the shadows creep in. I won't let you do this.

Sometimes, he wonders what the Admiral would say if he knew that he was not the only person to question the legitimacy of Spock's decision. It's a long time since Spock was uncertain of his choice - truly uncertain, and not simply afflicted by doubt - but he remembers those early days on Vulcan; he remembers the look in his father's eyes and his mother's whispered words. He remembers the effort it took to continuously recall his reasoning; he remembers the lassitude and the weariness.

He remembers the darkness.

-o-o-o-

Sarek returns from Vulcana Regar the morning after Spock's arrival, travel-creased and choleric, and, undoubtedly, apprised in full of the events of the previous day. He has kept himself to his quarters, cross-legged on his meditation mat in search of a peace that will not come, and Amanda has not disturbed him, although he suspects that she wants to. Sarek, Spock understands, will display no such discretion. His father is unable, at a very fundamental level, to conceive of any situation in which he does not instinctively know better than his son, and this has been the source of much ill will between them in the past. It was, in large part, the precipitating factor behind the argument that caused Spock to leave his parents' house, and, though matters have slowly improved these past years, it has remained a point of bitter contention between them. Strange, then, that Spock should find himself in a position in which he is not only prepared to make allowances for his father's self-assured disdain, but, he considers, it may actively prove useful. The Elders will, after all, almost certainly take some convincing before they open their doors.

His window is open onto the gardens to admit the late morning breeze, and so he hears fragments of his parents' hushed conversation drifting upwards from the family quarters below. Amanda speaks softly - quiet, urgent tones that muffle her words but not the anxiety that clouds them - but Sarek, though he says little, does not trouble to lower his voice.

"But why should he leave Starfleet?" Spock hears his father ask, and he sounds, in truth, less disturbed than confused. And then, in response to an answer that Spock cannot hear: "Perhaps. But he will answer me."

Spock has not slept for more than ninety minutes together in almost a week, and it has been more than four since he was able to achieve anything more substantive than the most superficial of trances. He was scarcely prepared to trade pleasantries with Veshek when he arrived earlier this morning with the pitcher of iced tea that now sits in a pool of tepid water on a shelf by the window; he is certainly not equal to an interview with his father. But he stands, nevertheless, at the sound of a sharp rap at his door, unfolding himself on weary legs and clasping his hands in front his chest, straightening his spine and raising his chin to call "Enter." There is not much he can do to obviate it, in any case, and he would prefer to meet Sarek with at least a semblance of control.

The door slides open on the still figure of his father, stone-faced and forbidding in his ambassadorial robes. Spock raises his hand in the ta'al and Sarek, after a moment's hesitation, mirrors the gesture.

"My son," he says. "We were not expecting to greet you again so soon."

Spock nods. "I thank you for your hospitality, Ambassador," he says. He inclines his head towards the jug by the window. "Will you share a refreshment with me?"

The faintest of glances to his left, and Sarek crooks an eyebrow. "Thank you, no," he says. Spock cannot blame him; the tea has been sitting for almost three hours, and it looks older even than that. "I wish to discuss with you the circumstances of your arrival on Vulcan."

Belatedly, Spock realizes that his hand is still extended in the sign of welcome. His joints protest as he lowers it, sufficiently aggrieved that he understands that he has held the gesture for entirely too long. He is extraordinarily tired.

"No doubt," he says, "my mother has informed you of the particulars."

"I am given to understand that no particulars were forthcoming."

"I asked her indulgence," says Spock mildly, "and she was generous enough to grant it. I have assured her that I will account for my actions at such time as I am able." It's a convenient statement, designed to obfuscate the definition of able, and he entertains no illusions that his father will fail to notice. "I have, however, informed her of my resignation from Starfleet. Perhaps this is the circumstance to which you were referring."

An unblinking stare from the Ambassador carries his words into a thick silence, but Spock has had many years' practice in holding his ground. He knows better than to fill any absence of sound that his father may create in their conversations.

"Your decision is your own," says Sarek at length. "Though I confess that I cannot comprehend your logic."

"My logic," says Spock, "is also my own."

Sarek acknowledges the truth of this with a nod. "Your mother believes you are unwell," he says.

"She has said as much."

"I share her belief."

It is not entirely unexpected - sleep has been no less elusive since he arrived at his parents' house, and, though he has had a chance to recover somewhat from the exertions of the journey to Vulcan, nothing else has changed. If the trials of the past weeks were written into the face that Amanda saw when she greeted him, they have not receded during the long night that followed. It's only that Spock did not expect his father to acknowledge this. And he has no framework, now, from which to proceed.

In the absence of any viable alternative, therefore, he allows an eyebrow to express his hesitation, and he says, carefully, slowly, "I thank you for your concern."

"Concern is irrelevant," says Sarek. "You have neither meditated nor slept. Your health is failing. This is simple fact."

