DISCLAIMER: The Star Trek characters are the property of Paramount Studios, Inc. The story contents are the creation and property of Cheree Cargill and is copyright (c) 2001 by Cheree Cargill. This story is Rated NC-17 for sexual situations. Surak's Tenets are from Spock's World by Diane Duane.

THE CASTAWAYS

by Cheree Cargill

PART FIVE

"PILGRIMAGE"

The pony-sized animal got to her feet, turned around several times in the bed of straw and then lay down again, her flanks quivering as another contraction gripped her plump body. She turned her muzzle toward the pain and then lay down flat on her side. That didn't help and once more she heaved herself up, turning again to get away from the torment.

To the side, standing watch in the windy night, a man, woman and boy kept well away but ready to help if necessary. "Come on, Mezzie, you can do it," the woman whispered, almost to herself.

"What if she can't get it out, Mama?" the boy asked, concerned. The pony was a favorite of his and he couldn't bear the thought that she might die.

The tall, black-haired man laid a comforting hand on his son's shoulder. "It is not time to worry yet, Sapel," he said, himself caught up in the little drama unfolding in the lean-to stall.

The animal they were watching was not a horse, but one of the native species of Terra Two, a plains grazer that resembled the early equine, mesohippus. She was a dull yellow in color, her legs striped dark brown, her upright mane and tail almost black. She wasn't much bigger than a large sized dog, with short sturdy legs and three-toed feet. They had captured her far to the north near their summer home and her innately docile nature had allowed them to train her to haul a pack travois on their journey here to Sea Home, where they frequently wintered.

They hadn't known when they captured her that she had been in foal, but now as spring neared, her time had come to deliver her baby. Normally, she would have separated herself from the herd and found a secluded place to drop her foal, but her home now was a corral built to one side of the cabin in which her owners lived. They had constructed a lean-to stall for her and it was here that she was laboring to bring forth her offspring.

The mare was standing with her hind legs splayed a bit, her back arched and her tail raised, straining. In the torch light, the three people could now see a bulge visible at the mare's vulva. The animal gave another determined heave and, with a gush of birth fluids, the foal's front feet and muzzle appeared. She looked around as if surprised, then strained again and pushed her foal out to land in the straw, still mostly encased in the thin amniotic sac.

The cord broke as the mare turned and began to snuffle at the wriggling little creature, an action that further tore the sac, allowing the foal to snort and kick reflexively as it drew in its first breath of air. Mezzie began to lick and nibble at her baby, drying it, stimulating it, encouraging it to flex its new muscles. Instinct set the little creature into motion, minutes old and already trying to rise. It struggled, gained its feet, and tumbled at once.

Sapel started through the corral fence, but Spock tightened his grip and pulled the boy back. "Even a domestic animal may attack when it's just given birth," he warned. "Mezzie is still half wild. Do not upset her. She is doing what needs to be done."

"But the baby needs help getting up," Sapel argued.

"No, just watch," Christine said. "Its legs are just too new. It'll be up soon."

As if to prove her words, the foal lurched up once more, spraddle-legged, swaying, and managed to stay upright for nearly a full minute before its limited strength gave way and it went down into the straw, exhausted. The mare licked and prodded more urgently. Once more, the foal made a supreme effort and got its ridiculously long legs underneath it. A puff of wind nearly knocked it over, but it recovered, its muscles firming with every passing second, and this time it took a hesitant step. Another instinct was beginning to call it and, with shaking, rickety steps, the little animal found its mother's flanks and the engorged teats underneath.

Within a few seconds, it was suckling, the rich, life-giving milk filling its stomach with its first meal. As it was doing so, the mare's flanks quivered again and she cocked her tail, delivering the afterbirth and the remainder of the birth fluids. She turned and smelled them, then moved as far away as possible in the lean-to, the foal following shakily after her. In the wild, she would have moved them a good distance away, for predators would scent the blood and come to investigate.

Now, being so close to the detritus of birth made the horse nervous and she continued to move restlessly about, searching for a place of safety. The people watching her had anticipated that.

"Christine, you and Sapel try giving her some food and water now to distract her," said Spock. "I'll clean out the stall and get rid of the afterbirth. She'll feel better once she can no longer smell blood in the air."

Cautiously, Christine and Sapel entered the corral, one bearing a platter of grain that Mezzie found particularly tempting, the other a stone bowl of water. The mare pricked her ears and stared warily at them, but they were familiar and she had learned to associate them with good things. And, too, she was hungry and tired following her ordeal.

While the mare ate and her colt nursed, Spock climbed into the stall and hurriedly raked straw over the blood and tissue of the afterbirth, scraping it onto a hide that he'd laid down. Once the mess was cleaned away, he spread clean straw and fodder in the mare's stall, then tied up the ends of the hide and hefted it out of the corral.

"I'll dispose of this and be back shortly," he said, squeezing through the rough cut poles.

"Be careful," his wife admonished. "I don't like the way this weather is looking. I think it's going to rain."

Spock spared a moment to gaze at the sky. It was dawn, but the sky was still dark, scudded over with heavy, ominous clouds, blowing in from the direction of the sea. Here at their hillside home above the Southern Sea, the spring mornings were generally mild and foggy but this dawn had a strong, wet wind blowing in from the ocean. Even from this distance, Spock could hear breakers pounding on the beach, evidence of a storm.

"Get the animals bedded down then you and Sapel return to the cabin," the Vulcan decided. "It will only take me a few minutes to get rid of this. I believe we should prepare for something a bit worse than rain."

Christine smiled and saluted. "Aye, aye, Cap'n. We'll batten down and prepare to weather."

Her husband lifted an eyebrow and glanced in her direction. He didn't answer her, but her good humor put him in a like mood. He lifted the load of fouled straw onto his shoulder and started down a path in the surrounding woods to a crevasse in the rock where they dumped their discards and inedible or unusable bits of food. It was a good ways from the cabin but he could walk it in about five minutes. Scavengers had found the dump site and cleared away nearly everything they tossed out.

As Spock walked along, the cold wind stung his cheeks, whipping his long black hair into his face, and he was suddenly reminded of another time, years before, when he had made a similar journey. That one had ended in a tragedy beyond his imagining and had nearly been the end of all of them here on this lonely, primitive planet. For a time, it had seemed that the Romulans who had stranded them here would get their wish after all ... that neither he nor Christine would survive their exile and all that they had accomplished would be lost forever.

* * *

Knee-deep in snow, Christine puffed her way back from the salt barrels, carrying a chunk of venison bacon in her arms. She was hampered in her journey by the fact that she couldn't see her feet past her hugely distended belly and had to hope that she was stepping into the tracks she'd made on the short walk from the cave entrance to the cold storage area. She was eight and a half months pregnant now and the baby still had not dropped, squashing her internal organs by its bulk, making her short of breath and straining her back.

Spock appeared on the path from the pond, where he'd been checking on the extent of the ice, and gave an involuntary little cry as he saw his wife waddling along. Quickly he went to her and relieved her of her burden.

"Christine! I have told you repeatedly not to do things like this!" he scolded her, taking her arm to steady her through the snow. "If you need something, please just ask me and I will do it for you!"

"Oh, bosh!" she retorted, feeling annoyed. "I'm not an invalid. I can fetch a chunk of bacon if I want to. Anyway, I've been cooped up in that cave until I'm ready to scream. Stop hovering over me!"

"You could go into labor at any time," he continued.

"Spock, I'm a nurse, remember? I know a little bit about obstetrics." She gazed up at him with her brows set over her deep blue eyes. "The baby has not effaced and I haven't even begun to dilate. Don't panic until I tell you it's time to panic!"

He stopped and stared down at her, his eyebrows lifting in a show of offense. "Vulcans do not panic, Christine," he stated cooly. "We make logical evaluations of a situation and act accordingly."

"Yeah, yeah, how many times have I heard that song?" she grumbled.

He cocked his head slightly. "Christine, you are very out-of-sorts today."

"Oh, am I?" She yanked her arm out of his grasp and turned to face him, hands on her hips. Nearly as tall as he, she still had to look up to meet his gaze and he had drawn himself up to his full height at the moment. That irritated her still more. "Well, buddy-boy, why don't you try being nearly nine months pregnant, coping with heartburn, swollen ankles, shortness of breath, backache, having to pee about every thirty minutes, and having someone dancing a jig on your pancreas, and see how cheerful you are!"

The tall Vulcan stood looking down at his bondmate, brows still elevated in surprise, and knew that he was no match for her today. He backed down. "I apologize, my wife," he said softly. "I tend to forget all the discomforts you are enduring to bring our child into the world. I spoke without thought."

His humble tone abruptly halted the rage she was working herself into. She couldn't stay mad at him when he talked like that and he knew it. She felt a little smile pull at one corner of her mouth and answered, "It's okay. I am pretty bitchy today. Sorry."

"You have no need to apologize, t'hy'la," he replied, smiling back at her. "However, I believe you have exerted yourself quite enough for the moment. Please, let me help you back inside."

She acquiesced, letting him take her arm once more to prevent her from slipping. In truth, leaning on his strong frame was comforting and, when he had guided her back into the shelter of their cave home, she pulled him down to a quick, warm kiss.

"Thanks," she said. "Now, let me have that venison back. I need a chunk of it to season these peas I'm cooking and I want to soak the rest of it for tomorrow's meal."

Spock helped Christine kneel down beside the cooking hearth, where she retrieved a flint knife and sawed off a fist-sized piece of meat. This she tossed into a stone pot where pea-like legumes were beginning to boil. They still had several hours to cook before they were soft enough to eat, but they were coming along nicely. She gave the mixture a stir with a wooden spoon and then set a crude wooden lid over the pot.

Then she turned to the rest of the food preparation. The salted meat was inedible straight out of the brine barrel, except used as seasoning. It had to be soaked in water for one to three days to dissolve the excess salt and make it palatable.

As Christine took a bowl and poured water into it from one of the water bags, she asked, "Where's Sapel? You didn't leave him by the pond, did you?"

"Of course not," Spock answered. "He is sledding on the bluff. I will check on him again in a short while. He is quite safe."

"Is Mooch with him?"

"Yes."

"She's a good watchdog," Christine commented, immersing the salted venison in water and setting it aside. "I feel a lot better with her around."

"Indeed," Spock replied, bending to snatch an orange tuber from the mound of pared vegetables waiting to be cooked. "I was not particularly happy when you took her in, but I do admit that she has made our lives a bit more enjoyable."

Christine sat back on her heels and smiled up at him, rubbing her tight, swollen abdomen. "I knew she'd win you over sooner or later. You didn't fool me one bit!"

"Hmmm," he replied noncommittaly. "I believe I will go find our wayward child and make sure he has not decided to try something foolish in my absence."

"Good idea," his wife commented. "I'll give a shout when supper is ready."

He trailed his fingertips along her cheek as he moved past her then ducked underneath the doorway and disappeared back outside. Christine smiled after him and rubbed her stomach once more. The little pains she had been having worried her a bit, although she knew they weren't true labor pains. Still, the baby could be dropping finally and, if so, then it wouldn't be long before he or she made an appearance. As she stirred the simmering legumes, Christine turned her thoughts to getting the final preparations made and ready for the birth.

* * *

Life had not been kind of late to the big gray animal making his way along the edge of the woodlands. Until recently, he had been the alpha in his pack but age was catching up with the old werewolf and he had recently been evicted by a younger male, one of his own sons. The battle for supremacy had injured him badly, but he had managed to get away before he fell under the vicious claws and tearing teeth of the others.

The old wolf was a veteran of dominance wars, but this time he had been vanquished. While the new leader howled in triumph and then mounted the alpha female to claim her, the injured lobo ran for his life, as far as his ripped legs would take him. Finally he could go no farther and stopped to lick his wounds.

That had been two weeks ago and now the old wolf nosed along the river channel in search of food. The winter snows had already begun and game herds had migrated out of the area. There was nothing left except hares and burrowing prairie diggers. Occasionally he managed to catch one of these before it could scurry to safety but there was precious little meat there to sustain a top predator.

The werewolf didn't know, of course, the name he'd been given by the alien exiles to his planet. In fact, he'd never even seen one. And, although the people referred to his kind as wolves, there was actually nothing wolf-like about him. His was a vaguely canid body shape, but possessing traits that could have as easily belonged to a bear or a hyena. His broad paws were cat-like, with retracting claws on the toes, but very un-cat-like in that the thumb-claws on both front feet were huge and shaped like sickles, slashing weapons that could disembowel an animal with one swipe. His muzzle, though, was the real nightmare and was the reason for the sobriquet "werewolf". Instead of canine teeth, he possessed huge, sharply pointed incisors like some monster rodent straight from hell, and the side teeth were solid shearing blades.

Added to his already formidable appearance, the old male was missing an eye and his face and body possessed the evidence of battles fought and won, or in the recent case, battles lost. He was gaunt from lack of food and reduced to scavenging for whatever edible material he could find.

Here by the river, his keen nose led him to the rotting carcass of an unidentifiable animal. It was merely a lump of fur and bone, but the wolf ripped it apart nevertheless, hungrily searching for any crumb that might fill his empty belly. There was scarcely a mouthful and he worked his tongue to rid himself of the fur that had gotten between his teeth.

A new smell, faint and tantalizing, now tickled his nose and he snuffled eagerly to locate it. Setting off to follow the scent, the wolf eventually found himself near a big pile of brush that had been gathered on a rise above a little pond and creek. A waterfall trickled through the ice that had formed over the crest of an escarpment to splash into the half-frozen pond below.

Scattered around the brush pile was an odd assortment of bones, flesh and offal, some fresh, some days old and severely gnawed by previous scavengers. The odor caused saliva to burst into the wolf's mouth and he licked his chops at the delicious tidbits.

But something held him back. There were other smells that he could detect and they were ones he'd never encountered before. Unbeknownst to him, they were the smells of people and woodsmoke and cooking food. And they frightened him into wariness.

Across the creek valley, up on the top of the bluff, two creatures were moving, one of them upright and noisy, the other low and sleek. Both were running back and forth in the snow in apparent aimlessness. Again the wolf's mouth salivated, because instinct told him that this was prey and prey that would be easily caught. Still, he did not rush to attack. They were too far away and his hunter's mind told him to watch and wait. He sank back into the cover of the brush pile and spent the rest of the afternoon, patiently biding his time and learning the ways of the strange animals that inhabited this valley.

* * *

Christine was already in bed when Spock slipped in beside her. She was lying on her side, facing away from him, and he rolled over the same way, molding his body to hers and slipping one arm over her waist to draw her closer to his warmth. It felt absolutely delicious, and she smiled and made a little sound of pleasure, wriggling against him.

There was something decidedly sensuous about the movement and he raised an eyebrow in recognition of the fact. "Is it so, my wife?" he murmured into her ear. "Do you think that is wise?"

"Mmmmm ..." she answered, turning a bit more toward him, her eyes closed in bliss. "What do you mean?"

"You are so close to the end of your pregnancy," he replied softly. "Is it wise to be in this frame of mind?"

"I'm fine. The baby may have begun to drop a little, but it's still okay to have sex." She opened her deep blue eyes and gazed up at him, her manner more intense. "I want you to make love to me, Spock," she said in a smoky voice. "I have a feeling it will be the last time for a long time, and I want you to fuck me so hard it will last us both until we're able to do it again."

His other eyebrow joined its mate. "I see. 'Fuck' you, is it? Am I to imply that you wish to be adventuresome tonight?" He was definitely amused by her bawdy demeanor.

She smiled back, her eyes half-lidded in invitation. "I want you to be as nasty and raunchy as you want to be," she purred.

"This may take some thought," he responded, trying hard to keep a straight face. "Vulcans are not generally 'nasty and raunchy'. We are known for our gentle and considerate methods of sexual behavior."

That did cause her to laugh in delight. "I'm sure you'll think of something," she answered.

"Nasty and raunchy. Hmmm... Well, in that case, I need to make some preparations," he said and pushed back the furs to rise from the bed.

"Where are you going?"

"For one thing, to make sure that we aren't disturbed." Spock disappeared toward the back of the cave, where Sapel's sleeping place lay. He was gone for a few minutes, then returned to the glow of the firelight.

"What did you do?" Christine asked him.

"I initiated a light sleep trance in Sapel. He will sleep deeply until morning and we need not worry that he will awake during the night." Spock added another small log to the fire and poked the flames into blazing a bit higher. "I believe we will need some extra warmth for a short while ... until we can generate our own."

His voice had dropped in register and he was peering down at her as he stood beside their bed, his eyes dark and depthless. Caught by his mood, she didn't reply, but lay back to watch.

It had been four and a half years since they had been exiled here and during that time they had both adapted to the climate. Spock was no longer uncomfortably cold during the winter months, especially in the warm confines of their cave home. He generally slept in nothing but his loin cloth and this was his only attire now as he stood looking down at his wife. In addition, he had not cut his hair in all that time and it hung now almost to his waist, straight and thick and black as a raven's wing. His body was hard and sculpted from constant work, muscles well-defined on his arms and torso, his legs long and powerful.

As the firelight painted his body with golden highlights, Christine caught her breath. He was utterly savage and beautiful, not the man with whom she lived and loved, but a warrior out of his distant past, a Vulcan from the lost depths of time. She almost expected to hear tribal drumming in the background, but the only sound was the soft crackle and hiss of the fire.

Pleased that he had her undivided attention, his hands went to the rawhide ties at his hip, the belt that held his loin cloth in place, and began to unlace the knot. It came undone easily and he allowed the garment to fall away and drop from between his slightly spread legs. She couldn't help the small moan that escaped her. Completely naked now, he was even more magnificent and she let her eyes roam over his tight stomach and abdomen, over the dark hair on his chest that tapered down to the thicket that framed his maleness. She stared, rapt, at his half-erect penis and unconsciously licked her lips to wet their dryness.

That made him smile, for the impression was that she couldn't wait to get him in her mouth. It caused a further surge of arousal to go through him and his penis stiffened a bit more in response. Reaching down, he took the hardening shaft in his hand and stroked it several times, Christine watching in fascination as it pulsed and lengthened to its full extension.

"You seem to like this," he said in a deep, soft, rough voice. "Perhaps I should give you a better look at it."

Dropping to his knees beside her, he pushed her flat of her back and flicked the furs away from her body. She had on the old, soft gown she generally wore to bed, the velvety leather now stretched tightly across her belly.

"I don't think you need this," he announced and seized the hem, quickly stripping the dress off her as she awkwardly wriggled to allow him to do so. Then she lay naked beside him and he ran his gaze over her ripe, utterly feminine form. Her breasts were huge, the nipples large and protruding. Her belly was fully pregnant, rounded with life, and dropped away sharply to the dark-furred mound at the juncture of her thighs. He would explore her there later, but at the moment, his eyes returned to hers.

"I believe you were interested in this," he murmured and abruptly straddled her chest, facing her. His powerful thighs spread on either side of her, this brought his hardened penis into close proximity to her face and again he grasped himself, this time to present himself for her inspection.

With a surprised but appreciative smile, getting into the game, she reached up and lightly ran her fingertips over the moist, bulbous head, spreading around the drops of oil that had appeared there. "Mmmm ... nice," she replied and then, locking her gaze provocatively onto his, she brought her fingers up to her mouth and slipped them inside, sucking them in deliberate enjoyment. Then she removed them and sensuously licked her lips. "Tastes nice, too," she murmured.

"Perhaps you'd like a better taste," he answered in a low growl and leaned forward, guiding himself to her mouth.

She met him with eagerness, closing one hand over his to hold his thick penis steady, the other going to stroke the insides of his thighs and fondle the heavy sac at their base. He released his grasp and allowed her to takeover, bending forward to steady himself on straightened arms as she began to work on him.

And work him she did. Her eyes closed, she gripped his pulsing rod and freed her lips and tongue in total abandonment. She tickled him with the tip of her tongue, exploring the smooth surface, delving into the eye, flicking away the drops of lubrication that oozed there. Then she spread him liberally with saliva, licking him dry and then doing it again.

She kissed and nipped and massaged until he was groaning aloud, his teeth clenched in an effort to master the spasms he felt building at the root of his groin. She could feel his control crumbling and it drove her to an even greater fervor. Parting her lips, she exhaled hotly onto his throbbing organ two or three times, then enveloped him in her moist, torrid mouth, sucking and kneading him against her palate, her free hand cupping and massaging his balls.

The combination undid him. With an involuntary cry, his hips pumped forward and his hot flood exploded into her throat. She gulped hungrily, swallowing as rapidly as she could as he pulsed uncontrollably for the next few seconds. Then the flow abated and she felt him relax a bit. Still she held him and deliberately sucked the last of his ejaculate from his softening penis, and finished him off by licking him clean before releasing her hold on him.

He stared down at her, panting, his eyes wide in surprise, for he had never experienced such shamelessly carnal sexuality from her before. "Did that please you, my wife?" he finally asked, still breathing heavily.

She smiled lasciviously and again licked her lips. "It was wonderful. For a first course," she replied.

His brows shot up. "First course?"

"Mmmm... That was just the soup," she grinned with a decidedly evil expression. "Still to come ... you should pardon the expression ... are the nuts and the meat."

He stared at her in shock. "Christine! I believe you are getting carried away with this game," he began, but she waggled a warning finger at him.

"Don't get out of character, Spock," she answered, then relented. "If this is too raunchy for you, we'll do something else."

"Perhaps just a bit," he admitted. "Allow me to rest for a few moments and then we will see where things lead us."

"That sounds good," she replied with a smile and he swung his leg back over her, settling down at her side and pulling one of the furs over their naked bodies.

For a short while, they simply cuddled, Christine on her back, for it was hard for her to lie facing him, and Spock on his side, his face pressed against hers, one arm across her chest, one leg draped across hers. It was cozy and comfortable but it wasn't long before their closeness began to work its magic once more.

Beginning to feel aroused once more, he moved his hand to cup one of her large, swollen breasts, caressing it gently, aware that it was tender. Then he surprised her by slipping his hand up to lie flat over her sternum, feeling the quick hard thud underneath. Her heart was beating rapidly and he realized that she was still breathing heavily long after her respiration should have returned to normal.

Alarmed, he raised himself up a bit and asked, "Christine, are you quite all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Why?" she responded.

"Because your heart and breathing rates are still elevated."

"I'll be okay, Spock. It's just the way I'm lying. It's hard to catch my breath this way." She shifted onto her side to face him and for several minutes more, rested quietly with her eyes closed, consciously willing her heart to stop pounding and her breathing to even out. He watched her in concern but then she opened her eyes to smile at him confidently. "There. I told you I'd be fine. Now, where were we?"

"I do not think this is a good idea, Christine," he answered. "If we continue, your metabolism will become elevated once more."

Her lashes lowered seductively over her sparkling blue eyes. "You bet it'll become elevated! And so will yours! Among other things." She emphasized her statement by sliding her hand down his hip toward the tantalizing treasures below.

Quickly he caught her wrist and stopped her. "Be absolutely honest with me," he insisted, gazing intently into her eyes. "How do you feel?"

She halted her playful attempts to touch him and was serious. "I feel extremely pregnant and a little short of breath and actually not very sexy. What I mean is, I feel so bloated that I think you don't think I'm sexy. But I also feel a need to love you tonight, Spock. I don't know if it's raging hormones or just cabin fever, but I want you so much, darling. I want you to hold me and love me and have sex with me all night long. I want you to show me how much you desire me ... as a woman. As your lover. That you ... really do love me. Does that make any sense to you?"

