In the morning Spock made himself rise from bed. He selected a few morsels from the plate of Klingon garbage and chewed them without appetite. The many weeks of abuse and poor nutrition were having their effect on his mind and body. Yet somehow, for T'Beth's sake, he must continue on. Somehow he must shake off the black malaise enough to function and perhaps even find a way out of this. But how? Once more he thought of his own deadly solution. A swift, final end for them both. Was it not preferable to torture? In his imagination he felt his hands on his daughter's neck, but there the horrendous image froze.

"So!" Torlath's dark head appeared at the door. "Sitting idle, are you? Come with me!"

Spock followed him outside. The chill of dawn sliced through his thin clothes. Already shivering, he walked barefoot over the frozen earth behind the warmly shod Klingon.

Torlath stopped and pointed. "Look there, fool!"

A lone khaadi bleated plaintively as it tried to wiggle its way into the security of the corral. Spock approached the confused animal and his mouth tightened at the thought of ten lashes on the back of his child, ten agonizing strokes of a Klingon whip while this mindless creature decided whether or not to come home. He seized it by the fur. Opening the gate with one hand, he thrust the squealing beast into the enclosure.

Torlath smirked and led the way into the barn where all thirty-one khaadi were packed together for warmth. At the sight of the Klingon they snorted in fear and backed into a corner.

"Stinking beasts!" Torlath's nose wrinkled in distaste. "I will be rid of some before you manage to lose any more. I will not be reduced to chewing roots like some khesting Vulqangan. Save ten healthy young females, and two rams. Slaughter the rest."

Spock's head came up. He looked at Torlath with open dismay. "Me? My lord, I am hardly qualified to…" His voice trailed off. Obviously Torlath was not listening. The huge Klingon was elbow deep in a storage bin, actively tossing out ropes, hooks, buckets, and a few other implements Spock could not identify. And hidden in that bin's darkest, most spidery corner was Lanya's cloak.

As Spock watched, Torlath went stiff and ceased his rummaging. Reaching a bit deeper into the bin, he drew out the spotted cloak. His face hardened as he stared at the khaadi fur. Swinging around, he confronted Spock. "What is this!"

Spock quickly lowered his eyes, erasing from them any sign of guilt or panic. "My lord—it appears to be an article of clothing."

Torlath stepped near, and one great hand pushed Spock to his knees. "Do not play games with me, Vulqangan. Tell me what you know of this cloak. Tell me now!"

Swallowing, Spock stared down at the heavy Klingon boots and decided on a half-truth. "My lord, I found it here in the barn."

"You found it? You khesting little thief, you stole it!"

The steely Klingon fingers bit into Spock's shoulder. Spock drew a breath. "I found it—my lord. And I was cold."

Torlath strode to the barn door and roared Lanya's name. After a slight delay she rushed in, and seeing her cloak in Torlath's hands, stopped short. Her grandfather said something to her. For a moment she looked flustered, and then she turned and flew at Spock. Shouting in Klingonese, she hit him in the face.

Torlath spoke sharply. He held out the cloak to her. Lanya snatched it from him and hurled it into the dirt. Torlath's great bulk seemed to expand. His black eyes narrowed at his defiant young granddaughter. Her jaw set tighter. Heated words were exchanged. Then, a moment of charged silence. Suddenly Torlath lashed out and struck her to the ground.

Looking on, Spock held himself still. He had expected Torlath's anger to target him, not his granddaughter. Did Torlath suspect that Lanya had been aiding him, or was there another reason for his harsh behavior?

Lanya picked up the discarded cloak and fled from the barn. With a grunt Torlath turned back to the bin and resumed his rummaging. "So she thinks the touch of your body has spoiled her precious cloak," he grumbled. "Careless wench! I wager she will not leave it lying around soon again."

With relief, Spock realized that Lanya had acted once more to protect him.

Meanwhile, Torlath found what he was looking for. "Up off your knees, cold one!" he barked. "A little work will warm you nicely!"

The first step in butchering was to select the victim. Every fiber of Spock's Vulcan being rejected the slaughter of animals for food, but he would sooner kill every one of these khaadi with his bare hands than have T'Beth suffer again for his rebellion. A dozen trusting noses nuzzled him as he walked among the herd. He tried without success to summon a little of the anger he had experienced out in the yard. Avoiding the creatures' eyes, he picked one up and held it against him while Torlath bound its hind legs.

"Pay attention," ordered the Klingon. "I intend to show you this only once."

