Chapter 37

The dreams come less frequently now: lonely strangers in the night that settle briefly on Spock's unguarded mind, and he's surprised to note, in their absence, the low ache of regret that brushes his controls as he wakes most mornings from an untroubled sleep. It is illogical, but, as his journey towards Truth has widened and deepened and carved itself into the bedrock of his self, he has learned to be content with these irrational longings. They are artefacts of his biology, he understands, but they no longer hold any power over him, and he need no longer dread them. And, as the fear has receded, it has become possible to view this lingering sadness with equanimity, to acknowledge its presence, accept it as fact, and set it gently aside, to be broken down, deconstructed, and dispersed — a little further every day.

Still, he finds that he misses his nighttime ghosts. He is beginning, now, to feel as though he is truly alone inside his head.

In the quiet space, where the memories used to clamor, his mind counts the passage of the days, like footsteps shuffling forward along a dark and uneven road. Winter is drawing to a close, the soft sun gathering its strength once more as the days lengthen, and it will soon be two Earth years since he arrived at the sanctuary gates. Marking time by the Terran calendar is a habit that Spock has not yet been able to break, although he refuses to find this strange: he has, after all, measured more of his life by the revolutions of that water-rich world than by the cycles of the planet of his birth. It is simply that, with his mind so fixed, it is impossible not to be aware, from the first moment of wakefulness, that today marks Jim's thirty-ninth birthday. The knowledge is not enough to unbalance him, nor to cast up images from another time and another place — a smile, a warm press of fingers around his arm, the knowledge of care — but he is aware, nevertheless, of a kind of hollowness, a tenderness, like the beginnings of a bruise, that surrounds that part of him which still keeps time to the beat of another heart.

T'hy'la, he whispers in the privacy of his head. There is no point in attempting to ignore it. One word and then it is done, and he is free to begin his day.

-o-o-o-

It is easier the next time: April 17th, by Terran standards; early spring in the desert, with the first harvest approaching and the sanctuary orchard heavy with flowers. Spock spends the day in meditation and emerges refreshed, as though he has immersed himself in cool water in the heat of the midday sun. Later, in conference with T'Kel, she notes his composure and questions him, and Spock is able to answer, truthfully, that it comes a little easier to him with every passing day. He falls asleep that night in silence and peace, and he does not wake until the pre-dawn skies begin to gray.

This is the source of neither surprise nor relief. This is as it should be. It will always be the anniversary of something, after all: the memories of one man make not the faintest mark on the relentless passage of time.

Kaiidth; the past is out of reach. There is only what comes next, and he is ready to let go.

-o-o-o-

T'Sil is the first of their peers to achieve Kolinahr, ascending to the altar as the final, fresh shoots of spring are giving way to the harsh glare of summer. It has been clear for some time that her journey is nearing its close, and so it comes as no surprise to anyone to learn that her long absence from their sanctuary cell is the prelude to her final trial, but still Spock hears in the meld the echoes of his own dissatisfaction in his colleagues' thoughts. There's a certain comfort in this. Frustration is antithetical to the pursuit of Truth, and the fact of its presence is enough to give an acolyte pause at this point in their path, so it is gratifying to learn that his instinctive response is neither unique nor, by extension, invalid, illogical though it may be. He knows better than to make any attempt to conceal it from T'Kel, but T'Cora, he thinks, is another matter: she is diligent, she is conscientious, and yet she has plateaued in her progress and cannot hide her discouragement from him when their minds are joined. He hears the whispered threads of self-doubt and discontent curling through the depths of her consciousness and wonders if she reads him as clearly: T'Sil has ascended; why do Spock and T'Cora remain cloistered within the bonds of emotion, unable to take the final steps?

He is almost there, but Spock is tired of almost. It feels, at times, as though almost is his life.

