— Chapter Seven —
— Nelaya —

Spock breathed in slowly.

The lighting of his quarters was set to minimum, allowing only the flickering light of his asenoi to illuminate the space he knelt in. It was easy to lose himself in the mesmerizing flames; they danced with shadow and heat against the red of the curtains he'd hung long ago. The air tasted of spice and sand, of incense and dry heat; it felt calming to him after a long day. Like a cold compress to his mind, he felt himself relaxing, simply basking there in the warmth of his quarters. It was here where he could be only Spock. Not Spock, First Officer. Not Spock, Vulcan. Only Spock. The tension that lay heavy on his shoulders throughout the day felt lighter here, kneeling before the fire pot.

The temperature in his cabin was raised for his own comfort, and the perpetual chill he always felt at last eased. Now, languid and serene in the safety and privacy of his room, he could finally allow himself a chance to breathe. In, out, in—the fire pot burned low beneath his stone Yon'tislak; the hybrid-like fire beast watched him steadily as he meditated. The embers it held provided a focal point, the flames mesmerizing and hypnotic.

They cast his mind far, far away from this point in space. Far off to sunbeaten dunes and sandy, vast canyons. Of the sandstone of the weathered buildings in the city, of hla'meth and sh'rr, the fragrant herbs that spiced the air in the gardens of his parent's estate. The visualization was as familiar to him as if he were there now, kneeling beneath the meager shade of a fa'tahr tree. Breathe in, breathe out, and press everything beneath the dunes of sand. Burry it under all his layers of control, until it was trapped by the weight of them and could not surface again.

There was a pain in his side, insistent and grating and wrong. It did not belong here, in the tranquility of his quarters. But it spiked, sharp and throbbing, and he felt vaguely dizzy. His brow furrowed. This sensation was not correct, and it did not belong…

The door chimed, and Spock opened his eyes. He knew it was the captain, even before he gave the command to allow entry. Their shift had been busy, and he knew that Jim was here to unwind from the events of their latest mission. A game of chess was often a simple fix and one that—

—the room where the Chess Club met was too cold for Spock's preference. It was unpleasant, edging towards outright uncomfortable with only the thin fabric of his academy uniform for insulation. The others had lamented the summer heat, airing their grievances quite loudly and repetitively over the course of the past three meetings until someone had brought in their air conditioning unit to provide some relief from the weather.

He did not find the heat intolerable, quite the opposite. Although he did not express particular enjoyment for the humidity, the professed unbearable heat that his peers so vehemently protested against was still considered quite cool on Vulcan.

There was a pain in his side, insistent and grating and wrong. It did not belong here.

Overlooking the board, Spock settled on moving his bishop three spaces. He would win on his next move. His opponent, a fellow cadet named Jonas Perry, was staring back at him balefully, challengingly, as he predictably slid his rook four spaces in response. Spock had anticipated this and did not hesitate to place down his knight for his last and final move.

"Checkmate."

He had barely finished the words before Cadet Perry stood with a sudden screech of his chair. It was shoved backwards and toppled into the table that two of their fellow Chess Club mates sat at. The girls startled and stared, looking shocked, and Spock thought he rather felt the same. Such a reaction was not warranted, nor was it logical. In a game such as chess, there would almost inevitably be a defeat. Although the object was to win said game, failing to do so was not considered shameful, but a learning opportunity.

When Perry flipped the board into his face, chess pieces scattering into his lap and across the floor, all he could feel was appalled. The table followed the chessboard, hitting him hard in his chest as a rather foul, xenophobic slur was shouted at him. As a Vulcan, regrets were illogical, and yet—

—regrets were illogical, and yet he found them trying to cloud his judgement all the same. He had been the logical choice for the procedure, however some part of him regretted that very logic for placing him in this position. There was to be no second guessing, not now. It was too late. The world around him was agony and light… until it wasn't any longer. It wasn't anything. Spock did not want to open his eyes. He wanted to simply lay back and pretend that the darkness he would surely see was there only due to keeping them clenched shut. But he did not allow this fantasy to linger for more than a small, emotional second, and so he blinked. The world to which he looked on was now, quite predictably, dark.