"Of course it does," he answered softly and stroked his fingertips down her cheek. "You are merely feeling this way because you are ready for this pregnancy to end. And it will soon. In a matter of days, I think." His fingertips lightly brushed along her face once more, slipping across her meld points. His voice had become barely audible but his eyes were drawing her into their dark brown depths, like mahogany seas that invited her to dive to their abyssal core. His voice had taken on the same quality. "And you know that I love you, t'hy'la i'aduna. Ti'i'kh'iori, i'ni'irch t'plak. Ni'var ah'sayla. Ti' th'at t'hyleat i-plaplak." He didn't realize that he had slipped into Vulcan, but it no longer mattered. She understood his words, for they came clearly through the bondlink between them.

She ran her fingers through his thick black hair, finding his ear and fondling the pointed tip. "Make love to me then," she whispered fiercely, knowing full well what effect her caresses were having. Indeed, he closed his eyes and drew in a breath as arousal shot through him. It echoed back into her through the bond and intensified in both of them.

He groaned and then seized her hand, halting her exciting touch.

Her brows lowered a little in a puzzled frown. "Or do you really not desire me?" she whispered.

His dark eyes opened and locked into hers. "Not desire you?" he echoed incredulously, then pulled her close and seized her mouth with his, all the fire and need he felt for her coming through the ardent kiss. When their lips finally parted, he murmured, "Never think that, t'hy'la. You are everything to me."

His big, warm hand had been resting against her face and now she realized his long, powerful fingers were spreading into a meld pattern. With joy she opened her mind to him and sank into the radiance and security of his thoughts. There, as their psyches melted into one, he opened the expanse of his desire for her. The memories went back to the early weeks of their acquaintance and grew quietly throughout their time on the ship. The flashpoint came during his pon farr when she'd come to his cabin to offer him comfort. He had realized then how much he had come to love her, to desire her. He had come within a hair's breadth of giving in to what his heart urged him to do -- to pull her into his arms and brand her with his searing kisses, to sink with her down onto his bed and take her with all the furies and flame of a Vulcan's passion, to join with her, heart, mind and soul, and make her his wife. Never and always, touching and touched...

He had done that eventually, here on this wild and beautiful planet, but so much time had been wasted in between. There were other memories that burned in his mind ... her devotion and love as he recovered from the gunshot wound received on Neural, the time of shared consciousness as they fought and defeated Henoch, and finally the searing, embarrassing incident on Platonius. He had fought it, but deep within him something cried out in joy to finally embrace her, taste her lips, feel her body warm and trembling under his.

He showed her scenes from their time here on Terra Two ... her tall, athletic body glistening with water as she emerged naked from the pond following a swim ... her face suffused with rapture as she lay beneath him and received him into herself for the first time ... walking beside him through the fields of grass, her long hair rippling about her shoulders ... her many moods -- laughing, crying, angry, grief-stricken, contemplative, but always, always, loving him ... and now, in this moment, enormous with his child, her fertility and femininity at their height...

And then he took them both deeper into the mind meld, to places both real and fantasy, and there he did make love to her throughout the long night that ensued. In a thousand ways, in a thousand settings. Gentle and rough, mannered and unfettered, in every way they both could imagine. He took her savagely as if he were a barbarian in the throes of pon farr. He rolled with her in satin sheets to the music of lyres and tiny silver bells. He caressed and tumbled with her in zero-gee and free-falling endlessly toward a rainbow planet miles beneath them and in the ultramarine embrace of abyssal deeps.

They loved in snatched, forbidden moments aboard the Enterprise, knowing they would be caught at any moment. They loved on hidden beaches with copper waves washing ashore onto black sands. They loved in the marble halls of Arabian palaces and the sandstone chambers of Vulcan temples. They loved in sparkling white snows and sparkling white deserts, in grottos of impenetrable jungles and woodland clearings, in meadow and vast open prairie, on shorelines and mountain sides. In crowded cityscapes and in public, where the thrill was to seem that they were not doing anything at all.

Sometimes he was an Orion slave trader and she was his wild, lush slave, dancing for him naked and drenched with raw sexuality. Sometimes it was just the opposite. She was a Muratid matron and he was her servant, clad only in golden chains, obeying her every whim and demand. At times they were newlywed ruler-priests of Axanar, required to consummate their marriage before the assembled court to prove their mating had been accomplished. Other times they were avowed celibates, religious renunciates for whom sex was utterly forbidden ... but ultimately unable to resist the powerful erotic need between them, until they broke their oaths before the very altar of their god.

But in the end, they were exiles to a vast and beautiful planet, lost somewhere in the depths of space, surviving by their wits and sheer determination, wrapped now together in the furs of their cavern home. She was heavily pregnant with his child and tired from endless loveplay and ready to sleep. He loved her one last time, groaning as orgasm took his exhausted body yet again, and the last of his essence filled her.

She sighed in contentment and fell asleep. With the final bits of strength, he withdrew from her body and her mind, and then sleep claimed him as well.

* * *

The wolf had come and gone several times from the vicinity of the brush pile, following the sparse game in the area, scavenging frozen remains of carcasses, and with escalating regularity, living off the bits of trash tossed out by the strange creatures that resided in the cave in the valley. So far, he hadn't been brave enough to venture down into their realm, for their strange scent frightened him.

He sensed danger from the two bigger ones, whom he unconsciously identified as the alpha couple, but the little one increasingly became identified in his mind as prey. The small canid one he dismissed completely at the moment. Its kind occasionally provided a meal, but they were generally too quick and clever to be caught by the big predator.

There were long periods of time, of course, when the little one didn't appear at all or, if he did, it was in the company of the alpha male. At such times, the wolf drew back into the hiding place he had made for himself and silently watched. There would come a time when they would be careless and the young one would wander too far away.

The wolf bided his time. In his many years, he had learned to be patient.

* * *

It didn't surprise Spock when he saw Christine pause for a moment and rest a hand on her belly. He stopped what he was doing and came to her at once. "A contraction?" he asked softly.

She didn't answer for a few seconds, her expression turned inward, a little frown bunching her brows. Then she took a breath and straightened. "I think so. Not bad. I'll wait and see what happens."

She went back to mending one of Sapel's shirts and waited. Nothing else happened for about twenty minutes. Looking at Spock, she shrugged then abruptly sucked in her breath between her teeth. Her belly had contracted again, stronger this time. When it eased, she again turned her eyes to his.

"Nineteen point two three minutes," he answered her unspoken question. She smiled at that. Despite the years of exile here, the chronometer in his head ticked off time with the same accuracy it always had.

"Okay. Let's time the next couple and see how they come." Her hands trembling a little now with fright and excitement, she tried to resume her sewing.

Right on schedule, her abdomen cramped up again. "Eighteen point three three five," Spock stated.

"Let's dispense with the fractions. Eighteen minutes is close enough." Her face was flushed now as she gazed at him happily. "I think the time has come, Spock."

"Do you want to lie down or ... anything?" he asked, a bit of anxiety evident in his voice.

"No, I'm fine." She reached over and caressed his face. "We've got lots of time yet. Remember, don't panic until I tell you to panic!" Humming to herself, she turned back to the mending, determined to get as much finished up as she could.

The afternoon passed quietly with Christine's contractions beginning to come at slowly more frequent intervals. Between the pains, she finished sewing the shirt and put her needles and fibers away. Then, with Spock's help, she changed out the bedding and laid down a large, water-resistant hide and then placed a more absorbent hide over that. They got together the things they would need and set them at ready.

Sapel was beside himself to learn that Mama's baby was about to come out, but, as the hours passed and no baby appeared, he grew bored and went out to play with Mooch in the snow. "Do not go any farther than right here in front of the cave," Spock ordered him, his expression making it clear that there would be severe repercussions in the case of disobedience. "Mama will be needing me shortly and I cannot leave her to come looking for you! Is that plainly understood?"

"Yes, sir," Sapel answered meekly. When his Papa used that particular tone, he knew better than to misbehave. He was never physically punished, but the psychological disapproval that his father could radiate was enough to deter any thought of insubordination.

He found a stick and began a game of fetch with his pet.

Spock rejoined Christine, now lying on her side on the bed and breathing her way through a hard contraction. Kneeling beside her, he mopped her sweaty forehead with a soft chamois and said softly, "I would like to ease this pain for you, wife."

"Not yet. I'm okay." She puffed a few times then relaxed. "What you can do is make some supper for Sapel. And eat something yourself. It might be a long night."

"I do not require sustenance--" He broke off his protest as she pinned him with a hard glare. "--but I will eat something. Would you like some clean snow to suck on for moisture?"

"That would be nice," she answered, closing her eyes once more.

Rising, Spock caught up a small stone bowl and went outside. The sun was beginning to set and the temperature dropping with it. "Time to come in, Sapel," he announced as he found a patch of untouched snow on a ledge and raked the top, pristine layer of it into the bowl. It would melt quickly, but for a moment, it would soothe Christine's thirst.

"Just a few minutes more, Papa?" the boy pleaded.

"No, it's getting dark and cold. Time to come in." When Sapel didn't respond immediately, Spock turned to look at him, one eyebrow slowly lifting in question.

"Yes, sir," Sapel sighed and clucked to Mooch. The kit dropped the stick in her mouth and bounded to her master. The three re-entered the cave, its entrance emitting a soft golden glow in the growing darkness.

They didn't see the eyes that reflected the light.

* * *

The wolf had been observing the play of the boy and kit in the valley beneath him. He had watched for sometime to ascertain that the big male was nowhere in sight. The wolf could smell the male but he wasn't nearby, and it only took a few seconds to burst from a stalk and snatch prey, dashing away before any reaction could be set in motion.

With careful actions, he began to move, silently and like a shadow, from his hiding place and into position. Instinct and experience kept him downwind from the pair playing with abandon. The wolf's mottled gray coat blended into the shadows on the snow and camouflaged him as he continued his stalk.

He was near now. Not so close as to be able to attack, but getting there, and still the pair were unaware of his presence. If his big paws made any sound at all, it was no more than the normal squeak and crunch of settling snow and breeze-stirred branches. The playing pair noticed nothing.

Abruptly the wolf froze into total immobility, but the alpha male had appeared from the cave and was making noises. The young one joined its sire, along with the brown animal, and then the three went inside.

The wolf might have felt frustration and anger at losing its prey like this, but these emotions were not a part of its make up. It settled down where it was to wait.

The hunt wasn't over yet.

* * *

"Push, Christine! Push!"

Christine grasped her knees and strained with all her might, sweat pouring down her flushed face, teeth clenched. She was exhausted, having labored all night, but now the moment had come and she mustered all of her remaining strength. With a gasp, she eased off, falling back against the rolled hides at her back.

Spock was kneeling between her spread legs, his focus on the crown of their baby's head, just at the threshold of a new world. "Rest ... breathe ..." Then, seeing the next contraction beginning, he ordered once more, "Push! Hard! You are almost there!"

She grabbed her knees once more and resumed her battle to get her baby's head out. Just when she thought she would pass out from the effort, something gave and the obstacle was free.

"One more, Christine!" Spock said, bending over her, busy. "Just one more."

She heaved again and it was suddenly over. With an unconstrained grin spreading across his face, her husband lifted up and then placed on her stomach a wet, mucous-covered baby, dark-haired, elfin-featured and decidedly affronted. The baby's face bunched up and it squalled in protest at being so abruptly thrust into this cold, bright place.

"It's a girl!" Spock announced, sounding a bit stunned.

Tears of joy springing to her eyes, Christine tenderly wrapped her tiny newborn in a blanket of soft chamois, drying her, stimulating her, watching her turn pea green. "She's got green blood!" Christine laughed through her tears. "She takes after you, Spock." Mindful of the still attached cord, she gently cleaned the birth fluids from the baby's skin.

Sapel had been hovering in the background, his eyes like saucers at the culmination of his mother's pregnancy, and Christine now called to him. "Sapel, come see your new baby sister."

Timidly, he came forward and peered at the wriggling, squalling little creature cradled in Christine's arms. "What's wrong with her?!" he demanded. "She's all squashed!"

"There's nothing wrong with her," Christine answered, gazing in joy at the baby. "You were pretty squashed when you came out, too. No, she's just perfect. Beautiful!"

Still acting as obstetrician, Spock was watching the umbilical and said, "It's stopped pulsing."

"Okay, tie it off tightly up near the baby's navel, and then you can cut it," Christine instructed him.

"What's that thing?" Sapel asked, full of questions now that things were apparently over.

"That connects the baby to the mother when it's in her stomach," Christine explained quietly. "Once the baby comes out, she doesn't need it anymore. Lift up your shirt and look at your tummy." He did so. "See your belly button? That's where you were connected to me!"

Stunned, he stared at the indentation and then grinned at her. "I had one o' those, too?"

"You sure did!"

Spock had moved up beside her. "Hold her still," he said quietly and knotted short lengths of sinew onto the umbilical cord. The baby didn't like being uncovered and began crying once more, Christine cooing to her to quiet her. Then, Spock retrieved a sterilized obsidian knife blade and, with a quick motion, the cord was severed.

Christine quickly covered the little one and cuddled her close to her naked breasts. "It's okay, sweetheart. All over now."

"Why'd you do that?" Sapel wanted to know.

"She doesn't need it anymore. In a few days, the little stump will dry up and fall off and she'll have a belly button, too," Christine patiently explained.

Spock dropped the blade into a pot of water and washed the blood and fluids from his hands, drying them on a chamois towel. Then he came to kneel by his wife's side and get his first good look at his newborn daughter.

"She is beautiful, t'hy'la," he said softly to Christine, his eyes shining, then he bent to kiss her tenderly. "Are you still amenable to the name we discussed?"

"Yes."

"Then I will name her formally so that she will know who she is," he said. He leaned closer and lightly laid a fingertip on the baby's temple, opening his mind to her unformed psyche. In a soft, velvety voice, he intoned, "Child of this House, know that thou art a part of a Family, protected, cherished, guided by those around you and those Who Have Gone Before. Child, thou art T'Larin Christina, daughter of Spock, daughter of Christine, of the House of Surak, Clan da'Ni'ikhirch."

"T'Larin," whispered Christine, stroking the silky black hair of her new daughter.

"T'Larin," Sapel said as well, somehow sensing that he was part of the naming ceremony, too. He peered again at his sister and commented, "I don't 'spose she's too bad."

His mother laughed softly, then frowned a little in pain and then said, "Go back over to your bed, honey. It's going to be a little messy for a while, but Mama will be all right. It's just part of it." As her son moved away, she turned to her husband. "I think I'm about to deliver the placenta."

"Yes, as I suspected," Spock answered and took his place once more at her hips to guide her through this smaller ordeal.

It didn't take long and once that was done, Spock pulled the soaked hide from beneath her and put down a clean one, rolling the afterbirth, tissues and blood up and set it aside, to be disposed of shortly. As he washed her and made sure she was clean and dry, Christine put her newborn to her breast and was pleased when the baby latched onto the nipple instinctively, beginning to suck.

Spock packed absorbent chamois and moss between Christine's legs to act as a sanitary napkin, then got to his feet, his back weary from the long hours now behind him. "We will bathe her once I return. But first I will go bury this. I shall be back in a very short while."

"What time is it?" Christine asked. She could see that it was light outside but it looked early.

"A bit after dawn. Your labor lasted approximately seventeen hours from onset to birth. You must be hungry. When I get back, I will make you some breakfast as well."

"I'd like that," she smiled tiredly. "Thank you, Spock. For everything you did last night and for her." Her blue eyes, though fatigued, were shining with love.

He returned the affectionate gaze. "I did nothing, my t'hy'la. Thank you for this beautiful child." For a few seconds, their eyes held to each other and a smile of pure adoration lit his face. "I am well pleased, my beloved wife."

Christine smiled happily and said, "Go on. Get your chore done."

"I won't be long," he answered and bent down to retrieve the rolled hide of detritus and blood. Going out through the door, he pushed the hide covered door guard closed behind him, blocking out the cold wind coming off the snow.

As Spock walked away downstream to a place he could dig deep enough to completely bury the bundle, a low gray form watched him from the shadows. The wolf's yellow eyes were hard and alert, his nose twitching attentively and eagerly at the strong smell of blood in the air.

From the cavern, the soft sound of a baby could be heard. He knew instinctively what it was and he also knew instinctively that newborn offspring were always an easy meal. The perfect opportunity had come. The alpha male was gone, birth was written everywhere on the air, and his stomach told him that he had waited long enough.

Rising like a gray mist from his spot in the shadows, the wolf began to trot toward the cave entrance.

* * *

The first indication Christine had of danger was as Mooch rushed toward the door guard, all the hair along her back standing erect, ears flat and sharp little teeth bared in a mouth that was emitting a sound like she'd never made before.

"What--" was the only word Christine got out before a nightmare beyond imagining was in their midst.

It could have lasted minutes ... or less than a second. Christine and Sapel screamed at the same instant, reflexively, out of pure terror and then Mooch screeched a battle cry and launched herself at the four-legged demon standing atop the burst door guard. The invader whirled to meet its attacker, throwing it off-guard for just a few seconds.

It gave Christine just enough time to scramble back, one hand flailing for a weapon, the other clutching her shrieking baby to her breast. Sapel had thrown himself against the wall behind his mother, his high-pitched screams taking on a primal, hysterical note.

The wolf caught Mooch by one leg and shook her savagely, releasing her just as suddenly when Christine managed to snag a stone bowl and throw it with as much force as she could. The kit scrambled away, squealing in pain.

With a vicious growl, the wolf whirled back to his main prey and leaped toward the woman. She tried to get out of his way, keep her body between the predator and the child, but was bowled over by the weight of the big animal. One of its claws dug into her shoulder and she screamed in pain, still trying to protect the squalling baby and herself as well.

Sapel seemed to snap out of his hysteria and seized his father's hunting spear that was propped against the wall, using the too-large weapon to beat at the wolf straddling his mother and fighting to get at the newborn. The wolf, thoroughly enraged now, snapped the shaft between his massive teeth and ripped it from the boy's hands, crunching the wood and flinging it away.

It seemed about to leap upon Sapel and Christine screamed, "Noo!!!" and grabbed a handful of fur at its throat, the closest part to hand, and twisted furiously. The wolf whipped back to her and went for her face. She screamed again and ducked, pulling out a handful of fur in the process.

Then in a blinding fast movement, the wolf changed the course of his attack and darted his lethal muzzle down toward her body. Before she could react at all, the wolf had seized the howling baby and was out the door, Christine shrieking with blood curdling horror as it did so.

* * *

Spock hadn't been far downstream when all hell erupted from the direction of the cave. Immediately, he dropped his bundle and dashed back the way he'd come, unable to imagine what could have happened.

He arrived just in time to see the wolf race from the cavern entrance, something in its mouth, and Mooch hard on its heels, barking frantically, the cacophony of screeching voices keeping him from understanding what he'd just seen. Then, an instant later, realization slammed him full force and he uttered a guttural "Nooo!!!" and pelted as hard as he could after the fleeing animals, yanking his knife from its sheath as he did so.

The wolf had leaped across the creek and up the slope to the brush pile. There Mooch had caught it again, sinking her teeth into its rear leg with every once of savage fury in her small body. The wolf dropped the baby in the snow and turned to rid itself of this tormentor, trying to get at the smaller animal, turning and snapping in rage. It took only seconds before the large predator had seized Mooch and ripped her away, again shaking her like a hare. She gave one shriek and went silent.

And that's when something tackled the wolf such as he had never encountered.

Spock's flying weight bore the wolf to the ground and the two rolled over and over in the snow, the wolf trying to orient himself and get at this new attacker, the enraged Vulcan gripping its throat with one powerful hand, the other wielding the flashing steel knife with a vengeance. The wolf set all of its talons into action against the man, trying to get at him with its shearing fangs, fighting for its life now.

But Spock was heedless of anything except sinking the long Romulan blade again and again into the twisting, scrambling body underneath him. The sight that he'd beheld of the wolf with his baby daughter in its mouth had driven him beyond any control or thought. Every ounce of submerged Vulcan savagery, of remorseless barbarism, of killing instinct roared up in him like an erupting volcano. He roared, too, as he drove in the knife over and over, not caring that he was spattered with gore, that his hair had come loose from its thong and was matted and dripping with blood, didn't care that the wolf was no longer moving underneath him.

All that mattered was that he wreak havoc on this thing that had killed his baby before she ever had a chance at life. Still screaming hoarsely, he let the wolf's carcass drop and gripped the knife two-handed, bringing it down with even more force, crushing the animal's chest, pulverizing it, chopping, hacking, stabbing until finally his arms trembled and refused to rise again.

Then he stared wild-eyed around until he spotted T'Larin's small body in the snow and crawled on hands and knees to her, still gripping the gory knife in one hand. He knelt in the blood-drenched snow and stared down at her for a long moment, then his face contorted and he began to cry, great wrenching sobs that threatened to tear him apart, building in crescendo until he was screaming in pain and denial at the heavens.

Almost without thinking, he ripped his shirt open, bearing his chest and stomach and brought the dripping knife up two-handed one last time, high over his head, insuring that it would bury itself deep on the downward plunge.

"Spock, nooooo!!!!!" Christine's voice screamed.

It jolted him back into awareness. She had hobbled to the edge of the creek, leaning heavily on her walking staff, a fur wrapped around her still naked body, blood streaming from between her legs.

Shaking uncontrollably, the Vulcan let his arms slowly drop back down, but did not relinquish his knife. His face was white underneath the gore splattered there and tears had washed streaks through the red coating. Almost unnoticed, they continued to stream down his cheeks, dropping in crimson puddles into the snow in which he knelt.

Then, staring ahead as if dazed, he reached up and took a handful of his long, blood-matted black hair and sliced it off with the knife.

Horrified, Christine shouted at him, her voice hoarse with tears. "Spock! What are you doing?!"

He didn't respond, only seized another handful of hair and cut it away as well. Mechanically, he went on, until the ground around him was covered with a blanket of foot-long ebony strands, contrasting with the white snow and crimson blood on which it lay. Only when he had cut all of his hair did Spock stop and lay down the battle-stained steel blade.

Then, slowly, he gathered his child to his chest and bent his head over her, rocking back and forth and beginning to wail softly.

* * *

For days, Spock had sat at the entrance of the cavern, staring out into space, his knees drawn up, his forearms folded across them. His vision was trapped by something the others couldn't see, his eyes dull and vacant, green-rimmed and hollow. He seldom spoke or moved and, when he did, it was only to perform actions mechanically, with little interest. If he ate, it was the apathetic chewing of a little bread, washed down with water ... but he seldom ate. It was not that he was purposefully fasting. He had simply lost any interest in food.

Christine suspected that he had lost his will to live and was simply waiting passively to die. She could well understand how he was feeling. The past few days had been a living nightmare, one in which she wanted to lock herself away and scream until she had no voice, then keep on screaming until her throat ruptured. Never had she known such hurt or fright or sorrow. She thought she had experienced the maximum when she miscarried following the buffalo attack two years before, but it was nothing to this. Left on her own, she would surely have gone completely insane with grief.

But she didn't have that luxury. Grief-stricken or not, recovering from childbed or not, wounded or not, the burden fell on her to hold her family together. Had it just been Spock, she might have let him go, lost in her own madness, but she had Sapel to think about and his needs outweighed her own. And so, like uncountable women before her, she set her own heartache aside and forcibly seized the ragged edges of her life, beginning to pull it back together again.

On that awful day, she had stood barefoot in the snow, bloody discharge streaming down her legs, so weak that she could barely stay upright even while clutching the walking staff, and called Spock back to the world. There was no telling how long he would have stayed on his knees, rocking T'Larin's still little body if she hadn't garnered his attention.

"Spock! Spock! I need your help! Please, please come down!"

