Title: The Journey To Self Knowledge Author: Istannor Series: TOS Part: 12 Rating: [PG13] Codes: Summary: Spock begins his longest journey yet. The Journey To Self Knowledge Spock looked down at the palm of his hand. A minuscule speck of iron-rich blood lay in the crease below his thumb. He picked it off and watched as it fell to the floor. In doing so, he allowed the last of his Captain to fall away from him, or so he dared to hope. He knew hope was illogical, but it would have to suffice. His logic told him he had no chance of success. He sat back on his haunches and slowly scanned his cubicle. Three small shelves were cut into the stone on the southern wall, storage for possessions he did not have. A receptacle for bodily waste was in the far corner. A woven blanket lay on a hard sleeping pallet against the northern wall. The only obvious concession to modern times was the almost inaudible sound of air recirculators in the distance. Shhhushshuhhsu. He concentrated on the harmonic variations of the sounds from the surrounding stone walls. It was not the hum of engines, the whine of phasers charging, the thump of photon torpedoes, or the beep of McCoy's Biobed. A dim light from the corridor suffused the room, coming through the thick blanket that served as his only door. His single lantern was extinguished. Walls surrounded him with the sameness of the desert. Brown bled into red and sand covered rock. The walls of Gol were hard and thick with age; muted sounds, distant creaking, and occasional soft steps were the only breaks in the silence. This would be his lot in life for the remainder of his days. He slowly stretched out on the warm sand floor and dug his fingers into its surface. He held on to the grains of sand; the red dust of Vulcan coated first his palms, then wrists. He lifted first one hand, then the other towards the air. Fine sand fell between his fingers, grain by grain, until there was nothing left but a fine red coating, not unlike human blood. No! He pressed his face into the sand, until it was coated with the fine red dusting. Slowly, he turned onto his side and looked at the far wall. His breathing came in short gasps and he struggled to slow it. The fight within lasted far too long for one of his training and years. A trickle of wetness made him look down at his hands. Dark greenish liquid traveled down the creases of his palm. Small puncture wounds made by his own nails gave testimony to his battle. He turned away and looked for something, anything else, to seize upon. A small insect made its way across the floor. It dragged a grain of cereal, no doubt from Spock's own evening meal. It never tired, never paused in its headlong flight for the safety of the crack in the wall. Spock watched. 13.5 minutes later, the insect disappeared into the darkness of space, between the walls of Gol. It was the last sight he beheld before he allowed his consciousness to flee. T'Par stood silently in the shadows of the hallway, sensing the muting of pain from the curtained cubicle. It was not gone completely, but it no longer shouted with the screams of an injured Thiyaf as the Le Matya closed in for the final blow. Poisoned, the child's soul was poisoned by doubt and unspoken fears of the worst type. He feared himself and his own true nature. What had they done to him to make him so wounded? Her mouth made a short hissing sound, a sign of her own frustration. She had much to do before this tale was over, and she was old. Too old for this, her bones called out to her. Too old for this, her memories reminded her. Too old for this, and too old to waste her best chance at redemption on her own fears of inadequacy. She was T'Par, scion and sovereign of Gol: there was no one else, old or not. She shook her head. She was also too old to not indulge herself when she desired it. She would go and take a long slow soak in the cool pool beneath the rocks of Gol. Perhaps when she finished, she would also indulge herself with a walk into the desert. The sounds of the desert night gave her peace, and the Le Matya were not an issue. She was T'Par, after all. *************** T'Par returned to the corridor often and watched Spock silently from the shadows of Gol. As he descended deeper into a self-made hell, his meditations were frequently marred by his own silent rocking. For the briefest of moments, she considered what might have been, if she had intervened in his life earlier, but the thoughts were worthless and she dismissed them. She considered inserting new convictions into his memory but her intrusion would disrupt his natural growth. She also acknowledged they would lose him permanently, if he ever realized what had been done. The need to have the journey completed, and done well, allowed her the strength to watch his pain and refuse to respond. +++++++++++++ His hand burned where it touched the sand. He refused to heal it in trance. It served as a reminder of his faults. The sun throbbed against his bare skull and seared his naked back. His tongue felt thick against the roof of his mouth, but he refused to sip from the flask at his side. He had been sent out into the desert with a question and told to remain there until he had meditated on his answer. Three days and nights had passed and he was no closer to a revelation. T'Par 's voice replayed in his mind. She had asked him a question in a voice that mocked at his wounds and called out to his frailties. This was not what he had expected nor wanted. Solitude, silence, reparation