Articulated as such, there is little room for denial, but Spock finds himself, illogically, inclined to try just the same. That he fails to act on this urge, he understands, is less a triumph of logic over filial belligerence than an in-built aversion to allowing his father to score a point. So, instead, he meets the Ambassador's gaze and says, "Indeed. My return to Vulcan is not unrelated."

Sarek nods. "You seek a mind-healer."

"I did not say so," says Spock, and regrets immediately the note of intemperance that has crept into his words. He sees his father absorb it with a raised eyebrow and an air of imperious detachment, and his frustration rises: Sarek looks, for all the world, as though he was expecting as much from his son.

"Your katra has become imbalanced," he says. "There is no dishonor in this. You have passed many years in the company of Humans, and your shields have never been strong."

"My shields," says Spock, "have been sufficient."

"And yet you are here," says his father mildly. "And you have neither meditated nor slept." He takes a step forward, unfolding one hand from the wide sleeve of his robe. "Will you give me your mind?"

The recoil is so violent that it's an effort not to shrink back against the window, and Spock knows it has printed itself across his face. But the thought of his father sinking into his consciousness, sifting through his thoughts and finding nothing but raw emotion, is worse than appalling: it is unconscionable. Jim is twisted through the fibers of Spock's self like the weft of a fine silk, and there is no corner of his conscious mind that does not scream his name, no turn of his head, no scent on the breeze, no touch or sound or taste that does not conjure him. Spock's thoughts are barely his own when he is alone inside his head; he cannot permit his father access to such disorder.

"I will not," he says, but he does not meet Sarek's eye. There is a lengthy pause.

"That is your right," says his father. A beat, in which Spock does not lift his gaze from the floor. "Perhaps you will reconsider in time. We will speak again this evening."

He turns and steps towards the door, which opens at his approach, but, on the threshold, he hesitates. Spock says nothing, and his father does not turn, and, after a moment, he steps out of the room. The door slides shut behind him.

-o-o-o-

He passes the morning on his meditation mat, staring out into the burnt-ochre sky through eyes that refuse to close in a head that is too full of ghosts, while his spine stiffens and his hips turn to stone, and still the trance will not come. The sun reaches its apex above the L-langon Mountains and begins its descent, and Veshek arrives with a fresh jug and a plate of vash g'ralth that Spock considers briefly while his stomach roils, and he can no longer tell if the pains are from hunger or nausea. In the end, he makes himself drink two glasses while the tea is fresh and picks at pieces of mashya and fori, but it's an effort to force them down his throat, and he feels no better for his troubles. So, as the shadows lengthen across the desert floor and the air begins its gradual decline into nighttime chill, he surrenders to exhaustion and lowers himself onto his bed, with the idea of closing his eyes for a moment or two, nothing more - only so much as his weary mind requires to fortify itself for the trance.

He wakes to the sound of muffled voices, in a room that has turned to shadow. His first instinct is relief, because he cannot remember the last time he descended so completely into unconsciousness, and it has sanded the edges off the dull ache that presses against the inside of his skull. But this lasts only as long as it takes him to identify the source of the whispering: close to the open door, bathed in darkness, stand two figures shaded slate-black by the gloom, one tall and robust, the other small and slim. The sound is coming from the latter, a rapid-fire murmur that is unmistakably Amanda's, which makes the louring obsidian bulk beside her his father. Spock considers closing his eyes again and just waiting for them to go away, but, on reflection, he is forced to question the prospect of such a plan's success.

So he twists his hips and finds them obstreperous after hours without motion, protesting like the creaking of a hull under pressure as they roll him onto his side. His limbs feel like lead; his head as though it's full of water, and he's not certain, now that he comes to consider it, that he can persuade his body to achieve the vertical. But the motion catches his mother's attention and the whispering pulls to an abrupt halt as she turns over one shoulder, shadows melting across her face as she takes a step forward.

"My son," says Sarek from the darkness by the door, "I have arranged for a Healer to attend you."

"That is unnecessary," says Spock, but he finds that the words are thin, scoured by a dry tongue and cracked lips.

"It is not," says Amanda now, and her voice has taken on that steely, iron-bound aspect that he hears sometimes when she crosses words with that rare diplomat who doesn't know her well enough to understand why this is a bad idea. She steps forward, two rapid strides, and, in a rare breach of protocol, presses a hand to Spock's forehead. Her skin is warm against his: soft and pliant and far too Human. He resists the urge to pull away. "There is no fever," she tells his father over her shoulder. "You were right. It's not that."

Sarek acknowledges her words with a curt nod. "You have slept," he says to Spock. "Have you eaten?"

"I have," says Spock.

"Sufficiently?"

There is no truthful response to this question that will satisfy anyone, so Spock says nothing. Sarek takes his answer from the silence.

"T'Far will attend you at first light," he says briskly. "Perhaps now you will allow me to enter your thoughts?"

"My thoughts," says Spock, "are my own."

