Wedding Night

by killabeez

Summary:

Takes place 'behind the scenes' of Bitter Glass and tells the story of Spock, Shara and Jim, and what happened when Spock went to Vulcan to get married -- before the honeymoon ended.

Notes:

A companion piece to Bitter Glass. I wrote this for a friend who asked if Spock could please get some nookie of the female variety. It takes place 'behind the scenes' of Bitter Glass and tells the story of Spock, Shara and Jim, and what happened when Spock went to Vulcan to get married -- before the honeymoon ended, as it were. The poems of Surak and S'task in part 5 were taken from The Romulan Way, by Diane Duane and Peter Morwood, for those who like to know such things. The third verse is mine.

by Killa

a companion piece to Bitter Glass

Part I: Midnight Blues

She met him at the gate, the setting sun drawing fine fingers of flame through her hair.

She wore green, a pale shade like patinaed copper. Her dark hair was caught up at her temples in a silver clip, the loose strands of it dancing about her white throat in the hot evening wind off the Forge. In the moment when he came up the path and saw her, standing there, the weight of days since the last time he had seen her lifted from his chest.

He stopped before her. The impulse to reach out was very strong--but he was painfully aware that they were visible from the house, and that his father would, in all likelihood, be home. And so he stood and only looked at her, drinking her in.

"Welcome home, Spock." There was a smile in her voice.

"Shara."

They turned and began to walk together toward the house.

"I almost did not recognize you without your shadow."

He looked at her sidelong, and caught her meaning. "Yes. I was not eager to leave her with the foster family."

"Was she much distraught?"

He felt a momentary sense of loss, and knew that she would hear it in his answer. "No. She was very... Vulcan."

T'Sharen was silent for a moment, and he stole a glance at her again, and again found that his lungs were not functioning properly. She said, "I find myself wishing that she could be here."

"Children are not permitted to attend the ceremony in any case." But he, too, wished Saavik might have shared this day with them. The child had been with them from the beginning. If the truth were known, he thought, the child had been their beginning.

"The ceremony..." T'Sharen echoed, bemused. "Will you believe me if I tell you I thought that marriage was a choice I would never make?"

They had reached the house. He stopped at the door, and met her sardonic gaze. There was something tight in his throat. "Nor I."

She looked at him a long time, as if memorizing him. Night was coming fast across the plain now, and her eyes were the color of the purpling sky. It came home to him, quite suddenly, that tomorrow she would be his wife.

He might have touched her then, but she was saying his name. He checked the impulse, made himself focus on her words. "There is...someone here to see you," she was saying.

There was a darkness in her face when she said it, and he searched her gaze, and knew.

"Here?" The word caught in his throat. An unsteady sinking spread through his insides, and his heart accelerated involuntarily, a rapid pounding in his side. He could not put a name to that response. Apprehension seized him, cold fingers at the back of his neck. "At the house?"

It was a foolish thing to say; he regretted it the instant it was out. Of course she meant here, at the house. What else could she have meant? But she only looked at him, her cool night eyes seeing too much. There was understanding in her answer, and it touched him in a way that was distinctly, unexpectedly painful.

"He is waiting for you in the garden."

* * *

Spock came down the flagstone walk, following the pools of lamplight in the deepening dusk. They traced a progression along the stones, lighting the path which divided stands of gold-blossomed vorel and pink desert roses. He found the other man as he had known he would: sitting on the edge of his mother's fountain, eyes turned to the east, where the stars were coming out.

Spock stopped two meters away. His heart still beat too fast. Then the other moved, straightening almost imperceptibly, and Spock knew that Kirk had sensed his presence.

"Jim."

Kirk turned, and in the first instant when their eyes met, Spock saw in him only welcome.

Then, abruptly, there was a suspicious brightness in the human's gaze, and he turned away and stood, his face averted. "Spock."

The Vulcan searched for words to say to him. Eight months. The better part of a year. It felt like an eternity, another lifetime. He said, formally, "I am... gratified that you could come."

Kirk drew a breath, visibly controlling. He faced Spock and managed a scapegrace little smile. "You did your damnedest to make it difficult." But the smile did not hold, and Spock saw underneath the hurt he could not quite suppress.

"I regretted the necessity for haste. T'Sharen will be gone soon on assignment, and will not return for some time."

Kirk made a dismissive gesture. "I know. I understand, Spock, really. It's just...I didn't think I was going to make it in time."

"Indeed. I am curious as to how you managed it; I understood that you were on Deneva, visiting your nephew."

The hazel eyes regained a little of their usual luster. "Starship captains have their ways. I couldn't let you do this without me now, could I? Bones is going to kill you, you know, for not waiting for him."

"That response would hardly suit his chosen profession," Spock said dryly, and Kirk chuckled in response. The sound of his laughter was a lightness in Spock's chest, and he realized only then how much he had missed it.

"Bless me, Spock, but I've missed you," Kirk said, as if he'd read the thought. "You were serious, weren't you, when you said you were coming back to the Enterprise?"

The uncertainty in the question made something close in Spock's throat. He made an effort to keep his answer light. "You must be aware that Vulcans are always serious, Jim."

The human's relieved grin was reward enough. "Yes, of course, Mister Spock. How could I forget?" With the smile, the years fell away and Spock remembered the first time Kirk had ever smiled at him like that, over a chess game. It could still evoke in him that involuntary response, that almost overpowering urge to return the expression in kind.

"I have also regretted our separation," he confessed, Kirk's smile making him brave. "T'Sharen is...quite a remarkable individual. I have so wanted you to meet."

"And now we have." Spock could not quite read him. "She is, indeed, remarkable. I can see why you would find her... intriguing."

"Have you spoken with her?"

"Oh yes." Kirk's eyes glittered in the lamplight. "About you, of course. We've been comparing notes."

There was something distinctly dangerous about that, and Spock's mouth was suddenly dry. "Indeed?"

Kirk took pity on him, and laughed. "Don't worry, Spock. Your mother kept us in line."

"Now I shall worry."

He thought that Jim would laugh again. But unexpectedly, Kirk reached out, squeezed the Vulcan's arm gently in reassurance. "No need, my friend. Don't you know that we all love you?" And then, before Spock's astonishment could overwhelm them both, he was going on. "Listen, you have to promise me something."

The words were hoarse in Spock's dry throat. "What, Jim?"

"Promise me that we'll still be friends?"

The impulse to swallow became unbearable, and Spock lost the struggle. "Always."

* * *

He'd forgotten what dinner in his father's house was like.

At one end of the monstrous dining room, Jim was sitting with Amanda, their heads bent together as if sharing some confidence. She said something which made him laugh, though it was a restrained sound, controlled in deference to Sarek, who sat at the head of the table. On Sarek's other side was T'Rel, Spock's aunt, and T'Rel's husband, Solok. Beside Solok was S'tenn, Spock's cousin, deep in conversation with T'Sharen, seated across from him. The table was crowded with any number of dishes, utensils, goblets and carafes. A steady stream of house servants entered and departed from the hall, bringing still more food and drink.

They had come in from the garden, and Amanda had been there, and then Sarek, and the formal stiffness of greeting his relations. Then Amanda had whisked Shara off somewhere, hinting at the necessity for female confidences. There had been no opportunity to speak with her since thebrief exchange at the gate.

T'Sharen looked up when he entered. It was no more than a glance, a momentary communication, but in it he read the echo of his own sinking despair. It would be hours before they might have a word alone together.

There were lamp-oil candles on the table, grouped in clusters, and in the flickering nimbus of the nearest of these, her vivid coloring was almost scandalous. In contrast to the dark garb of the other Vulcans, her pale green was a cool relief. As the fading sunlight had, the candlelight caught in copper streaks in her hair. Her eyes were large and dark, violet as desert lilies, and the strong lines of her face were mitigated only by the lush, solemn curve of her mouth.

Spock realized that he had been staring and moved to take the empty chair at the foot of the table. He resisted the urge to sigh. He had been waiting for six months. He could endure one more evening of waiting.

* * *

Even so, the meal took an eternity. There were courses of chilled soup, and fruit, and tiny sweet nutmeats. There were cool glasses of alae nectar, and warm ones of dark wine. There were seven kinds of flatbread, and each had its own spice or herb or particular accompaniment. And interspersed with all of these there were T'Rel's questions about plans for offspring, and Sarek's carefully considered suggestions for estate management, and Amanda's gentle, insistent forays into personal matters best left alone. At the other end of the table, Jim was silent and sympathetic. T'Sharen, too, said little; Spock suspected that, for a child of her isolated upbringing, this well-meaning family purgatory must be overwhelming.

At last, Sarek rose from his chair, signaling the end of the meal. He stood at the end of the table until the rest of them had risen, and then he bowed slightly, the quintessential ambassador. "Good evening to all of you. Please make our house your own. And tonight, remember our fathers; for tomorrow, we meet at the place of koon-ut kalifee."

With that, he went out--and dinner, at last, was over.

Spock turned instinctively toward Jim Kirk. The human was standing very still, hands braced on the back of his chair, looking more than a little shell-shocked. The casual mention of the word had obviously surprised him; and he, just as instinctively, sought Spock's gaze. Koon-ut kalifee. Marriage or challenge... and Spock had once tried his best to kill him there.