With easy strength Torlath hook the khaadi to a support beam, and while it dangled upside-down squealing in terror, he drew a knife across its throat. Purple blood spattered into a pail waiting below. Slowly, very slowly, the animal's struggles weakened as its life bled away.

Spock swallowed a taste of bile. He watched without expression as Torlath's knife flashed over the dying khaadi, opening a clean slit from groin to breast…and abruptly his mind took flight. There was another knife, another Klingon hand driving blade into flesh—human flesh. A young, fair-haired man staggered back and slumped to the ground…

A kick from Torlath's boot brought Spock's mind back into focus. He found himself bend double, retching.

"Khi'yakh!" Torlath growled deep in his throat. "Are you too delicate to do even a woman's work? Perhaps I should shave your beard and take you into my bed!"

Spock drew in deep breaths and brought himself under control. Torlath continued skinning the animal. In a few short minutes the khaadi's steaming remains were divided into utilitarian piles.

With a mocking smile, Torlath turned and held out the knife. "Now, my thieving Vulqangan, let us see if you have been paying attention."

Spock looked at the gory blade presented to him. In his mental state Torlath's simple comment seemed layered with meaning, and life took on a peculiar irony. The slaughter of an animal had made him physically ill. Yet just now he could have slit this child beater's throat without a qualm. No—with pleasure. Did his lord and master know how near he stood to death? Yes, Torlath knew. The dark Klingon eyes mocked him. Come ahead, they taunted. Try it. Even succeed—and see what my people do to you and your lovely daughter.

With a subservient bow, Spock reached for the knife.

All through the day he tied and slit and emptied khaadi of their foul-smelling bowels. Clamping down on his nausea, he set his mind to hide-peeling and the carving of flesh. He carried countless buckets of warm blood to the kitchen for some vile, mysterious purpose. He stretched pelts. He buried refuse. He slaughtered and hauled meat until the living khaadi fled squealing from him as from a Klingon, until blood soaked into every pore and Spock doubted if any bath would ever cleanse him of this particular dirtiness.

Night came. Twelve surviving khaadi shivered in the dark enclosure, far from the barn with its scent of death. Alone inside, Spock worked by lamplight to clear away the last of the carnage. His body ached from the damp cold, from wrestling carcasses and heavy buckets all day, from sheer revulsion. At last he was done. Turning out the light, he wearily walked into the house. In the kitchen the women were still busy processing the results of his grim labor. No one bothered him as he descended the stairs to his room. The door locked automatically behind him. Stripping off his filthy clothes, he plunged into the heated spa. A circulating pump carried away the blood as it washed from his skin, keeping the water clear. He soaped his bearded face and scrubbed his hair and all of his body, twice over. Still he felt unclean, but no Klingon soap could remedy that.

After a good long soaking he climbed out, dried himself, and wrapped up in the towel as he headed for the warmth and comfort of bed. He never reached it. He stopped at the sound of the door opening. If he had been less tired he might have cursed aloud when Torlath walked in. "My lord," he said woodenly.

An odor assailed Spock's nostrils, a smell as revolting as any he had endured that day. He saw the steaming bowl in Torlath's hands and his throat tightened.

"You whine that you are cold," Torlath said, "then I find you lounging about in a towel. Get dressed!"

Spock quickly put on a clean pair of pants and a shirt, and stood before the Klingon in a posture of submission.

Torlath eyed him, his dark countenance unreadable. He set the bowl of Klingon food on the table where Spock usually ate. "It is the custom among my people to prepare a blood soup on the day of slaughter. No crusts for you today, Vulqangan. Eat." His eyes glinted. "You have earned it."

Numbly Spock moved to the table and sat down. He looked at the thick black soup. His breath caught in the foul steam and he felt his gorge rise. He swallowed hard, but his stomach stayed in his throat. "My lord," he said, "I appreciate your generosity…but Vulcans cannot eat the flesh of animals, or their blood."

"Cannot—or will not?" Torlath's voice was unusually mild. "Do not insult your Klingon hosts, halfbreed. Eat. Eat it all." He sat down across from Spock and made himself comfortable.

"My lord," Spock said, "I am sorry. I cannot."

Torlath shrugged. "Unfortunate…but no matter. I will save it for your daughter. After a month of fasting she will call it a feast." He reached for the bowl.

"I will eat it," Spock said hoarsely.

Again Torlath shrugged with apparent indifference. He drew his hand back. "As you please, Vulqangan."