He was blind.

Despair rose up, thick and acidic, unbidden into his throat and churning in his stomach. He understood, of course, that this had been a very real possibility—and to his own calculations, truly the only possibility. Spock did not blame Jim for approving of the trial, and nor did he blame Doctor McCoy for performing it. There was a pain in his side, insistent and grating and wrong. It did not belong here. They had done the best they could with such limited time and limited resources. This was not their fault, and he held no ill-will towards either of them for it.

Still, there had been some part of him, that human part of him, that had desperately hoped it would turn out differently. His life had not been without flaws, but it had been his; fought for and hard earned. All of that was now gone, taken from him by only a few seconds of light.

He did not show the emotions. He was a Vulcan. Instead, Spock forced an appearance of calm indifference and stood as the door opened. Immediately, the captain was at his side. Even blind, he would know the sound of his friend—the radiating warmth of him—anywhere. And yet it was bittersweet. He could hear Jim, he could feel Jim, but he could not, and never would again, see Jim.

"Spock, are you alright?"

He straightened.

"The creature within me is gone. I am free of it, and the pain." Spock glided forward with as much confidence as he could manage; his step was careful even as he tried to form an exact mental map of the room's layout. But he had miscalculated, and his hip struck hard against the edge of the table.

"I am also… quite blind."

Immediately, Kirk's hands came to rest on his arms, holding him steadily. Spock was uncertain if the contact was for his benefit or for Jim's own comfort. For now, they were still friends, but Spock could not help but wonder how long that would last. He would always consider James Tiberius Kirk to be his closest friend, and that would never change. However, when he had to resign his post and transfer from the Enterprise, would the captain still consider him one too? Would—

—there was a pain in his side, insistent and grating and wrong… and Spock finally opened his eyes.

At first, he thought the light had returned, blinding to the point of burning. Had he not already been cured of the creature? The damage to his optic nerves would be complete from one round, why then put his eyes through so much again, and so soon? And how could he see the light at all? One could not be permanently blinded twice…

The world righted itself though, sluggishly swimming into view. Spock blinked slowly and was forced to squint against the harsh expanse of white that filled his vision. It felt very cold against his face, and for a moment he did not understand. Had he traded the darkness for the light instead? He did not think it an agreeable alternative; it was grating and painful to look at for long and he thought he might prefer the dark after all. He was freezing, he realized; so cold that he could not feel his ears or hands. The white surroundings were like ice against his face; it stung his skin where it had not already numbed it. Ice. It was cold because it was ice.

There was a pain in his side, insistent and grating.

It took longer than it should have—far longer than was acceptable for a Vulcan—to comprehend his surroundings. His mind was disoriented, heavy, and Spock felt as if he were not fully present even now, with the snow soaking through his uniform. Snow. Cold. But he did understand, after a moment of bleary, dazed considering. The mission. He had been part of the landing party to secure mining agreements. It had started snowing heavily; a whiteout, as the captain had called it, and he had been unable to walk without assistance. Jim had been forced to help him, but he could not remember why that was, nor could he remember why he was not still there…

"Capt'n…?" His voice came out a croak, low and almost inaudible. Had Spock not felt the words vibrate in his throat, he would not have known he'd spoken at all. The snow rushed into his mouth when he opened it, and his lips split at the movement of them, cracking and stinging. He tasted blood. The captain did not respond. No oneresponded. Where was the captain? Was he alright? He remembered being with Jim; they had been about to play chess, hadn't they? Or… no, that was not accurate. The mission. They had been walking…

"…. Jim?"

He needed to find Jim.

His first few tries of pushing upright failed; his arms were shaking and weak, and so violently was his shivering that his teeth clacked together audibly, uncontrollably. His chest burned and throbbed with every shift of movement, and it felt as if the air was being stolen from his lungs. Each twitch left him gasping, black spots in his vision. It was on the sixth attempt that Spock was partially successful in sitting up; he still hunched over but his extremities were out of direct contact with the snow that, until now, he had not realized had fully covered him. How long must he have been laying there to be so buried in it?