He has become accustomed to spending nights outside the compound's walls, locked in the depths of meditation on his desert retreat, and days will pass, sometimes, in which he will see no living creature but the birds that circle on the thermals high above him, and the sa-te kru that prowl the dusty floor below. It is not unusual to return to his cell after two, three days in seclusion and find that his colleagues have disappeared into the empty sands in search of their own peace; many nights, more than he can count, he sleeps alone. And so he cannot say, now, why the vacant space where T'Sil's reed mat used to lie disturbs him so: it has been almost five weeks since they shared this room, longer still since they melded, and her absence now is no more significant than the restless drift of feet that pass through the sanctuary every day, every week, every month. And yet it disquiets him, as simple solitude does not, for reasons Spock prefers not to examine.

Summer approaches on wings of flame and fury, and with it come the sandfire storms. There will be no further ascensions now until the seasons change: an acolyte's journey is their own, and no two are the same, but the final test must be equal, and the savagery of the desert at the height of the seasonal cycle creates inequities that do not accord with the principles of Gol. Though there have always been those who are lost to the sands during the final steps on their Path, ten days' meditation in the relentless blaze of the summer sun with nothing but a waterskin and the robe on one's back is considered, in most circles, to be throwing the game. Spock understands this, of course: last year, and the year before, it seemed like a sensible precaution. But now, as his feet pick their way across a familiar path in the swelling heat of sunrise, he's forced to admit that it feels like one more obstacle on an endless avenue of discouragement. Perhaps it's just as well that he's obliged to observe this temporary hiatus. His reaction to T'Sil's achievement bears the distinct signs of emotionality, and this does not bode well for his progression.

It is early August in San Francisco, he knows: midsummer in a city by the ocean, where sea mists blanket the Bay and a yellow sun struggles to reach the streets beneath. It is a lifetime away; another world that belongs to another man. And yet, as he climbs the rough path that leads to his retreat, his skin remembers the touch of fog, the careless brush of vapor on flesh, as though it were no more precious than the asphalt below his feet or the fabric of his uniform. He remembers the fascination and the misery: the careless, almost wanton extravagance of a world where water could be cast so wastefully onto the air; the unexpected chill, and the sensation that the damp was a great weight trying to press itself into the marrow of his bones. The memories are not troubling to him, so long as he does not give them a face, and they carry him as far as his ragged shelf, cloaked with a thick layer of sand from the previous night's storm and bluster. Below him, a mobile shadow on the red desert floor, he sees T'Cora, winding her way onwards towards her own place of seclusion. Spock folds his legs beneath him and reaches inside himself for the trance.

-o-o-o-

He is deep in meditation when some ancient instinct registers an insubstantial not quite right from his immediate vicinity, but it's a moment before his conscious self is able to isolate the cause. Auditory, says that part of the evolutionary imperative that has been keeping Vulcans alive since time immemorial, and, as he surfaces into the gray light of dusk, he is able to narrow the reference to a female voice: low and urgent, and unquestionably belonging to the figure seated on folded legs directly in front of him. Her face is shadowed by the creeping twilight and the voice is unfamiliar, but the word it speaks is not; it's only that Spock has never heard it spoken by T'Cora.

"My breach of protocol is unpardonable," she says now as she registers his return with a brief nod that causes the setting sun to flash fire on her hooded eyes. "I ask your forgiveness. However, there is a storm approaching, and I believe we must seek shelter."

"There is no offence where none is taken," says Spock carefully. He is aware of an inconvenient haze in the center of his conscious thoughts, relic of the abrupt termination of the trance, and he would be glad of a little privacy to shake the cobwebs from his skull. He cannot imagine T'Cora engaging in such an irrational activity and it occurs to him, now that they are engaged in their first conversation of all the long months that they have known each other, that he knows her only as a cipher: a wall of caged memories, emotional transference and artifice. They are mirrors to each other, nothing more. Strange that he has never noticed this before.

Spock glances up towards the horizon, speared by jagged hulks of dark rock, and sees a low cloud in the far distance, obscuring the line of the desert floor. It is moving rapidly, though he cannot, as yet, see the tell-tale flash of sandfire lighting it from within. It is, however, unquestionably blocking their return to the sanctuary.