Inwardly bracing, Spock picked up the spoon. The first swallow made his stomach heave. Somehow he swallowed. Somehow the disgusting mess went down. As he reached for another bite he broke out in a cold sweat…and T'Beth was hugging a sack in rapture. She said, "Chocolate bars from Earth! Hershey's! Oh, Father, look what Uhura gave me!"

Spock hesitated to interfere. But considering T'Beth's physiology, he found her passion for sugary treats even more unseemly than her appetite for animal flesh. He watched her tear into a wrapper with all the tremulous urgency of an addict. Taking a bite, she closed her eyes and breathlessly savored the melting chocolate until Spock said, "That is enough. I cannot permit you to eat any more."

T'Beth froze. "Why? Everyone eats candy."

"You are not everyone," Spock pointed out. "You are part Vulcan. Your body will convert refined sugar to alcohol, like mine."

T'Beth glowered at him. "I ate candy on Ildarani. You never want me to have any fun!"

Spock sighed. "That is not true. Alcohol would negatively affect your mental function. How much chocolate have you eaten?"

T'Beth hurled the bag of candy at his feet. "You're mean! I wish I was back on Ildarani! Why did Mama have to die?" With a sob she turned and ran for the door.

Spock winced…

…and choked down another vile bite. It was almost finished now. One, perhaps two, mouthfuls left. Dipping back into the bowl, he swallowed the foul dregs and then put down his spoon and sat in silence.

"Are you not going to thank me?" Torlath picked up the empty bowl and stood.

"Thank you," Spock said through his nausea, "my lord."

Torlath threw back his head and howled with laughter. Then, as often happened, his wrath descended like a nerve-shattering thunderclap. With one savage kick he splinter Spock's chair and sent him sprawling. "Thank you my lord," he taunted. "You khesting little thief! Where is it!"

Stunned, Spock raised his head from the floor. "My lord—I do not understand. To what are you referring?"

"The knife, you ass!"

For a confused moment Spock wondered if he had inadvertently brought the knife downstairs with him. Then he remembered. "My lord. I left it in the kitchen with the last of the meat." Yes, that is what he had done. He had wanted to be rid of it, to be free of its glittering temptation.

Torlath's face blackened. "Liar!"

Spock was surprised at what pain that single word could inflict, even now. It overshadowed every other discomfort as Torlath's iron hands locked onto his arm, slammed him against the gray wall, and held him in place.

"The knife is not there!" Torlath bellowed. "Not in the kitchen, not in the barn! Could it be, fool, that you are thinking to cut my throat?"

That, Spock could not deny—but only that, even if it cost him every inch of his skin. "My lord," he repeated, "I do not have your knife."

Torlath's eyes glimmered with a rage bordering on madness. Keeping one hand on Spock, he reached into his tunic. Out flashed a slim blade, a dagger honed sharp and deadly. The Klingon touched its razor point to Spock's throat. "Now, dog, the famed Vulqan truth!"

Spock drew a slow breath, knowing it might be his last. The pressure on his throat increased. He felt the cold bite of steel set his blood seeping. "My lord," he spoke, "I have told you—"

Torlath's muscles corded. The blade slashed downward and across, leaving a wounded path under the long tear in Spock's shirt. The sting of a playful claw, the LeMatya toying with its prey while death closed in. Torlath's blade hand rose again and Spock closed his eyes. Forgive me, daughter, I did not want to leave you here alone…

"Vavni!" A clear young voice rang out, "Vavni, taj tu'!"

Spock felt Torlath's grip on him slacken. He opened his eyes and found the blade poised an inch from his throat, and Lanya at the door holding the lost butcher knife.

"Khe'," she said. She had found it in the kitchen. It had only been misplaced, after all.

Torlath growled. There was no hint of apology in the sound or in the way he hurled Spock to the floor, a bleeding discard. "Khoh!" he spat. "Worthless garbage! Not even your friend Kirk gives a damn about you!"

Spock lay unmoving on the stone floor, drawing its brittle strength into himself. Words were only words. Pain was a thing of the mind. Control the mind and—

The door slammed. He was alone. Somehow he made it to the toilet before his stomach emptied. He retched into the basin until his throat felt raw and his insides ached and he trembled with a loathing more poisonous than the Klingon's abominable soup. When at last the sickness eased, he splashed cool water over his face and soothed his slashed chest with a damp towel. He did not bother to change his shirt. Exhausted, he dropped into bed, but the day's many shocks and humiliations kept his mind unsettled long after his stomach quieted. The night was half gone before he slipped into a restless sleep…and he dreamt of blood, the Vulcan's noble blood drained dry from his veins by Klingon serpents. It its place flowed something dirty. His mind seethed with bitter thoughts of cruelty and revenge. Looking back on who Spock had once been, he laughed aloud, a sickening sound. He took one of the snakes into his hand and used it to whip the proud Starfleet Spock, feeling each lash in his own body, infuriated by the pain.