Spock would have gone to him then, but they were standing in a room full of people. He hesitated, trying to think of something he could say in the presence of the other Vulcans. Then the moment was past, and T'Rel and Solok were taking their leave for the evening. S'tenn was saying something about a tour of the house. Spock tried to communicate something to Kirk, some reassurance, but Jim was not looking at him any more.

"I believe I'll retire, too," he was saying to Amanda. "This heat seems to have taken a lot out of me."

She made sympathetic noises, telling him he'd feel better after a good night's sleep. In another moment he had gone.

"Spock? Are you well?"

It was T'Sharen, her voice pitched for his ears only. He turned to find her at his shoulder, and the nearness of her was like an assault.

"Yes," he managed. "Yes, Shara, I am quite well." It was the literal truth, if not entirely true. He suddenly needed to be alone with her more than anything in the world. "Do you think we might--"

"Spock, what are you thinking of?" His mother's voice, teasing him. She stepped between the two of them, mock disapproval in her face. "Really, you ought to know better." Her blue eyes danced with mischief.

"I was not aware of any transgression on my part." He was hard-pressed to entirely restrain his exasperation. What now?

She made a dramatic point of examining her wrist chronometer. "It is now..." she peered at the antique timepiece over the tops of her spectacles "...precisely nine minutes before midnight. And I," she smiled warmly at him, showing her dimples "have come to save the two of you from a fate worse than death!" With that, she took T'Sharen's arm in hers and made as if to lead her out of the room. Plainly not knowing what to do, Shara allowed it.

It was quite obvious to Spock that Amanda was determined to provoke some sort of response from him, though he could not begin to understand what it might be. "Mother," he said firmly, "will you kindly explain to me what you are talking about?"

She turned back at the door, eyes laughing, but raised her eyebrows at him in all seriousness. "Why, Spock! Don't you know that it's bad luck for the groom to see his betrothed on his wedding day?"

For a moment, he could think of nothing to say. She was teasing him...but she seemed so genuinely happy that he could not bring himself to deny her this small pleasure at his expense. Amanda had waited a very long time for this day. Should she not be permitted to enjoy it?

"'Bad luck,' Mother? Really." But the delighted answering smile she gave him eased the very unVulcan disappointment. It seemed that they were not to be permitted a moment together after all.

Inwardly, he sighed, and flashed T'Sharen a look of apology. Small recompense, that she looked as disappointed as he felt.

It was going to be a long night.

 

* * *

Part II: Preparations with a Capital "P"

 

 

He needed to sleep, but sleep had never felt further away.

How strange, to be lying in his childhood bed, in this house, on this night of all nights. Disturbing images and fragments of thought plagued him in the darkness. He could not seem to stop thinking about Saavik, wondering if she was sleeping tonight, wondering how much of her brave Vulcan face had been a facade. Finding Jim here had been a shock, too... one which only made the events of this day seem more unreal. He needed to meditate on the things Jim had said to him in the garden, to understand what his own complex reactions signified.

Most of all, he needed to talk to Shara.

The image of her as she had looked in that first moment by the gate brought him all the way out of bed. Shocking really, that the mere thought of her should raise his heart rate so, cause the blood to pulse so heavily at his throat. They had spoken barely a handful of words to one another all evening.

And yet he found that he could remember every one--could picture her saying them, and hear her low voice.

He went to the window, and looked out.

There, yes, the gate where she had stood, waiting for him. Her hand had rested on the gatepost, there. Her pale, slender feet, clad in sandals, had stood upon the path, there. Her hair had blown about her shoulders, just so.

Spock drew a breath, feeling the astonishing heat in his face, quite startled by the intensity of his body's response. The dreams of the past months, so carefully forgotten, came back to him in a rush. Yes. There, and there, and there she had touched him, in dreams of falling, of flying. He brought his fingertips to his lips, pressing, and closed his eyes.

A moment later, he realized what he had done, and dropped the offending hand as if it burned. This was not a dream. He was in his father's house, and she was three rooms away. Such thoughts were more than dangerous.

He looked toward the corner of the house. His second-story window enabled him to see over the garden wall, where the water in the fountain shone silver in the lamplight. For a moment, he half-expected to see Jim Kirk's silhouette, still watching the stars. But no. Jim had gone to bed hours ago, a darkness in his face that Spock feared was of his own making.

He stood at the window for a long time, watching the water fall into its circular basin, thinking of the myriad tiny defeats his logic had suffered today. He could not name what he had felt when Kirk had squeezed his arm and said words Spock had never expected to hear from him, in any form. And what was he to make of this sweet, yearning ache his body suffered, whenever he thought of T'Sharen? Perhaps it was the months of anticipation. Or perhaps it was only the knowledge that tomorrow, before all of Vulcan, she would be his. Logic provided no answers; he had no experience with which to judge.

He knew only that there would be no rest for him this night.

The halls of the great house were silent, cast in ruddy light by the filtered shadow of T'Kuht at the windows. He padded toward the stairs, the woven rug soft under his bare feet. He stopped, listening, at T'Sharen's door, and again at Jim's, further down the corridor. Both were silent; apparently, he was the only one finding sleep elusive. No matter. The stars would be companions enough.

Downstairs in the front hall, he pulled the great door open on its soundless hinges and went out into the night.

* * *

At dawn, returning from the desert, he met Kirk coming through the gate.

The human was clad in running shorts and a t-shirt, and though he had obviously just come from the house, he was already beginning to perspire.

"Better stay out of there," he warned cheerfully. "They're starting already."

"Starting?"

Kirk's tone grew ominous. "The Preparations...with a capital P." He shrugged, and leaned one hand against the gatepost to stretch his calves. "Good to know Terrans aren't the only people who go nuts over weddings." He eyed Spock knowingly. "They won't let you near her anyway, you know."

Spock felt himself color. Had he been so obvious? But, no. Jim had always known such things, even when Spock had believed his shields impenetrable. And he was right. "Perhaps you are correct. I shall...make myself scarce." He glanced down, saw that Kirk was shoeless. One eyebrow arched questioningly.

"Isn't that the way Vulcans do it?" Kirk challenged

"Indeed. However, Vulcans have a more flexible system of tendons and ligaments in the foot--"

Kirk finished stretching and eyed him up and down, in a manner calculated to be provocative. "Oh, is that so? Think I can't hack it barefoot?"

"That is not what I--"

"Because if that's what you think," Kirk broke in, daring him, "then why don't you see if you can outrun me?" And with that, he pushed past Spock and sprinted out onto the hard-packed sand.

Bemused, Spock stared after him for a good ten seconds. He was somewhat surprised to see how fast the other man could move. Forty-two was not young, for a human. But Kirk had obviously not suffered for exercise in the absence of his preferred workout partner; muscles and ligaments flowed smoothly together under taut skin, a neat economy of movement. Then Spock realized Jim was rapidly drawing away from him, and he took off in pursuit.

It was no contest of course. As Kirk had been well aware, human lungs and heart and muscles were just not meant for such gravity and atmosphere as Vulcan's. Even now, at dawn, the temperature was sweltering.

Well aware, Spock thought, as he closed the distance between them. Indeed. If anyone knew the deleterious effects the planet Vulcan could have on human physiology under high stress conditions, it was James Kirk.

He caught the human at the place where the edge of the Forge met the first foothills of the L'langons. They were among the red stones, the ground ascending before them, when Spock pulled ahead of his captain in three easy strides, and Kirk collapsed to the hard dusty ground, gasping.

Alarmed, Spock pulled up short; then he saw that Kirk was grinning. The human's chest heaved in great inhalations, trying to get enough oxygen to his starving blood vessels. Sweat poured off him, darkening the dust beneath him. And in between his ragged gasps for air, short barks of laughter escaped him.

Spock came back, stood over him, perplexed. "What is so humorous?"

It took the other man some time to take in enough air for speech. When at last his panting subsided a little, he got the words out. "What...took you...so long?" He was holding himself up on his elbows, red-faced and dripping, dust in his hair, and the look on Spock's face made him laugh even harder.

Unperspiring, unmussed, pulse rate barely elevated, Spock surveyed his disheveled friend, and shook his head. "My apologies. Next time, I will not give you a head start."

"A head start!" That set him off again. "Oh, Spock." He grinned, as if he had never been so pleased at anything in his life. His breathing was returning to some semblance of normal, and he struggled to sit up. "Next time, huh? Do you have any idea how good that sounds?"

Spock was puzzled. "I shall be glad to participate in any exercise regimen you deem appropriate, of course, Admiral. But I fail to see--"

"No, you idiot." Kirk pushed himself to his feet, making a visible effort to slow his breathing. He bent, brushing red dust from his legs and posterior, and Spock could not see his face. "It's the 'next time' I like the sound of." He gave up trying to repair the damage, and straightened to meet Spock's gaze. "You know," he said, quite obviously changing the subject, "it is really hot out here. I don't suppose there's such a thing as a swimming pool around...?"

His tone didn't hold much real hope of an answer in the affirmative. But Spock considered thoughtfully. And after a moment, he nodded. "I believe that I may be able to accommodate you."

* * *

The look on Kirk's face when they came to the spring hidden in the hollow of stone was...extremely gratifying. Spock was hard-pressed not to sound smug. "Your 'swimming pool,' Admiral."

"You have just made my year, Spock." He made a face. "I suppose it's hot?"

"Why do you not see for yourself?"