Gradually, he had turned to look at her, his face a garish mask of red and green blood and ghastly pallor, his eyes haunted, his dark hair sticking out in uneven wisps and spikes from the way he had sliced it away with his knife. At the moment, he was barely recognizable as the man with whom she had lived for so long.

After a time, it seemed to dawn on him that he had to get up, to go down and help his wife. Blinking the blood from his eyes, he somehow got to his feet and trudged down the slope, cradling the baby's body against his bare chest. When he reached Christine, he put an arm around her waist for support and braced her as they made their way to the cave entrance where Sapel was standing, white-faced and sniffling, his eyes huge with horror.

As Spock brought his wife back to her bed and steadied her as she lay down, Sapel clutched at his tunic and pleaded, "Where's Mooch, Papa? Is she hurt? Where is she?!"

Spock very nearly shoved him away, so numb and shattered were his thoughts, but Christine caught at her husband's hand. "Give me T'Larin, Spock. Go look for Mooch. Bring her back no matter what condition she's in. It will only traumatize him more if she's just left out there."

Dumbly, Spock nodded and retraced his steps to the scene of the battle. It took him a few minutes of searching but he found the little kit on her side underneath the brush pile, badly wounded and panting frantically, but still alive. He crouched down and slipped his hands underneath the little animal, lifting her as gently as he could, and bore her back to the cave.

Sapel was anxious to see his pet as Spock laid her down on a fur rug. "I can't tend to her, Sapel," he told his son hoarsely, his voice barely working. "I have to take care of Mama. I won't have time for Mooch."

The boy's face scrunched up in a vain effort not to cry, but nevertheless he squatted down beside the kit and softly stroked her bloodied head as his tears fell. Spock turned away from him, having no mental or emotional room at the moment for concern over an animal.

He managed to get the door guard pushed into place to block the winter cold then went to the water bag and poured water into a bowl. Lifting a double handful to his face, he scrubbed mindlessly to rinse away the blood. Most of it came away into the water, but it would take a thorough wash to get it all. Spock didn't care as long as the half-congealed gore didn't drip into his eyes. The half-hearted cleansing only made a sort of mask, a crude caricature of his normal features.

Numbly, he tossed the bloody water out and refilled the bowl, then knelt beside his wife. The water was cold and she jumped when he began to wash her with it. She stood it as long as she could then, her teeth chattering, begged, "Spock, please. You need to heat it up some. It's too cold!" She was shivering now, both from the temperature and shock. "Please, Spock ... you've got to get hold of yourself. I need you to be strong! I need your help now!"

She knew that he was suffering from shock as well, but she couldn't let him lose his tenuous grip on reality. He stared at her for a long moment, uncomprehending, and then closed his eyes and seemed to shake himself hard. With a deep breath and a frown, he roused himself.

"Yes ... yes, of course," he answered, still sounding dazed. "What was I thinking?"

He set his face into a determined expression and turned to heat water by the fire. As it was warming, he checked Christine over for other wounds, found the gash in her shoulder, and a number of scratches and bruises. Most of the blood, though, was from the recent birth, her makeshift sanitary pad lost during the struggle.

Once done with her, Spock checked Sapel over but the boy had suffered only a few scratches. His main injury was trauma, from the unequaled horror of seeing the wolf burst in and attack his mother, snatch up and escape with his baby sister screaming in its jaws, and then watching the savage battle between his father and the predator, punctuated by the bone-chilling wails that Spock had uttered afterwards. And now he could only sit helplessly as Mooch lay bloody and barely conscious, very probably dying, too.

Spock could not soothe him at the moment. He had to tend to Christine, to get the bleeding stanched, to wrap her up warm and ward off shock. Something of this magnitude could very well kill her, coming as it did only minutes after she'd given birth.

And the baby ... he would have to prepare the baby for... for... Pain sliced through him as if he'd succeeded in plunging his knife into his gut. He couldn't even think about it at the moment. It was too fresh, too horrible. If he started thinking about it, he would lose control again, as he had on the hillside. Never in his life had he felt such total fury, such complete abandonment of all that he was, all that made him Vulcan. Even now, the howling demons in his soul were barely contained, ready to burst free once more at the slightest provocation.

With difficulty, he put the pain and raging emotions aside, forcing them behind the barriers he had erected for his own sanity, then he retrieved the steaming water from the fire.

All while he bathed her legs and thighs and genital area, Christine held her tiny daughter close, weeping softly, willing the little body to be warm again, to move again, to wriggle against her as she had done for so short a time. When it came time to bathe away the blood and clean the cuts on Christine's upper body, Spock gently took the child and wrapped her in a soft blanket, laying her at her mother's side. Christine put a hand over her eyes and bit her lip, shaking with the sobs that she was trying very hard to control. She couldn't let go right now. She just couldn't...

Once he had her cleaned, Spock helped his wife dress in a long loose tunic and leggings, fitting her moccasins on her feet. He helped her secure her loincloth in place, allowing her to adjust it for her own comfort on her now soft, flaccid abdomen, then he covered her with the bedding furs. She had stopped shivering by now and he knew that he must keep her warm and quiet.

With Christine settled into her bed, Spock sat back on his heels, trying to think what to do next. Focusing on a task, he could do what needed to be done, but when that job was finished, his mind seemed to go blank once more. He sat like that now, unable to think of what he should do next. His mind was like a gray fog, his thoughts submerged in mist that surrounded and muffled him. More and more of him was withdrawing into numbed shock.

Sapel saw his father sitting motionless and went to him, leaning on his shoulder. "Papa? Can you look at Mooch? I don't know what to do."

Spock blinked and roused himself again. "Yes, of course." He could do that next. Without getting up, he crawled over to where the kit lay on her rug. She was still panting heavily, her eyes closed. She had several deep gashes on her flanks and a bite mark on her head, but, when he lifted her eyelids, her eyes were clear and, in her mouth, the mucous membrane pink and moist. Those were good signs.

There was still warm water left in the bowl by the fire and Spock said hoarsely, "Bring me some water and a towel." His son hurried to obey then squatted anxiously as Spock bent over the animal. As gently as he could, he cleaned the blood away from the gashes and felt of her legs to see if anything was broken. Mooch yelped as he tested her hind leg and raised up enough to reach the wound with her muzzle. Her tongue flicked out and she bathed the gash herself.

Spock once more sat back. "I think she's going to be okay, Sapel. Her rear leg seems to be cracked but not broken clean through. We'll have to keep the wound on her head clean, but if she can lick the other cuts, she'll take care of them herself. They will heal eventually. Just keep her quiet and have water where she can get at it. I doubt she'll feel like eating anything but later this evening we will offer her a bit of broth."

The boy sniffled, wiping a runny nose with the back of his hand. Spock seemed to notice his condition for the first time and said, "Meanwhile, I want to clean you up as well. You will feel better once I have done so." His voice was dull, forced from a throat still chafed and sore.

"After me, do yourself, Papa," Sapel answered. "You look scary."

Spock didn't answer, but simply went through the motions of washing his son and putting clean clothing on him. All during the time he was doing so, Spock's features continued to grow more and more expressionless, as he pulled all of his emotions back into himself, behind the high, impenetrable wall of Vulcan stoicism that he had been taught all of his life. It was an instinctive retreat, one that he was not even aware that he was doing, one that was mixed with shock and a trauma that he had been ill-prepared to face.

And he was readying himself, too, for a ritual that he had not expected to have to practice -- the burial of a slaughtered child.

* * *

With little expression, Spock had gone out into the early afternoon sunlight, so deceptively normal and cheerful, in order to dig his daughter's grave. He followed the creek for a bit until he came upon a large, willow-like tree that leaned over the water, its long, thin limbs now bare of leaves. In the spring and summer, it was lush with slim, yellow-green foliage, a peaceful place to rest and meditate. He came here often for that purpose, for it was here that he had buried the stillborn son that Christine has miscarried two years earlier.

The ground was not frozen but still the grave took him the rest of the day, working with antler pick and shoulder-blade shovel. Finally, though, he had it deep enough and climbed to his feet to return home to prepare himself.

Together, he and Christine washed their daughter's little body, then wrapped her in the velvety soft blankets that Christine had worked so hard in preparing during the summer. That done, Christine could hold in her grief no longer and rolled on her bed to face the far wall, deep, tearing sobs shaking her body.

But Spock did not go to comfort her. He had withdrawn too far into himself , was too lost in his own mourning. Sapel was the one who went to his mother, sitting beside her and putting his small arms around her shoulders, his own tears rolling down his face. Watching Spock place a bowl of water beside the fire to heat, the boy was puzzled and a little frightened. He didn't know why his father was behaving so indifferently and strangely.

He had never before seen the Ritual for the Lost. And he didn't understand now that he was witnessing this ancient Vulcan custom for the first time. Spock didn't explain. He was entering a state of mind that would last through the night and until the burial at dawn, one that was rooted so deeply into his psyche that even he was unaware that he knew it. But now, at the proper time, it welled up in him like an aquifer in the desert, ready to serve the purpose of healing a wounded Vulcan soul.

Stripping himself naked, Spock knelt by the fire and began to wash himself with a thoroughness that said this was a ritual cleansing. He paid no heed to the other two people nearby. It was doubtful that he even realized any longer that they were there. His eyes were tightly closed, his lips moving as he softly began the Song for the Dead. To Christine and Sapel, the sound was barely audible, merely a monotone chant in a language neither understood. In fact, it was Old Vulcan, the language of Spock's forefathers, the ancient ritual tongue used now only in ceremonies like this.

In his mind, Spock was surrounded by his Ancestors, the Family Who Has Gone Before, and they were singing with him, all to welcome into their midst their newest member, T'Larin t'cha'Spock. Her katra came back into their midst as a tall young woman, her long inky hair cascading down her back like the fall of midnight, her dark eyes serene and filled with compassion for the father who would never know her. She had her mother's features, he saw, set in a Vulcan countenance of sublime radiance.

The Ancestors recited her lineage from the time of Surak, who now stood beside her, his many-times-great-granddaughter. They sang of her brief life, her potential, her own children-not-to-be. They grieved with Spock for his loss. Their mourning was long and full of lament, but finally it came time for Spock to release his child into their care. It was time for him to cleanse himself fully of the emotion of grief and start afresh.

When his mental processes reached this point, Spock paused and opened his eyes. Silent, he located the little mound of obsidian flakes from which he had been fashioning arrow heads. Choosing a particularly large one, its edge razor sharp, he dipped it into the bowl of simmering water and then brought it up to his face, closing his eyes once more as he did so.

He stroked the blade down his cheek, seeing its contours in his mind's eye, removing the two day growth of stubble growing there. Again he dipped the obsidian blade into the water and again brought it to slide down his face, its keen edge leaving his skin shaven clean.

Across the cave, Christine and Sapel were watching him in horrified fascination. "What's Papa doing?" the boy whispered, afraid to raise his voice.

Christine shook her head. "He's shaving. I don't know what's going on."

Oblivious to his watchers, Spock continued until his face and throat were clean and smooth. But he didn't stop there. Continuing to ply his makeshift razor, he set to work on his hairline, slowly clearing away the chopped and matted wisps and spikes that he'd created in his mad grief. Christine wanted to stop him but was too frightened by his bizarre behavior. Instead, she lay and held her son, watching her husband long after Sapel had fallen asleep, exhausted, in her arms.

It was into the wee hours of the morning when Spock finally finished shaving all the hair from his head. Christine half-expected that he would next turn the razor on his torso, that whatever he was doing demanded he shave himself completely, but instead he laid the dulled obsidian flake gently by the fire, then hung his head wearily.

He was covered with hair he had shaved off his scalp, but he made no move to brush or wash it away. Instead, he merely brought his hands up and clasped them before him, steepling his index fingers as she had so often seen him do, and appeared to sink into deep meditation. He was a grotesque sight ... naked as he knelt before the dying fire, his head now completely bald, but his body coated with the dark hair he had cast off. Christine would have laughed if she hadn't been afraid that Spock had gone utterly mad.

He didn't move for the rest of the night, even to replenish the fire, and seemed unaware of the growing cold in the cave. Christine could feel it, though, and she pulled more furs over herself and Sapel. Across the small area of the cave, she could hear Mooch breathing rhythmically, sounding like she was asleep. It was the only disturbance to the total silence in the cave, other than the soft crackle and hiss of the fire.

Weariness and weakness from the day's traumatic events took their toll on Christine and she laid her head back on the rolled furs that served as pillows. She was asleep before she even realized that she had closed her eyes.

* * *

"Christine, wake up."

Groggily, she opened her eyes. Spock was bending over her, fully dressed now and apparently in his right mind, although his newly-shorn head shocked her for a second before she remembered the previous night. It was still dark outside, but he had built the fire back up and the night's cold was beginning to recede from the cave.

"What is it, Spock?" she asked muzzily.

"It is dawn. Time to go."

"Go? Go where?" Her mind wasn't awake yet and she wiped a hand over her eyes to clear them.

"To bury T'Larin," he answered matter-of-factly.

That startled her fully awake. "Now?"

"Yes."

"But why? I mean, why this early?"

"It is tradition," he responded as if that answered all her questions. "I do not expect you to walk that far. I will carry you."

"Oh, Spock, can't we wait a bit longer?" She glanced longingly at the small bundle of soft leather at rest beside her bed. "I can't bear it so soon..."

"No. The time is appropriate." He reached over and shook his sleeping son. "Sapel. Wake up." The boy groaned and burrowed deeper into the furs. Spock shook him again. "I require your attention, Sapel. Get up now."

Sleepily, the little boy sat up, his dark hair disarrayed, blinking fuzzily. "Wha..."

"Are you dressed already? Very good. Then let us go."

"I gotta go pee-pee," Sapel protested, cross at being woken up.

"Then go and do not dawdle," his father instructed flatly. The boy got up and trudged off in the direction of the latrine. "And you, my wife. Have you needs this morning that must be attended?"

Christine stared at him with a worried, uncomprehending expression. "As a matter of fact, yes, as well as change my padding, but please tell me why it's so important that we do this now? At dawn?"

"Because it is in accordance with Vulcan tradition. Her katra has become one with the Ancestors and the dawn will signal the resumption of our lives," he answered with little emotion.

Tears came unbidden to her eyes as she stared at him. "One night of mourning? That's it? You spend one night mourning and then you just go on as if nothing has happened? I'm sorry, Spock, that's impossible!"

"I understand that humans must spend much more time in their mourning process," he replied. "I did spent a number of years living and working with humans, after all. However, for a Vulcan, it is not logical to exude large amounts of time in a fruitless pursuit," he replied. He gazed back at her calmly, no more moved than if he had been discussing the weather.

Christine's mouth dropped open, even as her tears began to run down her cheeks. "Spock, our baby died! How can you feel so little?!"

"Christine, I have done my own sort of grieving. But grieving will not bring her back. It is time now that she be buried so that we may move ahead."

Spock peered at her solemnly but showed very little emotion, and it suddenly dawned on the weeping woman that he was acting the way he had when she'd first known him, utterly impassive, cold, and very, very Vulcan. There was no life in his eyes, as if the real man were concealed behind massive shields and what she was seeing now was only the shell that remained.

He had withdrawn into himself, deep behind the protection of Vulcan logic and tightly controlled emotions. Arie'mnu, the Vulcans called it. "Mastery of passion and emotion." It was kahr-y-tan, the way of the Vulcan.

Christine understood now. Spock's complete loss of emotional control when he had battled the wolf then found his newborn child dead had caused a whiplash effect to his Vulcan sensibilities. He was now controlling too tightly, shutting himself off to everything around him. She could do nothing but allow him to work through this until he reached an equilibrium in his emotional state.

Meanwhile, they had a child to lay to rest. Wiping her tears from her swollen eyes, she said, "Help me up, Spock. It's almost dawn."

* * *

Christine carried her dead child in her arms, even as Spock carried her, the weight of his burden negligible to his enormous strength. Sapel trailed along behind, bewildered, unhappy and very frightened. He kept glancing behind him the whole way, afraid that some wild beast would leap out and carry him away, too, and he made very sure to stay close to his parents.

At the grave site, Christine broke down, clutching her baby to her breast for a few moments, before finally surrendering the tiny body to Spock, who carefully lowered it into the grave, arranged it attentively, and then got up onto his knees and said a benediction over the infant in Vulcan. Christine recited the Lord's Prayer and crossed herself then tossed a sprig of evergreen into the grave as her farewell. She would have liked it to be flowers, but there were none this time of the year, and this was the best she could do. Then she gathered Sapel to her and held him hard, her tears coming again as Spock began to fill in the grave with his elk shoulder blade shovel.

Once that was done, Spock tamped down the soil, then began to lay a cairn of rocks over the little mound. It didn't take long.

During the ceremony, the sun had broken over the eastern horizon in an array of golds and mauves and purples. Now, as the family stood beside the baby's grave, Spock looked up, straight into the sun, and whispered, "Da'ni'ikhirch i'tu, t'cha'i. Kh'teri tu a'lahk." Then, he abruptly shut his eyes and looked away for a long moment.

Christine glanced at him sharply, startled by the raw emotion in his voice, but when he raised his head and looked back at her, the expressionless mask was back in place.

"You should not be out in the cold so long," he said impassively. "It is time we returned to the cave."

"I'll walk just a little bit," she answered. She looped her arm through his for support and kept her other hand on Sapel's shoulder, for his peace of mind more than hers. She could tell how afraid he was, constantly glancing around him to check his surroundings, even as he pressed close to her.

She didn't make it very far before her weakness caught up with her, and Spock effortlessly scooped her up in his arms, carrying her the rest of the way back. Putting her arms around his neck, she laid her head on his shoulder, deliberately expressing her feelings of sadness and need for him through their mind bond. He didn't react at all. She wondered if he'd closed that as well.

Back at the cave, Spock deposited her on her bed with orders to rest, then he turned to the mundane task of making breakfast. Sapel went to check on Mooch, who was obviously feeling better today and glad to have her friend back. She wriggled her long tail in happiness and even managed to get up and limp to the water bowl. Then she looked at the door and whined her "out" signal.

"She wants to go out, Sapel," Spock commented as he stirred boiling porridge. "Take her outside so that she can relieve herself."

There was dead silence and Spock looked up at his son. Sapel's face had gone white and he was staring at his father with wide eyes.

Mooch whined more piteously. "Take her out," Spock said again, but this time Sapel only shook his head and tears came to his eyes. Spock sat back on his heels. "What is wrong?"

"I don't wanna go out there by myself, Papa," he answered in a small voice. "I'm afraid."

"The wolf is dead, Sapel. There is nothing to be afraid of."

"There might be others."

Spock was silent for a long moment, staring fixedly at the trembling boy, then rose to his feet without further comment. He walked over and removed the door guard and went back to the hearth fire, leaving the cave entrance open. Mooch hobbled out and disappeared, but Sapel stood with terrified eyes, rooted to the spot, as if expecting a slavering monster to hurtle in at any second.

Christine raised herself on her elbows and asked, "Is that necessary, Spock? Can't you see he's frightened?"

"He must learn to deal with his fright," the Vulcan responded, taking the porridge off the fire and setting it aside to cool. "He cannot function in this state of mind."

"He's only a little boy!"

"He is nearly four years old, by this planet's calendar. He would be closer to six if he were on Earth or Vulcan." Spock ladled out the cereal into three bowls. "On Vulcan, he would already be well into preparing for kahs'wan and would be learning how to survive in the wilderness on his own."

Christine gritted her teeth together and counted to ten. "This is not Vulcan, Spock. And he has just undergone a tremendously devastating shock. He needs time to adjust. I will not have my son subjected to--"

"He is my son, as well," Spock interrupted her and snapped his gaze up to fasten directly onto her eyes. There was life in the dark brown depths now, but it was the spark of disapproval and warning. And something else. It was the authoritative command of a Vulcan husband over his wife.

Christine's eyes narrowed in response, and for a very long moment the two of them were locked in a silent duel of wills. He never blinked or wavered his glare and finally she backed down, dropping her eyes from his. She didn't have the strength to fight him right now, but she would be damned if she would let this go.

Spock turned back to breakfast and tested the temperature of his cereal. It had cooled sufficiently and, as calmly as if nothing had happened, he said, "Sapel, take this to your mother and be careful. It is still hot."

The boy looked from one parent to the other, confused by the tension of the last few moments, then obeyed, carefully carrying the bowl of porridge to Christine's bed. Mooch limped back in the doorway, obviously tired out from this small excursion, and retreated to her furs, licking her wounds thoroughly, and then slumping over onto her side to fall asleep again.

Spock said quietly, "You may replace the door guard now, cha'i. Then come and get your breakfast. Would you like honey or berries with it this morning?"

* * *

The days fell into a routine. Spock arose before dawn to stoke up the fire and begin breakfast, help Christine with whatever personal needs she had, and then serve her and Sapel their morning meal. He sometimes ate and sometimes not, but after cleaning the bowls and setting them aside to dry, Spock would retire to his place by the door and quietly slip into a melancholy fugue, his eyes focused on something distant, his face blank, for all intents and purposes alone with himself.

His hair had begun to grow back and his head was now covered with a short dark cap that was still bristly and rather disarrayed in appearance. He had not shaved since the night of mourning and his beard was coming in, too, at present giving him a fairly scruffy look. He usually let his beard grow during the winter months, keeping his face warmer, so it didn't surprise Christine too much and most of the time she liked his rougher look.

But during the bleak days following T'Larin's burial, she suspected his appearance had more to do with apathy than practicality. He would respond if spoken to, but otherwise, he sat without moving, lost within his thoughts. There were times when she approached him and found him with eyes closed, dozing as he sat there, as if he were simply too tired to even stay awake. Or too sunken in lethargy.

The first couple of times, she ignored it, then finally, upon awakening him once more, said, "Spock, if you're sleepy, why don't you go lie down?"

"I am not sleepy," he answered dully.

"You were asleep," she pointed out.

"No. I was merely thinking." He turned his head back to resume his blank stare out the doorway through the ventilation hole. Outside, it was sunny and crisp, snow still on the ground, but pleasant.

Christine stood with her hands on her hips, appraising him. "You were so deep in thought you were nearly snoring, then." Kneeling at his side, she tried for a more intimate approach. "Honey, I know you're depressed over T'Larin's death, but as you said yourself, this won't bring her back."

He turned his head slightly to regard her and one eyebrow lifted. "I am not depressed, Christine. That is not an emotion I am familiar with."

"Stop lying to me and yourself," she answered, frowning. "I'm a medical professional. I know depression when I see it."

"Vulcans do not experience depression," h e insisted stubbornly.

"Maybe the Vulcan half of you isn't depressed, but the human half is. Why don't you get out and take a walk? The fresh air will do you good."

He gazed at her listlessly, then got to his feet. She rose with a wince. She was recovering fast from the childbirth, but still had some aches and pains that hadn't gone away. Occasionally, she thought longingly about the hot pool near their home on the Southern Sea and wished - not for the first time - that they had wintered there. Not only would their baby be alive, but it had comforts that this cave did not. The "hot tub" was one of them and she wished she could soak her weary bones in it now.

Without speaking further to her, Spock pulled on his fur overtunic and went outside, closing the door guard behind him. He had continued to challenge Sapel's fear, to Christine's dismay and anger. It only made the boy more afraid and he had begun having nightmares as he slept. Most of the time, he ended up snuggled against his mother, a place he only felt marginally safer since he had witnessed the wolf snatch his sister from Christine's arms, despite her attempts to protect the baby.

Christine shook her head and turned back to the stew she was preparing for their evening meal. They all needed time, she knew, to recover from this. But it looked to be a very long winter.