"Cry!" he demanded. "Cry to me and I will stop!" But the uniformed Vulcan only looked at him with pity and remained silent.

A thunderous voice rolled in the distance. At the dreaded sound Spock dropped the snake-whip and fell to his knees. The voice rumbled closer. Torlath's angry face appeared in the roiling sky. "Vulqangan! What are you doing to yourself!"

Full of rage, Spock rose up and faced the vision, his fists clenched. "No! It is you! It is what you are doing to me!"

…The answering explosion jolted Spock straight up in bed. Pale light spilled from the open basement doorway. There was a drift of smoke, something moving, a sound of footsteps. The beam of a flashlight cut across his face and passed on. A shadowy form glided up beside him. Torlath?

"My lord…" he began but did not know what more to say.

"Spock," a voice spoke breathlessly. "Spock, it's me!"

Recognition struck like a thunderbolt—yet it was impossible! "Jim?" he questioned.

Hands caught him, rough in the urgency of their welcome, and then there was no doubt. Reaching out, Spock felt his Vulcan defenses start to crumble.

"Spock, we've got T'Beth. She's waiting in the Bird-of-Prey—the one we captured at Genesis. Your father got us everything we needed—parts, fuel, supplies—but it took time. So much to figure out, so much to plan—" The rush of words choked off.

And in the dark Spock clung to him and wept.

oooo

The electricity was out. The Klingon's primary power source had been disrupted in the first moments of the attack. Holding Kirk's flashlight, Spock purposefully picked his way through the unconscious bodies strewn around the house.

"Come on," urged Kirk, strange looking in his Klingon uniform, phaser at ready. "Spock, there's no time for this. You say they have a ship somewhere. These people might have sent up an alert."

"Perhaps," Spock agreed, "but they will not be expecting a fully cloaked Bird-of-Prey." He came upon a female form crumpled in a hallway. Bending down, he made Lanya's body more comfortable, and then brushed her bruised face and sleeping mind in a brief farewell. She would recover from the heavy phaser stun. She would know that he appreciated her kindness.

Kirk pulled out a communicator. "Spock. We have to beam out of here."

Spock swept the flashlight over the area one last time. Its beam settled on a hulking Klingon wearing a serpent belt. Loathing welled up.

"That's him?" Kirk guessed. "Kruge's father?"

Spock nodded, fingers itching to break the thick Klingon neck. He did not even stop to consider. The flashlight dropped and he was going for Torlath, but Kirk's hands caught him and held on. They briefly struggled in the shadows. Then gripping Spock hard by the shoulders, Kirk met his eyes head-on. "No! It's over! We're leaving!"

Spock yielded to the admiral's command. Suppressing the killing urge, he stood aside. There was a thing or two he would have liked to tell Kirk, but later for that. Suddenly he, too, could not wait to get out of here. He was still working to contain his emotions when they materialized in a Klingon transporter room manned by a portly soldier in the uniform of the Empire. Instinctively Spock froze before recognizing Mister Scott's smiling face. Also in Klingon black, Doctor McCoy slowly crossed the room toward him. Except for the clothing they all looked so…unchanged. It made Spock acutely aware of his own rough appearance.

McCoy reached the platform and stepped up. Tears shone in his eyes as he searched Spock's haggard face—the uncombed shag of hair, the beard, the telltale bruises, the deep inner scarring not even a Vulcan could conceal. Shakily the doctor said, "Can't stay out of trouble for a minute, can you?"

Kirk spoke up. "Scotty, let's get this Klingon crate off the ground.

"Aye," Scott beamed, heading for the control cabin. "With pleasure!"

Kirk and McCoy got off the platform. Spock, too, stepped down and tried to shake a feeling of displacement as he gazed into a dim connecting corridor. He asked, "Where is T'Beth?"

McCoy's expression became grave. "In the sleeper cabin. I…just finished giving her a preliminary exam." He hesitated, his sharp eyes taking stock of Spock's gaping, bloodstained shirt. "It's high time I look at you, too."

There was a sound of engines engaging. The ship vibrated noisily. As it rose into the air, creaking, the three men moved to the wall and gripped handrails.