for his transgressions and acknowledgement of his inadequacies had been anticipated. Riddles were illogical. Yet T'Par posed riddles and treated him as if he were normal. Fool, she, for thinking so. "Spock, which weighs more upon the soul: honor, duty, guilt, love, or commitment?" What logic was in a question such as that? No Vulcan would countenance responding to the emotions of guilt, or love. They were irrational. Furthermore, how could anyone weigh honor, versus duty, versus commitment? What did it matter in the final tally? They all were worthless against the dictum: The good of the many outweighs the good of the few or the one. Honor, duty and commitment required one to ascertain the common good and sacrifice all: honor, duty to personal agendas, or commitment to personal goals, for the good of the many. He had spent his life being taught those rules. In the second week, T'Par met with Sarek. Sarek stalked through the door; visions of warrior kings flowed across her sight as she attempted to focus on the reality. His step was suffused with power and his face was Vulcan perfect, giving no hint of his fight against his own anger and fear. His face glowed in the light from Gol's central hearth and ancient voices whispered in her ear as she watched him traverse the hall. He stopped in front of her chair and bowed once, a cursory one at best. "T'Par, I know what you have done and I demand to know what you have planned for Spock and Kirk in the future. I have the right to know your plans." "Do you?" Of course, she would refuse, but nothing precluded her entering a discussion with him. Sarek was so refreshing when he was demanding. It was difficult to not feel amusement at the expression on his face, the perfection of his posture, the tone of his indignation; he was so like her sister, T'Pau. "No, Sarek. You do not command us in our kingdom. Here, we rule and there is none who can say otherwise." He visibly calmed himself. To herself, she wondered which of Surak's tenets he had used to seek control. "My Mother's and your machinations have only succeeded in nearly driving James Kirk mad, killing Dr. McCoy and myself, and you have driven my son to Gol. You had no right to take my son's birth-right and pledge it to the First Humans, to their secret desires and schemes. " "We had no right?" Her voice tickled him with a hint of her power. He did not relent and she felt approval. "Very well, Sarek. Perhaps we were presumptuous. We made plans for our children and our children's children. We understand that is not within the purview of the Mother of Vulcan and the Ruler of Gol, Holder of the Mysteries." Sarek ducked his head. "T'Par, you have that right. This you know." "We have that right for all others on Vulcan, excluding thee and thy progeny?" Sarek turned a rich olive color and maintained his silence. T'Par allowed him dignity. "Thee were chosen as the Father of our future. Thy son, and his relationship with Kirk, has caused a flood of Vulcan youth to enter into relationships with Humans and other non Vulcans. Nine more Vulcan/Human hybrids have been born. They are healthy and all seem to have the mindgifts. As for the change in our thought processes, the number of new patents and perversely original thought from the VSA has increased by 234%. Let us ask what your sacrifice has been. Without our interference, thy first born became anathema, and thy first wife dissolved thy Bond. Without our help, thee met and married a Human woman. Without our help, thee did not speak to thy own son for 18 years." She allowed irony to tinge her voice. "Forgive us if we do not see how we worsened the situation thee found thyself in." "You promised my son to Jean Little. Not only is she probably not Human, she definitely is not Vulcan. I am not certain she has the best interests of Vulcan, or my sons, at heart." T'Par blinked slowly, distantly wishing she would see someone different standing in front of her. Sarek argued with her; how refreshing. Memories of her Bondmate, S'Tarn, rose in her chest, and the old pain came back, new and raw. She pushed the memories down. Love for the difficult man in front of her suffused her being. He, too, was her charge. "Sarek, thy son would have had nothing of value with T'Pring, as she planned to make a cuckold of him. He was isolated for most of his existence on Vulcan. Why, Sarek?" She answered her own question. "Because, despite Vulcan's avowed philosophy of IDIC, in reality we have become excessively . . .arrogant, and disdainful of other cultures. Spock left here as an outcast. Now, due to the exploits of the Enterprise and its crew, thy son is a hero and welcome on his home world. Add to that his prodigious output of scientific papers, many of which are still reverberating through the halls of the VSA, and we would count this a success." Sarek looked ready to interrupt. T'Par raised one finger to halt his words. "There is more. The visible link between Spock and the Human has made them remarkably successful in all they endeavored to accomplish. Last, and most memorably, all Vulcan can see the link and no longer can deny the possibility of Vulcans and non-Vulcans forging Bonds of T'hy'la or mate. Tell me, Sarek, what is harmed by these outcomes." Sarek looked at her in obvious frustration, whipped around, and stalked away, only to stop at the fireplace and stare in silence. T'Par gave him his silence. His voice whispered across the room, almost too low for Vulcan ears. "Humans would say, the operation was