* * *

Spock wandered aimlessly around the environs of the valley, not really interested in anything he found. The snow was still on the ground and the temperature hovered at freezing, but the mild sunshine was having an effect. Water dripped from tree limbs and overhangs as the sun melted the snow that it could reach, forming long icicles in the process. With sundown, it would all freeze once more, but for now, the valley sparkled with a thousand diamond surfaces.

His breath forming a plume of fog as he exhaled, the Vulcan went down to stand beside the frozen pond, only its very center still open. The ice wasn't thick and it, too, waxed and waned with the interchange of day and night. Underneath the surface, he could make out the dim shapes of fish moving about, still active despite the frosty cap that covered their home.

He stood thus for about half an hour, then grew bored with that. Turning away, he moved down the creek side to the ford and picked his way across the stones to the other side. Unbidden, his feet took him up to the brush pile, where the battle had taken place, and again he stood silently viewing the aftermath.

The wind had long since blown the strands of his hair away, except for the long filaments that had caught in the brush pile's many twigs and snags. They waved now like black spider-silk in the soft breeze, the light winking on the still glossy surfaces. Come spring, many would be woven into birds' nests or taken down burrows and eventually all would be gone.

Of the wolf, there was little left except odd bits of hair and bone. In winter, nothing was wasted and the area's scavengers, large and small, had feasted and made good use of the corpse. The blood had soaked into the snow and been lapped by predators. It too was now expunged from the scene.

But Spock could still see it all. His mind played the incident over and over, like an endless loop of film. Dispassionately, he analyzed it from every angle, wondering what he could have done to steer the outcome to a better result. Nothing he did improved it. In every case, he ended with a dead child in his arms and his face lifted in mad grief to the sky.

The play of light from a drifting cloud caused a glint of metal to catch his eye. He went and stooped over it, recovering his steel Romulan hunting knife from the snow where he had dropped it that dreadful day. The blade and hilt were still encrusted with frozen gore, mostly red but with a dark streak of green to accent it. He held it by tip and point, turning it, allowing the sunlight to glance from its surface.

Then, rising to his feet, he walked back down to the creek and knelt beside the water. The stream was iced over but he used the hilt of the knife to smash a hole. Then, heedless of the icy temperature and numbing cold, he washed the knife free of blood, cleaning it meticulously, making sure that every bit of contamination was gone from its surface. Finally, satisfied, he lifted it dripping and inspected it once more, ignoring the dark green hue that his hands on acquired as blood rushed through them in an attempt to warm them. He no longer cared. He wasn't even sure why he'd taken such pains over the knife. But it felt good to have it back by his side.

The sun was beginning to sink westwardly and the shadows of evening were falling into the valley, dropping the temperatures. Spock looked up and saw Christine standing just outside the cave door, watching him curiously. He didn't know how long she'd been there but she hadn't hailed him.

Time to return to the cave, he sighed. To another long, sleepless night and the growing aggravations to his soul. To emotions and memories he wanted to put behind him, but could not because he was reminded of them daily. To his wife weeping at night in sorrow for her lost child. To his son thrashing on his bed and unable to bear the dreams that smothered him. Even to Mooch, turning constantly, licking, lapping water, making all the little sounds an animal makes.

Mostly to himself, for when the night came, his own nightmares began. No matter how hard he tried to suppress them and deal with them logically, he could not escape the screams of his family, the snarls of the wolf, the blood, the flashing teeth and flashing knife, the horror and terror of that moment.

But most of all was the memory of wildness, of total anarchy. The viciousness of his past had taken him utterly, made him primal, half-animal himself, drenched in bloodlust and the need to kill. And this killing had been for revenge, for savage retribution. He could still feel the exhilaration and satisfaction that had surged through him as he had slammed the long, steel blade over and over again into the wolf's body, could still feel his body quiver with the impact as it bit through bone and tissue, could still feel the hot blood spurt and run from his hand and face. And there was the penultimate moment when he could feel the animal die, its primitive mind understanding at last that Spock was the paramount predator here, the supreme killer, the god of life and death.

The Vulcan squeezed his eyes closed and shook his head, as if such a move could hurl the memories from his mind, cleanse them from his soul. It was more than he could fathom now. Every shred of civilization had left him and he had been seized by the Ancestor he least wanted to acknowledge resided within him ... the vicious, blood-thirsty barbarian of his distant past, who wore his victims' scalps as trophies on his belt, who murdered without thought or scruple, who took what he wanted when he wanted it, be it gold or girl or beast.

That savage lurked in him yet, unwilling to return to the deep obscurity from whence he had come. Spock drew his walls of control hard around him like a cloak, shaking from more than the cold of falling night. When he finally reached the point where he could feel nothing of the emotions raging within him, he drew a deep breath and let it out in a long, foggy breath. His soul was blessedly numb once again, inured to the howling demons tearing at his mind.

His wife was still waiting for him to come in and at last he made himself move. Another night was falling and he slowly walked towards the only warmth.

* * *

Spock was lying with his back to her when Christine pulled the furs up over them. It had been nearly a month since the terrible events of that winter day and Christine had gradually recovered physically. She had been in considerable pain for several days as her breasts swelled unbearably, engorged with milk and no baby to suckle them. She expressed as much milk from them as she could, but nevertheless found her breasts had become fevered, maddeningly tender and feeling as if they would burst.

They didn't, of course, and finally she had ceased lactating and the swelling had gone away. Her breasts had returned slowly to normal size. Her womb had shrunk back to normal as well, although stretch marks stayed on her abdomen as a reminder of her lost pregnancy. Her bloody discharge ceased as well and by the time mid-winter had arrived with a howling blizzard, her body had healed and was back to its normal state.

Her emotions were something else, however. During the entire time of her recovery and grieving, Spock had not once offered her comfort. Oh, he would hold her if she asked him to, but it was a meaningless gesture. On an abstract level, she understood that he could not deal with his own emotions, let alone other's. But that didn't help when the sorrow came on her in the quiet of the night and she desperately needed to sink into the arms of the man she had grown to love over the past years. She needed to feel cared for and cherished and the old Spock would have done this. But now the tender, considerate man she knew so well was gone, shut away from the world in a reflexive gesture on Spock's part. The trouble was, he had not only shut himself in; he had shut her out.

This night, Christine was determined to coax him out of his shell. For the first time since the birth, she felt well and like making love. As usual, he was clad only in his loin cloth and, when she undressed for bed, she deliberately left hers off underneath her gown.

Snuggling up spoon-style against his bare back, she pressed herself against him, slipping her hand across his ribs and around to rest on his chest, feeling the springy hair underneath her fingers. She made a little contented noise in her throat and slowly wriggled against him, but there was no response. They each knew the other's sexual signals very well, no matter how subtle, and usually Spock would have rolled over and taken her in his arms, kissing her with warmth and growing passion. Tonight, though, he didn't move at all.

Stepping up to the next level of play, she let her hand roam across his chest until her fingertips encountered one of his nipples. She repeated the action -- and abruptly had her wrist seized in his strong grip, removing her hand from his body.

"Don't," he said tersely, then released her.

She raised herself on her elbow and peered over his shoulder at the gaunt lines of his face, his dark beard softening the angles. "Spock, we can make love again," she said softly, running her hand up his arm to his shoulder. "I am feeling fine."

"I am not," came his harsh reply. "Please just go to sleep."

"What's wrong?" she persisted.

He glanced over his shoulder at her, exasperated. "Christine, I am not in the mood to have sex tonight. I am fatigued and only wish to sleep. Now do so, as well."

Stunned and deeply hurt by his rebuff, she flung herself away from him, turning back to back, but no part of her touching him. She pressed her lips tightly together and squeezed her eyes shut to try to keep from crying, but her face crumpled anyway. Pressing both hands over her mouth to muffle the sobs, she gave herself over to the tears that flooded down her cheeks.

She was aware of Spock's breathing coming heavier and faster for a few minutes, then suddenly he threw the furs back and lunged to his feet. Snatching up another of the sleeping furs, he stalked over to the other side of the fire and lay down, wrapping it around him. That brought a fresh stab of pain to Christine's aching heart and she wept until she finally sank into exhausted slumber.

* * *

As winter wore on, Spock's temper continued to be on a hair trigger. He might go for days when he hardly spoke or acknowledged his wife and son, but then on others, the slightest thing set him off.

He seemed a bit cross on this particular morning, almost fidgety, and had taken up the task of working on his arrowheads. As Christine watched him, her mouth tightened a bit. She didn't know why he was bothering. He hadn't been hunting since T'Larin's death and they had been living on the stored foods that they had put away the previous fall.

As he worked, Christine and Sapel were engaged in a reading lesson. He had moved well up into the elementary lessons and was progressing steadily. Christine was hard-pressed to pull things from her memory to transcribe. Instead, she had begun to write stories for him, making them up as she went and laboriously inking them onto the rabbit-hide scrolls they used as books. This delighted Sapel, who had grown particularly close to his mother since the tragedy and the alienation of his father's attention.

Seated with Christine on one side of the doorway, taking advantage of the light, Sapel read quietly aloud, his mother helping him over difficult words. On the other side of the entrance, Spock was attempting to chip a flint flake into the proper shape for an arrow point, but he was having a hard time. There was a flaw in the stone that resisted his manipulations and finally the arrowhead snapped altogether, ruining it.

"Lunikkh ta-vik!" Spock exploded and flung the broken arrow point against the wall with all his might.

Christine and Sapel both flinched in shock, staring at him. He was seething, his face flushed a bright green as he sat across from them, his shoulders heaving with the deep breaths he was taking. Finally, Christine ventured quietly, "It was just an arrowhead, Spock. You can make another."

He brought his glare up to lock on her, his eyes black and hard as obsidian, his brows bunched over them. "Kash, aduna," he ground out. "Tu aq'fal ni'halar!"

Christine was shaking, but she'd had just about enough. "Speak English! You know I don't understand Vulcan!"

Slowly, he rose to his feet, his teeth clenched as he towered over her. "I said you will be silent! It is not your place to criticize me!"

The way he was leaning over her made it impossible for her to rise. He had her in a deliberately submissive position. Moreover, his fists were clenched and she was genuinely afraid that any further provocation on her part would result in physical retaliation. She was well aware of his strength and knew that one blow could cripple or kill her.

Trembling in real fear of him, she said in a small, humble voice, "Yes, husband. I beg forgiveness."

In truth, she was not one bit sorry or submissive, but she had to get out of this particular position. She'd never heard of a Vulcan having a nervous breakdown before, but Spock was having one now! The medical professional in her was already busy analyzing his symptoms and behavior over the past two months, formulating treatment, and at the same time thinking how she could protect Sapel and herself from the mental illness that had gripped him.

Her quiet answer placated him somewhat. He straightened and his fists unclenched, but his face was still dark as death. Without further comment, he snatched up his fur tunic and stalked out, grabbing his hunting spear on the way.

Once Spock was gone, the tension broke and so did Sapel's control. He burst into tears and Christine gathered her son to her, comforting him.

"Why is Papa so mean lately?" the boy sobbed. "You didn't do anything to him!"

She rocked her child and held him close. "Shhhh... Papa is very sick right now," she answered. "Only he doesn't know he's sick. We just have to be as careful as we can around him and try to help him get well."

The boy continued to sniffle, not understanding. Mooch, who had dived for cover during Spock's outburst, crept out now and crawled into her young master's lap. She was still limping a bit but otherwise had recovered from her wounds. Sapel stroked her sleek coat and scratched her large, upright ears, finding solace in his pet's love.

Christine sighed and turned her thoughts back to her husband's aberrant behavior, trying to decide the best way to proceed.

* * *

Spock didn't come back until late into the night. Christine was still awake, listening for him, growing worried, when she heard him open the door guard, then close and secure it. Softly, she breathed a sigh of relief, but it was a cautious one, for she didn't yet know what state of mind he was in. She had stewed all day about his behavior and had been alternately mad and concerned. At the moment, she was leaning toward mad.

He quietly walked back toward their bed and she could hear him removing his clothing. It was a bit of a shock when he slid into the furs beside her, partially because his body was still cold from being outside and partially because she realized with a start that he was naked. She had her back to him but could feel his manhood pressing against her buttocks as he rolled over and slipped his arm around her waist. Without a word, he brought his hand up and cupped it around one of her breasts, squeezing gently.

She tensed a bit and her anger grew. She'd had all day to think about the way he had acted and she had decided that, mental turmoil or not, he owed her an apology for threatening and intimidating her. But there was still no word between them, only his rough handling of her breast and his obvious aroused state.

He didn't seem to notice her lack to response and bent his lips to her neck, nuzzling and kissing her as he massaged her breast through the soft covering of her gown and rolled her nipple around with her fingers. She bore it, but when his hands traveled down to the hem of her gown and pulled it up, she twitched away from him.

"Stop! I don't feel like it tonight," she said in a whisper so she wouldn't wake Sapel.

Spock paused for a startled second, then seized the gown and jerked it out of the way. His fingers dug into the soft mound at the base of her thighs and pushed their way between her legs. "I do feel like it tonight!" he answered harshly. He began to fondle her clitoris but there was nothing gentle about his touch.

She tried to squirm away from him, growing more and more incensed. "Stop! I don't want sex tonight!"

With a growl, he yanked her flat of her back and in another second was atop her, forcing her legs apart as he positioned himself to mount her. "Wife, it is not for you to decide whether or no. That is my prerogative. You need only lie quietly and receive me."

She glared up at him and tried to struggle, but his strength was too great. He had pinned her wrists up out of the way and held them there on either side of her head. He stared down at her for a moment to ascertain that she would indeed obey him, then, satisfied by his dominance over her, he dipped his h ips and probed, readily finding the well of her womanhood. The feel of pressing his erection into her after so long a time excited him still further and he heaved himself into her, sinking nearly hilt deep.

He noted her flinch but dismissed it. She would warm soon enough. The tight clinging sheath of her body drove him to full arousal and he began to thrust into her energetically, concentrating on the growing tightness at the base of his groin. Beneath him, Christine closed her eyes and lay impassively, enduring but not responding.

At last, he brought himself to fruition and hunched his hips hard into her, filling her with his hot flood. He thrust into her a few more times as the last of his ejaculate pulsed out of him, then he was done.

Christine opened her eyes and looked up at him, her face cold with hate. "So, that's the way we do it now," she said through clenched teeth. "If I want sex and you don't, too bad. If you want sex and I don't, then you rape me."

He stared back, having the temerity to look puzzled. "I did not rape you. You are my wife."

She drew her breath sharply in fury. "Get off me! I am nobody's wife!" Surprised by her reaction, he withdrew from her and released her, sitting back on his heels. Christine pulled the furs up around her and scrambled back against the wall, as far away from him as she could get. "And don't you ever touch me like that again! If you do ... I'll kill you!"

Nothing more was said between them. Spock retrieved his loin cloth and slipped into it, then got a couple of the heavy bedding furs and moved to the far side of the cave, to the place he had originally had his bed when they had first come here. The action was symbolic but filled with portent. He was plainly saying that he had left her, no longer considered her his mate. He would have gone to another place entirely if he'd had anyplace else to go. For now, he would no longer share her bed or consider himself her husband.

That suited Christine just fine. To her thinking, she had kicked him out and good riddance. Violated, outraged and feeling as if her heart had been wrenched from her body, she finally sank down into her mussed furs and softly wept.

* * *

When dawn light came, it fell upon the tall, silent man standing on the edge of the western plains. He had been there for some time, long before the first twilight hint of morning had tinted the eastern sky. Bundled warmly against the sharp north wind, he stood staring across the wide, snow-covered expanse to the peaks of the distant mountains. Their tall pinnacles lifted high and had already caught the first rosy hues of the dawn, gleaming citadels on the far horizon.

Spock had stood for a long time in the cold darkness, unable to sleep and unable to stand being in the same emotion-charged space with his wife. Ex-wife. Whatever she was now.

He hung his head and closed his eyes in pain. He honestly did not know where their relationship stood. He had betrayed her, ruined it all by his behavior. And, the most frightening thing of all was that he still had little or no control over the way he was acting. The savage in him, the beast, still rampaged nearly unchecked and it was he who had taken Christine forcibly last night.

Even in his maddest moments of pon farr, it hadn't been like this. She had welcomed him then, given herself freely to him. She had drawn him slowly but surely out of the self-imposed shell in which he had lived for so long, given him love, cared for him, borne his children, been lover, nurse, friend, partner.

And he had utterly ruined it. His emotions had run amok these past couple of months and he didn't know how to get them back under control. But he must! Otherwise, he would descend into total madness, be irretrievably lost. He feared he was nearly at that point. His actions last night proved it.

Ashamed, humiliated, torn apart by conflicting emotions, Spock closed his eyes, his brows bunched together, and breathed a silent prayer, a fervent plea for help. *Fathers, help me! I have lost the pathway and I do not know where I am! Help me find my way again!*

From within, from the core of his soul, a voice whispered back. *...climb the steps, Spock... Climb the steps of Mount Seleya...*

Spock lifted his head, blinking, searching mentally to find the source. *What? But Mt. Seleya is on Vulcan,* he answered, not understanding.

The voice came again and he realized that it was not one voice, but many, whispering in unison. *...climb the steps of Mount Seleya...*

Spock shook her head, bewildered by this message. It didn't make any sense.

The sun lifted higher above the hills and a golden ray illuminated the Vulcan's face, painting his features with buttery light. And as it did, at the same moment, the tallest crest of the mountain range blazed as if set afire, its glacier-crowned summit catching and reflecting the new day's light.

It burned like a flare for a long, glorious minute and Spock found his eyes locked into the bright point in the distance. "...Seleya..." he found himself murmuring. Then he knew. It was his only hope of salvation and tears came unbidden to his eyes. "Climb the steps," he repeated and with a wrenching revelation, suddenly understood what he had to do, the desperate leap of faith and discovery that would cleanse him and make him whole once again.

* * *

Christine was startled when Spock came striding into the cave and went to the back storage area, rummaging around for a few minutes. She was still in bed on her side of the room and she could tell that it was barely light outside.

He reappeared with his backpack and knelt down on his side of the fire, beginning to go through his things and stow them in the pack with a purposeful motion. He packed his spare arrowheads and toolmaking equipment, rolled and stowed a change of clothing, and mittens and snowmask. Then he began to put packets of jerky and dried vegetables, grains and journeybread, dried fruits and pouches of nuts into the backpack.

Christine sat up, watching him with interest and some concern. "Spock? What are you doing? Are you going hunting?"

He didn't answer for a moment, then put a firestarter into the pack. "No," he answered laconically. Satisfied that he had what he needed in the pack, he closed its flap and secured it, then began rolling up one of the large sleeping furs and tied it with rawhide lashes across the top of the pack.

Beginning to grow worried, Christine got up, keeping one of the furs wrapped around her. Sapel, awakened by the activity, sat up sleepily in Christine's bed, where he'd spent the night.

Spock ignored them, then went back to the far section of the cave and retrieved their bullhide tent, adding that to his load. Christine was becoming alarmed. "You're not going hunting? Then why are you packing?"

"I am leaving," he answered matter-of-factly.

She gasped in shock. "What? What are you talking about? Where do you think you're going?"

He sat down to pull on his heavy mukluks, the thick fur overshoes that kept his feet warm and protected during winter treks. "I am going to Mount Seleya," he replied and got to his feet.

"Spock, Mount Seleya is on Vulcan," she reminded him gently. "You're going to have a pretty far walk if that's where you're headed."

He retrieved his waterbag and went to fill it from the large water holder hanging on the far wall. "I know where Mt. Seleya is, Christine," he answered, a bit of exasperation in his voice. "I was speaking figuratively. But I am going to the mountains."

"What mountains?"

"The ones to the west of here." He stoppered the water bag and slung the strap over his head and one arm, adjusting it to hang properly. Then he found his heavy hooded tunic and slipped it over his head.

A note of panic was building with increasing speed in Christine. "This has gone far enough, Spock. Stop this nonsense at once!"

He hefted his pack and shrugged into it, got it seated properly, then almost as an afterthought, took his snowshoes down from their wall pegs and hung their straps on the wooden brace of the pack.

Christine's eyes were wide with fear and Sapel had gotten up, too, staring at his father in uncomprehending fright. She moved to bar the doorway. "You are not going anywhere! Now put that stuff away!"

He merely stood looking thoughtfully around him, mentally calculating whether or not he had forgotten anything important. He weighed taking his bow and quiver then decided against it. He had his knife and would take his heaviest hunting spear to use as both walking staff and weapon.

"Spock? Do you hear me?!"

"Yes, perfectly well," he answered rather absent-mindedly. Turning he went to stand before her and looked down into her panic-filled blue eyes. His expression was mild, his voice tender. He seemed very much his old self except for this ludicrous mission of his. "I am unsure how long I will be gone. You should be well supplied until you can begin hunting. It is not very long until spring."

"Nooo!!" she wailed in disbelief.

He looked down at his son, clinging to Christine's robe. "Sapel, you will be the man of the house until I return. Take care of your mother and obey her."

"Papa! Where are you going?" the boy demanded in horror.

Spock reached down and rested his hand on the child's dark, unruly hair. "To find what I have lost," he said, then turned his attention back to Christine. "Take care, my t'hy'la." He took her upper arms in his strong hands and physically moved her aside. Before releasing her, he leaned down and quickly kissed her quivering lips.

Then he ducked underneath the doorway and walked away down the path toward the creek.

Christine was too stunned to move for a long moment, then she hurriedly found her shoes and pulled them on. With just the fur robe to ward off the cold, she flew after him. He had already crossed the creek and had climbed to the top of the slope leading onto the plains. She caught him there, quite near the spot where this tragedy had begun.

Grabbing his arm, she stopped him. "You really mean to do it, don't you?" she demanded in amazement. "You're really going to abandon us to the elements!"

"Christine, you will be much safer and more comfortable here in our home than I will be on my pilgrimage," he answered quietly. "There will be some hardship, but you will get through it in fine shape. You are extraordinarily resourceful."

She stared at him. "You lousy bastard! How dare you just walk away and leave us here!"

He gazed down at her patiently, not at all angry. "This is something I must do to save my sanity and perhaps my life. Perhaps all of our lives. I must symbolically 'climb the steps of Mt. Seleya.' Specifically, I must go into the wilderness and undergo a ritual called kae'kh't'kotal. Mind realignment. Unless I do this, I will become totally insane. My reprehensible behavior last night ... for which I am deeply sorry, by the way ... is only a foretaste of how bad it will become."

"You can go do your ritual nearby!" she argued desperately.

He shook his head slowly. "No. The journey is part of the cleansing of the soul and mind." He caressed her cold cheek lovingly. "Go back inside now, t'hy'la, before you freeze. I will come back by summer if I can."

"Summer?!" Tears of abject fear were blinding her. "Spock, no! Please! There must be some other way!"

He only caressed her face one more time, then said softly, "Farewell, my beloved wife." Then, turning, he walked away, leaving her standing numbed and aghast in the early morning sun.

* * *

Absolutely shocked to the core, Christine stood watching Spock disappear into the rolling prairie landscape. She'd stood here many times in the past, watching until he was nearly out of sight, but always she had known he was simply going to hunt. This time he wouldn't be back. Not for weeks. Months. Maybe never.

She and Sapel were alone here ... and the whole weight of that fact came crashing down on her with a force that had not gripped her since shortly before Sapel was born. That time it had been the realization that she and Spock were truly trapped here on this planet. There would be no timely rescue. No materializing Starfleet personnel to save the day. No cavalry coming over the hill in the nick of time. They were two people, utterly, completely alone and it was up to them to survive. Because there was not another human ... or Vulcan, for that matter ... on this entire planet.

She had ended up in a full-fledged panic attack, screaming in a voice that wrenched itself up from the depths of her soul. Spock had rushed to her aid, ready to fight tigers for her, only to find her hysterical with a fear he could not combat, except by taking her in his arms and promising her he would never leave her.