Kirk did, sticking his bare, dust-covered toes in at the edge. Amazement made him grin. "It's cold! Hallelujah. I knew there was some way to keep cool on this planet of yours." He was stripping off his t-shirt even as he spoke. "I'm jumping in and not coming out 'til Christmas." Then he remembered, and stopped, shooting a glance at Spock. "Except for tonight, of course."

"Yes," Spock said quickly. "After all, you did come all this way..." It was an attempt at lightness, and it fell flat. They were suddenly awkward with one another, Kirk standing at the edge of the pool with his shirt in his hand, Spock several paces away. Their eyes met, held. Kirk tried to think of something to say, but didn't know what the right thing would be.

"Spock--"

"Jim--"

They spoke at the same time, and then Kirk smiled a little, easing the tension. "I'm sorry. I'm an insensitive clod. What else is new?"

Spock shook his head, pained. "You have done nothing. It is I who should apologize."

Kirk looked genuinely puzzled. "For what?"

"I--" Spock stopped. Where to begin? I am sorry for lying to you, but my father asked me to? I am sorry for refusing to think about the requirements of Vulcan biology until it was almost too late? I am sorry I left without explaining anything at all?

There were too many things that needed forgiving.

What he said was, "I am sorry about last night, at dinner."

Kirk straightened a little, his face suddenly too still. "I don't know what you mean."

"I saw, Jim... when my father mentioned koon-ut kalifee. I saw how you--" he swallowed. "Your nervousness is understandable."

Kirk averted his gaze. "I'm not nervous," he muttered. "You're the one who's getting married."

Spock took a step toward him. "Well, then, we are both nervous."

The fair head lifted. After a moment, he smiled, shyly. "Understandable," he murmured.

"Yes."

"A little different than the last time." The attempt at lightness did not quite mask Kirk's uncertainty.

Spock swallowed. "Jim, you do not have to be..." afraid of me, he almost said, but instead he finished "...apprehensive. There will be no challenge, this time." His voice sank to a whisper. "T'Sharen and I are already joined."

"That makes a difference?" Kirk whispered, not meeting his eyes.

"Need you ask?"

"You were joined to T'Pring, too."

Spock could see that Kirk instantly hated himself for saying it. "No," he said gently. "No. Not like this."

Kirk looked up, nodded gravely, as if it was confirmation of something he had needed to know. Spock wished fervently that he could know what thoughts were churning behind that liquid gaze. But no. That was an old yearning, and one he had long ago learned to suppress.

"Spock, can I ask you something?"

"Of course, Jim. Anything." He realized it was true. Jim would not ask anything that he could not answer.

"Do you..." He was silent for a long moment and his voice, when it came, was rough with feeling. "Spock... is she the one?" He colored, and rushed ahead. "I'm sorry--you don't have to answer that. It's just that I want so much for you to find what you need." Spock could see him holding his breath, as if afraid he had gone too far.

And Spock was thinking of T'Sharen, of that first night, when he had been burning and she had been a haven of storm. And he let Kirk see it for an instant in his eyes, in the brief curve of his lips. "I believe she is."

Kirk nodded, once, and could not hold to Spock's gaze any longer. "All right," he said, almost to himself. "All right." He drew a breath, looked down at his own hands, clenched in the hem of his shirt. "Well then, if they don't need you at the house--" he stole a glance at the Vulcan, who shook his head in the negative, "--what do you say we hide out here for a few hours?"

"I believe that would be...a most prudent course of action."

* * *

The sun was beginning its descent toward the western horizon when they dressed and began the trek back to the house. They had only run five kilometers, but that had been at sunrise. Now it was mid afternoon. The heat rising off the packed earth had Jim Kirk breathing hard, even at a walk. His mouth was set in a grim line, and he looked miserable.

He caught Spock inspecting him covertly, and managed a weak smile. "Now I know why sensible people stay inside during the day."

"We are nearly there. Do not push yourself. Your physiology was never intended for these conditions."

"I'm fine," Kirk assured him through gritted teeth. But Spock had seen him through one or two migraines, and recognized the signs. Humans did not have an inner eyelid to protect them from the Vulcan sun... nor did they retain water efficiently. Fortunately, the house was now in sight.

It was only as they came through the gate that Spock happened to look down, and see the crimson streak which Kirk's tread left on a dust-covered flagstone. "You are bleeding," he accused.

Kirk shrugged sheepishly. "Looks like you were right about my feet. Next time, I'll wear shoes."

"Next time," Spock echoed disbelievingly, under his breath. "Jim, let me help you upstairs--" But Kirk had stopped at the front door, waving him off.

"I'm fine, Spock, really. I'll get some water and something to eat, and go lie down for a while. You have other things to worry about today besides your pigheaded captain."

Something pleasing about the way Kirk said it so casually, 'your captain.' As if he had, finally, accepted that Spock would come back to the ship, to him. Their eyes met, held. At last Spock nodded slightly, a kind of acknowledgment. Kirk smiled faintly at him through his exhaustion, an answer. They would be all right after all.

"There is a vial of liaxin in your bathroom cabinet," Spock said, letting the relief show in his voice. "I suggest that you take one, if you do not wish that headache to incapacitate you this evening."

"Right." Kirk's eyebrows were rising in the familiar expression of mock innocence. "After all, I came all this way..."

"Precisely."

Spock pulled open the door, and watched Kirk limp into the house.

 

* * *

Part III: Things My Mother Never Told Me

 

 

It was Vulcan chaos, but it was chaos nonetheless.

Somewhere, in the kitchen most likely, there was a thud, as of some heavy piece of equipment being moved. Kirk winced at the answering throb behind his eyes. It was blessedly cool in the house, and the sudden darkness after so much light was a kind of miracle. He was tempted to lie down right there on the cool stones in the great hall; only the thought of attempting to explain it to Sarek made him continue up the stairs.

He reached the landing after what seemed like an eternity. Below, servants were carrying an unimaginable number of objects back and forth across the huge foyer. It seemed as though everything in the house had been put in exactly the wrong place, and must now be moved. Jim paused to rest on the railing, and watched an older woman carry a gigantic armload of white roses into the room he had come to think of as a parlor. He shook his head, bemused. Roses! On Vulcan, they had to be more precious than dilithium. Apparently Amanda had not been exaggerating, when she said she meant for Spock to have the most beautiful wedding Vulcan had ever seen.

He started up again, longing only for a pitcher of cool water and a dark room, where he would not have to move for several hours. What had he been thinking of? Amanda had told him not to leave the house during the day.

But he thought of Spock, and could not regret. They had needed that time together--well, he had, anyway. What Spock needed he wasn't sure. Maybe he never had been. He was coming back to the ship; Kirk told himself that was all he needed to know. And he seemed... happy.

An eternity later, he reached the top of the stairs, and paused to rest again. Amanda was rushing by, some sort of bundle in her hands. She stopped when she got a good look at him. "Are you all right, James? You look terrible!"

He reassured her. "Fine, Mrs. Sarek, fine. Just decided to challenge your son to a footrace. Nothing fatal."

She was horrified. "In this heat? What were you thinking of?"

He sighed. "I'll let you know when I figure it out." The act of making conversation was exhausting him.

"Well, I suppose you'll know better next time." She took pity on him. "Go get yourself cleaned up, and take it easy for a few hours. Nothing's happening until sunset."

"Yes, ma'am, I will," he promised, and mercifully, she left him alone. He continued down the hallway toward his room.

It was quiet up here; most of the chaos seemed to be confined to the lower floor. The scent of incense soothed his throbbing head. The only light in the hall was the sunlight which filtered through the heat slats of the single window.

At last he reached the door to his room. He put a hand on the latch and opened the door; just as he did so, a faint sound from the room across the hall caught his attention. He stopped, and turned to look.

The door was standing open, and beyond it, he saw a vision which made the breath stop in his throat. For a moment he forgot about his headache, his thirst, his bleeding foot. He forgot everything and stepped across the hall, to look.

She was standing with her back to him, facing an oval looking glass, weighing critically the image which stared back at her. The dark masses of her hair were pinned at her crown. The rest fell down in a loose spiral at the back of her neck. She wore no cosmetics, save for a single line of silver paint tracing her black-fringed, smoke-colored eyes. At her ears she wore silver wires, shaped like spiral lightning.

Her dress, too, was silver, soft fabric gathered loosely beneath her breasts to fall in a hundred tiny pleats to the floor. Next to the shimmering fabric, her skin was a rich, perfect shade of ivory. Her arms were bare.

He stood in the doorway looking at her for a long time. The stunning vision of her pleased him--but what pleased him more was the frank, unselfconscious way she appraised her reflection. She did not preen or turn or adjust; she only weighed, and decided. And then she met his eyes in the mirror.

"What do you think?" she asked him, and he did not know if he imagined the brief flash of sardonic self-mocking in her gaze. He did not know if she was angry with him for watching her, or if she was teasing him. He could not think what to say, and so he answered her honestly.

"You shouldn't wear silver," he said.

If he had expected a reaction, she gave him none. Certainly not whatever insulted affront he had half-expected. She only weighed his opinion, as objectively as she had weighed her own.

Perhaps that pleased him most of all. He might have said more, might have explained, if he could have found the words to say it; silver was the color T'Pring had worn. But she spared him the necessity of explanations.

She inclined her head to his mirror-self, still not turning. "As you say. Thank you, Admiral, for your input."

* * *

It was shaping up to be, as Amanda had promised, the most beautiful wedding Vulcan had ever seen. Kirk had been astonished, when he had first stepped into the west garden, and had seen what she had done.