It was still snowing. The wind was cutting enough that it sent the snowflakes at his exposed skin like bullets. They stung—the parts of him that were not already numb, at least; he could not feel his hands. He could not feel his face. Something was very wrong, because he did not remember how he had come to be in this condition. Something had gone wrong with the mission then. And where was Jim? Was the captain alright? Concern filled his stomach, churning though it was. Not for himself, but for his commander. Jim. He needed to find Jim. Yet even as he tried to push himself further up, the barest movement left him coughing so badly that he gagged.

His whole body hurt, muscles tender and bones sore. Something in his chest was off; his lungs felt constricted and labored, a rattling sound audible as he inhaled. Every part of him seemed to be bruised; each sensation of pressure sparked a dull throb that radiated throughout the entirety of him. Had he been in a fight? He did not recall it, but surely something had happened to have caused this. The pain in his body, and the pain in his head…

The pain in his head was excruciating. Spock felt nauseous and his throat burned as if he had been screaming for a considerable time. He could not recall if he had been, but then, he could not recall much at all. Memories were… scattered. One led into the next with no sense of the time between, but when he attempted to focus on them, it felt stabbing. It took more energy than he could find to organize his present thoughts, let alone make sense of previous ones. And that pain; the pain was not entirely physical, but also in his head. In his mind.

A foreign pressure barraged at him from all angles, scraping at the walls of his control to break through. It occurred to Spock that this was why he felt so disoriented. All his energy was centered here, focusing only on this. It took everything in him to resist that force; to try to barricade behind those shields and brace himself against the increased stress to them. It would not hold for long; even now he was slipping. Had already slipped. Something—someone—had already reached through a crack and snatched at him, clawing into his memories like talons. He fought against it even now, shoving his mind further from it.

There was nowhere he could go that the presence could not reach; Spock could only retreat so far into his sea of dunes, and it was not enough to escape it. The foreign, grasping sensation radiated out happiness, delight, joy; he recoiled as the emotions washed over him, trickling through the cracks. Emotions that were not his own, being forced onto him. Being forced. There was a word for this; what this was. A Vulcan word, for a crime so grave that he had never considered it might… No. He could not dare think of it now, or that pit that had opened up in him would grow and consume him from the inside out. He could not fight that too.

There was nothing Spock could do to fix these newly formed cracks to his discipline, not without time and meditation, and neither of those options were accessible to him when he couldn't let down his defenses for even an instant. If he stopped resisting now, that would be that. He would not be able to climb out of the remains of his control to forestall the presence again. The damage to his mind was likely already—No. Spock refused to think on what it likely was for long, because the shock of what he would surely find would only serve to weaken him. He could not allow himself to slip, not even for a second.

There was a reason for those cracks; a reason for why his mind was being threatened, but he smothered the knowledge of what that reason was. Avoided the mere thought of the word, the knowledge of it already crumpling something in him, from within. No. Not now. He could not afford to think on it now. A self-protective measure, illogical but desperate. He could not fight against the attack to his mind while at the same time also fight against his emotional reaction to that attack. Something terrible had happened, and if he allowed himself to fixate on it now, he would be lost to that and only that. Even now, grief and horror endangered him, and he shoved it back forcefully.

The assault—no, do not think the word—was not stopping. He could not make it stop, no matter how much he raised his defenses and attempted to protect himself. It continued trying to force its way in. The sense of curiosity, joy, delight; it was happy to do this to him. So very happy to violate him in such an unspeakable way…

Do not think of it now. Suppress it down, where it could not hurt him. Where it could not overwhelm him.

Focus.

There was a danger to being lost in his head like this. In meditation, he was in full control of himself. And while he remained, for the moment, still in control of himself now, it was growing threadbare and ragged. Difficult to pull himself from, and he would not have been able to do so were it not for the understanding that his body required attention too. It would not be to his benefit to protect his mind while outwardly he froze to death. He had to take care of himself in more ways than just mentally, and so Spock forced—forced, like it had forced—no, don't think of it—himself to open his eyes once more.