"I believe you are correct," he says. His voice, so little used these days, sounds hoarse in his ears; almost unrecognisable as his own. "There is a cave system 1.27 mat'drih to the south that may offer adequate protection."

But T'Cora shakes her head. "I have had the opportunity to observe the storm's approach," she says. "At its current speed, I do not believe we have sufficient time to cover such a distance."

An eyebrow arches. "Are you aware of an alternative?"

"I am," she says.

Spock inclines his head. "Very well," he says, and rises to his feet.

-o-o-o-

T'Cora moves quickly but gracefully, urgent but composed, as she leads him along the desert floor at a pace that takes account of the advancing threat but refuses to sacrifice a kind of fluid, dispassionate elegance that Spock has had no previous opportunity to observe. If it were not for the fact that he is obliged to lengthen his stride to keep up with her, he might believe that she is unaware of the faint trembling in the ground beneath their feet as the storm draws closer, the greasy taste to the air that tells of a relentless static build-up, the silence of the canyon floor as wildlife scatters in search of safer ground. But then she glances over her shoulder, eyes widening in a manner that is the opposite of reassuring, and her voice, when she speaks, is harsh with labored breathing.

"This way," she says simply and, though the words are scarcely needed — he is, after all, already following her, and their direction does not change — he understands the imperative behind them. He has seen sandfire before.

She leads him to a cliff-face, ochre crags shaded black by the advancing night, and onto a crumbled pile of stones at the bottom, which she scales as easily as a le-matya in pursuit of prey. Spock scrambles after her and finds that they open onto a narrow set of steps, rough-hewn and smoothed by the passage of years, that lead sharply upwards towards a wide, flat ridge some 700 meters above them, where it's just possible to make out the dark hollow of an entrance. The wind is picking up as the storm draws closer, air humming with a gathering roar, and, above him, T'Cora breaks into an indecorous run that Spock is pleased to copy, fisting his hands around the folds of his robes as he scales the steps two at a time towards the promise of shelter. Ahead of him, he sees T'Cora disappear into the cave mouth as the first flash of lightning slices through the gloom behind him, entirely too close for comfort.

"Come!" she shouts over the howl of sand and fury, though the injunction is entirely unnecessary. Spock clears the ridge with the kind of speed he has not been obliged to summon for more than two years, and stumbles into the darkness beyond.

T'Cora is already moving, head bowed and arms outstretched to brush the tunnel walls as the light fails. She is shorter than Spock by at least a head and, as they move further into the cave, he is obliged to bend almost double to follow her. Lightning streaks blinding white light through the shadows, casting her silhouette in zoetropic gray on black, and he is aware that the storm is now close enough to seriously threaten their safety while they are near enough to the entrance that the light can still penetrate. The roar fills the narrow passageway, bouncing off the walls like an echo chamber, but, gradually, Spock becomes aware of a dampness beneath his fingertips, the scent of water and mold and stale, ancient air, and he realizes that they have circled deep into the cliff itself: where the blistering heat of the desert sun cannot sear away the moisture that clings to the cave wall, sandfire is unlikely to reach.

Spock can see nothing, and he can hear little above the roar of the storm outside. But T'Cora, close by his ear, says, "We will be safe here. The temperature is regrettable; however, the cave entrance provides a more temperate environment, should we be obliged to remain here for any period once the storm has passed."

"You know this place?" says Spock, although he is beginning to suspect that his presence here is every bit the invasion that hers was when she broke protocol to approach him at his refuge.

"I do," she says, simply, and it's enough to confirm his theory: she has brought him to the place where she seeks her Truth. Spock has literally no idea of the etiquette under the circumstances; it seems likely, in fact, that there is none, because he simply cannot imagine that the Masters of Gol have ever envisaged a situation in which it might become necessary to determine a set of rules to govern the behavior of an acolyte inside another acolyte's retreat. The directive has never been specifically issued, but it is understood: the place chosen by a srashivu is inviolate and entirely private. It is not for others.