successful but the patient died. My son has sought Gol." She slowly crossed the room to stand beside him. The flames leapt out to greet her and she waited for them to calm. The gentle hiss and crackle of the flames was soothing to her ears and the heat was welcome to her joints. "Your son has sought to retreat, as many have when they come to Gol. Here, we will teach him to accept all that is his. If he wishes to put away emotions entirely, it is his right. If he chooses to learn the skills we offer, that is his due. We are not villains, Sarek." Sarek looked at his hands. "When he was born, I held him in these hands, and what I said then has forever flavored our lives: 'So human.' I was a fool." "Yes, thee were. Thee are not required to remain one." T'Par touched him, shared with him her peace and quiet joy. "Thee have loved and are in love now, Sarek." Sarek flinched and T'Par correctly interpreted his discomfort. "The word is love. Are thee so ashamed of what thee feel for thy wife that thee would deny it to us?" "I do not deny what is private between myself and my wife." "That is well, as it is evident for all to see. The gift of the Bond has given thee security and surety. Thee know love in its richest expression. Vulcan denies love is required, but secretly revels in it from the privacy of the Bond. We are hypocrites who dine on flesh and protest the slaying of animals to feed us. Surak did not mean to rid us of love, or gentleness, or joy. We have corrupted the message and bred generations of children who lie in the brightness of T'Kuth's day and wallow in the sensuality of her nights. Our children -- our Starship crews -- die from ennui, fear, and overweening pride. We will no longer allow this to continue unchecked. We will fight the death of our children with our last breath, and if it takes thy son's soul to save Vulcan, then his Katra is our toy to use as we will." Sarek blinked and turned away. He walked slowly towards the door, stopping at the last moment. His hand gripped the lintel and T'Par thanked the original builders again: it was made of stone and resisted the force directed into it. It would not shatter, but perhaps Sarek would. "Take care of my second son, T'Par, and send him back to us. Know this, the parental Bond will not suffice for James Kirk. He remains unstable. Eventually, without resolution, Kirk will self- destruct, and take any hope for Spock's return from Gol with him." He turned, and a trick of the light showed a hint of moisture in his eyes. "Spock is my son, and I will never deny him again." T'Par watched as Sarek walked away. The good of the many outweighed the good of the few or the one. Honor, duty and commitment requires one to ascertain the common good and sacrifice all, honor, duty to personal agendas, or commitment to personal goals, for the good of the many. It was now one week into his desert isolation and he was no closer to an answer. He sipped sparingly at his water and looked out upon the rocks and sand of the deep Formaji. A single pair of Teresh-kah circled in the air along the updrafts. The call of a Sehlat sounded in the far distance. . . to be answered by its questing mate. For even the lowest beast of the desert, there was one to mirror the soul and trek to life's end with them. In the end, he would be alone. It was, as it had to be. T'Pring had made a correct choice. He had finally accepted the fact that he had nothing to give her of worth except his name. In fact, as he dwelled on it further, he had nothing of worth to give to anyone. He had brought pain to all those he had touched: Leila, Zarabeth, Droxine, Carlos, Christine, and . . .no. There was no logic in his insistence on dwelling in the past, but that was where his journey had gone awry. His Father saw a human who was not strong enough to be a Vulcan. His Mother saw a Vulcan who was not strong enough to be a Human. T'Pring saw a man who was not committed enough to be a husband or father. James Kirk saw a person who was not strong enough to be loyal. When he looked at himself, he saw . . .nothing, nothing but a blankness that threatened to swallow him. Gol would fill the hole in his soul, the tear in his psyche. He would remain alien to his culture of birth and his culture of desire, to his final days: a Vulcan male who refused the Bond and denied Pon Far. He would be free at last to walk his own path or die in his struggle. In the death of emotions, he would find the final freedom. Heya! Here was the answer he required from the desert. He had come to Gol in pursuit of freedom. He would stop dealing pain, and seek his peace at last. Freedom. He stood and made his way, slowly, back to. . .and through the walls of Gol. He did not look back as the doors shut with a dull thud behind him. He did not stop to wonder why his revelation gave him no peace. He simply continued on. Spock returned to his cubicle. A bowel of grain and a glass of water awaited him. Another insect struggled across the sand floor with its bounty. He sat and stared at the red sand until the last light faded and even then he continued on. The third week after the Human had been taken from Gol to Sarek's compound, T'Par decided to act. She knew the Human had returned to Earth by high-speed shuttle. Spock's dance with insanity had been become slow, silent, and intimate. Time passed as the sands drained down the dunes. Each grain that fell took him slightly closer to disintegration. Finally ...it was time to act. Journey to Self Knowledge, by Istannor - 4 -