The physical pain took him off guard when he was able to finally feel it through the pressure. He had the hazy sense that his mind had hurt for a considerable amount of time—had been under attack for a considerable amount of time—however the pain in his chest, his side, his skull, his leg, these were new. Sharp, throbbing, stabbing. Every part of his body ached, from the skin to the muscles to the bones. Spock let his head droop forward on his chest to determine the worst of it, his movements sluggish and limp.

The shock of green was not what he expected to see, although he did not know what he should have expected at all. It was not a small amount. He was covered in it; it had soaked through the blue of his uniform and coated the snow around him in large, half-frozen stains. His side seemed to be the primary source of the blood, but it was not the only one. When he lifted a numb, shaking hand and pressed it against his nose, he realized it too was bleeding. His entire face was dripping, oozing down his neck and chest, and further investigation yielded a deep open split above his left eyebrow. Touching there left him reeling and choking to resist a gasp of pain that made him dizzy. He did not remember hitting his head, but he surely must have.

The blood was not stopping; it continued to soak down his side and drip into the snow. His investigation into his condition was hampered, though, as he caught sight of his hands. They too were covered in blood, iced against the numb skin. It sparked a memory, just a flash of one. Of hot, burning sand and a sensation of dread in his stomach.

Spock stared at his green-stained hands blankly for a long time, long enough for the falling snow to cover his legs again. The pressure in his head grew worse—grew blinding—and he could not make sense of his surroundings anymore. They swam in and out of focus, dim in some moments and painfully bright in others. Cracks formed in his mind as he tried desperately to keep himself together. He heard his pulse race, he heard a choked, gasping sound escape his throat, he heard the wind howling around him, but he could not take his eyes off of his hands.

His hands. There was something he had done with them. Something important; something that he could not—no, that he did not want to think of. Resist it, his mind screamed at him. Press back against the pressure and resist it. Focus on the now, not what he had done…

Spock did not know how much time had passed before he felt his awareness creeping back, and it was concerning that the calculations did not come easily. It could have been minutes, or it could have been hours. His internal chronometer was not functional. He swallowed thickly, forcing his burning eyes away from the sight of his own blood soaking around him, from his hands. The deep, shuddering breath of freezing air was as grounding as it was uncomfortable; the temperature was low enough that each inhale felt painful. Pain, yes, he had to stop the bleeding. Take proper risk evaluation of the situation and triage his injuries to efficiently treat them. He would decide his next steps after that, although everything felt muddled and he was no longer certain what those steps would be.

Spock could hardly feel his arms as he lifted and pressed a palm to the wound on his left side. The bloom of agony forced him to clench his jaw tight to resist a gasp. It was not difficult to identify the cause of the injury, for the remains were quite visible through the wet spread of green. His tricorder had shattered beneath him—he could see the remains of it half-visible in the snow—and shards of it had stabbed deeply into his abdomen. It would have taken considerable force to do so, as Starfleet technology was built with hostile conditions in mind. He could think of only a few ways it might have become this mangled. A fall was the first possibility, and the most likely one. The snow might have provided a cushion to the fall, but beneath it was only bare rock. The impact would have been severe.

When had he fallen? Why had he fallen?

It was with furrowing brows that Spock reconsidered his last memories, distorted though they were through the strain in his head. He had been blind. He had been playing chess at Starfleet Academy. He had been meditating in his quarters. He had been dragged by Jim through the snow. The order did not make logical sense, and so Spock forced himself to focus past the fatigue to his fragmented recollection. With so much of his ability dedicated to fighting off that pressure—resist it!—it was harder than it should have been, akin to wading through mud.

He was not a cadet any longer, but the first officer of the Enterprise. He was not in his quarters, and if he had been meditating recently, he'd done a very poor job it. While he hadbeen blind once, nearly a year had passed since the events on Deneva. He was not blind now. No, he was instead surrounded by snow and blood, and very, very alone.

Alone…

"Jim?"

Spock did not recognize his own voice, and it was only the shredding sensation of his throat forming the sounds that made him know it at all.