"Well?" she demanded, as they stood admiring her handiwork.

"It is..." He was at a loss for words. "Lady Amanda, it is incredible."

"Isn't it?" She beamed, and looked at her antique watch. "How are you feeling, James?"

"Much improved, thank you." He had showered, and slept for three hours, and awakened to find his headache gone and a suit of clothing hanging outside his door. He was wearing it now: a stylized jacket worn over flowing tunic and pants, embroidered in green and gold.

"Good, because we've got about thirty minutes before the procession starts, and I need to get every one of the gas lamps from the courtyard and set them up at the end of the walk."

She strode off for the house, and he fell in beside her. "Lady Amanda, would you mind explaining something to me?"

"What is it, dear?"

"I thought we were to meet at... 'the place of koon-ut kalifee.'" His tone was deferential, afraid of trespassing on some Vulcan taboo.

But she smiled at his expression. "We are. But the procession begins and ends here, at the ancestral estate. Didn't you know that?"

He supposed that he had had some vague memory of a procession, seven years before. But the three of them had simply beamed down for the ceremony...and he'd been in no shape for the return trek.

His legs and back were aching from the ten kilometers he'd covered that morning, and he had a sudden, sinking feeling. "Just how far are we processing, ma'am? If you don't mind my asking."

She laughed, reading him like a book. "Oh, only about three kilometers, dear. Each way, of course. Now, come help me get these lamps set up!"

* * *

That had been half an hour ago. He stood now under the clustered lamps, perspiring lightly in the dissipating heat, waiting to be told what to do. Sarek was there, as were T'Rel and her husband, and a number of other Vulcans who all bore some passing resemblance to Spock. They were stiff, cool in their white and silver attire, and they were most certainly not sweating nervously, as he was. Amanda had disappeared into the house some minutes ago.

No one spoke; in the distance, Kirk thought that he could hear bells.

At last there was a subtle shifting among the waiting procession, and Kirk turned to see two figures emerge from the house. Spock and Amanda. They were a study in contrasts: the mother pale and white-haired, in a gown of white damask, the son dark and forbidding in an elaborately embroidered tunic of deep violet. They walked silently, side by side, toward Sarek, who waited at the end of the garden path.

Kirk searched his friend's face, but Spock was utterly controlled, severely Vulcan. The ritual had begun.

When they reached Sarek, Spock and his mother offered the Vulcan salute, which Sarek returned to each in turn. But instead of the usual 'live long and prosper,' Spock said only, "We precede thee." And then he and Amanda turned and came toward Kirk, toward the gate in the garden wall.

The human was surprised for a moment, when Sarek only turned back toward the house. Weren't they supposed to follow? He searched his memory of the only other Vulcan wedding he had ever seen. It had been T'Pring who had come with the procession, he recalled now, while the three of them had waited for her at the altar--

He blinked, realized that Spock had stopped in front of him. As he had done with Sarek, Spock raised his hand, fingers parted. Amanda stood back, waiting. She would not smile, now...but Kirk could see the smile in her eyes. He raised his hand hastily, returning the Vulcan gesture.

Then Spock did something which stunned him. There, in front of his father and a dozen other Vulcans, Spock said quite evenly, "T'hy'la, wilt thou stand with me?" He said it with some deference--and Jim saw then what it had cost Spock to ask him again, after what had happened the last time. The acknowledgment of what they were to each other, before these witnesses and after the silence of the last few months, was a tribute the human could not quite encompass.

Kirk had to draw a quick breath. He bit the inside of his mouth quickly, struggling against the sudden upwelling of feeling in his throat, behind his eyes. Outwardly, he managed to hold to some semblance of calm. He nodded, once.

"I would be honored."

He wanted to use the Vulcan word that Spock had taught him long ago, but was desperately afraid of embarrassing his friend in front of all those Vulcans. He hoped that Spock would hear it anyway.

Spock simply nodded, and went out of the gate, Amanda falling once again into step with him. Holding his head high, Jim followed.

 

 

* * *
Part IV: Feast and Famine

 

 

Spock could hear the ringing of the bells a long time before he saw them.

He might have made the trek across the sand in fifteen minutes, but with two humans, and one of them on the high side of middle age, it had taken more like three quarters of an hour. The short hike seemed to have done Kirk some good; he was noticeably calmer. Perhaps he had worked off some of that nervous energy.

Or perhaps, Spock thought, he had only transferred it to the bridegroom.

T'Kuht was high in the sky, her red glow amplified by torches and the glowing firepits. Here, among the standing stones, Spock found himself inundated by the memories of that day, seven and a half years in the past. How intolerable that lack of control had been. How terrified he had been, desperate for sanctuary from that madness, finding only sharp blades and blood when he had ached for deliverance. He found he almost could not look at Kirk. The urge to plead forgiveness, to touch him, confirm the living reality of him, was too strong.

The bells were nearer now, delicate music on the desert wind.

Already, he had sounded the koon-ut twice. Now it only remained to wait. It would be different this time, he thought. As different as night is from day. As different as the sea is from the desert. At the thought of the sea, he remembered T'Sharen with Saavik and the dragonlily, and was able to draw a deep, calming breath.

"Nervous?" Kirk teased, so low the Vulcan was almost not certain he had spoken aloud.

"No," Spock lied. And then the bells sounded again, and he saw the marriage party coming up the hill.

Sarek came first--and beside him, walking under her own power, T'Pau. Behind them came the others, in their formal silver and white, walking in pairs. They came through the archway. There they separated, arraying themselves along the inner circle of stones.

Spock's attention was caught by a figure in scarlet--the color of some other clan, not Sarek's. It was a face he almost recognized, he thought--and then he placed the man.

Stelik.

He had come. T'Sharen's estranged father, who had not spoken to her in twenty-three years. Stelik saw Spock looking at him, and nodded stiffly. Spock felt a stab of mixed gladness and apprehension, swift and illogical, and then he caught sight of her, and could not spare eyes for anything else.

She stepped into the center of the archway, and the bells stilled, silence spreading outward in a ripple through the assembled figures. As a body they were a striking lot, pale garments and solemn, severe faces. Silver glittered everywhere, on clothes and wrists and ankles.

But she had not worn silver.

In that sea of brooding scarlet and brilliant metallic splendor she was an absence of light, an oasis of deep, midnight blue; among the sleek, precisely groomed constituents of Sarek's clan, the scandalous fall of her sable curls made her seem dangerously feral. She relieved the sharp aridity of the desert like a drink of cool water, and he looked at her and found he could not look away.

"Kalifarr," said T'Pau, her voice carrying easily. Spock stepped forward, and knelt.

Her mind in his was a swift, devastating blade, dissecting him and putting him back together before he could think to bleed. He rose, and took a step back; he could sense Jim at his shoulder, flanking him. As he had once before, he crossed the glittering sand and took up the ceremonial hammer.

And this time no one moved, or spoke, and he struck the third and final note.

* * *

Always afterward, when he remembered, it seemed to him that the ceremony happened in some dream, a stylized unreality. The watching eyes, the standing stones, the words T'Pau spoke--all these receded to insignificance. Afterward, what he remembered was only the bitter, sharp smell of incense on coals, and the engulfing, clear balm of her mind in his.

Parted, and never parted, T'Pau said. Never and always, touching and touched. The ancient words, made new each time they forged one being out of two. But when she brought them together at the altar, when their minds touched at last, the words Spock sent to her were more ancient still.

And no truth or lie shall rend us one from the other, and all that is borne we shall bear together, and I shall guard thy life as my own, forever.

* * *

The two of them led the procession back to the house, as tradition dictated, flanked by Sarek and Amanda. They did not speak. But whatever distance had existed between them the previous night had vanished, as if Spock had imagined it.

He could feel her now, a cool darkness at the center of things. He wanted to reach inward, touch that connection, reassure himself of its solidity. He wanted to say her name.

He was painfully aware of the light pressure of her fingers on the back of his, and if the journey to the ceremonial ground had seemed long, the return procession was over too quickly.

At the house, the fruit of all the afternoon's labors awaited them. Amanda had exercised her considerable diplomatic skill, and managed to strike a compromise between Vulcan tradition and human. As they entered the garden, a quartet began to play. It was Selak's nocturne, The Pursuit of Truth--played on Terran stringed instruments. Tiny paper lamps had been strung from the garden walls, and there were flowers of a dozen varieties, carefully arranged on hydroponic arches. Two long tables of food and drink awaited them near the fountain.

They separated him from her again almost immediately. Stelik did; he came to her and she went with him willingly, the momentary, fleeting grip of her fingers on Spock's the only sign that she felt anything at all. Spock stood and watched them walking away, side by side, talking in low tones. He wanted very much to follow.

"Who is he?"

Jim's voice, at his shoulder. He made himself take his eyes from the place where Stelik and T'Sharen stood, some thirty meters away. Made himself focus on Kirk's questioning gaze.

"Her father."

Kirk tilted his head a little, eyes narrowing. "You don't like him very much, do you?"

Spock started. Why would he--? But yes, as soon as Kirk spoke the words, he could feel the anger burning in his stomach, a red ember. T'Sharen had known nothing from her father in her lifetime but pain and rejection. By comparison, Spock's own father had been the epitome of understanding. "No," he said evenly. "I do not."

Kirk put a hand on his arm. "Come on, my friend. Let's get something to eat, shall we? I think I may faint otherwise."