"Not now, Doctor," Spock said loudly enough to be heard. He had no intention of letting McCoy's medscanner anywhere near him. "If you will just show me to the sleeper cabin…"

Kirk looked at McCoy and nodded. "Get him some decent clothes first, and something for his feet. The rest can wait."

oooo

Spock felt distinctly uncomfortable in the clothes he had been given—black Klingon boots and pants and an officer's tunic from ship's supplies. It was, McCoy had said apologetically, the only thing available. Spock would almost rather have gone without.

He stopped at the sleeper cabin and pushed his hair out of his eyes before knocking.

"Who is it? T'Beth called softly.

"Your father," he replied.

There followed a long pause, and he thought perhaps she was coming to open the door. Then she said, "Not now…"

Spock stared at the door. Now that the horror of their captivity was over, he would see T'Beth's condition for himself. He entered, wondering what he would find. T'Beth lay on one of several bunks in the cramped, unadorned cabin. Her eyes widened at the sight of his Klingon uniform, then she turned her head away.

"T'Beth," he said.

She made a small noise in her throat but would not meet his eyes, and no wonder. He had knelt before a Klingon. He had meekly accepted beatings and all manner of abuse. Worst of all, he had been unable to save her from Torlath's whip.

"We are safe," he spoke into the silence. "This ship is equipped with a cloaking device. The Klingons will be unable to track us."

Shifting position, she let her hand fall to the floor. Spock cast about for some way to draw her out, to make her say what was on her mind. It was not like her to be silent. Finally he asked, "How is your back?"

"Better," she said somberly. Nothing more.

Spock nodded to himself. Around them the ship groaned in protest as it sped undetected through Klingon territory. "T'Beth," he said with effort, "however difficult, you must tell me…how you were treated."

To his dismay, she turned to the wall and curled up. His first impulse was to draw back and leave her in privacy, but sensing her distress, he could not hold himself apart. Settling onto her bunk, he firmly turned T'Beth toward him.

"Look at me," he said, but her eyes remained stubbornly averted.

She shook her head and tears spilled down her cheeks. "I can't. I just want to be alone."

A Vulcan would not have been disturbed by the words. A Vulcan would have left her alone to deal with her emotions. But just now Spock was feeling more like a father than a Vulcan, with a parent's fears creeping through his veins.

"T'Beth—" His voice grew strained. "I am…sorry that I couldn't do more to protect you. I did what I thought best…but it was not enough."

Finally she looked at him, her eyes full of anguish. "Oh Father," she moaned, "the slave-act—it was for me, wasn't it? I should have known. But maybe I always knew. Maybe the knowing just hurt too much."

Yes, Spock considered. There could be much pain in knowing, but also in not knowing—in weeks and weeks of grinding uncertainty when even the stars seemed hidden. "My lord," he said bitterly. "My honorable lord Torlath assured me that my subservience would buy your safety and comfort." He held back, openly dreading the inevitable but necessary end of his own uncertainty. "Were you kept safe? Were you kept comfortable?"

T'Beth's miserable blushed was in itself a horrible kind of answer. She read the pained lines of is face, saw he was waiting for her to sink the blade of truth, waiting to hear from her what he could not bring himself to ask. Tears gushed like the breaking of a dam. "Oh God, he made me…made me do things…awful things. He said he'd kill you if…if I didn't. He said he'd beat you to death…"

Things. Awful things. Blindly Spock turned aside and clenched his calloused hands into fists. He had let himself trust the word of a barbarian. He had struck a bargain with a Klingon devil, and lost. He had failed his young daughter completely. "Torlath—" How bitter was the name. "He…forced his attentions on you?"

T'Beth's voice shook. "I had to do what he said! I couldn't think of any way to stop him—I had to or else—"

Spock thought of Torlath abusing his daughter. With rising fury he thought of the brutish Klingon touching T'Beth, coercing her, roughly demanding what she was too young to give, even willingly. No doubt a fine source of amusement on tedious days. A daughter of the house of Surak turned into a pleasure slave, a sexual plaything for a vulgar, sadistic animal.

Spock swept to his feet. But there was no target for his rage—no iron bones to shatter, no dark gloating flesh to pound. Here, Torlath was safe from him. Kirk had seen to that. "Filthy, lying—" Spock tore the hated Klingon tunic from his body and hurled it to the deck.

Her eyes wide with fright, T'Beth pressed against the wall. "No," she sobbed.

Spock turned and found the cabin door open. Kirk stood with mouth agape, having seen his display of temper and the lash scars on his back. Uttering a Vulcan curse, Spock snatched a blanket from a bunk and covered himself. "What are you looking at?" he snapped.