The captain did not answer this time either. There was no flash of gold uniform in his snow-covered surroundings; no dark red of human blood that he could see. He tried to call out for the captain again, but he could only cough instead with deep, hacking gasps. His communicator and phaser were both missing, but he had the vague recollection that the captain had taken the former, although he did not remember why. His phaser had still been with him, but it had likely been lost to the snow when he'd fallen. His fingers were numb; his hands frozen and already showing the pale-green symptoms of frostbite through the blood. He could not justify worsening the severity to search for it in the ice with bare skin; he could hardly move as it was.

Breathing raggedly, still barricading his mind against the onslaught, Spock closed his eyes and pressed his head against his knees. Just a moment of rest and he would be able to consider what next actions to take. All he needed was a moment to wrestle his control back. But then, he had told himself that before, when he had been forced to rest at the top of the crater with Jim.

The crater, scent of flowers, the pain. Spock remembered it now with sickening clarity. He had been with Jim; they had been walking back to the transporter coordinates. He'd… been blind again, for the second time, and then not blind immediately after. He had collapsed and Jim had caught him, leaned him against his chest. The Seskille made contact with their excruciating voices, and they had… they had… they—

A piece of his mental barriers fractured, splitting and cracking like stone and sending debris raining into his sea of dunes. The knowledge he'd tried to suppress washed over him. Spock lurched over, eyes wide from the pain of his head fragmenting, and the acrid sensation in his throat.

He could no longer contain the bile that surged up.

His body seized as he vomited, choking and gasping for air between body-racking heaves. It caused him to cry out, to grab at his chest because, as he now brutally discovered, his fall from the top of the crater had broken five of his ribs. Each contraction of his stomach made the bones grate together, nauseating him all over again and leaving him shaking. One hand holding him up and the other arm curled around his chest to try to hold his body together, he was sick for what felt like hours, long after he'd emptied the meager contents of his stomach, long after even stomach acid failed to retch out. The spasms, each one dragged from his gut and throat, continued until he could only shake and cough and seize.

He tried to call out for the captain again, when his breath had returned in gulping, gasping swallows, but he had no voice; his throat was too raw to let out anything more than a strangled wheeze of sound. Jim. He did remember now, although he wished he had not. It was exactly as he had feared; with the knowledge came the emotions, and he felt them now potently. Despair, horror, shock, grief…

The snow had worsened as the captain helped him down the mountainside. He had fallen from the top of the crater, after being made to—after being forced to—Spock had to press his lips very firmly together to stop himself from being sick once more. Instead, he braced himself with his hands and grated for each choke of air.

His hands. His hands had killed…

Focus.

Spock clenched his teeth together so tightly that they hurt, trying to get himself back together. He could not allow for this, not now. He was a Vulcan. He had to push this down, resist it. He could not allow the pressure of the assault to take hold of him, nor could he allow himself to confront it. Not when he needed to focus on the present. The captain. The injuries. The cold. He could not fight the attack in his mind and also defend against the emotions that threatened what little control he had. His body was freezing, and the blood loss was weakening his physical reserves. Spock did not have the energy to resist all three threats—control, emotion, and body.

His lips formed the name as he attempted to call for the captain once more, but the noise that emerged was little more than a hoarse croak of sound. It did not matter. There was no one around to hear him, even should he have screamed.

Jim was not here, and neither had he been recently. The captain would have carried him up and down the mountain a dozen times over, no matter the difficulty, rather than leave him behind if he'd had a choice on the matter. James Kirk did not do well in powerless situations, and he would make an option if there were no acceptable ones available. None of those options would have involved the abandonment of any crewmember. It was a logical deduction that he had not found Spock at all, or they surely would have both been together. Jim would not have left him behind, Spock reminded himself firmly. Jim would have seen the blood and not taken the risk of conditions worsening in his absence, even if it were to get help. He would have waited for help to find them, as it inevitably would.

He… had thrown Jim, though, and that stirring of doubt crept in. When the captain had been reaching for him, reaching to stop him from going over the cliff edge, Spock had shoved him with enough strength to send him flying. Even with the snow cushioning the landing, he would have hit only unyielding rock. Spock had not meant to injure Jim, but it was possible—more than possible—that he had.