* * *

As it had been the night before, he found it impossible to secure even a moment alone with her. Each time he tried to seek her out, someone was between them, uttering ritual phrases of congratulations, or advice. He thought that if one more person quoted Surak's fifth treatise on marriage to him, he would go quite mad.

Even Jim had deserted him, held conversational captive by Sarek and T'Pria. Every so often Spock caught snatches of some intense discussion about first contact procedures and their bearing on political relations. He avoided that corner of the garden like the plague.

He was afraid of what inanity might come out of his mouth, if he were required to speak on some such intelligent topic.

He kept seeing her. Drinking from a goblet of some clear liquid, nodding in answer to something his cousin had said. Tucking her masses of hair behind one delicately pointed ear. Sitting with Amanda on the edge of the fountain, heads bent together.

That last nearly undid him. As when he had first seen her in the archway, he found himself arrested by the vivid reality of her. The gown she wore was made of some iridescent fabric, which shifted between midnight blue and dusky violet when she moved. It was cut quite conservatively, showing only her pale throat and hands, and a small expanse of white, luminescent skin below her collarbone. Her hair was unadorned and loose, except for one tiny plait at each temple. These had been woven with miniature violet blossoms.

He supposed that her face was entirely too strong, too forceful, to be called beautiful, but all the same, he longed to bury his hands in her hair and look at her for hours.

* * *

He fulfilled his familial obligations, circulating among the relations and family friends, and when he could not bear it any more he went looking for her.

She was not at the fountain, or near the musicians, or sitting on one of the benches in the b'ao grove. She was not with Amanda, for his mother had joined in the discussion of Federation politics that was still going on in the corner. She was not anywhere that he could see her. He started for the house, thinking he might find her in the parlor, among the roses.

At the junction of two flagstone paths, a white hand shot out of a statuary alcove, and closed on his wrist. He let himself be pulled into the shadows.

"Shara, what--?"

"Shh. They cannot see us in here."

She was a dim shape in the dark alcove; behind her, he saw the outline of a defunct gaslamp, and suspected her of sabotage.

"Is this appropriate behavior for a matron?" he asked in a whisper. But his heart was suddenly light, pressing against his ribs. Her fingers were still on his wrist, and he could feel her like a cool liquid shadow in his mind.

"Most definitely," she said seriously. "Do you think we can escape?"

"Most definitely not." His regret was considerable. "There are still the 'gifts' to be received."

T'Sharen was puzzled. "Gifts?"

He made a gesture of helplessness, then realized she would not be able to see it. "It was my mother's idea. Apparently a Terran tradition. She made it quite clear that it was not optional."

"Hmmm," she murmured, echoing his regret. "That is unfortunate." There was a pause, as if she were considering, and then he felt, in the darkness, the warm brush of her fingertips at his throat. "Because I have a gift for you as well."

His pulse accelerated under her touch, until he thought he might ignite. "A gift?" There suddenly did not seem to enough air in the space between them.

"Yes, a gift. And I do not wish to wait one more night to give it to you."

"Nor I," he whispered. Her fingertips touched his mouth, as if feeling the shape of the words. His heart threatened to burn itself out.

"Then," she said, as her hand fell away, "let us find your mother at once, and throw ourselves upon her mercy."

He closed his eyes, suppressing a very unVulcan groan. "I do not think she has any. She will probably say it is bad luck."

"Spock," she reproached him. He felt her slip past him, a fleeting touch of rustling silk and the warm softness of her body. "She is your mother, after all. Let us give her the benefit of the doubt."

Then she was gone, and he was left standing in the darkness with the memory of her imprinted in every place that she had touched him.

 

* * *

Part V: An Embarrassment of Riches

 

Amanda's gift turned out to be a rather odd configuration of polished teak and brass, twisted into an upright geometric structure just over a meter high. It was, admittedly, quite pleasing to the eye. The workmanship was exquisite, the rhythm of shape and line visually stimulating, the design well-engineered. It was only that he had no idea what he was supposed to do with it.

"It is... a most thoughtful gift."

"It was my father's," she said, her blue eyes glistening moistly. "I was keeping it for you, just in case..."

He was quite at a loss. Obviously, there was some meaning inherent in this object which continued to escape him. Even more perplexing, T'Sharen seemed unfazed. "Amanda, thank you. We shall use it often, and with appreciation."

Use it often? For what? The geometric lines of the thing marked it an antique of the late twenty-first century. The low, horizontal teak platforms might be shelves, or seats, but what was one to make of the odd arrangement in the middle? It certainly was not a table, or--

And then he saw it. A curved indentation, low relief carving in the smooth wood. He had taken the design to be an abstract, but when he moved so that the light hit it more directly, the pattern came clear. It was a stylized representation of the symbols used in Terran musical notation: a bass and treble clef, intertwined.

It was a music stand, built to accommodate two musicians.

Spock raised his head, feeling something sweet and unexpected which made him draw a careful breath. He looked at Amanda. She was so full of happiness for him that it threatened to spill from her eyes in liquid form. He caught himself thinking that all that he had known in his life of appreciating beauty, he had learned from her.

"Thank you, Mother," he said at last.

He saw her fight and win the battle to restrain her tears; she had had a lot of practice.

* * *

Acknowledgments were given, farewells made, and Amanda's gift safely ensconced in the house. Shara had made it as far as the east end of the garden. Spock was following, not too obviously, some ten meters behind.

Just when it was beginning to look like their escape attempt might actually succeed, Spock glanced behind him and saw Jim Kirk hurrying up the path after him.

"I was looking for you," Kirk said a little breathlessly, catching up. "You disappeared all of a sudden."

I certainly tried, thought Spock, and saw then that Jim was teasing him. "Apparently not suddenly enough," he said dryly.

Kirk made an attempt at a sympathetic smile, which Spock did not buy for a moment. "You must be slipping in your old age."

"Indeed."

Shara was standing in the kitchen doorway, waiting. He flashed her a glance which said, I'll only be a moment. She inclined her head and went in.

Kirk watched the silent exchange without comment. He grew serious, and Spock saw that he was holding one hand behind his back. "I have something to give you. A present, from Bones and me."

It was unexpected, and Spock found himself somewhat disconcerted. "You did not have to do that."

"I know." Kirk's eyes lowered, suddenly embarrassed. "It's not much, really. Best we could do on short notice."

Spock started to reassure him. "I am certain that I--" But Kirk had already proffered the gift. The Vulcan looked down, saw what it was, and stopped speaking.

Balanced on Kirk's open palm were a pair of metal circlets which might have been silver, but which Spock knew were actually beaten steel. It was a pair of l'lissen--arm bands once worn on Vulcan, now fallen out of fashion. Each bore three rows of engraving, sharp-stroked script encircling the bands in a spiral. Spock reached out reverently, and took the rings from Kirk's hand.

To read the inscription, it was necessary to slip the open-sided circlets together. The lettering ran from one band to the other and back again three times. Spock aligned them and stood looking at his friends' gift for a long time.

"I hope it's appropriate," Kirk said at last, uncertainly. "Bones and I did some quick reading, and compared notes, and we thought..."

"It is," Spock said when he was able, looking up to meet his gaze, "quite appropriate." He looked again at the steel bands, the spiraling inscription.

Separately, each band was engraved with an ancient poem. The one Spock held in his left hand carried a verse written by S'task; the other, in Spock's right hand, bore the answer Surak had made to his pupil's bitter words, and to the sundering of a world. Separately, the bands told a story of grief on the one side, and of sorrow on the other.

S'task's verse read:

Enthrone your pasts:
this done, fire and cold blood
will find you again
better hearts' breaking
than worlds'.

And Surak's, in answer:

Dethrone the past:
this done, day comes up new
though empty hearted:
O the long silence,
my son!

But when the l'lissen were intertwined, some words became hidden and some meanings changed by the juxtaposition of words. And so a third verse was formed:

The past grows cold:
a forge for the new day
when finding you in my heart
breaks the long silence
of the world.

They could not have known, of course. They could not possibly have understood the particular significance such a gift would hold; the bands were historical curiosities, a popular fashion from another era, with modest intrinsic value. Kirk and McCoy knew nothing of T'Sharen's past, and never would. And still his friends had read of the l'lissen, and had known that somehow this would be exactly the right thing to give.

Spock found that he had no words at all for such a gift.

At last he was able to look at Kirk again. The human was watching him intently, perhaps looking for reassurance.

Spock permitted the other to see his profound pleasure in the gift. For a fraction of a second, a smile graced his lips. "Thank you, Jim. From both of us."

Kirk swallowed, his eyes bright. "You understand what we're trying to say?"

Spock's fingers closed over the interlocked circlets. He nodded, all he could manage without betraying himself further.

"All right then," Kirk said gruffly. He jerked his head in the direction of the house. "Go on, get out of here. She's waiting."

It was an order Spock had no trouble obeying.

 

* * *

Part VI: Just Desserts

 

She was sitting at the window. The incense candle in the wall sconce was the only light in the room. It was late, T'Kuht had set, and there was only starlight to shape her silhouette.

She turned when he entered, and though his own eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness, he could feel her watching him.

He took the taper from the wall and lit a brace of candles on the mantel, watching her. She gave no sign that she disapproved, and so he took the light with him when he went to sit beside her in the window seat.

The yellow flame reflected on the circlets he wore, and he saw her eyes, dark in the candlelight, flick down to his wrist and back up, questioning. "Another gift?"