Christine began to shake with fury and cold and fear. Tears came to her eyes and she clutched the fur robe tighter around her, searching until she located the tiny figure moving steadily away. Suddenly, everything that she had endured, everything that had happened to her, every hurt and terror and hardship boiled up in her and erupted like an exploding geyser.

"You lousy, fucking bastard!" she screamed, all her hatred and anger focused on the man who had betrayed her trust so heartlessly. "You spineless coward! You pointy-eared, cold-blooded--" She had to stop and draw breath, her sobs keeping her from completing the invective. "Dr. McCoy was right about you all the time!! You're inhuman!! It's all your fault that I'm stuck here on this miserable goddamned, filthy planet!! You hear me?! It's your fault!! I'll never forgive you for this!! Never!!"

She sobbed again, her tears blinding her so badly that she could no longer see the distant figure. But she knew he could "hear" her. She could feel it through the still active bondlink. Her burst of adrenalin beginning to fade, she sank down into the snow, sobbing, still cursing him with all her heart, although her voice had dropped so that she was only speaking to herself.

"You said you'd never leave me, Spock," she cried, her eyes squeezed closed and her face lifted to the heavens in misery, her whole body shaking with the force of the despair gripping her. "You promised! Oh, God, what am I going to do?! How are we going to survive?! I can't do it alone! I just can't!" She hugged the robe around her and rocked as she poured out her fear and sorrow. "Oh, God, help me! I can't do this by myself!"

After a while, she couldn't cry anymore and a feeling of numbness began to settle over her. Her panic and hysteria somewhat abated, her mind began to work again as the shock of the moment wore off. Her innate strength and sense and resourcefulness began to reassert themselves.

Sapel, she thought. Poor little guy. He must be terrified. He must think I've abandoned him, too!

She got to her feet and took one last look in the direction Spock had taken. She could see nothing of him except the line of tracks he had left in the snow. Hard, cold resolve began to form in Christine's heart.

You bastard, she thought, hoping he could pick up her thoughts clearly through the link. You think you can just trot off to 'find yourself', do you? It's a 'Vulcan thing', so that makes it alright, huh? Well, you've got another think coming, buddy boy. You can go fuck yourself for all I care. I don't need you. Good riddance. Have a nice life. Hasta la vista!

She spat into the snow at her feet, then with a final glare, she whipped around and marched back toward the cave, the fur robe clutched around her like an imperial cape.

* * *

It had been four days now and Spock still had not reached the mountains. He had marched steadily, breaking out the snowshoes when the drifts became deep and treacherous. The contented, purposeful feeling he had harbored as he began had been quickly shattered. Before he had gone a mile, he had been startled by Christine's raging screams far behind him. They were faint, but he could hear her.

More than that, her anger and hatred had blasted into him full force through the bondlink, causing him to stagger before he quickly shielded against it. He had stopped for a moment and turned back to look at her small figure, seeing her sink down into the snow, huddled in misery. For that moment, he nearly turned to go back to her, but then knew that he could not. If he didn't see this through, it would be the end of them all.

His soul now as heavy as the pack he carried, Spock resumed his journey, fully aware of his wife's parting epithet to him. He closed his eyes in pain for a second, knowing that he had destroyed their relationship and had lost the respect of his son, knowing that this journey could mean his death in the end. But it was better that one should die than both of them, for his growing madness would ultimately have killed them all.

And so he focused upon the goal of the highest peak in the distant range, which he had begun to call Seleya, and hour after hour, day after day, kept it as his point of reference in the empty, featureless plains. He had entered an area that in summer must be endless rolling mile after endless mile of grassland, stretching as far as the eye could in every direction, its expanse broken only by an occasional gully or streambed, sometimes harboring a twisted, stunted tree, every one of them bent before the prevailing wind. Only the distant mountains allowed him to tell which direction he was headed.

The wind here never ceased, having nothing to break its force. It blew out of the north with a velocity that sometimes threatened to blow him over, but usually with just enough strength to harry and chill him. Despite his protective clothing, it managed to cut its way through on the right side of his body and face, the side that perpetually faced into it as he struggled west toward the mountains. He had long since donned his snow mask and goggles, both to protect his face and to keep from going snowblind in the barren white wilderness. It helped in that respect, but it tunneled his vision down to the way before him, blocking his peripheral vision and distorting his sensory input. And finally the tunnel vision, the constant wind, the silence and empty wilderness, the ceaseless work of putting one foot ahead of the other began to tell.

He didn't know how long he had been tramping across the snowfield since he had set out at dawn. He had eaten little over the past four days, just some journeybread and dried fruit, too intent on reaching his goal to stop for a proper meal. His stomach tight now with emptiness, he ignored its grumblings and leaned forward as a gust of wind buffeted him.

"It blows thin this morning, hey, brother?" came a male voice to his right.

Spock jerked his head up and around, so startled that he nearly fell, an inarticulate sound his only response.

A stocky Vulcan male strode at his side, peering at him from beneath heavy slanted brows. "The wind. It bites hard this morning," the man said. He was of middle height, broad of shoulder and chest, long black hair unkempt and dirty, dressed in barbarous fashion of a lost time, the crudely-tanned hide of a le'matya tied around his shoulders like a cape. He carried a heavy spear much like Spock did and there was a knife stuck in his belt that was fashioned from a gigantic tooth, a carved bone hilt ornamenting it.

"Who are you?!" Spock demanded.

"I am Asakar," the man answered. "The one you run away from."

"I do not run from anyone. I am on my way to the mountains for healing," Spock replied.

Asakar laughed, his deep voice just hinting at scorn. "Healing takes many forms. Sometimes the best healing is to cut off a cankered limb. Other times, it is best to leave well alone. A man must know how deep a wound runs before deciding how to heal it."

Spock merely stared at him, still trying to puzzle this out.

Asakar gestured toward the mountains. "Shall we go on? It is still two days' journey."

"Who are you? And how did you get here?" Spock demanded, standing his ground.

The other Vulcan grinned, showing crooked, stained teeth beneath his beard. "I told you. I am Asakar. And you brought me here. Don't you remember?"

Spock shook his head. "I never saw you before. How did you get here? Are there others?" He took a sudden step toward the other man. "If you've harmed my wife and son--"

Asakar laughed harshly again. "If they're harmed, then it's you've done the harming. Though why you care what a woman thinks--"

Spock lunged at him ... only to find himself down on his hands and knees in the snow. Slowly, he shook his head to clear it and got to his feet, turned to find where the other man had gone. He was astonished to see that he was alone. And there were only his footprints in the snow.

Hallucinating. He was hallucinating, he decided. Time to stop in his journey and rest.

Not far off, he could see the depressed line of a little creekbed, scrubby bent trees marking its path. He set out for that site, deciding that he would build a fire and set up camp there. Tomorrow he would go on. On the horizon, the mountain peaks were rising steadily higher ... perhaps 50 miles away. But he still had at least two days walk ahead of him, maybe more.

Sleep and hot food would help clear his mind. When he could once more think properly, he would go on. But tonight he would stay here and gather his wits about him.

Shifting his pack into a more comfortable position, Spock set out once more.

* * *

The gully had proved dry of water, although it showed evidence that it flooded during the spring rains. Its bottom held some snow, but that was easily brushed away to the bare dirt beneath and, best of all, it was deep enough that it shielded a seated man from the wind that blew tirelessly over the plains just beyond the rim. Spock had found a place where water had washed out a depression enough to accommodate a small fire and room for a person to sleep with his back against the wall. The few trees yielded tinder and some deadwood, enough though not much, and soon Spock was relishing the warmth of his first fire in four days.

Water poured from his waterbag into a stone bowl simmered quickly and he sprinkled some dried herbs into it, letting it steep for a few minutes, as he broke out a length of jerky and a wafer of bread. Both were hard but edible. Spock gnawed off a piece of the dried venison between his molars, then sat back to chew at the spicy meat, sipping occasionally at the hot tea to encourage it to soften.

Gradually his belly filled once again, the tea warming him from the inside out. He closed his eyes and sighed.

"Didn't think you ate meat," a familiar voice interrupted him.

Spock's eyes flew open to discover Asakar sitting cross-legged on the other side of the fire. The Vulcan was using his knife to butcher a small rodent-like animal. It took Spock a second for the realization to hit him that the animal's blood was green.

"That's a Vulcan animal!" he blurted.

"Ti'ya," Asakar confirmed. "Not much meat on 'em but a man'll eat anything when his belly growls loud enough, eh? I'd offer to share but..." He brought his dark eyes up to meet Spock's, his expression just bordering on hard. "You got your own, don't ya? Don't think Surak would approve." He went back to cutting up the rodent.

Spock looked down at the length of venison jerky in his hand, then back at the barbarian. "How do you know Surak? I mean ... This is not logical. If you are whom I believe you to be, then you cannot possibly know of Surak. He would not have been born yet."

"Mmm. You're right." Asakar had the little carcass stripped and brought the body up to rip a mouthful of the still warm meat off with his strong teeth, chewing it raw. "But ask him yourself. He's right there."

Spock whipped around and gasped. Surak was indeed sitting beside him on the other side, clad in his characteristic robes, placidly observing the other two. Spock quickly stilled his demeanor and offered the ta'al salute. "Live long and prosper, Grandfather. I am surprised to find you here."

Surak returned the salute. "Peace and long life, Grandson. Why are you surprised? Did you not call out to your Fathers and beg our help?"

"Indeed. But I had not expected a manifestation."

Surak glanced at the other Vulcan present and just a slight hint of distaste crossed his face. "Asakar, must you do that here?"

Asakar looked up, green blood dribbled liberally down his ragged beard, and grinned in delight. "I do it to annoy you, Surak. And to show our Grandson that your Ways were not always The Ways."

"They are his Ways and I am here to help him regain them."

Spock looked down at the fire and raised an eyebrow. "Ah, I understand this now. You are the two sides of my nature, the barbaric and the civilized, and you have come to attempt to persuade me to follow one course or the other."

"See?!" Asakar crowed to Surak, pointing a bloody rodent bone at Spock. "The boy isn't as stupid as you think he is! I told you he'd figure it out!"

"I never at any time implied that he was stupid," Surak responded calmly. "I merely intimated that he had strayed from the path of c'Thia and was having trouble in his search to achieve arie'mnu. And that you were leading him farther and farther away from his goal."

Asakar spat into the fire. "Bah! How do you think he's managed to survive here? Do you think that beast would've listened while he sat down to discuss logic with it? Ha! He caught it and killed it because I took control! Too bad the child died, but it was just a girl child."

"Enough!" Spock interrupted him, his brows lowered over cold, black eyes. "I grieve for her as I would a son! She was child of my seed and Daughter to my House!"

Asakar sketched an apologetic nod. "Sorry, Grandson. You're right. A man wants strong sons, but where would we be without strong women to keep the camp and bear those sons?"

Spock settled back, somewhat placated. "Tell me, Asakar, are you responsible for the way I was behaving toward my wife?"

"How so? You mean asserting your rights on her? Of course." Asakar tore another piece of meat off the ti'ya and chewed it with his mouth open. "She's there to satisfy your itch, isn't she? Not her place to deny you."

"You have caused me dishonor because of that attitude," Spock replied. "I concede that you have helped me survive in this barbaric world, but neither my wife nor I are products of that world. Because I treated her with disrespect and scorn, she has in return scorned me. It will be with difficulty that I win her trust again when I have returned from this journey."

Asakar shrugged indifferently. "She's not Vulcan. She doesn't understand our People. You should beat her if she scorns you. It is the way of things."

"It was the way of things in your time, but no longer," Spock replied. "Nor is it sanctioned in qomi society or most of the Federation worlds."

Asakar finished gnawing the rodent bones and tossed them away, settling back with a satisfied belch. He folded his hands over his belly and peered across the fire at the other two. "Which is why your women rule over you," he said. "I advise that you return and take from her what you want."

Spock shook his head. "You cannot understand. That part of you I reject totally. Christine is a proud, intelligent woman. Because of you, she has suffered dishonor and I must search for the means to make amends for that. Now begone with you!"

Asakar eyed him skeptically for a few seconds, then shrugged and disappeared.

Spock turned to Surak. "Grandfather, I must find a middle ground here. Asakar was correct in saying that he has helped me to survive here. For instance, I have chosen to reject your teachings against the eating of meat. I have found it necessary and logical."

"There is no cause that can justify the taking of another life, even a non-sentient one," Surak answered flatly.

"There is survival. In winter, this planet does not produce enough vegetable food to sustain life. I have meditated on this for many days and ultimately come to the conclusion that the taking of those lives are unavoidable in order to sustain the lives of myself, my wife and my son." Spock sighed. "I regret that circumstances have forced me onto this path."

"You have followed your own path all the days of your life," Surak answered. "Though you strive for c'Thia and to follow the Vulcan way in everything you do, you have found that path closed to you many times. I do not approve of this, but your logic is sound." He held up his hand in ta'al and said, "I leave you now, Grandson. Mene sakkhet ur seveh."

The wind kicked dust into Spock's face, causing him to blink reflexively, and when he opened his eyes once more, he was alone. He wasn't surprised to find no physical marks to show that he ever had visitors.

He took a deep breath of the heavy, frosty air and thought he could smell snow. If so, he would stay here until the weather cleared. That decided, he broke out the bullhide tent and began the task of building himself a shelter against the cold, feeling better than he had in days.

* * *

"There. That ought to do it." Christine stepped back and surveyed her handiwork. When she had returned to the cave and succeeded in comforting Sapel, her resourceful mind had gone into action.

The first thing she had decided to do was strengthen the door guard. It had taken several days but she had built a heavier, more formidable gate and had figured out a way to anchor it into the sides of the cavern entrance so that it could not be pushed in from the outside and could only be pulled out with difficulty. There was a trick to untangling the interlocking branches and avoiding the thorns and spikes that faced outward. Of course, sheer brute force could break down the door, but the attacker would have to be very determined indeed!

Christine had left a small space open so that Mooch could come and go, but otherwise she was confident that she and Sapel could now sleep safe at night. More importantly, Sapel was sure. He beamed happily as he surveyed the heavy new door.

"Yeah, that oughta do just fine, Mama," he said.

It had been a week since Spock had left and in that time the weather had turned unseasonably warm. Winds out of the south had lifted the temperatures into the 70's and melted all the snow, leaving the ground muddy but with a hint of the coming spring in its earthy scent. Venturesome grass sent up its first green threads and a few brave trees budded. Christine wasn't optimistic that it would last. It was still too early for spring to truly have arrived.

"Alright." Christine unlatched the door and set it aside. "That's one thing off our list of things to do. Next up, we need to inventory our supplies."

"What's ... inver ... invin..."

"Inventory. It means to count and make a list of," she explained. "What I want you to do is count our baskets and bowls for me, okay?"

"Okay." Sapel took the piece of slate and chalk his mother gave him and went back to begin the task he'd been assigned.

That done, Christine turned to go outside. She had the unenviable chore of going through the brine barrels to see exactly how much preserved food they had left.

She hadn't taken more than a couple of steps, though, before Sapel's voice stopped her. "Mama?" he asked, following her out and standing fearfully in the doorway. "Where are you going?"

She came back and knelt down, taking him by the shoulders. "I'm going down to the brine barrels. I'd like you to count the baskets like I asked you to."

His brown eyes were filled with trepidation as he peered back at her. "I don't want you to go," he said.

"I know you're scared, honey, but I want you to start being brave again," Christine told him sincerely. "Remember, Papa said you're to be the man of the family now."

Sapel was thoughtful for a moment then asked, "Mama? Is Papa ever coming back?"

Christine sighed and was quiet for a moment. "I hope so, sweetie. I really do. But I really don't know."

"Why did Papa leave like that?" the boy pleaded.

"Your Papa was having a really bad time after T'Larin died. He needed some time alone to get his feelings all sorted out again." Christine couldn't suppress a slight frown. Like I didn't..." she thought bitterly. Then she banished those emotions. She had vowed to herself that she wouldn't say bad things about Spock to his son, no matter what she might feel personally.

"Why did he have to do so far away?" Sapel asked. "Couldn't he do that here?"

"He said he couldn't," Christine answered. "He said the journey itself would help him."

Sapel looked down for a moment then back up, his dark eyes meeting her blue ones. "Mama ... do you want Papa to come back?"

That took her somewhat aback for a few seconds. "I'll be honest with you, Sapel," she finally answered. "Right now, I'm very, very angry with your father and I'm not sure I would be happy if he were here with us."

"Don't you love Papa anymore?"

That constricted her heart and brought a hint of tears to her eyes. "I have loved your Papa since the day I met him," she said softly. "I think I'll love him until the day I die. But I'm also very, very annoyed with him at the moment. You can love someone with all your heart and still be mad at him. Sometimes married people get so mad at each other that they have to take some time to be apart and think about whether or not they can live together."

Christine drew her little boy into her arms and hugged him. "But just remember, Sapel, that no matter what, I love you and your Papa loves you and that will never, ever change."

"I love you, too, Mama," he answered, putting his arms around her neck. "And I love Papa. But Mama?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm mad at Papa, too," he confessed and started to cry. "I didn't want him to go away and he did!" The little boy dissolved into plaintive sobs and clung to his mother.

*Do you hear that, you bastard?* Christine thought directly at Spock, hoping he hadn't blocked her. *Do you hear what you've done to your son?*

But she didn't say it out loud so that Sapel could hear. Instead, she held him until he stopped crying, then patted him and kissed his little face. "Well, your Mama's still here and I'm not going anywhere ... except down to those barrels to count fish! The baskets can wait until later. If you don't feel comfortable yet being alone, you come help Mama do that. Okay?"

"Okay," he smiled, wiping a runny nose on his sleeve. "Can Mooch come, too?"

"Of course, Mooch can come!" Christine answered, standing up. "Doesn't Mooch go just about everywhere you do?"

He laughed at that and took his mother's hand, starting down the path to where the brine barrels stood, Mooch scampering along behind them.

* * *

Spring's first breath had not reached the mountain pass through which Spock had struggled earlier in the day. The snow here was still deep and the blustery wind whipped down the rocky slopes, cutting into him with knife-like precision. He was chilled to the bone by the time he found the place of his sojourn. It was a shelf of broken granite facing south and there was a gigantic slab of sloughed off stone leaning against the mountain face with enough clearance to serve as a crude shelter.

He had been collecting and packing firewood the whole way up the slope and now he crouched in his sanctuary and laid out a hearth fire, his hands shaking from the cold. Then he found that he couldn't get the fire to stay lit. The wind blew out every small spark that tried to take hold in the tinder.

At last, Spock arose and managed to hang and peg down the bullhide as a windbreak, just enough to allow the fire to catch and settle into the dried twigs and grasses that the Vulcan fed into it. Once it was burning sufficiently, he began to lay on larger logs, allowing it to build into a medium-sized blaze.

It was growing dark by this time and Spock hugged his heavy sleeping fur close around him, huddled as near to the fire as he dared, soaking up its warmth and light. When he had stopped shivering, he grubbed deep into his pack and brought out another hank of jerky. He was getting heartily tired of the dried meat, but he had little else. He had not hunted during his trek here and did not plan to hunt for sometime to come. In fact, this would likely prove his last meal for some time to come, for he would fast while undergoing the ritual of mind alignment, kae'kh't'kotal.

He paused before he bit into the venison and then returned it to the pack, replacing it with a circle of journey bread, a Vulcan concoction of dried fruit pounded into grain and shaped into round, hand-sized cakes. This seemed more appropriate to ward off his hunger as he prepared to settle into the deep meditation that would comprise the ritual.

"You please me, my son," said Surak's voice beside him.

Spock barely started, growing used to these phantom visits by his ancestors. He merely glanced at the figure of Surak sitting cross-legged beside him, oblivious to the cold of the night around them. "It seemed logical to partake of Vulcan food. It is more conducive to the rite I would perform."

"You should seek to maintain that decision in all things," the spectral Vulcan responded. "You have polluted yourself with the eating of flesh."

"But you have never precisely forbidden the eating of meat if such eating is logical," Spock pointed out. "The Tenets only say 'Take only life that will not notice you taking it.' Is a hare or buck aware enough of its own life to know when it dies?"

"Can you say that it does not?" Surak countered. "The Tenets also say 'As far as possible, do not kill. Can you return life to what you kill? Then be slow to take life.' You have killed much since you have been here, Spock."

"Indeed. You have said it yourself. 'As far as possible, do not kill.' But I found the taking of these lives necessary. I find in myself no regret for them, for it kept my wife and my son and myself alive and clothed."

Surak mused for a long moment, staring into the fire. "Well for them," he finally conceded. "But not for you, Spock. Do you not see that this straying from the Way of Truth has led to your being here now? The killing and eating of flesh is only one way in which you have forsaken your path."

"I have found it logical to do so," the younger Vulcan responded solemnly. "It was not without due thought that I turned onto this pathway. It is not without due thought that I remain here. This subject I deem closed, Grandfather. I acknowledge that it is not the Way you would have me tread, but it is the way of logic on this planet and in this place. This planet cannot provide enough vegetable food to support us. Nor will it supply us with material from which we may make clothing and tools. Therefore, the killing of animal life is necessary and logical."

"There are other means that you have not exploited, Spock," Surak argued implacably. "You are the product of a highly technological society. You have narrowed your focus down to such a restricted extent that you have overlooked these means."

Spock peered at him, puzzled. "How so, Grandfather?"

"Plants may be grown artificially. You have not explored the option of raising what you need in greenhouses and hydroponically. This would provide you with the food and materials you need to survive."

Spock could only blink at him for a long second. "I have no way to construct such things, Grandfather," he responded with just a hint of exasperation. "Where would I obtain the materials and tools I would need for such a job? We live on the most primitive of survival levels. We must make everything we have, from the bone needles my wife uses to sew our clothing to the stone axes that I fashion to chop wood."

Surak seemed exasperated as well. "You are thinking solely of what you have in your valley. It is not the only place on this planet. You have merely become used to living there. There are other options that would provide you with some of the things you need."

Spock's eyebrows abruptly shot up. "The ship! Of course! I had forgotten about it and the opportunities it would provide. But is it advisable to relocate when the game is so plentiful near our valley home?"

"Spock, remove yourself from thinking the way you have grown accustomed to think! This planet offers more abundance than you can imagine. It is yours to exploit if you have the wits to do so," Surak commanded. "But do so as a Vulcan, not as a human."

"I will consider it, Grandfather," Spock answered and already his agile mind was turning over the possibilities.

"Leave the boy alone, Surak," came an unexpected female voice at his side. "You're only confusing him." Spock jerked his head in that direction. A truly ancient Vulcan woman was sitting with her knees drawn up and her arms around them. Her white hair was piled atop her head and her wizened face resembled a gnome's in the flickering firelight.

Reflexively, Spock demanded, "Who are you?"

"I am T'Oman, great-grandmother of Surak. The one who raised him." The old woman's lively black eyes pierced into her ghostly descendant. "Why are you prattling on about this nonsense?" she inquired of Surak. "How in the name of Heya is he going to make a hydroponic garden here? He is doing what he needs to do."

"He will find a way to do what must be done," the other Vulcan responded cooly.

"He's already found a way!" T'Oman snapped. "Don't set him up to waste his time on ridiculous pursuits! Hydroponics, indeed!"

"If he is motivated enough, he--"

"Surak, you talk too much! Back to where you belong!"