Why was it that whenever he lost control, he always seemed to hurt those he cared most for?

Spock took a deep breath and grit his jaw once more to get himself back under control now. He did not have a close friend present to make a convenient scapegoat with which to react violently towards, as he apparently always seemed to, and so he would just have to make do with himself. If he allowed himself to focus on his own actions, he thought he might be able to forget what the Seskille's actions. About the bone-deep horror of what they had done to him. What they had forced him to—No. He could not confront that yet, because there would be no coming back from it easily, and he had work to do.

He could not stay in the snow any longer. His limbs were either nearly numb or already so, and he could not feel his hands beyond the faint weight of them at the ends of his arms. Operating them to press firm, steady pressure against his side was more difficult than it should have been. He could not judge whether he was pressing with enough force to stem the bleeding and had to judge it by the sharp increase of pain radiating from the shards of his tricorder in his skin. He swallowed, forcing the acrid sensation of bile to recede, and he set his jaw against the spiking agony. He was a Vulcan, this pain was of the body, and the body could be controlled.

But the body was controlled by the mind, Spock thought grimly, and his mind was compromised.

The sun's angle was difficult to judge through the dense cloud cover, but it did not appear to have sunk too much into the horizon. He estimated that he'd been laying in the snow for perhaps an hour at the most. Enough to freeze him, but not yet enough to kill. Hypothermia was no longer a threat but a troubling reality, and he would be required to take care of that too, before it grew worse. His side needed tending to, his head injury, his ribs…

His list of responsibilities was growing alarmingly long. He needed to prioritize what was most necessary to accomplish first, as well as what was actually able to be accomplished at all with his limited resources. The windchill was a primary concern, but without shelter, he could not avoid it. However, he reconsidered, that might be solvable after all. Spock remembered the ruined remains of buildings nestled within the crater itself; thousands of them. He'd judged them to be only of archaeological interest then, but now they appealed for a much different reason. The skeletons of homes, with roofs and rooms and solid walls to put distance between himself and the wind. There was shelter available to him, if he could find the energy to get to it.

Not doing so was no longer an option; exposure to the elements was the greatest threat to his survival. Vulcans could outlast human tolerance for extreme conditions, but Spock had already bypassed that limit twice over, and he was now declining swiftly in health. Too much longer in direct wind and ice, and he would not last until rescue.

It took over five minutes to stagger to his feet; he had counted as best he could but his ability to focus on calculations were hampered by the pain radiating from his head and leg. The strain to his mind threatened to send him back to the ground, but he tensed each muscle and locked his legs firmly. Something was wrong with his left leg, something that made him feel queasy and faint. He forced it away, because he did not have time for that.

The unsteady fatigue of his movements proved to be from a concussion, although he had suspected that already. His symptoms had been noticeable while sitting but could also have been caused by the cold. Now that Spock was upright, the telltale swimming distortion of his vision made itself known. It explained much about the muddled, disorganization of his thoughts and memories, although not all. The deep gash above his eyebrow continued to bleed, making a mess as head injuries so often did.

That he had not burst his head open entirely was surprising; a human falling from the height he had would not have been so lucky. His ribs had taken the brunt of the damage, but the density of his bones kept him alive. His tricorder and head had taken the rest of it. The wounds were not easily ignored, but Spock managed to do so after some difficulty. He could not treat them here; it was time for him to get out of the cold.

It was also apparently a time for discoveries; with his first step on frozen, nearly numb legs, he became aware that his left ankle was broken. The knowledge felt like stone in his mind, cold and heavy. Something in him sank, even as his head felt like it was floating away from his shoulders. The longer he considered the increasing severity of his circumstances, the less lucid everything became. The world spun around him, and he stared down at the snow. Dizzy, cold, faint…

A concussion, five cracked ribs, an abdominal puncture wound, a broken ankle. Spock observed this all with a detached acceptance, feeling so very far away from himself.