"A rare one," he murmured. "Look." He set the candle on the window sill, and took the interlocked bands off so that she could read the inscription. She did so, eyes meeting his again when she had. Wordlessly, he twisted the two apart, and held them out to her, one in each hand. Offering her the choice.

She surprised him, choosing the one which bore Surak's verse.

When he lifted an eyebrow, the lines of her face eased a little. "Long silence," she said, an explanation. "The words describe me, do they not? Until..."

"Until?"

"Until you came, and demanded an end to all my silences."

They were sitting very close on the narrow cushion. Her weight shifted, and the folds of her gown slid against each other, a soft rustling. Gently, he reached out and took the circlet from her. He slipped it around her arm, up high, where it would be hidden by her clothing. Next to the coolness of the metal, her skin was very warm. "Do you regret it, Shara?" he murmured.

In answer, she took the other circlet from his hand and pushed his sleeve up, smoothly, past his bicep. The elusive friction of it made his breath catch faintly. She put it on him, fingertips brushing the sensitive skin at the back of his arm, the dark fall of her hair obscuring her face.

"I regret nothing," she confessed, as if it were an unforgivable weakness. When she looked up at last, he saw that her eyes were almost black. The candle flame reflected violet stars at their center. "This least of all."

And then she moved, closing the little distance between them.

Her mouth on his was unexpected, delicious, a warm sweetness which made him close his eyes and lean forward involuntarily, breathing the scent of her. She only pressed her lips to his for a moment, barely touching.

There was a stillness then, in which Spock drew a breath, feeling the faint imprint of her kiss. He could smell the crushed blossoms in her hair. His hands were at her waist, cupping her elbows. When had he done that? Then the delayed rush of heat welled up, and he pulled her to him and answered her kiss with one he had held in check too long.

Blind incineration, this touching of mouths, the softness of her in his arms. She was warm, she was night, her hair was a cool sea spilling under his hands--and he felt the heat run out of him and into her, the instinct to press his tongue against hers finally irresistible. And when he did so, the answering heat in his belly was like a blow, robbing him of breath, robbing him of the ability to stop the low moan which rose in his throat. It surged up, ran over him.

At last he broke away, struggling for reason, for breath to ask forgiveness. He had not meant to let it overrun him--had thought he could control. He had not meant to savage her like some beast.

He had not wanted it to be like that, like the first time.

But she pressed her fingertips to his lips, stopping the apology before he could make it. "Do not fear so. I will not break."

Spock drew a breath and felt the tremors he could not suppress spill outward through his hands on her. They had come together in desperation, that first time, and in his blind need he had used her as a man who falls clings to a stone--with all his strength. And now she had touched her lips to his and he had tasted that madness again. No. Above anything else, he did not want that savageness to touch her.

But she had never shown him anything but shelter. Now as before there was nothing of censure in her voice, or in her touch. "You are shaking, Spock. What is it that you fear?"

"I wish to be gentle for you," he whispered, anguished.

"You are." Her hands cupped his face. "Spock, you are." She smoothed the short hair at his temple, stroking softly. "I have waited for your touch a long time, my husband. The greatest kindness you could show me would be to go on touching me."

She meant it. He could hear it in her voice. And in the face of her gentleness, he found that he did not have to be afraid.

"Your husband," he repeated. His eyes closed, and his hands tightened fractionally, drawing her closer. "That is...pleasing to me, T'Sharen."

"Yes."

"And you...shall I call you 'my wife?'"

"If you so desire. I am that, now."

He leaned forward until he could feel the fragrant softness of her hair against his lips. He turned his face against her neck, and pressed his ear to the place where her pulse sounded its steady rhythm. "I...desire," he said hoarsely.

She only held him for a moment, sheltering him against her. Her fingertips brushed once over the band of metal encircling his upper arm. Her breath teased the back of his neck.

"Ah, yes. I believe I promised you a gift of my own," she murmured.

You are all the gift I require, he wanted to say. But that, of course, would be unforgivably byronic. He drew a breath and started to pull away. "I require none," he began, but she stopped him.

"I believe," she said slowly, "that you do require it, Spock." There was a certain dangerous heat in her low tone. "I am certain that I do."

Her fingers laced in his hair then, gently, sending a slow thrill down his spine. Yes. As soon as she did it, he knew that it was precisely what he had wanted. Yes, Shara--you control, for I cannot. The relief of not having to act or think rushed in on him. A shameless sound of acquiescence tried to escape him, and he almost could not restrain it. She coaxed his head back and bent her lips to his throat.

He clung to her, and then she was leaning against him, supporting him with one strong hand at the small of his back. She was only kissing him, warm, fluttering touches below his ear, but the pleasure of it drifted over him in waves.

Somehow she had pressed him back against the window seat. Now she was leaning into him, one hand at his spine, the other still cupping the back of his neck, a delicious weight on top of him. He drew a deep, shuddering breath full of the scent of her, and became suddenly aware of his own arousal, an insistent heat between them. He fought the animal need to rub himself against her, caught in the sudden undertow of running flame in his belly and thighs.

He struggled for air. "Shara," he managed. He needed to speak, to hold to the name like an anchor, to keep from drowning. "S'harien."

She went still, and he realized what he had said. His breath caught, arrested in his throat. He felt the faint tremor that ran through her. He held her instinctively to him, wished fervently that he could unsay it.

But then she whispered, "Yes. Yes, call me that. I like hearing you say it."

He could not really see her face above him; only the faint outline of it traced in silver starlight, amber candlelight. But what he heard in her voice was the quiet sound of homecoming. It eased something that had been pressing on his heart for a long time.

"S'harien," he said again, suddenly wanting nothing more than to please her. "S'harien." They were half-lying on the narrow bench seat, Spock's back against the window casement, T'Sharen pressed on top of him, between his thighs. Her gown was spread across his lap. Suddenly the softness of her against him was an intimacy he almost could not bear. He buried his hands in her hair and kissed her, full on the mouth. She tasted like the orange tarts Amanda had served in the garden. "S'harien," he said, breathlessly, when they broke apart at last.

Her lips brushed the line of his eyebrow, tracing him. "Spock."

In the obscurity of the darkened alcove, he permitted himself a smile. "I like hearing you say it." He heard the raggedness of his own voice and did not care that she could hear it, too.

"If you keep distracting me, you will never receive your gift."

His eyes were closed. He could hardly think. The blood pulsed steadily in his sex, and all he wanted to do was go on tasting her, feeling the weight of her. Chagrined, he realized that if they continued in this manner, he would not be able to wait for gifts or anything else. "I do not know if I shall survive it," he confessed.

There was a smile in her answer. "Do you wish me to get up?" She deliberately shifted in his arms, the silk folds of her gown an almost unbearable friction.

"No," he breathed. And then, reluctantly, "Yes."

"Yes?" She moved subtly again, teasing him. Whispers of pleasure chased along his nerves, running from his groin to his belly and down his thighs. He drew a sharp, involuntary breath, and his hips rocked against her beyond his will.

"Yes," he repeated emphatically, breathlessly. "Else I shall certainly continue to distract you."

She pretended to consider it. "It is not an entirely unpleasant prospect. One might imagine more disagreeable fates, I should think." She punctuated this with the faintest caress of her lips on his ear. "On the other hand," she mused, "I have been saving this particular gift for some time..." She did it again, and Spock gasped, shivery heat flooding him.

"Shara--"

She relented, shifting her weight off of him. "Very well, a gift it is. But you shall have to come with me." She took his hands in hers and, rising, pulled him up with her. He needed the support. His legs were none too steady.

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere more...conducive."

His thoughts shorted out, contemplating the possibilities.

She led him into the bedroom, but instead of approaching the linen-draped bed, she moved to the mirrored dressing table. Resting on the polished teak surface was a porcelain bowl, and in the bowl was a pitcher of water. She stopped, indicating that she wished him to stand before it.

"Do you wish me to--?" He made as if to remove his embroidered tunic.

"I will do everything."

He stood, trembling, not looking at his image in the mirror. Instead, he watched hers. She turned on a small lamp, and its soft glow seemed bright after the candlelight. Then she reached up, taking the crushed flowers from her hair. Hardly breathing, he watched her put them in the porcelain bowl and then lift the ivory pitcher, pouring the water. She stirred the blossoms around with her fingers a few times, until the elusive fragrance of them teased his nostrils.

The water would be cold, he thought.

She came toward him. Before he could speak, or even form thought, she stood before him, and lifted her hands.

Her wet fingertips were at his temples, an unexpected coolness, and he closed his eyes instinctively. An instant later he realized what she intended and drew a startled breath. He thought that he said her name. Did not know whether he said it aloud. The thrill of anxiety and surprise and anticipation shot through his veins, fueling his body's urgency. What was she doing?

Do you trust me? she sent, the lightest feather-touch of her thoughts.

He had to gather every scrap of control remaining to be able to answer her. Yes. Of course. But what--?

My gift, Spock. But you will have to trust me unconditionally. I will understand if you do not think you can.

His brain was chaos. The delicious shock of her mind in his was almost overwhelming--and he could feel the reflection of that in her thoughts. But she was controlling it much better than he. Spock drew in on himself for a moment, summoning the disciplines of a lifetime.