Summarily banished, Surak disappeared, his sudden absence causing the sparks from the campfire to swirl up into the night sky. T'Oman settled back, smiling a little. "He means well, but he is full of his own importance," she said. "Don't believe that humble, self-deprecating act. Surak long ago began to believe what people said about him." The old woman snorted and looked across the campfire into the darkness. "He has never lived in an environment such as this and had to depend on his wits to get through a day. Now in my day, we had it a little rougher."

The ancient woman launched into a tale of her childhood that soon had her many-times-great-grandson enthralled. He had never known about this particular ancestor or much about the times in which she had lived. It wasn't long before he was hanging on her story, a little smile lifting the corners of his mouth, and not long after that, his eyes began to close of their own accord, like a small boy nodding off at his mother's knee.

T'Oman glanced at him from the corner of her eye and said, "There. Forgot your problems, didn't you? Good. Now, forget Surak's advice as well. Sleep for a while. You are weary of mind and body, child. You've shouldered a mighty burden for the past four years and it's crushed you. We will help you mourn and heal and regain your strength. You have much to understand and much yet to face, not the least of which is persuading your mate to return to your bed and regaining your son's trust."

Spock's brow furrowed at her words and he felt suddenly tired again. "I don't know how to do that, Grandmother," he answered. "I have felt such intense hatred from her. Such anger."

"As well you should!" the old woman replied. "For you left her during a woman's most vulnerable time. She has only you to turn to in her need, Spock, and you deserted her. But the time has not come to speak of that. Now is the time to sleep. If I could, I'd rock you against this old bosom and sing you a lullaby that I sang to my own babies. You are but a child yet and still need a mother's comfort."

Spock glanced at her, one eyebrow lifting in elegant offense. "I am 42, Grandmother. I am scarcely a child."

"Pah! I was 217 when I died. You have barely lived life yet," T'Oman responded. "But I tire you further with this talk. Sleep now, Spock. We will come to you again."

So saying, the snow-haired old Vulcan faded from view, leaving Spock acutely alone in the winter night, with only the fire's flickering light for company.

* * *

Christine sat cross-legged beside her son's bed, cradling the little boy in her arms as she had when he was very small. He had awakened with a nightmare and she had held him until he could go back to sleep again, all the while softly singing a lullaby lost in the reaches of time.

"Hush, little baby, don't say a word," she sang in a voice barely above a whisper as she rocked him. "Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird. If that mockingbird won't sing, Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring." She didn't remember all the words, so she hummed through those parts. It didn't matter. Sapel was sound asleep again.

Looking down into his peaceful face, Christine couldn't help but think of Spock. Their son looked so much like him, his dark Vulcan features causing Christine to wonder if this was how Spock had looked as a child. There were human features, though, in Sapel's face. His red blood caused a rosy blush to tint his cheeks and there was a sprinkling of freckles across his nose. And she smiled, too, at the gap in his lower teeth where he's just recently lost his first baby tooth.

Gently, she laid him in his bed and covered him warmly. Mooch moved in and took her usual place at Sapel's side, turning a couple of times to define her bed, then dropping down into a curled up bundle of red fur.

Smiling, Christine rubbed between the kit's ears before rising and returning to her own sleeping furs. The banked embers in the hearth snapped quietly and glowed in the darkness, while outside the sounds of a gentle rain dripped and pattered.

Christine turned on her side to settle into sleep position and her hand slipped onto the empty place at her side. Without warning, overwhelming loneliness welled up inside her. Unbidden memories flooded back to her of the warmth and security of Spock lying beside her, his body pressed against hers, his breathing deep and regular as he slept. She thought of the times he had drawn her into his arms and loved her, at times gentle and slow, at others hot and passionate. She thought of the times they had merely lain together and talked in low, intimate voices, friends and soulmates, joking with one another, making plans, sometimes at odds.

Christine squeezed her eyes shut and felt hot tears leak out between her lashes. Oh, God, Spock ... where are you? she thought in despair. Please come home.

She couldn't help it. As angry as she was at him, she missed him desperately. Alternately hating and loving him, she wanted him back with her ... and she wanted him back the way he was before. The stranger that had emerged with T'Larin's death was not the warm, considerate man she had spent nearly five years with, nor even the cool reserved officer with whom she had served aboard the Enterprise. She fully believed that the baby's violent death and Spock's reaction to it had pushed him into some sort of nervous breakdown or whatever Vulcans had when they completely lost control of their emotions. It didn't make him any easier to live with, but at least she understood.

And she'd lost control, too, during that parting scene. She'd been shocked, hurt, betrayed, panic-stricken when he left her. She still was! But underneath all her conflicting emotions, she still loved him and wanted him back beside her. After all, she couldn't fix things if he wasn't here, and her healer's instinct was to do just that. Find out how she could help and then do it. Maybe it was a control thing. She wasn't sure.

What she was sure of was that there was a terrible emptiness in her bed and in her heart. During the day, she could handle the loneliness, but at night it came down upon her full force. With a huge sigh, she cuddled Spock's pillow against her and managed to fall back to sleep.

* * *

In the inky black of night, wrapped within his furs, Spock peered up at the stars, sharp and glittering in the clear sky. He had spent many nights during their sojourn here searching among their bright points for signs of a ship or some recognition of where they might possibly be, but always to no avail. While he thought he could detect a recognizable supergiant here and there among the thousands of visible stars--that orange one might be Aldebaran, that blue-white one might be Vega--there was no way to tell for sure. The rest of the sky was unfamiliar to him. He, who had studied the stars and dreamed of moving among them since he was Sapel's age and had first comprehended that they were real places up there above him, he was lost now and barred from the far reaches he had loved his whole life.

"They're very beautiful," said a soft female voice at his side.

He wearily looked to see who had joined him now. He had grown quite tired of these ghostly visits, feeling very much like the old man in that holiday tale who kept being visited by spirits on Christmas Eve night. But he stiffened with shock as he recognized the woman beside him.

She turned her beautiful, petite face toward him, her upslanted eyes startling him. They were sapphire blue in a face of exquisite Vulcan perfection. "I've frightened you, Papa. Forgive me."

It took him a moment to get his voice working. "You startled me, T'Larin. That is all," he rasped hoarsely.

She turned her face back to the diamond scattered sky. "You used to watch the stars with Mama," she commented.

"How do you know that?" he managed to ask, unable to take his eyes off the woman his daughter would have become.

"I just know. You've watched them all your life." She looked directly at him again, her eyes piercing him. "You love them, don't you, Papa? Almost more than anything."

"No, I have worked and traveled among them, but Vulcans do not assign emotion to such things," he responded.

"I did not say that Vulcans love the stars," she answered pointedly, keeping him fixed in her gaze. "I said that you love them. There is a difference."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Yes. I will concede that. Alright. I suppose you could say that I love the stars."

"What else do you love, Papa?" she demanded, her eyes never wavering. "Do you love the Vulcan way? Do you love logic and reason?"

"I have chosen it as my pathway in life," he answered. "It has been difficult, but I have no regrets on my choice."

"Do you love it?" she asked. "More than Mama? More than Sapel?"

"This conversation is becoming a bit confrontational, T'Larin--"

"More than me?" She leaned in close to him, commanding an answer.

Spock was silent for a long moment. "I would have loved you, T'Larin, as I love your mother and brother. But I never had the chance."

"Papa, do you love me more than Mama?" the young woman demanded. "Would you choose me over Mama?"

Spock was taken aback at his daughter's question and didn't quite know how to answer it. "I fail to see where this line of questioning is going, T'Larin," he retorted.

She sat back, sad and with an expression that held just a hint of satisfaction. "But you have chosen me over Mama," she said softly. "You will not let me go. You have forsaken your wife to mourn for a daughter who will never be."

Spock caught his breath. "I do not--"

"I am dead, Papa. I live only in your mind. What you see before you has been conjured whole from your wishes and dreams." The beautiful woman leaned toward him, desirable, perfect, unattainable. "I am your fantasy child. Even if I had lived, I would not become this. Banish me away and return to reality."

She laid a spectral hand on his knee. "She needs you, Papa. She loves you. Let me go and remember only the infant that was, not the woman who might have been. Your preoccupation with me is unnatural and unhealthy. Banish it. You have mourned and sought to change what is. That cannot be."

Her beautiful face was peaceful as she straightened and began to fade away into the night. "Mourning is over, Papa. Return to life. Let your love for Mama and Sapel come back to the fore. It's time to go on with your life. Kai'idth."

Then she was gone and Spock knew that she would never return. Before he realized what was happening, tears filled his eyes and coursed down his cheeks. "T'Larin," he murmured and at long last wept cleansing tears for the tiny baby who had lived and died in his arms. Burying his face in his hands, he poured out his pent-up grief for her, his shoulders shaking with deep, wracking sobs. Not the hysterical howls of denial and rage that had torn his mind and heart from him, but true mourning, washing his soul clean.

When at last his tears abated, Spock felt as if he had emptied his whole being of a terrible burden. He was exhausted and in need of fulfilling sleep, but he felt free from the terrible load he had borne for so long. That part of him was whole again, or mostly so. There would always be a gap in his heart that T'Larin should have filled, but the hurt would ease in time. She could soar free now as well, for he had truly released her katra back into the Unity of things.

Spock wiped his eyes and nose, taking a deep breath of the frosty air. Looking back up to the heavens, he noticed a star that he hadn't seen before, one burning with sapphire brilliance against the blackness. "Goodbye, little one," he whispered aloud to the night sky. "Thank you."

* * *

Christine rose from putting early spring flowers on the little cairn underneath the willow tree. She wiped away a tear, then turned purposefully to the task at hand, determined not to allow her sorrow to overwhelm her. She didn't have time for it. There was too much to do.

Catching up her bow, she called to Sapel and the two of them set out across the high ground to the south, eyes alert for game. There still wasn't much, this early in the year, but within an hour or so, both of them had bagged a hare, still in its white winter coat and out enjoying the sunshine and warmth. They were lean and a little stringy, but Christine had a use for them anyway. Cut up and cleaned, the meat would go into a stew of dried vegetables and herbs. And the matching white pelts would be perfect to make a new pair of warm leggings for Sapel.

They were coming back down the bluff to their valley home when Mooch shot ahead of them, her fur standing on end and her high, ferocious growl sounding at full cry. It only took Christine a moment to see what she was after.

Digging busily at the dirt beneath their reinforced door guard was a creature a bit larger than Mooch, long and supple and predatory-looking. It was like a badger, more than anything else, powerful and muscular. It had obviously smelled the food that was stored within the cave and was determined to get it.

Outrage exploded within Christine. She had worked long and hard to get that food and she was determined that it was not going to be stolen by a thieving opportunist. Dropping the hare she carried, she gave a yell and charged down the slope, clutching her hunting spear.

"Yi!!! Get away from there!!" she bellowed, her yell mingling with Mooch's sharp yips and growls as she lunged and snapped at the intruder. It whirled to face her with a roar, but then Christine was on it, poking it with her spear and shouting to drive it away.

The badger charged her, snarling its aggression with open mouth, but Christine refused to be deterred. The wolf's attack had changed her fundamentally and never again would she be bested by an animal if she could kill it first. Her tactics changed instantly as she saw that the badger refused to back down.

With a primal cry, Christine pressed the attack while Mooch harried the badger from behind, seizing it by a back leg and hanging on savagely. The badger swung to counterattack and Christine took the opportunity to thrust her spear deep into the predator's ribs, pinning it to the ground.

It screeched and fought hard to free itself, but it was too late. The spear had pierced vital organs and a moment later it stilled and lay dead.

Christine straightened, sweat streaming down her face, her breath coming hard. Sapel ran up and threw his arms around her, staring down at the dead badger. Mooch continued to worry the animal's leg, growling loudly, then finally turned loose and sat peering up at her young master as if to say, "There! What do you think of that?!"

The woman looked down at her son and ruffled his hair. "Well, that's one that won't be raiding our cupboard, hmm?" She pulled the spear free of the furry body. "We'll save the pelt but won't eat this thing. Too rank. You clean those hares and I'll take care of skinning this..." She indicated the badger. Looks like you'll get a new fur hood as well as leggings!"

Sapel grinned ferally up at her, his eyes shining as he stood proudly next to the tall, strong woman beside him.

* * *

Two more days and nights had passed and still Spock remained deep within the healing meditation of kae'kh't'kotal. He was unaware of the passing of time now, locked so far within his mind that he seemed to have divorced himself from this world completely. He was in another place, another time, and the events that occurred there had nothing at all to do with the physical plane on which he resided.

In his mental world, he was currently reclined on cushions of rich velvet in the palace of Stellhin, warrior king of Llangon Protectorate, and current Holder of House da'Ni'ikhirch. The time was a dozen generations before Surak appeared and the atmosphere was one of wealth and brutality. Stellhin ruled this part of Vulcan with a fist of iron, taking what he wanted and residing in lavish splendor on the slopes of Mt. Seleya, his ramparts overlooking the tiny village of ShiKahr and the valley that sloped out onto the white blistering desolation that Earthmen would one day name Vulcan's Forge.

Spock was not thinking of the Forge right now or that it's proper name was Sas-a-Shar. Bleaching Bones. At the moment he was watching the lithe turnings of a near-naked girl, dancing to the sounds of pipes and ka'athyra, veils flying, waist-length black hair like a garment in and of itself, glossy as a sintha wing in the reflected lights. Beside him reclined his host, Stellhin himself, going over his teeth with an ivory toothpick and alternately shifting his eyes from Spock to the girl and back again.

"You like her, hmm?" Stellhin asked in a deep voice.

"She is very beautiful," Spock admitted, uncomfortably aware of the growing level of arousal he was already feeling.

"You want to fuck her?"

Spock turned to face his ancestor. Stellhin's black eyes were glittering with humor, locked appraisingly on his distant descendant's features. "I cannot do that," Spock answered in a reasonable tone. "I am bonded to another."

"I didn't ask you to bond her. I asked if you want to fuck her."

"No," Spock answered matter-of-factly and turned away from the large, powerful man beside him.

"Why?" pressed Stellhin. "Girls not your liking? If you'd rather fuck boys, I can find a kitchen lad for you."

Spock looked back at him, his brows coming down in annoyance over his dark eyes. "I have no desire to engage in sexual intercourse with either," he stated.

Stellhin eyed him speculatively. "Can't get it up? Is that it? Or do you have religious vows to observe?"

"My lord, I am quite capable of performing sexually, but I do not wish to do so! I told you. I am bonded and I wish only to share intercourse with my wife."

Stellhin shrugged and picked his teeth some more. "Suit yourself. Strange one, you are, Spock. Never met a man who'd pass up a chance to get his rod in q'vazia cunt."

Spock wasn't sure what q'vazia was. The word was lost in antiquity and he'd never heard it before. If the ruler was referring to the dancing girl before them, then Spock agreed fully that she was beautiful and radiated sexuality, but he refused to acknowledge the tightness he was feeling in his groin at the moment.

Then the scene changed around him and the main hall became a sleeping chamber with pillows and soft pallets on the floor. Draperies hid the windows and doors, an oil lamp suspended on a chain from the ceiling providing the only light. Spock found himself lying on one of the pallet beds, naked, his lower body covered with a silky sheet. It shocked him and he was just starting to get to his feet when one of the curtains was pulled back and the dancer entered the dimly lit room.

She was dressed in a diaphanous robe, her long black hair loose about her shoulders. "I am T'Sula," she said in a soft warm voice as she paused and looked down at him. "I have been commanded to please you tonight."

Spock was having a hard time not staring at the lush body beneath the robe, its sheer folds leaving nothing to the imagination. He forced his eyes up to her face. "Please thank Lord Stellhin but I do not require companionship."

She acted as if she had not heard him. Instead, she opened the robe and allowed it to slip off her shoulders, leaving her totally naked before him. "What is your pleasure, lord? I am versed in all phases of The Si'po'vaz."

Spock's eyebrows shot up, as much from the jolt of excitement he had abruptly felt as from the recognition of the name she spoke. It was an ancient holy text, said to contain innumerable forms of sexuality. Legend related that the practice of the actions described there led to such a heightened emotional and sexual state that it had been banned by Surak himself. And now Spock translated the title q'vazia. It meant Teacher of Form, in literal terms, but more loosely translated, it meant sex personified. T'Sula was a palace prostitute, her whole life devoted to satisfying her sexual partners.

The realization triggered an immediate surge of hormones through Spock's system and he found himself coming rapidly and fervently erect. He shifted, attempting to hide the fact from the woman still standing beside his bed.

But she was aware nonetheless. She did not have to see his stiffening penis to know what he was feeling. His whole skin tone blushed green and his breathing deepened imperceptibly. She smiled and lowered herself onto the bed, kneeling beside him. "What is your command, lord? How shall I fulfill you? Tell me your fantasy and I shall embody it."

Spock swallowed to wet his dry throat. "I have told you. I wish no sexual partner here. I am bonded and may only have relations with my wife."

"Very well." T'Sula changed her position. Shifting to sit cross-legged, she settled into a comfortable stance. "Tell me of this remarkable woman then. I wish to hear of her."

Her position fully exposed her genitals, however, and Spock found it difficult to keep his eyes from darting between her spread legs to the luscious beaconing folds of her sex. "Cover yourself first, T'Sula," he instructed, looking away. "It is not proper that you should sit like this with me."

"Very well, lord, if you do not wish to see me." She reached behind her and retrieved her robe, slipping into it and using its volume to hide her torso. He was still intensely aware of her naked body beneath the thin material, but at least now he was not so distracted by the expanse of inviting skin. His whole body throbbed with the knowledge that all he had to do was roll over onto her, between her spread legs, and jam himself into her--

Spock abruptly shut down that line of thought and concentrated on deflating the turgid organ that demanded so much attention at the moment. Then, feeling a soft hand on his leg, his eyes snapped open to find T'Sula peering at him with great, dark eyes.

"Let me please you, lord," she said imploringly. "You are in need and I can relieve you of your tension and urgency."

"If you won't leave me, then do not touch me," he answered, frowning.

"Very well." She sat back, her hands folded in her lap. "You were about to speak of your wife. What is her name?"

He gulped again and got himself somewhat under control. "She is called Christine," he said.

"A strange name."

"She is not from our land. She comes from very far away," he replied. Spock began to talk about Christine, what she looked like, how they met, their life on Terra Two and all the things they had been through. Before long, he had begun to tell the listening girl of their time together on the Enterprise, forgetting that she should have known nothing about a starship, although she seemed to have no trouble grasping what he related. He told her how they had been kidnapped by Romulans and abandoned on the primitive planet that was now their home, how they had fallen in love, endured his pon farr, become husband and wife. He told her everything, up to and including the circumstances of T'Larin's birth and terrible death, his losing complete control of his emotions, the turbulent weeks that followed and finally his leaving on this journey.

By the time he was finished, Spock was exhausted, emotionally and physically.

T'Sula moved toward him and put both hands on his bare shoulders, pushing him back onto the pallet. "You are so very tired," she murmured in a soft, caring voice. "Sleep now, lord. I will keep you warm. Nothing more unless you wish it."

Spock could not resist her. The talking had been like a catharsis and he felt drained. He allowed T'Sula to push him onto his back. He was asleep almost before he knew it.

When she was sure that he was, she took off her robe and tossed it aside, then slid under the sheet with him, moving into his semi-conscious embrace and slipping her arm across his chest. Then she nestled her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes too.

* * *

Spock rolled over in the familiar furs of his bed and found Christine snuggled against him, her sun-bleached hair spilled over her shoulders, her face close to his. Immediately, his heart leapt with joy to find her there and he didn't question how he had come to be home again or whether or not this had all been a dream. He only knew that he was jolted with fierce love and need for her.

Pulling her against him, he kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her mouth, until her dark-lashed lids lifted to peer up at him. Her eyes were as blue as he remembered them and a warm smile spread across her features as she drew him into her embrace. "Spock," she whispered. "You're home! Oh, sweetheart, I missed you so much!"

He couldn't speak, but covered her mouth with his in a desperate kiss, letting all the pent up passion and loneliness he had felt pour out of him. Crushing her lush, warm body against his, he felt himself grow hard with his unsatisfied hunger for her. "Christine!" he murmured against her lips, devouring them with famished kisses. "T'hy'la! You don't know how much I've wanted to be back here with you! How many nights I've spent thinking of you! Needing to be with you!"

She writhed and moaned against him, growing as excited as he. "You're home now, darling!" she answered between frantic kisses. "All I've done is dream of you and how good it feels when you're inside me! Oh, please, Spock! I can't wait a minute longer! I want you so much! I need you to make love to me now!"

Her words jarred him into a higher level of arousal, one he could barely control. His erection throbbed almost painfully in his eagerness to plunge into her hot depths, thrusting and pounding into her until she exploded with rapture and he matched her with his own overwhelming climactic eruption. Quickly moving atop her, he settled between her spread thighs and prepared to enter her, bending down to kiss her once more as he did so.

Something about her seemed different and he opened his eyes to look down at her. Black, Vulcan eyes, upturned and exotic, peered back at him, T'Sula's beautiful face only inches from his.

Spock gave an involuntary cry and scrambled off her. "You! Where is Christine?"

T'Sula sat up, her long ebony hair falling around her dark-tipped breasts. "Didn't I tell you I would become your fantasy?" she asked, seeming puzzled. "Is an eager, subservient wife not what you want? I became her for you."

Spock moved farther away, grabbing the woman's discarded robe to cover himself. "How dare you presume to enter my mind that way! This is a violation of all that is private! How dare you invade the sanctity of a marital bond!"

He was clearly outraged but she only sat back on the bed pallet, leaning back on her hands, either oblivious to how this displayed her body or doing it on purpose. "I did not think it mattered to you, as long as you reached a sexual climax," she answered. "I came to offer you a willing partner so that you would not have to force yourself on your wife again."

Spock's mouth fell open then shut soundlessly, so stunned was he by this comment. When he could speak again, his voice was rough and angry. "You will be silent!" he ordered, all his Vulcan male assertion coming to the fore. "This is not for you to speak! You do not what you say!"

"I know all about you, Spock," she answered reasonably. "I am part of you."

He shook his head. "You are no part of me," he retorted. "You are a temple whore from the distant past."

T'Sula's eyes twinkled in amusement. "Yes. And the mother of one of Stellhin's sons. I am one of your Ancestors, too, Spock. Your great, great, many, many times great grandmother. My blood flows in you as well as the others who have come to you."

That dealt him another mental blow. "You knew I was of your lineage and you actively tried to entice me into having sex with you?" His stomach lurched at the act of incest he had nearly committed.

But T'Sula only laughed merrily. "Oh, come now, Spock. None of this is real. And anyway, it is my purpose. As you said, I'm a temple whore. It makes no difference to me whether the man who lies with me is a complete stranger or a son of the Line. I have lain with many of my sons and grandsons, initiating them into the ways of life."

He moaned and buried his face in his hands.

She pressed him. "Do not the reldai still serve this purpose in your time? Did you not go to them during your Awakening?"

"Yes, but..."

"But, nothing, Spock. That is their purpose in Vulcan society. This is my purpose in my society. In any case, the subject here is not me." She leaned forward and said, "The subject here is the difference between a willing partner and one who is not willing. And the way you took your wife when she was not willing and compelled her to serve you."

Spock looked up, stricken. "I was not myself."

"You cannot use Asakar as an excuse," she told him.

He blinked. "How do you know Asakar?" he wondered.

"We are all part of your katra, Spock. We all know one another."

"And a bossy bitch you are, too!" came the barbarian's harsh voice. He was squatting next to the dancer, his rough appearance making a sharp contrast to her sleek, satin-rich features. "What do you expect a man to do when he needs relief? Especially in Spock's case when there aren't any other women available? A man shouldn't have to stand alone and yank himself 'til he squirts!"