Kaiidth: what was, was. He could see the injuries, know how he had received them, list the steps of how to apply first aid, but he could not summon the proper alarm necessary to appreciate the level of crisis he was in. His mind drifted, wrapped in layers of pain and dull disbelief. Everything felt muted. Shock. He thought he might be going into shock once again, or perhaps he had already been in it for so long that he had entered a new stage of it. One where he was no longer horrified, but rather simply resigned to the continuing gravity of the situation.

Illogically—appallingly—he had the urge to cry, and in fact almost did. His eyes stung. His throat tightened. The shameful irrationality of such an emotional act was what finally forced Spock to step forward on his good leg and drag his injured one behind him in a slow, stumbling limp. Each step threatened to buckle his legs out from beneath him.

The ruins would not be far, provided he remembered his location correctly, though Spock could no longer be certain that he did. The crater had been filled with the ruins of buildings, grouped together in blocks on a long-since eroded road network. While it was impossible to see through the snow, walking forward was his only option. They numbered in the thousands, difficult to miss. He only had to reach but one of them. Feasible, but painful and exhausting. He would be able to take shelter there, perform the necessary triage on himself, and determine his best options. Already, he could see that those were limited. His odds of survival relied primarily on actions outside of his control.

The Enterprise would send a rescue team down, Spock was certain of that. It was conceivable that they had already been deployed and would locate him shortly, but he could not depend on that being true. Eventually he would be found, and he only had to stay alive long enough for that to happen.

The pain worsened as he waded through the snow, each step dragging and grating the displaced bones in his chest and ankle. That pressure in his head built, the cracks widening even as he fought to close them. It was crushing at first, and then destroying. His efforts to shield himself, to resist the attack—assault—that threatened to break down his disciplines, were not enough. They were not holding. He had already opposed it as much as he could, and Spock felt himself start to slip. There was nothing else he could give, no further effort he could muster forth, no Vulcan trick he could fall back on. He could not hold the pressure back anymore.

No.

He would not go through that again. He could not go through that again.

Help would be arriving soon. He would get back to the ship, carried there despite the indignity of it, where he would then suffer Doctor McCoy's needling and hostile bedside manner for days on end. It'd happened enough over the years that Spock knew the routine of it; he would be thoroughly exasperated of both sickbay and its prison warden by the time he was recovered. He would be on the ship, though. He would be on the ship, and he would be away from here.

Spock told himself this, over and over like a mantra. Something predictable, knowable, focusing. Over and over again, even as his shields split, and that presence reached for his thoughts. Something in him wrenched, cracked, split open…

No.

Hold it back.

Stop. Do not do this…

He would be on the ship, and he would be away from here. In this state, with these injuries, he would likely be in sickbay for at least a week, and he would suffer each agonizing minute of the duration. Previous stays had been an exercise in both frustration and boredom, save for those precious few hours where Jim had kept him company over a game of chess. The captain—

—they decided on Jim's quarters tonight.

One game of chess had become two, and then three. Spock narrowed his eyes at the board, brows furrowed as if he would discover the captain's mysterious strategy if he only stared long enough. It yielded no further information, still as cryptic as before. The board had thinned as both sides claimed pieces; Jim had taken his queen, but Spock still had both bishops, as well as both knights. The captain no longer had even that and was now down to only a handful of pieces left.

Spock could normally determine the pattern to Jim's erratic playstyle, at least enough to counter it to some degree. Kirk claimed not to have a strategy, but that was not entirely accurate. It was true that he moved in the most inconsistent, illogical manner possible, but once Spock had known to look for it, he found himself able to plan around the unpredictable. All he had to do was consider what move he never would have taken, and that often ended up being the one the captain made. Spock knew to watch for it now. Sometimes, even, he was able to move with his own controlled illogic—in a planned and intentionally logical manner, of course. Jim always delighted at it when it happened, grinning and surprised. Spock found he made it happen a little more often than he otherwise would have.

Finally, he shifted his knight a level, dubious of the move even as he made it. There was no response. No humming of thought, no gloating, no teasing. Just soft breathing in the stillness of the room.

He had taken too long, Spock realized, as he glanced up at the captain. Jim was still absently holding a pawn between his fingers, one of the black ones he'd claimed from Spock earlier, but his eyes were closed. His head was propped against his hand, elbow leaning on the table, and he seemed, if not already asleep, at least close to it.