"Indeed," says his father. "And yet they remain undisciplined, and you remain debilitated by them. I do not require a full meld - a moderate connection will suffice…"

"No!" It's more forceful than he intended, and it's too harsh for his parched throat; Spock tastes blood at the back of his mouth, and swallows against the sharp pain of broken skin. He tries again, though he's certain it will take more than soft words to undo the information imparted in that one unguarded syllable: "I thank you for your concern, Father, but I do not require assistance at this time."

He doesn't need to look up to see the brief glance that his parents exchange; it's written into the air around them. Even Spock knows that he requires assistance at this time; denying as much is hardly conducive to persuading them to leave.

"My wife," says Sarek quietly. "My son and I will talk alone."

-o-o-o-

His father did not ask what had precipitated his resignation from Starfleet, and Spock did not volunteer the information, which is how he knows that, though there was no way for Sarek to be certain, he had deduced enough to make an educated guess. What he made of this hypothesis, Spock cannot tell; but he finds himself, lately, thinking often of their conversation that first night, stilted and uncomfortable and hamstrung by convention, and what he remembers most clearly is this: however stiffly the exchange might have progressed, however formal their speech and manners, he cannot recall any note of reproach in his father's voice. He remembers sitting bonelessly against a pillow, his head too heavy for his neck, while his father stood two paces from the bed and listened, without any discernible reaction, to Spock's intentions, and, when he'd finished speaking, Sarek simply nodded and said, "Kolinahr is an honorable pursuit. But let us speak first with Healer T'Far."

And when Spock protested that his decision was made, and that the Healer's counsel would prevail only inasmuch as it allowed him to prepare himself to face the Masters, his father dipped his head, shadowed by the low light of a single lamp, and spoke of releasing oneself from the bonds of emotion, of the emancipation to be found in pure logic, of the many reasons to follow the path to Truth and the circumstances in which it might be prudent to consider another way, and of whether or not, in the final analysis, freedom could truly be freedom if it were reliant on the strength of a wall.

Yes. Spock suspects that they understood each other better, that night, than they ever had before.

His mother mentioned his former life only once in the weeks that followed, while Spock rested and spoke with Healers and prepared for his journey to Gol: one hot, airless afternoon, when he had quit the stifling heat of his quarters for the shade of a leafy ic'tan in Amanda's garden. She found him on his meditation mat, though he had abandoned his efforts in favor of scrolling through a volume of post-Surakian philosophy, and he knew from her bearing and way that she busied herself with the folds of her dress before speaking that she had something to say that she would prefer to keep to herself.

I've had word from your former Captain, she said at last, and her eyes wouldn't meet Spock's.

He remembers the sharp spike of distress that crumbled the afternoon calm, and he knew that she saw it on his face, even as she read it through their bond. But he forced it down, buried it beneath precarious shields, and made sure that it was scrubbed from his voice before he answered.

He said, simply, This is an unfortunate breach of protocol.

Yes, she said. I haven't told your father.

No, he agreed. I believe this is wise. A beat, and then he made himself ask, What was the nature of his enquiry?

He asked… she said, and stopped. He asked if he could see you.

Ah. The PADD in his hands was trembling slightly. Spock set it on the mat beside him. He knew she would not have responded to such a request without asking for his guidance, but he suspected that he knew very well what she wanted him to say, and he was not certain he could bring himself to say it.

This is your home, Mother, he said at last. The invitation is not mine to extend.

Spock… she said softly - an appeal, a petition - and he remembered her words from the night before, caught on a stray breeze and delivered to his ears as he lay on his bed and waited for sleep to claim him: He is my son, Sarek. If he goes to that place, who knows what manner of man will come back?

Spock had wondered as much himself, but more pressing was the question of who would be left if he remained as he was.

I believe, he said, that I must return to my meditations. Starfleet's concern is acknowledged, but I do not believe that I will remain in ShiKahr long enough to receive a visitor.

It was the right decision. He knows it was, though her face, as she nodded and turned away from him to follow the blossom-lined path back towards her house, told a different story. But the choice was made, the die was cast; what profit was there in second-guessing himself now that it was done? It could only serve to throw him back into the same disorder that haunted him for those dark days that followed the ceremony, the days when his resolve failed him and all he could count was how much he stood to lose by leaving. He knows his decision was correct; he knows it was his only possible recourse once his controls were so comprehensively shattered. He cannot remember a time when he was not in love with James Kirk, but it means nothing: they are biologically incompatible, and it would be unethical to risk his health and wellbeing over an infatuation that ought to be eminently controllable. Since it is not, since Spock's emotions remain ungovernable, there is only one logical solution: emotion itself must be excised. Perhaps one day he will see his commander again, but he thinks that many years will pass between that day and this. He will be another manner of man by then.

Spock folds his legs beneath him on the sun-warmed rock as the trance settles, deepens, extends into his center of self. Jim is here, as he always is, but he is one voice in an unquiet multitude, and his smile is softer now, fainter. Yes, he says, you're better at this than I am.

And Spock thinks, Ah, Jim. If only you knew.