Unconditionally, she had said. It would be very difficult to let go like that, to trust so completely. It went against every natural defense mechanism of a telepathic species, every tenet of his Vulcan training. He could sense the power of her mind, carefully gentled to a quiet, waiting question. Can you trust me?

He sensed the power, but he also sensed the bright promise underlying her words, the anticipation she was trying to shield from him. She needed this, too, as much as he.

At last he was able to answer her coherently, though it was only the one word.

Yes.

And so--

Planet's dawn.

What planet? Yellow sun, not Eridani. Some other where, some other when. He closed his eyes and...

...dreamed.

 

* * *

Part VII: Shara's Gift

 

 

The sun is a distant, fragile warmth low in the sky. It casts long shadows across the path before me, laces itself through the tall grass which traces the edge of the lake. Later it will be warmer; now, the morning air raises gooseflesh on my arms and the backs of my thighs.

I follow the path along the lake's perimeter, looking for the birch tree and the hollow which leads to the stone steps. The young women of the hold described this landmark to me in detail. I was told I could not miss it. I tread carefully on the path, not wishing to disturb the pristine peace of the forest at dawn. I am surrounded by that expectant quiet, the hush which comes when the night forest has gone to sleep, and the daylight one has not yet awakened. The only clear sound is the dry, fragrant breeze, whispering its secrets in the canopy above.

That unceasing breeze is unique to this place. It blows, always, night or day, that same, steady, gentle current of air on the skin. I do not know if perhaps I would become accustomed to it, were I to remain here. It teases the skin, ruffling the hair on arms and legs and the back of one's neck, but only faintly. It makes me feel... aware. Alive. That touch of the air always caressing, always invigorating, a seduction of the senses.

There: the birch tree, and there, the hollow in the grass. I come to the place where the earth slopes down behind the tree, and I can see now the stone steps, rough-hewn, which lead down to the water's edge.

The stone is cool against the soles of my bare feet.

Down here, the whisper of the breeze in the rushes fades and there is instead the silver, jeweled sound of water on stone, where the brook flows along the shadowed bank and cascades from pool to deeper pool, before spilling into the lake beyond. I make my way along the bank, stepping from stone to stone. The trees down here are older, gnarled, their roots exposed between the stones, disappearing into the water. There are grassy patches, too, dotted with white wildflowers, like tear-shaped pearls.

Ahead, there is a great boulder in the middle of the stream, smooth and round on the bottom where the water has worn at the stone, wide and flat on top. I stop and turn, looking back down the stream-bed. The sun, a little higher now, is making patterns of light on the surface of the lake. All is quiet. The people of the hold will not venture out today; it is a holy day, and they will spend most of the daylight hours in prayer. This is why I, being an outworlder, have made myself scarce.

Satisfied with the spot I have chosen, I lift the knapsack from my shoulder and lower it to the bank, placing it securely between the roots of a great tree. In it I have packed fruit and a square of dark bread.

I draw my knee-length tunic up over my head and arms and off. This, too, I leave on the bank. The unceasing breeze touches my bare skin greedily, learning the previously withheld shape of me, raising the fine hairs on my belly and making my nipples draw tight; naked, I step into the stream.

Near the bank, the water is shallow, and shockingly cold. I feel my way, toes gripping the smooth stones. Soon the water is up to my calves, colder as it gets deeper, and I have to concentrate to keep my balance. I am making my way back downstream, toward the lake, following the sound of the small cascades I heard from the bank. There, ahead, water spills between several large stones into a deeper pool beyond.

In contrast to the chill of the water, the air feels warmer, the sun beginning to reach through the overhanging trees. That warmth and the chill of the water between my toes makes me shiver, faintly. Oversensitized, I am aware of each individual stone against my feet, of the touch of the invasive air on my breasts and thighs, of the smooth coolness of my hair against my back.

For me, this is an unheard of indulgence, to spend a day engaging in nothing more than the pursuits of relaxation. There is little I can do at the keep, when my pupils are all at prayer, and the school is closed for the holiday. Illogical to spurn this rare opportunity for much-needed rejuvenation.

At the place where the water pours itself over the rocks, I take hold of a low-hanging branch and use it for balance, jumping lightly down the half-meter drop from the stream bed into the pool below.

If the stream was cold, the pool is colder still, making me gasp as the water closes over my legs and hips and waist before my toes touch bottom. My nipples draw suddenly, painfully taut, as the water reaches my ribs, laps at the undersides of my breasts.

The shock is followed by a rush of unexpected pleasure.

I am at once dismayed by my shameless sensuality and amused at my provincial reaction to it. I have never believed that the body's natural functioning should give cause for shame. And yet I have never before been so aware of air or sun on my skin, of the chill of moving water on my breasts and thighs.

It is his fault.

Before, my body was a vessel, its purpose to function, to bear me to the places that I needed to go, and little more than that. Before, I was a woman who required little in the way of physical gratification. I did not have time for such frivolity, and when I lay down at night I was usually too exhausted to think beyond asleep.

Then he came, and taught me something of my true appetites.

Two weeks now since I left him on Dantria. And in that time, I am forced to confess, I have not been able to stop thinking about him.

I am thinking about him now.

Slowly, almost as an afterthought, I walk deeper into the pool until the water just laps at my nipples. And now that I have allowed my guard against such thoughts to drop, I cannot seem to raise it again. I tilt my head back, gazing up through half-closed eyes at the arching branches overhead. That steady breeze makes the trees sway hypnotically. My hair drifts about my face and throat, caressing, the ends pulled with the current.

And of course, I am thinking of that night in the garden, when he gathered my hair in his hands and kissed me, his slender fingers gentle and exquisitely sensitive against my neck, my shoulders, warm in the moonlight. That thought leads to others, and before long my eyes have closed and I am thinking of his mouth on mine. My lips part with the thought. His mouth... oh, his mouth is a mystery, a secret waiting to be discovered. He shows only severity with those full, sculpted lips, and never would you know to look at him how gentle those lips can be, how his mouth can soften and flush with passion, how he can rouse me to readiness with one hesitant, searching kiss.

Is he truly Vulcan, this dark lover who has made me question my own Vulcanness? Is it perhaps his human blood which calls to some hidden darkness in me, some shadow of my own brutal conception? Or can there be some other explanation for the unprecedented thing that happens when he kisses me?

Is it like this for him, too?

But I am ashamed to admit, these questions pale in the face of the one which consumes me now. More importantly, I wish to know--how can I make certain he will go on kissing me like that for many years to come?

The water feels warm to me now, and the air warmer still. It is the heat in my own body, and it is centered in my abdomen, a melting heat which warns me that it has been a long two weeks, that it may be many weeks more before I shall see him again. These thoughts are dangerous, and I remind myself that there is no guarantee that I shall ever see him again. He will return to his ship, to his captain--and my job makes no guarantees at all.

But logic does not sway me from the certainty that I will know his lips, his hands on me again.

An image of him comes, then, his hands as he reaches for a chess piece, the weight of his dark eyes on me. The truth of him is revealed in those hands as it is nowhere else. They are strong and supple, graceful as a musician's, and so sensitive as to be dangerous. They can sense the fear in a child, or the hidden truths a woman does not wish to reveal. They can play me like a harp. And thinking of his hands on me, I run my palms once over my erect nipples...and sigh softly with the pleasure of it.

I have never done this before, never needed to. But now I am curious, fascinated by the ready response of my own body to that so-casual touch. A moment of inner struggle, as I consider the implications of such a surrender to the animal desires of the flesh--but it is not much of a contest. There is no one to see me. And I have never believed that the body's natural functioning should give cause for shame.

I am thinking now of another night, of the low liquid current of his hushed voice, of the Brahms. He touched me then, my hand, and I knew such heat behind my eyes and between my legs that I let it overcome my judgment, let it swallow me up.

His eyes over the chess board were hooded, knowing, no question there of what he did or what his touch was doing to me. When I did not pull away, he repeated the feather-light caress along the backs of my fingers. I was so exquisitely aware of each nerve ending there that I closed my eyes and barely prevented a low moan of response. I waited, breath held, but he did not repeat the caress.

When I looked at him again, his lips had parted.

I have been drifting with the current toward the bank, to a place where the water is not so deep. Here, in the shallows, the filtered sunlight reaches the smooth stones that line the pool, and it is warmer. I find a sunny spot and stretch out against that warmth.

His mouth. It was his mouth which conquered me, finally, that night, the thought of pressing my palm against his nape and taking that mouth, the thought of what his lips would feel like at my throat, my breasts. And when I brushed my fingertips lightly against that full lower lip, unable to stop myself, it was he who closed his eyes.

"Shara," he breathed, and the sound of my name, that name--a name I have not heard since my mother's death--on his lips, was the nearest thing to perfection I have ever known. I was undone then. With that one word he made me his, for always, though he may never know the truth of it. If he should be lost to me, or forsake me, it will not change anything. That is fact. And one I shall have to live with.

I did as I desired then, standing and closing the little distance between us, curving my hand against the close-cropped silk at the back of his head. Before he could open his eyes or speak a word to stop me, I bent down and touched my mouth to his.

It was the first time.

We had endured pon farr together. There had been pain and release, and even a kind of blind passion, as the flame hungers for fuel to burn. There had been the satisfaction of knowing he would live. Of knowing that I had the power to give life, out of my own strength.