So, in the absence of anything more informed or productive to do, he finds his way to the edge of the tunnel and drops to a crouch, leaning back against the damp wall. Moisture soaks through his robe with an alacrity that is certain to make for uncomfortable wearing before very long, and he regrets at once the impulse that led to the action. Still, it's done now and, as it turns out, he is exceptionally tired in a manner that advises against attempting to maintain spinal integrity. There's no etiquette for emerging from deep meditation and breaking immediately into a headlong dash for one's life, either, as far as he knows, although that one, he feels, the Masters might have seen coming, given the nature of the locale.

"I believe," he says, "that I owe you a debt of gratitude, oko-kai." The honorific feels arbitrary and slightly forced, but addressing her by name, when they have never been formally introduced, is unthinkable. "Had you not returned for me, I would have been caught in the storm."

There is a pause that Spock cannot decipher. Then T'Cora says, "It is conceivable that your altitude would have been sufficient to shield you."

"Nevertheless," he says, "you returned."

Another pause. "Perhaps, then, I should be asking your forgiveness," she says at last. A beat. "Osa-kai."

Spock cannot tell if the hesitation before the title is born of a similar indecision, or if his companion is making a point. So, since there's not much he can do about it in either case, he decides to ignore it.

"There is no offense where none is taken," he says. "The circumstances are extenuating. And I am grateful for your intervention."

"Thanks are unnecessary."

"I extend them nonetheless."

A brief, faint glow from far along the tunnel casts afterimages onto his light-starved eyes, and he feels the brush of residual warmth from the lightning-scorched air outside. Spock remembers the sandfires of his childhood, circling ShiKahr like an angry predator for hours on end, in a manner that now seems positively restrained compared to the three-day squalls that blanket the sanctuary at the height of summer. This storm is too early in the season to truly sink its teeth into the desert air, but they are probably here for the night at least.

"Perhaps," he ventures, "it would be appropriate to utilise the period of our confinement in a productive manner?"

He does not need to see her face to know that T'Cora's eyebrow arches; some things are written into the silence. "How so?" she says.

"I propose a meld," says Spock. "I believe it would be an appropriate use of…"

"No," says T'Cora abruptly. A beat. "Forgive me, osa-kai, for my interruption. But I do not believe a meld would be appropriate at this time."

It would be illogical to ignore the sting of rejection that her words engender: a more sensible approach is to examine the root of the emotional reaction and attempt to cauterize it at its source. It does not, however, take any great deductive capacity to determine its cause.

"You object to joining my mind, oko-kai?" says Spock as levelly as he is able, as his mind seals over the scars of a thousand childhood cruelties. "We have engaged in this activity on numerous occasions and I do not believe your participation has, at any stage, been coerced."

"Of course not," she answers, and her tone carries the faintest hint of reproach. "It is an inevitable component of the path to Kolinahr. My objection is not the act of melding."

"Ah," says Spock, and, though the sentiment is familiar, he cannot yet claim to receive it with equanimity. This, clearly, is something to be addressed in meditation, and he welcomes the opportunity to observe and correct it. "It is my mind, then, that you find distasteful, in the absence of others."

Hesitation. "Distaste is illogical," says T'Cora at last.

"True," says Spock. "And yet I have frequently been reminded that my hybrid biology is inferior to that of my full-Vulcan peers."

"Then your full-Vulcan peers have not observed the true capacity of your mind."

The words, calmly spoken in a manner that admits of no possible opposition, are, nevertheless, entirely unexpected. Spock feels both eyebrows reach for his hairline, and is glad of the cover of darkness.

"I am gratified by your confidence, oko-kai," he says slowly. "And yet," he adds, before she can remind him once more that his thanks are unnecessary, "I remain at a loss as to your logic in refusing the meld."

Silence. And then a sharp intake of breath, so deep and pronounced that Spock is forced to call it a sigh, though he is certain that T'Cora would disagree.

