Kirk awoke several times during the night, but the mattress was soft and the sanctuary cool, and the bowl waited within reach whenever his throat gasped for water. Eventually, he sank into a deep sleep.

When he awoke in the morning, McCoy was sitting upright on his own mattress, reading a book. Kirk lifted his head experimentally. Only mild pain shot through his head as he did.

McCoy appeared by his side.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, reaching forward to feel Kirk's forehead. "Your fever has certainly gone down."

"I'm much better," replied Kirk. He tested his limbs. "I'm sore everywhere, but my throat no longer feels like Vulcan's Forge." He winced a little, realizing how apt the common expression was. "How about you?"

"Also horribly sore, but nothing that won't go away eventually." He handed Kirk the bowl of water, and as Kirk sipped from it, he explained, "I went to the dining room to get more water this morning. Ran into that Vulcan what's-his-face, and—"

"Spock," Kirk supplied, handing back the bowl.

"Yeah, him. He says that he'll be serving breakfast in about an hour."

"Him?" Kirk inquired. "Does he run this place?"

"It sure looks like it. All the Vulcans stop and nod at him as he goes through the hall."

"Really," he mused. "That kind of courtesy is strange for pre-Surak Vulcan."

"Yeah, tell me about it," replied McCoy, gingerly feeling a scrape on his shoulder.

"He must be a highly respected individual."

McCoy nodded. "I could hardly believe it, but the Vulcans I saw looked worse than we do. Ripped clothes, faces covered with fresh wounds."

"Spock said it's a sanctuary of some sort. And he mentioned something about rebels."

"This must be a place for refugees. After all, we've landed right before the Week of Uprisings."

Jim chuckled. "Our luck." He rose, gathering up the extra clothes he had packed for the customary post-funeral supper. "Well, if we have an hour, I think I'll go wash up. Do you know where I can go?"

Heading back to his own mattress, McCoy replied, "Right down the hall." The doctor met his eyes. "They don't have much water, so you'd better not use it all up if you don't want our host disapproving."

"I won't." He smiled. "Thanks, Bones."

Jim emerged from the water chamber freshly washed, grime scrubbed off and wet hair groomed back. He gingerly pulled his tattered golden cloak over his fresh tunic, carefully tugging the hood over his eyebrows and ears.

The halls were peaceful and quiet, illuminated by skylights, and the earthen walls glowed in the morning sun. Other Vulcans occasionally passed him, acknowledging him with a glance. Their eyes held mild curiosity at his attire, but no judgment, and certainly nothing akin to malice. These Vulcans felt much more like those he knew.

He found his mind going back to his own time. Bones obviously knew what was going on and seemed sure that they would return, but for some reason, he wasn't saying anything more. Jim resolved to get the full story from Bones as soon as they had a moment.

Jim began heading down the steps. A shadow fell over the stairs.

"Greetings, Captain."

He turned back towards the threshold. A smile stretched across his face. "Mr. Spock."

The morning light fell on his tall, slender figure, sketching soft shadows in the folds of his blue tunic and in the angles of his face. He lifted his hand with his fingers separated in the middle. Blinking with surprise, Jim momentarily returned the gesture.

"I wasn't aware this greeting was used in…these parts," he commented, lowering his arm.

"It is a gesture bidding long life and prosperity," Spock replied, "used only in places such as this." He eyed Jim's robe. "Captain, I require your cloak."

Jim glanced down. "My cloak? Why?"

"As you will soon understand, it is for your own protection. Also, though I can return it to you later, I do believe you would prefer it if I supplied you with another one."

Jim chuckled. "I do believe you are correct, Mr. Spock." His fingers travelled to his hood. "However, I don't think I can—see, the thing is—"

Spock regarded him quizzically. Sighing with resignation, Jim pushed back one side of the hood, revealing his ears. Pressing his lips together, he watched Spock's expression. His brow lifted slightly.

"Fascinating," he declared.