The words died in his throat before he could give voice to them; he found he did not truly want to wake Jim, not when he got so little rest already. Spock instead leaned back in his own chair, content enough to simply sit there in silence and observe. The air in the cabin was warm; Jim had raised the temperature for his comfort, and the thoughtfulness behind the kind gesture never failed to move him, no matter how many times it happened. Arms against his chest, posture comfortable, Spock basked in the heat of the room, the heat of the company, and watched the captain.

Jim's breath came softly and evenly as he dozed, all of his normal vibrant energy finally at peace. He was no less beautiful because of it; he was as radiant now as he was at his most spirited. It was only that everything had now relaxed into a quiet contentment, at rest and unbothered. Gone was the tension the captain always carried in his shoulders, or the faint ghosts he kept secreted behind his eyes. His expression was calm and slack and peaceful. Spock found Jim quite enchanting in this state of vulnerability, of which only sleep could bring out in him. Always so alert and prepared, it was nice to see him this soft. It made him feel protective, it made him feel honored.

It made him feel.

He would do anything for this quiet, sleeping human, Spock thought to himself silently. There was nothing he would not do, no lengths he would not go to, to keep this man safe. One tiny human captain, comparatively insignificant in a universe of incalculable numbers of sentient beings—and all of them, every single one combined, was less precious to him than this one was. There was a certain word to describe that kind of emotion, that kind of feeling. The realization was not as alarming as he would have thought it might be. No, his awareness of the depths of his regard only felt warm; it slotted in so perfectly in his mind, as if a gap had always been there simply waiting for it.

The pawn fell from slackened fingers and clattered onto the table, breaking the silence. Jim's breath hitched and he caught himself before he slid off of his propped hand. The man blinked drowsily, blearily at him, still caught in that hazy place between asleep and awake. Spock felt caught, because surely—surely—the captain could see what was so plainly in his eyes. The emotion there. And surely Jim would feel disgusted and betrayed, because these emotions were unforgivable, inexcusable. The desire, the want, was not only a violation to their friendship, but it was a violation to his own control.

And Spock knew what he was capable of when he was not in control.

But the captain only met his eyes with his own, and that incandescent smile of his spread slowly. If he could see Spock's feelings in the shared gaze, he didn't give any sign. He only blinked heavily at him with that sleepy, fond expression, and Spock had never felt warmer. Slowly, the captain leaned back down and propped his head back onto his hand with a tired, murmured hum. They watched each other for a moment, but the captain's eyes grew heavier and opened less. His eyes finally closed and did not open again; Jim content to fall to sleep in the presence of someone he felt safe with, someone he trusted. And Spock…

… Spock fell just that little bit more in love with him.

Thank you all so much for the comments and kudos. I've loved reading the reactions, and I hope you all hang in there for more ahead! This ended up actually being split into two chapters due to the length of it, and the second one will be posted next week. While I'm hoping my schedule will be at least every two weeks for a new chapter, if I can get them out faster, I'll post them!

K'oh-nar takes place around the middle of Season 2 of TOS. I've used Memory Alpha pretty heavily to reference dates of events, but for simplicity sake, this story starts after the episode 'Bread and Circuses', and future episodes will not be referenced (or at least, referenced very little, I may throw in a few nods to things ahead). As always, Spock being blind and the events of Deneva are a direct reference to the episode 'Operation - Annihilate!'. For my AOS fans, I highly recommend you check it out if you get a chance!

Vulcan:
K'oh-nar — The fear of emotional vulnerability and emotional exposure.
Nelaya — Suppression; the act of suppressing; conscious exclusion of unacceptable desires, thoughts, or memories from the mind.
Asenoi — Fire Pot, used to center one's thoughts during meditation.
Yon'tislak — Fire beast; fire beast from a Vulcan children's tale. (Spock's Griffin)
Hla'meth — A Vulcan herb.
Sh'rr — A Vulcan herb.
Fa'tahr — A type of tree; Vulcans are known to sit beneath them to meditate.
Kaiidth — What is, is.