"I must acknowledge," she says, "that my logic is difficult to defend. Perhaps, then, you will allow me a moment to recenter myself before we join minds. My controls have been weakened by this evening's events."

Spock nods, unseen. "As have mine," he says. "However, I believe it is likely that a meld will allow for a rapid and more efficient stabilization of the adrenal response. It is, after all, no more than an artefact of the proper working of the endocrine system, and may benefit from the focus afforded by a dual effort."

"Your logic is, of course, undeniable," says T'Cora, and, though her words are soft against the howl of the wind outside, Spock thinks he hears a trace of bitterness to her tone that he cannot account for. "Very well. I have no valid objection. Let us proceed."

It may be that there is a slight emphasis on valid, and it may be that Spock's reservations over the nature of her acquiescence are filling in data where none exists. Regardless, she has given her consent, and there is no denying that a meld is a profitable use of their time, nor that he finds himself, meditation interrupted and protocols unceremoniously abandoned, in need of the fortification afforded by the presence of another consciousness schooled in the Disciplines. He cannot see her in the darkness, but the sound of her voice is enough to locate her with reasonable accuracy and, in the chill of the cave, he can triangulate her presence as he approaches by her radiant body heat. His fingers find her hair before they discover her face, but she obliges him by turning into the meld points, letting them settle before she seeks out his cheek in a mirror gesture.

"My mind to your mind," she says, and it is disconcerting, slightly, to hear the words spoken aloud; they have been accustomed to melding in silence.

"My thoughts to your thoughts," finishes Spock, and he feels the world slip away as they descend into the quiet place between selves…

…and finds himself swallowed by chaos. There is no order, no possible means of classifying the swirling tidal wave of emotional discord, white hot and crowded with a thousand hollering voices; it's scarcely possible, even, to remember that it exists outside of his head, in a place that he cannot navigate. Spock feels himself dragged under, into the darkness, before he can orient himself, and, amongst the hollering clouds of distress, he thinks he can hear one voice: lonely, desperate and inconsolable, crying out a name he does not know…

It lasts for no longer than a split second, stretched telescopically into infinity, before T'Cora pulls away, severing the link before it can properly form. Spock falls backwards, catching himself against the damp cave wall, and finds himself leaning heavily against his arm, bracing himself against a sudden weakness in his knees and a lingering dizziness that disorients him as he struggles to separate his consciousness from the meldspace that he's just left. This has been, he reflects, a particularly trying day for his psi-center. Perhaps he'd have been better advised to attempt a period of sleep instead.

They stand in difficult silence for several long moments. To his right, turned into the belly of the cave, Spock can hear T'Cora's heavy, labored breaths as she wrestles her controls into place. It's many minutes before she can find the words to speak, but it seems important to let her go first.

"My apologies," she says at last, and her voice is gruff, frustration laced with chagrin. "My controls, as I indicated, are not strong."

"The apology is rightfully mine to give," says Spock, but she silences him with a single word.

"No," she says. "Your challenge to my logic was correct. It is unconscionable that I remain so deficient in my application of Venlinahr, or that I should attempt to conceal this from a fellow srashivu. You must, of course, report this to Master T'Kel."

She's right, of course: he must. Even if Spock were so inclined, there would be no way to keep it hidden from the Elders.

"The path to Truth is frequently uneven," he says slowly. "I see no reason for you to reproach yourself for a momentary lapse."

"I do not reproach myself," says T'Cora sharply. "I simply observe what is. When we were first paired, I believed that my command of the Disciplines would naturally be the stronger, and that this would facilitate my progress towards ascension. It seems," she says, and the bitter note has returned to her voice, "that pride is one manifestation of the emotionality that I have sought to purge."