When Spock offered no further reaction except a cool, steady gaze, Jim offered, "The le-matya got my ear."

Raising one eyebrow, Spock nodded. "I see. In that case, I applaud the le-matya's precision…" The hood fell away completely. His eyes travelled to Jim's other rounded ear, and the other eyebrow went up. "…and its appreciation of symmetry."

Jim shrugged out of his tattered robe, sheepishly handing the grimy, tattered golden fabric to the Vulcan. Spock took it and folded it carefully.

"I also require your companion's," he said.

"Come down with me," replied Jim, self-consciously tugging locks of hair over his ears.

Together, they went down the stairs, and Jim opened the door. When he saw Spock, McCoy instantly pulled his hood over his face and put away his book, rising to his feet.

"Well, look who it is," he declared in Standard. His eyes flickered over to Jim's exposed face, and his brow furrowed.

"Hand over your cloak, Doctor," said Jim.

"My cloak?" he echoed.

"He'll get us new ones, and he says it's for our own protection." McCoy eyed both of them cautiously. "That's an order."

McCoy sighed. He gingerly pulled off the cloak, ducking his head, and tossed the fabric to Jim. Jim folded it neatly, just as Spock had, and handed it to the Vulcan. The Vulcan nodded and took it with a veiled second look at McCoy's, then Jim's, ears.

Retreating out the door, Spock said, "I presume I will see both of you at breakfast."

"You can count on us," replied Jim, smiling.

"I do not doubt it." He nodded at McCoy. "Good morning, Doctor." He turned back to Jim. "Good morning, Captain."

They briefly met eyes. Then, Jim shut the door.

His hand lingered on the wood. McCoy, taking a seat once more, glanced up at him. Jim promptly turned and strode towards his own mattress, plopping down.

"All right, Bones, you have questions. I'll tell you now that I don't know the answers, but Spock says we'll understand soon, so that'll have to be good enough for now."

"I'm sure he has questions, too," replied McCoy. "Didn't he say anything about your face?"

"He said, 'Fascinating.'"

"Hmm." McCoy sighed. "Well, I guess we're lucky we ran into him. Him accepting us, even with us speaking a different language, our funny clothes, our appearances."

Jim nodded slowly, resting his elbows on his knees. "Yeah." He snapped his attention back to McCoy. "Bones, what's up our situation here? How long are we staying, and how are we getting back?"

Having anticipated this conversation, McCoy pursed his lips. "Well, Jim. I think you've figured out that we've travelled through a time portal."

"That much is obvious."

"I jumped in several minutes after you. The moment you jumped in…" McCoy took a breath. "Well, the entire planet disappeared."

Jim's brow furrowed. "What planet?"

"Vulcan."

"I…destroyed Vulcan?"

"There's more. When we tried to establish connection with the Enterprise, the ship was also gone, because without Vulcan's help, Earth never achieved interstellar travel."

"That makes sense," said Jim. "After all, it was Zefram Cochrane's first contact with the Vulcans that really got interstellar travel started on Earth."

"Yes. But there's one part I don't get. Somehow, without interstellar travel, humanity on Earth got wiped out."

Jim blinked, processing. "Two planets…"

"One's future affecting the other's."

"Like entangled particles across a distance."

"Their futures intertwined."

"Never and always touching and touched," murmured Jim. McCoy glanced at him. Jim continued, "So something I did—will do—is going to change the future, eventually leading to the destruction of Vulcan."

"Pretty much."

"God." Jim's chin sank onto his hands, his headache returning. "How much time do I have left to set this right?"

"About a week. Once we fix whatever it is and time proceeds in its normal flow, it'll recognize us as out of place in that place and time, and it'll sweep us back where we need to be. Like a body rejecting a foreign substance."

"Incredible," Jim murmured. "Bones, what is the event that changed history?"

"I have no idea, but I recorded the history going by on my tricorder. The sand got in it and it's broken. I'll need to fix it."

"I can't imagine I raised a revolution in the space of a week," Jim mused. "Or stopped one."