"Asakar, shut your filthy mouth!" snapped T'Oman, appearing on the other side of Spock. She was seated cross-legged on one of the cushions, her wrinkled face stern. "Just because you come from a savage time doesn't give you any leave to speak so offensively!"

"Indeed," commented Surak, himself fading into view beside T'Oman. "I had the impression that I had banished you."

"You can't banish me," Asakar sneered back, "you weak-spined t'q'valla! Only Spock can do that and he knows that he cannot survive without me!"

"You bring shame to all of us," T'Oman answered back. "What a dirty, ill-mannered--"

"Shut your yap, woman! If you spoke to me like that in my day, I'd beat you green! No man should tolerate a woman who--"

"No woman should tolerate a man--" T'Sula cut in shrilly.

"We will get nothing settled--" broke in Surak, his voice rising to be heard above the others.

"Beat me, would you?! I'll call your Mam and she'll--"

"Asakar, you just need a good--"

"I insist that you all stop this senseless--"

"Old or no, I'll--"

"Kroykah!!" Spock shouted, the ancient command instantly silencing them all. He was breathing heavily, struggling to regain his control. "Shut up! All of you! I will banish all of you if this arguing does not cease at once!"

The circle of Ancestors sat silently, watching him. Clearly the ball was now back in his court. He straightened and rearranged his sparse covering. "That is better." He looked from one to the others. "You are the reason I cannot think and keep my life in order! All of you! Each one of you is attempting to rip me from the others and control me, along with who knows how many others! No more! This bedlam will go no further!"

He turned his angry gaze on his oldest Ancestor. "Asakar, I have banished you once already. You apparently do not understand that I am not a barbarian and I will not follow your ways. I acknowledge that some of what you have offered me is of benefit, but not this. Begone!"

The image of the ancient Vulcan warrior disappeared as if he had never existed. Spock turned to the others. "My Father Surak, you know that I revere and follow you, but you are merely the opposite pole from Asakar, as controlled and correct as he is wild and filled with anarchy. I cannot live my life either way. I ask that you return to that place within me where your wisdom can be of most benefit to me."

"Very well, Spock. My wish for you is that you find your way back to the path you should walk." The serene figure disappeared as well, leaving the two very different women before him, the lithe, seductive dancer and the bent, wizened old crone.

Spock sighed and looked back and forth between them. "T'Sula, you will go as well. Your presence here serves only to distract and confuse me. Leave ... and take this harem with you!"

Without another word, T'Sula vanished and Spock found himself instantly back in the little rock shelter on the side of the mountain, dressed in his winter clothing and wrapped in the heavy sleeping fur. T'Oman still sat beside him, heedless of the cold wind that whipped around them.

"I understand now, Grandmother," he said to her. "All of you, even you, have been wreaking havoc with my mental processes since the day of T'Larin's birth and death. I did lose control that day because my fear and anger was so great, then I was overwhelmed with sorrow at the death of my child. It was like the Terran myth of Pandora's Box. Once you were all released, I could not put you back."

"Yes," T'Oman answered, watching his face. "And have you done so now, Spock?"

"All but you, Grandmother. I still find your counsel helpful."

"And what counsel would you have of this old woman?" she asked.

He sighed and looked a bit lost. "I need to know, Grandmother," he pleaded. "Can I get her back? I have damaged her esteem and pride. I have very nearly destroyed all the trust she had in me. And not only Christine, but my son, too. I am almost afraid to return to them, for fear of how they will reject me."

The old woman allowed the corners of her mouth to stretch just a little in what might have been the beginning of a smile. "Spock, your Christine is a proud, strong, intelligent woman. She is willing to stand by you as your bondmate and friend. But she is deeply hurt. You took the death of your child very hard, but a woman takes such a thing even harder. A woman carries her baby next to her heart for long, increasingly difficult months. That child is a part of her as it can never be to a man, for she nourishes it with her own blood, feels it move and grow in her very core, goes through searing agony to bring it forth into the world. Then she gives it suck of her body's sustenance, keeps it safe, watches it grow and learn, and is finally torn apart again as it leaves her."

Spock hung his head. T'Oman continued, "When a woman is within such a vulnerable time, she depends on her bonded mate to be her support, to put his arms around her and help her stand against the storm, to love her and shelter her and make her feel safe. Spock, you turned your back on Christine when she needed you the most. It is little wonder that ultimately she turned you away and resented it so deeply when you used your strength to overpower her and take what you wanted, regardless of her feelings."

"I know, Grandmother," he whispered, still looking down at his hands folded in his lap.

"You must go home now, Spock. If you must, humble yourself to the point of kneeling before her and begging her forgiveness. She must know that you are truly and with all your heart sorry and that you want her back. She must learn to trust you again and believe that you will stay by her, no matter what comes." The old woman straightened her back and looked hard at her descendant. "And not only Christine. Your son must regain his trust in you as well. It may not be so easy with him. A child's innocence, once broken, is rarely able to be mended fully. There will always be that doubt in him that you will go away and leave him again. You can only repair this damage by standing steadfast in Sapel's life, until he can trust you once again."

"Yes, Grandmother," Spock answered in a small voice. "I have wronged them both."

And now T'Oman reached out and stroked her hand along the back of his head. "Having said that, Spock, know that this was not entirely your fault. You suffered through a crushing emotional event, one that would shake even the most stalwart of men. On Vulcan, you would have immediately been attended by physicians and mind-healers, but you had no such guidance here. It was necessary for us to come to you like this so that we might serve that purpose. I sense that you have come back to yourself, Spock. Your healing is nearly done. Go home now and return to Christine and Sapel the husband and father they have known you to be."

"Yes, Grandmother," he responded, lifting his head to look at her. "I will not forget you."

Her brows lifted in amusement. "I'm not going anywhere, Spock. I'll always be right here." And she tapped her fingertips on his chest. "Sleep now, child. Your journey tomorrow is long."

She lifted her gnarled hand to Spock's forehead and lightly touched his skin. His eyes closed at once and he slumped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

When Spock next opened his eyes, it was morning. The sun was just breaking over the mountain peaks, reflecting brilliantly off the remaining snow and nearly blinding him. Overhead, the sky was already the clear blue of an early spring day and in the air he could smell the fresh bursting fragrance of newly budded greenery.

Spock stood and took a deep breath of the morning air, feeling new born or as if he had been in a deep impenetrable sleep for weeks and had just fully awakened. He had no idea how many days and nights he had spent on the mountainside, but he was famished and smelled atrociously and ice crystals dangled on his moustache and scraggly beard. His mouth tasted foul and his clothing reeked from being worn constantly day after day.

He felt marvelous! So marvelous that he did the very unVulcan-like thing of laughing out loud with joy and lifting his hands to the heavens. He was whole and himself again.

The thought of home and family seized him and he hurriedly turned to get his gear together, pulling out jerky and journeybread to munch on the way. It took him only about half an hour, then he set out down the slope, resisting the urge to break into a run to get to the long plains and home.

* * *

It had been another long day. Christine and Sapel had been up at the crack of dawn and had worked the entire day tilling over their garden plot, readying it for the spring planting. With nothing but crude hoes, they had laboriously chopped grass and weeds loose, turned over the soil to break up clumps, and worked in the dried animal dung they had been collecting for the past week. The garden wasn't very big, but by the time they had finished, the sun was on the western horizon and both of them were completely exhausted.

Christine's day wasn't finished, though. Sending Sapel to store away the gardening tools and to wash up for supper, she wearily made her way across the creek and up the slope to the brush pile, pausing to wash the worst of the grime from her hands. They still had a bit of firewood left but had run out of tinder. She had begun to utilize the seasoned wood piled across the way and she went there now to bring back an armload of kindling.

She was gathering up a hefty pile of sticks and small branches, thinking about what she had for them to eat that night. A little grain was left; she would grind it and make bread. There was enough stew left over from the previous day that she could stretch it for another meal. She would add some dried meat to it and the tuber or two that she had left. The winter supplies were nearly gone and she was going to have to give some serious thought to a hunting trip. Game was just beginning to come back into the area, but she thought she could find an antelope fawn or newborn colt that she could kill for them. That would tide them over for a few more days.

Her thoughts were turning over plans when her peripheral vision picked up a movement. Jerking her head around, she stared hard into the evening shadows, trying to see through the twilight gloom. At first, she could not see what had caught her attention, then an upright figure came into view, still some distance away, but walking toward her with a steady purpose that caused her heart to nearly stop in its cadence.

"Spock!" she gasped and dropped the wood as a wave of weakness swept over her. Then she said louder, "Spock!" and began to run toward him. "Spock!! Spock!!"

The man stepped up his pace but was obviously too exhausted to go much faster, burdened as he was by the pack and camp gear. Nevertheless, he was going at a trot when Christine met him and threw herself into his arms, tears streaming down her face, kissing him in frantic welcome. He returned it full measure, nearly crushing her as he lifted her off her feet and smothered her face with heart-felt kisses, saying her name over and over, their lips meeting again and again. Finally, she simply threw her arms around his neck and hugged him, all her relief and pent-up emotion coming out in uncontrollable sobs.

He held her close, speaking soothingly to her now, savoring the wonderful feel of her warm, sturdy body in his arms once again. "Shhh ... shhhh..." he murmured into her hair. "It's all right. It's all over. Everything will be fine now."

She pulled away and wiped her face, her eyes drinking in his features. "Are you well again? Did the ritual work?"

"Yes. I am quite myself again," he assured her, himself unable to tear his gaze from her face. "I missed you so much, t'hy'la."

She laughed a little, still leaking tears. "You smell like a rhinoceros! When was the last time you had a bath?!"

He smiled, too, an unself-conscious grin of delight that she had seldom seen light his face. "I don't remember," he admitted, his teeth showing in the midst of his dirty beard and moustache. "Long before I left here. How long have I been gone?"

"Almost two months. Phew! No wonder you reek! Well, I think the first order of business for you is a good hot bath." She wiped the rest of her tears away. "Are you hungry?"

"Absolutely famished! I don't care if I never see another piece of dried venison or journeybread again!" His dark eyes were twinkling with life and humor.

Christine couldn't help pausing to stare up at her long-lost husband. It seemed an eternity since she had seen him look so well and she was very happy to have him back home again. She just wished she still didn't feel such resentment and buried anger toward him. She tried to shove that down. "I wish I had more to offer you than some left over stew and flatbread."

Spock's face softened. "It sounds marvelous," he said.

They started back toward the familiar little valley and Christine stopped for a moment to pick up the wood she had dropped. Even before that, Spock couldn't help but notice that she walked just far enough away from him to avoid touching him in any way, even to holding his hand. Their mindbond had been fairly dormant for sometime but he could still detect her ambivalent feelings as they walked. She also kept her gaze on the trail ahead, not looking at him, and inwardly he sighed. After her enthusiastic greeting, her mental and emotional barrier had come back up between them.

Well, he knew this wasn't going to be easy, he reflected to himself. He would just have to take it slowly and one step at a time. With this in mind, he followed her down the little slope to the creek crossing.

* * *

Sapel looked up and then leaped to his feet in shock as his mother stepped into the cave followed by a tall, dirty, bedraggled man.

"Papa!" he gasped. Mooch gave a startled yip, then stood on her hind legs and sniffed speculatively in Spock's direction, both recognizing him and not.

Spock simply stood in the entryway as he and his son took in each other. The boy seemed to have grown taller during the time he was gone and there was a new maturity in the child's face that hadn't been there when he had left.

"Hello, Sapel," Spock said softly. "Do I not get a better greeting than that?" he asked in a hopeful tone.

Sapel came forward, almost reluctantly, and put his arms around his father's waist, hugging him for a moment. Spock wanted to hold his son hard in his arms and feel again the unconditional love the boy had once awarded him, but he sensed that Sapel was not ready to do that yet. He didn't press him.

Sapel stepped back. "You stink, Papa!"

"Yes, so I have been informed," Spock answered, glancing wryly at Christine. He turned to her. "If I may, I'll store my gear over in that corner and get out of these clothes. I suspect they may have to be burned. They are rather the worse for wear."

"I may be able to salvage them," Christine answered, "although they will definitely need to be soaked and boiled. Leave them outside, though. I don't want them smelling up the place or bringing in any passengers you might have acquired along the way." She was already having horrible visions of being invaded by lice ... or the local equivalents. "Meanwhile, I'll put water on to heat for you and find the soap."

"Would you prefer that I wash down at the pond?" he asked, starting out through the doorway.

"The water's too cold yet. You'd develop pneumonia! No, just strip off and you can scrub yourself down over there. Here's a fur to wrap yourself in."

Spock nodded and went outside. After he had gone, Sapel looked up at his mother, his face betraying the guilt he was experiencing. "I'm glad he's home," he said in a speculative tone, fishing for his mother's feelings on the matter.

"So am I," she answered. "Papa says he's all well again. I truly hope so. Maybe we can get back to being a family again."

Sapel nodded. "You want me to fetch some water or anything?"

"No, we have enough in the water bags. You'll have to in the morning, though. Did you wash up like I told you to?"

"Yes, ma'am. You want me to cut up some vegetables for you?"

Christine smiled. "That would be very nice, Sapel. Thank you." She ruffled his dark hair and set him to work scraping and then cutting the tubers she planned to add to their leftover stew. While he did so, she set her griddle stone by the fire to heat and then got out her grinding stone, beginning to mill some of their grass grain into rough flour. She would mix it with water and cook flat, unleavened bread similar to pancakes.

While preparations for supper were underway, Spock came back in, wearing only the fur wrap around his middle. Checking the simmering water, he decided it was hot enough and moved it away from the fire, kneeling down in the semi-darkness of his sleeping corner to begin scrubbing away the layers of filth he had acquired. He kept himself a prudent distance away from the kitchen area as he did so, admitting to himself that he was pretty rank after his long period of going unwashed.

It took more than one basin of water to penetrate the grime. When the bathwater would become dirty, he would toss it out and set clean water to heating. Slowly, the healthy, slightly verdant flush of clean Vulcan skin began to emerge as he soaped and scoured.

Midway through, Christine brought him a bowl of stew and some bread, which he accepted gratefully, eating as if he hadn't had a meal in days. She sat with him and watched him eat, bemused. He had lost a lot of weight during his journey. Always lean, now he was downright thin, almost to the point of being skeletal, but she was confident the weight would begin to come back soon.

"Was it difficult?" she asked softly, hugging her updrawn knees to her.

"Yes. At times it was very difficult," he answered, sopping up soup with bread. "I'm not sure how to explain to you what it was like. Perhaps the best way to share the experience with you would be a mind meld."

She didn't answer and he looked up to meet her eyes. There was a slightly wary, withdrawn look to them.

"I did not mean to presume too far on our relationship," he said in a rough whisper, distressed as well. "Christine, I know things are still very strained between us. I hope that I can begin to put that right and reclaim your love."

She looked away quickly. "Don't be ridiculous, Spock," she answered dismissively. "You know I love you."

He reached out and took her hand, causing her to jerk back around to face him, something almost like fear in her eyes. "Do you, Christine?" he whispered. "Perhaps, but you do not trust me any longer." Their gazes held for a long moment. "Please... Let me regain that trust."

She searched his face than answered, "I'll try, Spock. Just give me some time, okay?" He nodded mutely and released her hand. She sniffed back incipient tears and asked, "Are you finished with your supper? Want some more?"

"I'm finished. Thank you," he replied, handing her the bowl. "It was absolutely delicious."

"Just stew," she answered and got to her feet. "I'll be back in a minute and wash your back for you. There are places you never could reach."

Spock smiled in spite of himself. "I would welcome your help!" Watching her walk back to the other side of the fire, his heart constricted with love and sorrow for this woman and all that she meant to him.

His gaze shifted to rest on Sapel, sitting with his back against the opposite wall and watching his father closely. The boy was eating his own supper and feeding Mooch tidbits as he did so, but his eyes never left Spock and there was a wary speculative expression in them that bespoke of a child's shattered trust in a parent.

Spock sighed and turned back to finishing his bath.

* * *

Christine lay tensed as she felt Spock kneel down beside her. He was silent for a moment then asked softly, "Christine? Would you allow me to sleep with you tonight?" She didn't answer and he added, "I promise I will ask nothing else of you. I simply want to be near you tonight."

She closed her eyes then replied, "All right."

He slipped under the furs beside her and she could feel the heat of his body as he settled next to her, but not touching. "Thank you," he whispered. He desperately longed to reach out to her, to hold her in his arms, but did not dare do so. The peace between them was still too fragile for that.

For a long time neither said anything, the tension between them too tangible to allow them to sleep. Christine was teetering on the edge of tears, her emotional state all too obvious to him. Taking a deep breath, Spock said in a quiet voice, "Tell me how I can make this up to you, Christine. How to put things right between us. I will do anything for you. Anything."

She squeezed her eyes shut and the tears began to roll down her cheeks. "Turn back time and keep it all from happening," she answered in a choked voice. She covered her face with her hands and her shoulders began to shake.

He reached out instinctively then halted himself, still unsure. "If I could do so, I would," he answered sincerely. "I would make it all right for you. I would never allow you to be hurt the way you have been."

"The way you hurt me!" she said in a biting tone.

It stabbed him deep and he hung his head in shame. "Yes. The way I hurt you. It was never intentional. You must believe that. I had no control over myself ... over my actions."

Christine sobbed softly and asked in a broken voice, "Do you have any idea the hell I have gone through for the past four months? Trying to keep us going through the winter? Trying to keep food in our bellies and the wolf literally away from the door?" Her face contorted again as the stress and sorrow began to overwhelm her. "Try ... trying to ... hang on by my ... fingernails and not go stark raving mad?!"

"And you have done a job that would have broken anyone with less strength and determination," he soothed her. This time he did lay his hand on her shoulder and was pleased when she did not shrug it off. He took the chance of scooting a little closer and lightly slipping his arm around her waist, drawing her gently against him.

She didn't seem to notice. "I'm about at my wit's end, Spock!" she sniffed raggedly. "I don't think I can take it much longer."

"You don't have to, beloved," he answered against her hair. "You can rest now. You need not do anything until you wish to do it. Simply relax and recuperate. Spring is in full bloom and I know you have always enjoyed seeing things burst into life again."

That caused a fresh outbreak of tears. "Oh, Spock, do you realize that it was just at this time last year that I became pregnant with T'Larin? Oh, my baby!" She broke down, her grief at last finding a break in the dam and pouring through the breach. "Oh, God! I want my baby back!"

His heart breaking as well, Spock turned her to face him and drew her into his arms, simply holding her and providing the support she needed. He said nothing more, but sent comforting emotions through their withered bondlink, feeling it slowly, hesitantly stir with energy once again. It was still far from the level of empathy they had shared, but at least she wasn't rejecting him.

After a long time, Christine quieted and her breathing evened out. Spock understood that she had slipped into an exhausted slumber and at last he allowed himself to fall asleep as well, his arms still around her.

* * *

Christine woke alone in her bed, just as she had done every morning for weeks. It was far past dawn, the light coming in through the open doorway strong but still holding the freshness of early morning. She raised herself up and looked around the cave but Sapel had already gotten up and left the cave. Perhaps he'd gone down to the toilet area by the creek. He'd been growing less and less afraid as the days passed and was venturing out a bit more.

As she began to rouse herself from sleep, she became aware of a delicious odor. A cup of steaming herb tea was sitting beside the bed, along with hot griddle cakes and honey on a wooden trencher. Then, unbidden, she smiled in delight. A couple of tiny violet flowers were lying atop the cakes.

Spock came in carrying an armload of firewood. "Ah, good. I was afraid you wouldn't wake up while your breakfast was still hot."

"You did this?" she asked incredulously, gazing up at him.

"I thought you deserved breakfast in bed for a change," he answered, dropping the wood onto the kindling pile. "If it is not to your liking, I will attempt to make you something else."

Christine couldn't suppress a laugh. "Okay. I'll have crepes with fresh strawberries and cream, fresh squeezed orange juice, melon balls, a poached egg, and a pot of fresh coffee."

Spock crossed his arms and looked down at her indulgently. "I shall forward your order to the kitchen. Room service should have it here in ... oh ... a few years? If we're lucky. If not, then you will simply have to make do with my cooking."

She chuckled. "Oh, well..." She took the trencher onto her lap and dipped one of the griddle cakes in honey. "Have you and Sapel eaten?" she asked, bringing it to her lips while trying to contain the drops of golden liquid oozing from the bread.

"Yes, some time ago." He settled down cross-legged beside her, retrieving the little flowers and gently twirling them between his fingers. "I had hoped to find something more than these," he said. "However, most of the flowers are not yet blooming."

"Spock, this is so sweet of you," she replied. "You didn't have to do this."

"On the contrary. I would bring you bouquets of roses if I could find any."

Suddenly embarrassed, she looked down at her breakfast. "You've been busy already this morning," she said.

"Yes. You have worked far too hard while I took my leave," he answered seriously. "Now it is your turn to rest and regain your health. You are henceforth on vacation. That's an order."

She looked up, her eyes sharp. "An order," she repeated.

"I apologize. I didn't mean that the way it sounded," he answered in a placating tone. "I merely meant that I want you to promise me that you'll take it easy for at least the next two weeks. Longer if you feel that you need it. I will do everything that needs doing."

"I apologize, too, Spock," she replied. "I'm just very touchy. I'll be honest. My nerves are shot."

"I understand," he said softly. "Mine were much the same. You gave me the time to regain my composure--for which I am immeasurably grateful--and I want you to have the same opportunity. Now, please, enjoy your breakfast. Do not feel obligated to do anything at all today. Sleep. Take a walk. Whatever you like." He got to his feet. "There is more wood that needs chopping and I must get back to that task. Please call me if you need anything."

"All right. Where is Sapel?"

"He is with me," Spock answered and a slightly troubled expression passed over his face. "Not happily, I confess, but I have much to make up to him and I can only do so if he spends time with me."

"He feels like you abandoned him, you know," Christine replied, looking up at him.

"I know. I experienced something of the same thing with my own father. I hope that this will allow me to open a pathway of communication with him." Spock sighed lightly. "I won't be far away. Shout if you need me."

She nodded and watched him duck underneath the doorway. Bemused, she turned back to her breakfast, pausing to take up the little violets and inhale their delicate fragrance. Despite herself, she felt a note of love for the Vulcan sing through her heart. She only wished she could trust him again the way she had for so long.

* * *

With careful steps, Sapel crept through the underbrush of the forest, his eyes locked on his prey. Spock hung back, watching him in amazement. The boy had become an accomplished hunter in the time he'd been gone.

Now Sapel froze into immobility for a long moment then slowly raised his bow, the arrow already nocked, and took aim at a spot in the branches of the trees. Again he paused then abruptly let fly and was running to the spot where his target would drop, almost before the arrow had a chance to find its mark.

There was a high squeal, then something hit the ground and Sapel was on it, his knife out and flashing. Spock hurried to the scene, but the boy had already dispatched the tree leaper he'd been stalking and was cleaning his obsidian knife blade with leaf litter.

"Very impressive!" Spock complimented the child. "That's the second one you've bagged."

Sapel didn't look up as he placed his kill in his carry pouch. "You're too big," he answered a bit sullenly. "They see you coming."

"Perhaps," his father admitted, although with a touch of displeasure at the boy's tone. "When did you learn to hunt so well?"

Sapel cut his eyes up sharply at the man bending over him. "When do you think, Papa? You made me the man of the family, remember? Who else was gonna keep us fed?"

"Sapel, I understand that you resent my absence, but that tone of voice is unacceptable."

The boy, just turned four by this planet's year, but closer to six on Earth or Vulcan, stood up to his full height and stared up at his tall parent. "Then why don't you leave again?" he demanded belligerently. "Mama and me don't need you! We're doing okay by ourselves!"