Spock says nothing. Her words confirm what he has long suspected — that she expected from the first that he would fail — but he finds that he does not resent them; the Elders themselves have made no secret of their hesitations in admitting him, and he was, after all, a particularly poor student for many months. Moreover, she is unquestionably correct: the rush of ungoverned emotion that assaulted him through their mindlink bodes poorly for her progress and speaks of many years' work to come. If nothing else, it is clear now that Spock will ascend before her, and he understands, suddenly, that she knows this very well. This alone advises against breaking the silence that has descended between them: he has no platitudes to offer, and she does not want to hear them. But, more than this, he remembers the name he heard and the voice that spoke it: a low wail of despair that told him, in two syllables, more than she would ever want him to know. And he understands that she is aware of what she showed him, and he understands, because she has spent so many weeks and months building walls to keep her past self tucked away — as Spock has buried the man he used to be — that it is information that she would not have chosen willingly to share. She knows that he knows, and she would take it back if she could, and so Spock says nothing, because the information is now his, regardless, and there is nothing he can say that will change this fact.

"He was my bondmate," says T'Cora now, as though she hears the question that he does not ask.

"Svorek," says Spock. It is illogical to feign ignorance.

"Yes," she says simply. "The bond will be severed, ultimately, by Kolinahr, but it has already atrophied beyond use. He is free now, no matter the length of my path to Truth."

"He was injured."

"Yes. He came close to death."

"And you believe," says Spock carefully, "that you are responsible for this."

"I do not believe," she says. "I know. He was obliged to erect unusually robust shields around our bondsite in order to protect himself from my emotionality. When the injury came, too much of his psi-energy was devoted to their maintenance to enable his healing trance to proceed effectively. He is alive now only because I left for Gol."

"But he lives."

"Yes."

"Then," he says slowly, "your path was correct. C'thia demands that you no longer castigate yourself for what is past."

"And yet," she says, "had my performance of the Disciplines been adequate, I would have no reason to castigate myself. I thank you for your words, osa-kai, but I prefer to discuss the matter no further."

Spock bows his head. "As you wish," he says. In truth, he prefers as much himself, and so, to draw them towards safer ground, he attempts to fill the silence with something that is neither meld nor memory. "Perhaps," he says, "it would be of benefit to engage in a period of private meditation? It has been a long day, and I believe we both require rest."

T'Cora hesitates for only a moment, and he wonders if she's counting the cost to her sochya of a confession not freely given, calculating the likelihood of achieving the trance. But her answer, when it comes, is decisive.

"Your suggestion is acceptable," she says. A beat, and then, firmly and conclusively: "I believe it will be a productive use of this time. The storm will pass before dawn; we will speak again at this time."

Perhaps she sinks to her knees, perhaps she lowers herself cross-legged to the damp floor, perhaps she simply closes her eyes and descends inside in search of a peace that is sorely lacking in her conscious mind. Spock cannot tell, and T'Cora says nothing more. In the storm-tossed silence, he rests his chilled spine against the ragged cave wall and stares into the darkness for a long moment, listening to the sounds of an angry desert and feeling the chill seep into his bones in a manner that cannot help but reference a mist-soaked city by the sea, where a pale yellow sun sits in a sky of midsummer blue, and struggles to filter through a haze of vapor to the streets beneath. Perhaps, he thinks, he and T'Cora are more alike than she knows: she, too, relied on someone else for emotional stability; she, too, basked in the reflected warmth of being known and accepted; and she, too, understood in the end that her own contentment came at too high a price. But for T'Cora, the knowledge came late; too late, perhaps, for her to learn how to remake herself in the absence of that secondary glory. This may be her tragedy, Spock thinks: to have loved too long now to ever truly let it go. He was fortunate to have found his own way when he did; he sees more of himself in her, now, than he ever has before, and the knowledge is… unsettling.

But, as he closes his eyes and attempts to descend into his unquiet center, Spock cannot disperse the cloud of regret that hovers around the memory of her story: a face, eyebrows slanted upwards in an unspoken question that needs no words; an understanding, deep and primal; a sense of being one half of a greater whole, the way that things were meant to be. There is something rare, something fragile, something indefinably beautiful about it, and he cannot help but wonder if, when T'Cora's journey is complete and her bond is finally severed, her freedom will, in truth, be equal to the value of what will be lost.