McCoy snorted. "I wouldn't put it past you. Well, who says it needs to be a whole revolution? It's the little things that change everything."

Just then, something slipped under the door. Both glanced over. Jim rose to pick up the folded fabric, shaking it out. They were two short sand-colored capes.

Jim gave McCoy a pointed look as if to say "I told you so" and tossed one to him. Catching it, McCoy returned the look with willful resignation. The two simultaneously pulled on their capes and tugged up the hoods, noting the ample fabric around their ears. They were thin and just the right size, resting lightly on their shoulders.

"I can live with this," McCoy admitted.

After a few minutes, they headed out the door to breakfast. The light now shone with a more intense red hue, the evenly spaced pinholes in the ceiling illuminating the hall. The two strode past the other Vulcans, glancing furtively around and often reaching up to readjust their hoods. Now that they wore more traditional Vulcan garb, the others hardly gave them a second look. As McCoy had said, many of the Vulcans wore ripped, tattered tunics, much like their own. Some were clearly injured, limping or relying on sticks. However, what struck Jim was how many Vulcans had their hoods up, shadowing their faces. In this sanctuary, he and McCoy hardly stood out. In fact, if they did stand out, it was rather for seeming more ordinary than the rest.

Jim and McCoy soon reached the end of the hallway, which branched into several more corridors. Jim stopped a Vulcan in a worn red cloak.

"Excuse me," he said in Vulcan.

The Vulcan paused and turned to them, revealing a worn-down, yet startlingly young and open face. "Yes?"

"Which way is the dining hall?"

"I am going there myself," he replied. "You may accompany me there."

"That would be great, thank you."

He led them into the wide center corridor. As they walked, he made conversation.

"You have recently arrived," he observed. "What do you go by?"

"I'm Captain, and he's Doctor," said Jim, gesturing at McCoy.

"Unusual names," he acknowledged. "I am Aravik. I have been here for six months."

"Six months?" echoed Jim. "That's quite a long time. The two of us only came last night. What is this place exactly?"

"It is, to most, a stopping-place and a sleeping-place. However, it is also sanctuary for those of us who have no other place to go: those of us whose homes have been destroyed, or those of us hunted by rival tribes. Refugees from all sides are accepted here."

"Refugees of the civil war," said McCoy in his accented Vulcan.

"Yes," said Aravik, his eyes bright. "He takes them all in."

"Who is he, exactly?" inquired Jim. "The man who runs this place."

"He is our great teacher."

"Great teacher?" repeated Jim.

Aravik nodded eagerly. "You will see soon. He is harsh, but logical and just." As they reached a large door, he concluded, "Spock will be a great figure in history, remembered for thousands of years."

He pushed open the door and allowed the two to pass through first. Nodding and thanking him, Jim and McCoy exchanged a hooded glance.

The dining hall was a room with a single long wooden table, with a high ceiling and double doors at the end leading to the outside. A stone counter sat on one end of the room, where Vulcans were preparing the meal in earthen bowls.

"The line begins here," said Avarik, gesturing. "I am on duty for serving the meal today. It was pleasant to meet you."

They returned his sentiment. He strode to the counter while they took their places in the line.

When it got to their turn, a Vulcan scooped soup into two bowls and handed it to them. They headed to the long table, where several Vulcans already sat, their posture impeccable as they talked quietly between spoonfuls.

Jim gestured to an empty spot between two groups of Vulcans, and McCoy nodded. They stepped up to the table.

"May we sit here?" Jim asked in Vulcan.

One of them turned. "Of course," the Vulcan said. "Join us."

The two settled down next to the group and began to eat. The soup was cool and light, settling comfortably in their stomachs.

As they ate, the Vulcan beside them turned towards them. "What are you called?"

Jim introduced them as he had earlier. Her eyebrows lifted at the unusual names, but like Aravik, she didn't comment.

"I am T'Prylla," she replied. "Aravik and I have been here for six months."