But there had never been this touching of lips, this gentle, heated friction, this shock of current through my lower body. Never had there been this deep unsteadiness thrilling along my spine. I leaned against him and opened my mouth against his, breathing and tasting him, and his hand came up against my hip and he drew air sharply in through his nose and groaned softly. I closed my eyes and tasted him again, and again, each time almost reaching the knowledge of what that elusive flavor was, that scent, and then the surge of heat would come and I would forget and have to taste him again.

His hands were on me then, very warm, and he broke away and leaned back against the chair and looked up at me. His eyes regarded me intently, glittering in the low light. Under that scrutiny, I gained some mastery and felt the blood warm in my cheeks. This--kissing--was a most intimate act. I could not, of course, be certain, as I had lain with no one before him, but I suspected it was not an act Vulcans often engaged in.

His respiration was somewhat labored. "Where did you learn that?"

I released him, embarrassed. I would have drawn away from him, but for his hands which held me possessively near, my weight against his thighs. "My apologies," I breathed, trying to do so evenly.

His eyes were severe, dark, his pupils so dilated as to make them almost black. "Vulcans do not--" He broke off, seemed to struggle for words. He was, I realized, trembling faintly, and the realization made me weak-kneed. He swallowed heavily. "I have not--"

"Nor I," I admitted, half-chagrined, half-defiant. I met his gaze directly. "I ask your forgiveness for the... presumption."

His eyes grew darker still. His voice was low, breathless, enveloping me. "If I promise to give it, will you presume upon me again?"

I caught my breath despite myself--and I do so now, remembering the way his words made me tremble, too, remembering how I nodded, unable to properly control my voice. I put my hand lightly upon his shoulder for balance and leaned forward, my eyes closing as my mouth brushed his once more, a fleeting caress.

And that was when he pulled me down full length on top of him, and I felt the hot, steel strength of him against my thighs, my belly, my breasts.

Oh. Spock. Yes.

I have said some part of that aloud, and in the here and now I have begun to touch myself in all the places that I felt his body in that moment. My breasts, nipples pressed almost painfully tight against the warm velvet of his tunic. My thighs, bracing me between his legs, feeling the heat of him. My belly, where his hard, hot, arousal pressed urgently into me, harder still when he closed his arms around me and made my mouth melt into his, when he touched my tongue with his.

Astonishingly, I am so aroused by the memory that when at last I touch my tender breasts, the pleasure makes me gasp aloud.

And at once I know it is too late for going back, that my treacherous memory has brought my body to an urgency I do not have sufficient reasons to deny. My nipples have drawn taut, my breathing short, and blood has engorged my sex so that the slow current of the cold water is a torment. I stand on legs which are not entirely steady, make my way out of the water and stand shivering on the grassy bank.

After the cold stream the air warms me quickly, and I shake my dampened hair back, glancing first upstream and then down. There is quite plainly no one in sight. No one to see me. I head upstream, to the place where I left my tunic and my pack.

There. The great stone, in the middle of the stream. It is flat and wide and inviting, and when I lie upon it, it is as warm as I imagined it would be.

His tongue was hot and at last I knew what it was he tasted like: sweet lo'a herb and the nutty root butter I craved often as a child. But when I knew it did not matter any more, for I was incoherent. His hands had, somehow, found their way beneath the hem of my shirt, and they were at the waistband of my trousers, sliding beneath it, warm and possessive. They slipped down and cupped my buttocks, and I made a sound I could not control. I pressed closer as if he had ordered it with his hands, and he moaned and sat up straighter in the chair.

"Spock," I was saying, against his temple, "Spock." Is this wise? I wanted to say. I will be leaving in the morning. But the words had no meaning, and I could not bring myself to say them. In that moment I knew that it had been a mistake to come here--that it was too late to undo it. I knew I did not wish to stop. The Brahms played still, and in it I heard the shape of everything I had turned my back on, all my life. I had said I would not need anyone.

"Allow me to please you," he whispered, as if in answer. "Shara, will you permit me to give you pleasure?" His musician's hands, sliding up to caress my hips, his kiss tracing my ear. I sighed and surrendered.

"You are. You do. Yes."

He tangled his hands in my hair, just for a moment, brushing my forehead with his cheek. Then he stood, pulling me up with him.

We did not hurry. We learned one another anew, with eyes and hands and mouths, and when at last he entered me, I made a sound I did not recognize and took him into me as if this, too, were the first time.

Here and now, I remember, and my hand on the place where I welcomed him in makes my breath come fast, makes me writhe and tremble against warm stone. The pleasure in me is deep and sure, rising up swiftly. I have thrown my head back, hair falling over stone to trail in the stream. The movement of air on my body awakens my skin, makes me arch my back a little. I close my eyes to the bright sky, and bring myself closer, go deeper--

--and I remember, how it felt when he moved in me, that slow, exquisite torment of his control, and the rough, exquisite ecstasy when he lost control at last. I remember the feel of him, how he rose up on his knees, and held me straddled across his lap, how he spread his hands against my spine and threw his head back when I began to move against him. The feel of his hair sliding under my fingers. My own low cries, and his, when he could not hold them back any longer.

My name on his lips when he came.

And his is on mine, when I do, in shuddering, ecstatic waves that flood up from some deep place and run out over me, my body, the rock, the stream, rushing out of the sky to take me out of myself, utterly.

Afterward, I lay gasping on the smooth stone, gazing up into the sun until all I can see are spots of darkness and light.

 

* * *

 

He returned from some far place to find her watching him with that solemn gaze. He shuddered and drew a breath.

The aftermath of her climax (hers? his?) echoed in him in strange places. He was naked, moisture evaporating from his skin, and he saw that the bowl of water was on the table beside the sleeping pallet.

She, too, was naked, and she knelt near his head, her hands clasped loosely on her knees. Had she taken him inside her body? Or had he, in the meld, brought himself to that shattering orgasm? He didn't know. The aftershocks were still running through him in waves, and his heart was still on overload. For a moment he could not separate the sensations in his own body from the memory of hers.

She gazed at him sidelong from beneath her sable lashes. "And what do you think of my wedding gift?" she murmured at last.

He made an effort to meet her enigmatic gaze, struggling against the languorous torpor that made even thought difficult. At last he was able to draw a breath, form speech.

"You are a source of great wonder, my wife." He shook his head helplessly, his hands making a hesitant gesture toward her. "I do not have the words."

She took the gesture as an invitation, and clasped his near hand lightly in hers. "Shall I assume then that you found the experience... enlightening?"

"Indeed." His lethargy made further reply too much of aneffort. It occurred to him that he had not slept in several days,and so he only closed his eyes and pulled her down beside him,into the warm hollow at his side. She went willingly. "Quite fascinating," he murmured against her hair.

They lay together in the guttering lamplight, and T'Sharen watched him as his eyes drifted closed, as he drifted toward sleep. She, too, was tired, but she knew sleep would be long in coming. It had taken her the better part of a week to summon the courage for what she had done. She had not known for certain if it would work, if the memory would be vivid enough to recreate the sensations. She had not known what his male physiology would make of the sensory input--or if she would be able to control her own response enough to maintain control of the meld.

She had not known if he would understand what she offered him, how difficult it was for her to reveal the memory to him in all its entirety.

She studied his sharply defined profile in the near-darkness, still not certain if he understood. The relaxed, indolent lassitude of his sprawled limbs brought her pleasure, and there had been wonder indeed in his eyes, when he first looked at her. But did he truly grasp what she had tried to give him? Did he understand what she had revealed? She had let him see the truth of what he was to her, of how thoroughly he had conquered her. And now, watching him sleep the sleep of the thoroughly sated, she felt vulnerable and exposed.

Thinking him unaware, she indulged an impulse and traced the sharp, graceful line of his eyebrow with the tip of her finger. Had she made a crucial error, in revealing her need of him so plainly? "The weapon may be turned back upon the hangman," she murmured, hardly knowing she spoke.

And he turned, and opened his eyes to hers from a distance of centimeters. "Shara?"

She started, drew back a little. "Nothing. Rest now, my husband. It is very late." She couldn't quite meet his eyes.

He captured her face gently against his palm, turned her head until she had to meet his eyes. The unexpected brightness there made her catch her breath. "Do not," he said huskily. "What do you fear, my wife?"

"Myself," she whispered, and dropped her eyes.

He stroked the hollow at her temple gently, coming up on one elbow, though it was obvious he almost did not have the strength to do it. "You believe you have made a mistake, in offering me this priceless gift." There was painful comprehension in his tone. She could only shake her head. "Shara." He sat up, took her face between his hands, made her look at him again. When she did, he smoothed the hair back from her forehead, dropped his hands to take hers against the woven pallet. "Tell me one thing." It was a demand.

"What would you know?" She felt helpless against the assault of his dark hawk's gaze.

"Do you truly believe I did not think of you, in all that time?" He swallowed, hard, and his voice cracked. "Did you think it was not the same for me?"

She closed her eyes, felt herself slipping.

"I did not know. I--"

He drew her against him then, and she felt herself surrender in spite of the effort she made to resist. "No," he whispered against her hair. "Do not. You are not alone any more."

It was not, quite, what she needed to hear from him. But she found that in the warm cocoon of his arms, it was enough.

T'Sharen, daughter of T'Lisen, drew a breath to steady the rapid beating of her heart. He would not forsake her. He would stand by her, would be her shield. He had sworn thus, and she believed him. His arms around her were strong and safe; they held her tight, and did not let go.

She would make it be enough.

 

 

The End

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Bitter Glass