Spock instantly clamped a lid on the reactive outrage that sprang up in him, including the whisper of Asakar's voice that he should quite literally slap the boy to the ground for such insolence. Instead, Spock took a deep breath and answered, "I'm not leaving, Sapel. Your anger at me is valid and understandable, but I will not tolerate the disrespect you are showing me. I am your father."

The boy only glared back. "I don't need no father!" he retorted. "'Specially not one that runs off all the time!"

Clamping his teeth together, Spock felt at a loss on how to deal with this situation. He knew that Sapel harbored a deep-seated hurt and resentment toward him, but he had no idea it would be this bad. Finally, he said calmly, "As I stated, I will not leave you and your mother again. I know that you find that hard to believe at this moment, but it is true. Nor will I respond to your anger as you wish to goad me into doing. Such emotions are unproductive and illogical. They serve no purpose."

Sapel frowned. "You're trying to use your Vulcan stuff on me again."

Spock lifted an eyebrow in response. "I am Vulcan. And so are you, my son."

"I'm human! I got more human in me than Vulcan!"

"That is true. However, you cannot deny your Vulcan heritage."

"I can if I want to!" The boy's bottom lip was beginning to quiver and he abruptly turned away. "I got hunting to do," he stated flatly and stalked away.

Sighing deeply, Spock followed him. This first outing hadn't gone well at all. He could only hope to find some way to penetrate Sapel's fury and rebuild their relationship.

* * *

Spock stood at the cave's entrance, meditatively sipping a cup of hot tea and staring out at the falling rain. It had not let up for three days now, varying from gentle drippy showers to full-fledged thunderstorms. At the moment, it was somewhere in between, the rain coming down steadily but not exactly pouring.

Away at the head of the little valley, Spock could just see the waterfall that cascaded over the escarpment face. Usually, the gentle stream formed a quiet, soothing cascade. Now, the fall was three times the size, a torrent of brown, rushing water that thundered into the pool at its base. The pond itself was as full as Spock had ever seen it, the water ugly and choked with debris that had come over the fall. The creek was up as well, nearly out of its banks, and its swift muddy water hurtled down its winding bed toward the river a mile away.

Christine came to stand beside him, following his gaze. "I don't like the looks of that," she said. "How much higher do you think it will rise?"

Spock shook his head. "I don't know. We have never had a spring this wet and the creek has never gone out of its banks since we've been here. Obviously, though, from the shape of this valley, it has the potential to flood. The geology of the area bears that out."

"I wonder if it will get high enough to reach the cave opening," she answered.

"Again, I do not know. I had judged that this cave was formed from water running in through the roof hole there. Since we built a chimney around it, we haven't had that problem, but I may have been mistaken about it all. It is quite possible that water from the creek also had a hand in forming this cave." Spock took a sip of his tea, his brows lowered into a near frown.

Christine looked up at him. "You're worried, aren't you?" she asked softly.

Glancing down at her, he attempted to make his expression one of diffidence. "Vulcans do not worry, Christine," he told her. "I am merely gauging all the possibilities."

She shook her head. "Spock, I think your old granny woman needs to come back and kick your butt some more," she said. Spock had told her something of his experience, especially the wise counsel of T'Oman and Christine had been taken with the idea of the elderly Vulcan.

Spock was silent for a moment, then smiled and answered, "Perhaps. All right, yes, I am worried. If the water begins to come too close, we will need to be prepared to evacuate."

Christine nodded. "I agree. I don't suppose you've ever been through a flood, have you, Spock?"

"No. That is not generally a problem on Vulcan."

"I never have either, because we lived up on a hill, well above the high water mark, but I've seen the creeks and streams around my home town flood out when it rains like this. Water like that can suck you down into it before you even realize you're in trouble." She chewed her lip, her gaze turned inward as she watched the rain pelt down harder. "Spock, I've got a really bad feeling about this. I think we ought to get ready to move as soon as we can. If the water comes up quickly during the night, we may not get the warning we need to get out."

He peered down at her, his face serious. "All right," he said finally. "I am not sanguine about premonitions or 'bad feelings', but if you feel strongly about it, then we will go ahead and leave."

"I just think we need to get to higher ground," she replied.

"Where do you think we should go?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. You know the area better than I do from all your hunting trips. I'll ... I'll trust you to think of someplace."

He didn't fail to notice her slight hesitation and something within him felt a pang of both sadness and happiness. It was a step for her to trust him again, even if it were only so far as finding them a dry place to shelter.

* * *

While they were packing, the rain slowed and stopped, punctuated by a brilliant beam of sun breaking low under the clouds. Cautiously, the three of them ventured out to check the weather and Sapel was ecstatic to discover a full arching rainbow bending over the eastern horizon.

"Mama! Look at it! It's a double!" he cried.

"So it is," she answered, taking in the spectacle. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

Spock made an agreeable noise deep in his throat, but his attention was turned more to the still low hanging, dark blue clouds. "I don't believe that we've seen the last of the rain, however," he said. "I'm going up to the bluff and see how things look. This is likely just a pause before the rain sets in again."

He started off, his moccasins slipping on the muddy ground, but after a few minutes he had managed to make it way up to the top of the rise above their camp. From there, he had a good view of the surrounding few miles.

What he saw alarmed him. To the north, the creek that fed into their valley was completely out of its banks, water spread across the rolling prairie in a solid sheet. He could see from here, too, that their waterfall now had expanded across the entire escarpment, not heavily yet except for the main channel, but rivulets and ribbons of water now dropping on both sides of the primary fall.

To the south, the creek's rushing flow met the main river with force and that too had jumped its banks to spread across its flood plain for a good mile on either side. The eastern plains were partially underwater as well, all the way to the far distant tree line.

Only on the western prairie was there any sign of dry land and that was the rock outcropping that Spock had used so often when hunting. Even surrounding it, every depression and rill that could hold water was overflowing, puddles and pools everywhere. But that was the only place he could see that might afford them the solidity of high ground.

There was one main obstacle to reaching it, though. In order to do so, they would have to cross the creek, usually a mild and friendly stream easily forded with stepping stones. Now it was a mad torrent of muddy water, treacherous and swift. But there was no other way.

Spock made his way back down to where Christine and Sapel stood before the cave entranceway. The clouds had closed back together, shutting off the sunbeam and snuffing out the rainbow. Christine could tell by her husband's expression that the news was not good.

"Spock?" she asked expectantly.

"It looks like the only way out is to the west, to the outcropping," he answered. "I can't be sure, but I believe the river is still rising. We need to go while there's still a chance of getting across the creek."

Christine glanced fearfully at the muddy stream. "I think it's too high already," she said. "Isn't there another way?"

"I doubt it," he replied. "From what I could see, this may be the only place left that is fordable." There was a low rumble of thunder and rain began to fall once more. He glanced up at the sky. "I think we should leave now while there is still a chance of getting to safety."

Sapel had been hanging behind his mother and now edged back into the shelter of the cave. "I don't want to go in the rain!" he declared crossly.

Spock looked down at his son, frowning slightly. "What you want at the moment, Sapel, is immaterial. Go and get a pack ready of what you can't bear to leave behind. And hurry."

The boy stuck his lip out stubbornly. "Why? Just 'cause you say so?" he demanded.

"I have no time to argue with you! Go and do as I say!" Spock retorted, feeling his patience begin to slip.

Sapel showed every indication of standing his ground but Christine spun him about face and swatted his rear, impelling him inside. "That's enough of that, young man! I've had about enough of your sass! Get in there and do as your father tells you!"

Sapel scrambled and disappeared to get his gear together. Spock stared at his wife with raised eyebrows. "You hit him!" he commented in an accusatory tone.

"I applied a little impetus to my orders, that's all," she answered. "You know I would never hurt Sapel. And believe me, he barely felt that little pop at all. It just let him know that I mean business when I speak."

"As a Vulcan, I cannot condone that form of behavior," Spock answered, drawing himself up.

There was another peal of thunder and the rain fell harder. Christine winced. "We can discuss this later, Spock. Right now, we're got more urgent matters to think about."

"Agreed," he sighed. They ducked out of the rain and shed their damp coats. Undoubtedly they would get soaked soon enough. At the moment, they had packing to do.

* * *

It had begun to rain again hard when they had finally gathered their gear together. Spock paused at the doorway and shrugged into his pack. Christine was waiting behind him, also ready to go. Spock peered out at the downpour, sighed and said, "You carry Mooch and I'll help Sapel."

"No!" the boy shot back immediately. "I don't need any help!" Spock could almost hear the unfinished sentence, "...especially from you."

Wisely the child didn't say it and Spock only gave him a warning look. "Very well. Get your pack on. We must go."

"Can't we wait until it stops raining?" Sapel asked in a whiny tone.

"No. We must go now."

"I want to carry Mooch."

Spock sighed heavily. "All right! But we are going now!"

Sapel's gaze flicked to his mother to gauge her reaction and got a glare from her that threatened dire consequences. He picked up Mooch and put her inside his parka, a tight fit because the kit was nearly full grown now and the size of a large house cat.

Readying himself, Spock plunged out into the rain, his hood pulled up over his head. Sapel came next, then Christine following close behind him. The drive of the rain pounded into them, soaking them to the skin before they made their way down toward the creek. There Spock brought them to a halt, surveying the rushing water to determine the best way to get across. The rain streaming down his face blinded him and he ran a hand over his eyes to clear them.

"I don't see a good way across," he said. "I suppose we'll just have to plunge in. I'll go first and test the way, then you and Sapel come across."

Spock moved cautiously into the swift water, carefully feeling the way. Normally only ankle deep, the water swiftly came up nearly to his hips, pushing relentlessly at him and trying to knock him off his feet. Once he nearly lost his footing, then recovered it, finally making it to the opposite bank.

Dumping his pack on the shore, he waded back in and recrossed.

"What's wrong?" asked Christine over the drumming of the rain.

"It's too deep and fast for Sapel to wade," Spock answered, raising his voice to be heard over the pelting rain.

"I can do it!" the boy argued.

Spock ignored him, addressing himself to Christine. "Take Mooch and I'll carry Sapel on my back."

"I'm not riding like a baby!"

"Sapel, I do not propose to stand here in the rain and argue with you!" Spock answered, his patience at an end.

"You're asking for it, mister!" Christine seconded, tired of her son's obstinance. "Give me Mooch!"

"No!"

She grabbed his arm and physically removed the kit from underneath the boy's coat. "That is enough!" she answered angrily.

Mooch squealed as Christine grabbed her roughly and yanked her out of her warm sanctuary. She twisted to defend herself, all her wild instincts leaping to the fore. In the melee that followed, Christine ended up with a badly bitten finger and several deep scratches, while Mooch hit the ground running and disappeared back in the direction of the cave, scrambling at top speed.

"Goddamn it!" Christine swore, sucking on her finger. "I hope I don't get rabies or something from this!"

"I want Mooch!" Sapel wailed and started after his pet.

"We have no time for this!" Spock snapped and seized his son around the waist. "She will be fine! Now hold on to me!"

"Let go of me!" Sapel yelled and tried to kick his father.

"Stop it!" Christine ordered, furious.

"Cease this nonsense at once!" Spock demanded of the squirming boy. "Put your arms around my neck and hang on to me."

"I don't want to!" Sapel answered loudly and kicked backward again, connecting this time with Spock's thigh.

Christine grabbed Sapel's chin, making him look at her. "I am going to wear your bottom out!" she threatened. "You're not going to be able to sit for a week!"

Sapel quieted, but sullenly, his eyes narrowed up angrily. Christine glared back, but could not afford to discipline her son here.

Spock turned with Sapel still in his arms and stepped into the water, Christine following behind. As they sank deeper into the cold, rushing water and the shock of it soaked through his clothing, Sapel shouted in protest and struggled again.

"Sapel, stop!" Spock ordered, fighting both to maintain his footing and keep a hold on the boy.

But Sapel was thoroughly agitated by now and began to fight with all his might. Flailing wildly, he lashed back with his foot and caught Spock squarely in the kneecap.

Pain like a knife shot through Spock's entire body at the impact and he reflexively loosened his grip for a split second.

It was enough. In that split second, Sapel was gone out of Spock's arms and had disappeared into the muddy, surging water.

Christine screamed and grabbed at Spock, who had whipped around in panic, searching the water frantically.

A small hand appeared and Sapel surfaced, then was pulled under again.

Without a second thought, Spock dived in after him.

"Spock!" screamed Christine again, watching in horror as he came up, sputtering and flinging muddy water out of his face, then he struck out after the small figure bobbing out of sight.

The current fought him, threatening to pull him under as well, but Spock maintained a steady stroke. Ahead of him, Sapel's head popped up, then down again, the boy thrashing and trying to catch hold of anything that might stop his rapid progress. Every now and then a strangled screech would manage to escape before the water smothered him once again. Spock swam as fast as he could, battling the same obstacles as Sapel, but he could not seem to gain on his son.

Out of his peripheral vision, blurred and obscured by the surging water, Spock caught sight of a gnarled tree bent over the waterway. It whipped past as the current tumbled him onward. But he knew that tree. It was almost to the junction where the creek flowed into the river and it gave him added impetus to reach his child. Once the torrent dumped them into the wide, rapid flood of the main river, he would never get to Sapel in time and he wasn't sure he could swim against that strong a flow to save himself.

The knowledge and fear sent a surge of adrenalin through the Vulcan and he made a supreme effort. Ahead of him, Sapel had come up again, scrambling frantically to catch a tree branch that had lodged against the bank. He managed to catch it ... barely ... the current doing its best to tear him away from his fragile hold.

It gave Spock just enough time to reach him as the twigs Sapel was grasping snapped and gave way. Spock lunged toward him and caught the hood of his coat with one hand, snaring the tree branch with his other as an anchor. His greater size and strength allowed him to pulled Sapel back toward him and get a better hold on him. Then, his son firmly in his grip, Spock labored on hands and knees up out of the turbid waters and onto the muddy creekbank.

He retched and coughed up filthy water, then hastily turned his attention to the limp little figure he had in his arms. "Sapel!"

Spock frantically turned his son over his arm, face down, slapping him hard between the shoulder blades. Water ran out of the boy's open mouth but otherwise Sapel didn't respond. With increasing panic, Spock went through every first aid procedure he could remember, the driving rain hampering his efforts.

Finally he laid Sapel flat and began mouth to mouth resuscitation, bending over his little son to breathe life into him, then to lay his ear against the boy's mouth to hear the exhaled breath. "Please, Sapel, please," Spock whispered desperately. "I can't lose you too. Please breathe!" He pinched Sapel's nostrils together and covered the child's mouth with his own, forcing air into his lungs.

When Sapel exhaled this time, Spock quickly turned the child on his side rubbed his back vigorously. More water gushed out of the boy's mouth then Spock slapped him sharply on the back once more. He was rewarded by a strangled gasp as Sapel reflexively sucked in air, gagged and then vomited, bringing up the rest of the water he had swallowed. Then he began to pull in deep, oxygen-starved breaths, coughing hard as he did so. And he began to cry as his full terror settled over him.

Weak with a relief too profound to describe, Spock enfolded his son in his arms and held him close, scarcely noticing at first when the child put his arms around his neck and clung to him desperately.

"Shhhh, it's all right now," Spock soothed him. "You're safe."

"Papa!" Sapel sobbed, holding his father frantically. It was all he could manage to get out but the emotional flood that surged over Spock said all that needed to be expressed. Sapel was his beloved son again, his heart open once more with adoration for the man he'd thought long gone.

A scrambling sound distracted them and Christine plunged through the brush at the top of the creek bank, sliding through the mud down to drop to her knees before them, throwing her arms around them both. Bursting into tears of relief, she hugged both of them as hard as she could, mindless of their soaked, filthy clothing.

She rained kisses on her little son's cheeks then lifted her face to the muddy, pallid countenance of her husband. Without a word, for she could not speak past her choked throat, she pulled him to her and captured his mouth in a frantic kiss, then pressed her cheek against his, tears flowing down through the mire on his skin.

Spock drew his wife and son close against him and there, in the mud and rain of a flooded creek bed, they became a family once again.

* * *

"Is he asleep?" Christine asked, lying on her side beneath the bed furs.

"Yes. He was quite exhausted," Spock answered softly. He slipped in beside her and settled on his back, one hand flung up and cradled beneath his head. Truth be told, he was quite exhausted himself.

They had huddled for two days on the high ground before the flood drained off enough to allow them to go home. The creek had lapped dangerously at their doorstep, but had never entered the cave and they had returned to find it warm and dry. They found Mooch crouched at the back on Sapel's bedding, shaking and wide-eyed, but unharmed.

Fortunately there was firewood and clean water and food stored inside, but the creek valley was a muddy mess, strewn with debris. It would take days to restore it. But the first order of business had been a fire, hot food, getting cleaned up, and then into dry clothing. By the time they had accomplished all they needed to do, night had fallen and all of them were glad to seek their beds.

Spock had put Sapel to bed, carrying the sleepy child to his place and settling him in. He had clung doggedly to Spock since the near-tragedy of the creek crossing and now was only content to have his father tuck him into his bedding. As his eyes fell shut, Sapel murmured softly, almost to himself, "Night, Papa. I love you."

Spock felt his heart constrict as he laid a hand on his son's head and whispered to the sleeping child, "T'chalya, cha'i. Sleep well." He gazed down at his little boy's serene face for a long moment, then rose to his feet and turned to his wife's bed.

They had been sleeping together since his return from his quest, but he had never touched her in a sexual manner, not wanting to shatter the fragile peace between them. And, while she had grown used to feeling his warmth at her back once more, she likewise had never offered him the slightest hint that she wanted to resume marital relations. Spock accepted it with the stoicism of his Vulcan upbringing. It was not unusual for Vulcan couples to remain celibate between pon farr, even to go their separate ways until brought back together at the Mating Time. He assumed that Christine wished it to be so between them.

Thus, he was a little surprised when she snuggled closer to him and insinuated herself into the hollow of his near shoulder. Obligingly, he embraced her with that arm, but did not move off his back or respond more than to hold her lightly. She slipped her arm across his bare chest and, for a long time, they lay quietly, listening to the soft crack and snap of the embers in the hearth.

He let his thoughts wander over the contentment he was feeling just now, his family safe, his wife cuddled against him. Her skin smelled clean and fresh, still flushed from her recent bath. The soft, yielding globe of her breast pressed into his side, causing an incipient tingle to form in his groin, and he tightened his hold on her fractionally. Her breath against his neck, the way she moved her foot against his leg, caused the tingle to become a throb and he drew a deep inhalation as he sought to control the arousal before it went any further. He knew all too well how thoughtlessly he had treated her before he left, how he had ruthlessly taken her for his own gratification. Sensitive to her injured psyche, he had determined he would not inflict himself on her until she asked it of him. If ever. He tried not to think about his own fast approaching pon farr, approximately a year away now.

As if she could read his thoughts, as perhaps she could pressed skin-to-skin with him, Christine raised her head slightly and peered seriously at him in the dim light of the fading fire. She reached up to turn his face toward hers, caressing his cheek with soft fingertips.

"You've been away long enough, Spock. When are you coming home?" she asked enigmatically.

He couldn't help the little twitch of an eyebrow that lifted in response. "I don't understand. I am right here."

"Spock has been home for a month," she answered. "When does my husband get here?"

Understanding flooded through him but he replied in a quiet voice, "Is he welcome?"

Her mouth quivered slightly at the corners, fending off tears. "He is if he wants to be," she whispered. "I want him home with me. I want him back the way he was. I'm just not sure myself if he wants it." She blinked back tears and went on, "Spock ... I'm so sorry about everything. I hated you so much when T'Larin died. I was so devastated that I couldn't even begin to understand what you must have been feeling. And when you left, I was so angry at you and said such terrible things. Can you ever forgive me?"

"Beloved," he answered, shocked and saddened. Rolling onto his side, he pulled her into his arms. "I'm the one to blame. If I had been more in control of myself, if I'd realized what was happening to me... And I can't help but think that, if I hadn't left you that morning, just after you'd given birth ... none of this would have happened. It's all my fault!"

"Spock, you couldn't have prevented it," she argued, tears filling her eyes as she stroked his face. "You didn't know that creature was waiting out there anymore than I did. It was just a horrible, horrible thing that just ... happened. It's over and done with. We can't bring her back, no matter how much we beat ourselves up about it. We need to put it behind us and go on with our lives. It's time to move on. Can we do that?"

He gazed at her then nodded. "Yes. I resolved my grief during my pilgrimage. I am at peace now. I know we will never forget her or entirely erase the pain from our hearts, and that's as it should be. But it's time to turn back to the future."

He paused then said, "And actually I have been mulling over something else for sometime, something I haven't mentioned because I didn't know how you would feel." She looked at him, plainly curious, and encouraged him to continue. "Let's get away from here. This valley," Spock said. "There are too many bad memories here in this place. Let's move and start over."

"But where would we go?" she asked, puzzled and a little concerned.

"The ship," he answered, growing more animated. "We've only been there in the winter. I would like to spend the summer there. Anyway, there are things on board that I want to investigate and equipment I want to try fixing again. We'll be closer to Sea Home, too, once it's time to migrate to the coast."

Christine could see the eagerness shining in Spock's eyes and she finally nodded. "All right. I would like to get away from here. Let's talk about it more tomorrow when we're not so tired."

"Agreed."

She nodded again and then paused. "Spock ... I do need to know something, though," she said, her voice tinged with hesitancy.

As she had done, he responded with an encouraging expression. Her lashes hooded her eyes for a second, then she looked up to meet his earnestly. "Spock ... you haven't touched me sexually since you got back from your journey. I have to know ... do you ... do you still want me?"

His heart thudded at the pain in her question and he responded by pulling her into his arms. "T'hy'la ... I thought you did not want me! It has been torment beyond reason to lie beside you every night and be unable to touch you. I have ached to love you. Literally experienced pain from the hours I have spent next to you but apart."

He ran his hand over her hair, trailing his fingers along her jawline, feeling her emotions crackle along her meld points. "Not want you? My beloved wife, you are the heart that beats within me. You are the reason I live! I want you more than anything I've ever wanted in my entire life!"

His mouth came down on hers, gently at first, then searching, hungry. She replied in kind, a matching need that met his head on.

Abruptly all of the pent up passion he had been amassing burst free. The weeks of solitude and grief, of denial and anger, of isolation and introspection ... all were washed away on the clean torrent of renewal. His soul and body surging with joy, he devoured her lips, his tongue seeking and finding hers, his arms folded around her.

Suddenly they could not get close enough, could not drink deeply enough of the other's lips, could not rid themselves fast enough of the barriers of clothing that kept them apart. All the weeks of separation disappeared as they came together in glorious joining, mind and body, exploding in the indescribable ecstasy of mutual pleasure and understanding.

After a very long time, exhausted but not yet sated, they lay resting, Spock still covering her sweaty body with his, his fullness still buried within her, and he looked down into the tranquil blue pools of her eyes, so filled with love for him that he could scarcely fathom its depth. She gazed back, radiant, more beautiful than he'd ever seen her.

Feeling himself swell with need once again, he bent and kissed her full, rose-pink lips, sending a flush of desire and adoration through their bondlink to envelop her. She groaned against his mouth and her hips lifted slightly beneath him, her answer clear.

Barely parting his lips from hers, he whispered with every bit of love he felt for her, "T'hy'la..."

Her hands came up to caress his face and she whispered back, "Husband ... my darling husband ... love me again. Please! I need you so much!"

It was all the encouragement he required. Bringing his lips back down on hers in a fervent kiss, Spock began to move again within his wife's welcoming body.

END OF PART FIVE