"We just met an Aravik," said McCoy. "He helped us get here. Nice young fellow. Would it happen to be the same one?"

Her lips touched on a smile. "I would hope so, because I don't believe I could manage two."

Simultaneously, she and Jim reached for an earthen jug. Their hands bumped. As Jim withdrew, T'Prylla briefly looked up at him. Then, she lifted the jug, pouring Jim and McCoy cups of water. "I presume you are new arrivals?" she said, handing them each a cup.

"Yes, we are," replied Jim. He took the cup. "Thank you."

"Then you are soon to witness something," she said. "Do not be alarmed. On our signal, you must duck under the table."

"Under the table?" inquired McCoy.

At that moment, a figure walked through the door. Jim turned. Spock had come. An immediate silence fell as all the Vulcans put down their spoons and nodded at him respectfully. He strode to the head of the table.

"Good morning," he greeted. "I presume that some of you have already met our new arrivals."

He nodded at Jim and McCoy.

"The rest of you are undoubtedly aware of the forthcoming procedure. Before anything further—"

A sharp knock sounded on the front door. Spock stopped speaking. T'Prylla looked at Jim and McCoy and gestured towards the floor.

"Now," she mouthed.

She slipped under the table and dug her nails into a section of the floor. She slid aside a panel, revealing a rough, shallow hole. Blinking, Jim and McCoy crouched down, crawling among the shoes and legs and squeezing themselves into the tight space. Several other Vulcans followed them and pressed against them. The panel slid back over them again and a lock clicked, sealing them in hot darkness.

For several moments, all they could sense was the breathing of the other Vulcans, loud and warm on their necks. The warm bodies pressing his limbs against his torso, Jim squeezed himself into the corner, pushing for a little more room. A cold, hard surface met the bones of his spine. He twisted around, and his groping hand felt something curved and metallic, likely a pipe.

Faintly, they heard the door creak open.

"My lords," they heard Spock greet in his even baritone.

A rough, low voice returned his greeting. "Assassin Spock."

Jim's entire body tensed, sending a hot rush of pain to his throbbing head.

"Yesterday evening," said another, deeper voice, "a group of two men attacked us. Did you succeed in luring them here?"

"I did."

Pain seared through Jim's body, but this time, through his heart. His lungs tightened.

When Spock spoke again, his voice was low. "They have been dealt with."

A pause.

"You have done well," acknowledged the deeper voice. "Here is your reward."

They heard a soft clatter as something changed hands, and Jim understood. As they completed their exchange with a few formalities, Jim leaned back against the hard metal of the pipe, his lungs released from the crushing pressure. As he breathed out softly, he felt a tingling in his mind and his body. For a moment, he had the strange sense that the relief he was feeling was not solely his own.

They heard the thud as the door shut. A key clicked into the lock and the panel slid open, and light and open air burst upon them.

The Vulcan lady said, "Brothers and sisters, you may return to your meal."

Amongst the other Vulcans, Jim and McCoy spilled out from the ground. As Jim pulled himself up to the bench, inhaling deeply, he looked up. Spock stood directly across them. He inclined his head, and the light from the high windows briefly flashed in his dark irises. His eyes winked with a steady danger.

"I now bid you an official welcome to T'Karath Sanctuary," he said.

After the meal, as McCoy returned to the room to work with his tricorder, Jim stayed back to help with the cleaning of the dishes. As they ran the dishes under water and wiped them with white rags, Jim turned to the lady next to him, the one they had met at breakfast.

"An assassin," he said. "Spock poses as an assassin for the dominating tribe."

T'Prylla dipped her head, putting aside one dish and taking a new one. "It is the perfect guise. He allows refugees into his sanctuary, then presents their clothing as if he has murdered them. It protects both him and those he assists."

"It's dangerous, though. If anyone found out—"

"—he would be killed. He does it nevertheless."

By then, Jim had stopped washing his bowl. "Why?"

She almost smiled. "Because the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few."