Kirk glanced at T'Beth softly crying on her bed, then again at Spock. "Sorry," he said just above a whisper, "I…didn't mean to—"

Before he could finish, Spock charged past him and disappeared into the corridor. For an uncomfortable moment Kirk wavered, unsure of who he should go to, or if he should just quietly slink back to the cockpit. But he could not walk away from a child—or a friend—in pain.

"T'Beth," he said at last, "are you going to be alright?"

She sniffed and held tight to her pillow. "I'm so afraid," she choked out. "I just want to die…"

Kirk did not understand. Sitting beside the girl, he took her into his arms. Her thin body shook alarmingly as it nestled against him. Softly he said, "We can't let you do that. We all love you way too much, kiddo." And he thought, so help me, Spock, if you've done anything to hurt her, after what she's gone through… And he did not even care to guess what both she and her father had endured—as living bait—for him. He mind recoiled from all the monstrous possibilities. "It's going to be okay,' he promised. "It'll all get better now."

"No it won't," she countered, "not anymore. Not without my father."

Kirk took her tear-streaked face into his hands. "What kind of talk is that? You're just upset—and so is he."

Dull with despair, her hazel eyes turned from him. He let her go and she buried her face in her pillow.

But Kirk was not about to give up. Whatever else might be said about Birds-of-Prey, the Klingon vessels were sleekly compact, every inch pared down to the absolute essentials. No wasted space aboard, no place to hide. Kirk headed down the single curving corridor and soon found what he was looking for in a storage room. He stopped just inside the doorway—a relatively safe distance from his Vulcan friend. In view of Spock's behavior on the planet and that outburst in the sleeper cabin, he did not know what to expect.

"Spock," he said.

The unkempt Vulcan stared fixedly at nothing in particular, the fingers of one hand biting into a metal shelf, the other hand keeping a firm grip on his blanket.

Kirk fortified himself with a deep breath. "Spock…I didn't mean to violate your privacy. I started to knock and the door just popped open. It's these damn Klingon—" But what was the use? Spock might have been made of stone. Kirk shook his head in exasperation. "I don't get it. T'Beth is a basket case, and you're in here staring at a wall? She needs you."

Spock gave him a frigid look, but Kirk was too angry to be chilled by it.

Pain briefly flickered in the Vulcan eyes. "You were saying…about privacy."

Kirk stood his ground. "Spock, it ceases to be a matter of privacy when the welfare of a child is involved." With some relief he watched Spock's rigid stance soften.

"Indeed," Spock quietly said, "she is still very much a child. Far too young to have—" His voice broke off.

"Too young?"

Spock turned his face aside. "Must I say it plainly? It did not matter that he had given his word—that I paid for her safety with my compliance—that she was only a child. He…did as he pleased with her."

Now it came clear. "No," Kirk said low, but he felt like screaming it. He, too, felt like cursing and striking out at all the ugliness in life. But one of them had to stay in control and for once he could not depend on Spock for that. His hand outstretched, he went over and touched his friend's shoulder, steadying himself as much as Spock. There was no visible response. Kirk's heart thudded as he stood wondering at the cruel perversity of fate. He should have been the one to pay, not Spock and T'Beth. He was the one who killed Torlath's son.

At last Spock stirred. Straightening, he faced Kirk, the pain and anger not quite vanquished from his eyes. "If I had known down there, I would not have let you stop me."

"I would have killed him myself," Kirk declared.

With wrenching honesty Spock admitted, "All those weeks I never let myself seriously consider this eventuality—not on a conscious level. It would have made my situation…intolerable."

"You've both been through hell." Kirk could plainly see that.

Spock gave a nod and inhaled slowly. "My…lack of control frightened her."

"It's alright. You can go back. You can let her know you still love her."

Spock looked at him for a long moment, neither affirming nor denying that there was such a word as "love" in this Vulcan's vocabulary. But Kirk knew the truth about that. Spock had affirmed it a hundred times over, had ultimately affirmed it with his life. There were some things about Spock that no Vulcan retraining or Klingon cruelty would ever change, just as there were some things about him that would remain forever beyond the understanding of humans.

Through some mysterious inner process of calming, and pure grit, Spock squared his shoulders. "There is no danger that I will lose control again. What is done, is done. I will do what I can to comfort her." He moved to the door, and triggering it open, stood aside so that Kirk could precede him. "Admiral?"

"Jim," Kirk gently corrected and they entered the corridor together.