Having seen the movie a second time (on IMAX!) I intended to write something entirely different than what this story ultimately became. Still, I'm not one to lecture the muse so I present this one-shot for the consideration of the many new readers I have so delightfully gained recently. I am appreciative of each fanficcer that honors me with a visit.

Arei'mnu

Only with closed eyes is one open to the whole of knowledge.

The distant places call when the journey begins. They represent the peace achieved with the securing of clarity, a state requiring commitment to the principle of reason and the banishing of illogical feelings. Such is the way of his people. It is the search for peace that drives him to the ancient discipline. Armed with the words of his father and a slowed breathing, Spock travels the inner halls of his daily retreat to seek a place to condemn the rage and the doubt. The false doors must be bypassed, the ease of languid halls and lazy corridors beckoning the unfocused mind. Finding each portion of chaos is simple; for him it is everywhere. Among the clutter so recently piling, Spock trains his attention on the vanquishing of memories; each troubling thought and errant feeling must be executed in a genocide of emotion.

He reaches deep within himself and for a moment he is there, the place where he can lock disorder away. Except the world regains its hold on him, slamming the door to forbid him from entering where peace resides. Three times tonight he has fought to refocus but something keeps pulling him from the brink of success. He hears his mother's scream, sees his public violence, tastes the need for vengeance. Each distraction forces him into a trembling awareness, like a dream ending too soon and the loss leaves him panting. And it requires his full control to avoid causing instinctual damage to his quiet surroundings.

So close.

As a child, Spock struggled with the weighted task of purging the emotions that so quickly escaped his grasp. The activity brought the humanity-tainted boy no enjoyment, the fidgeting an abomination to his watching father. So many discoveries awaited his inquisitive mind that shutting his eyes to the world felt like punishment. But realizing that the uncontrolled outbursts that resulted from indiscipline worked only to prove his hated differences, the child dedicated himself to the techniques. The five year old finally achieved arei'mnu two years later than his peers, a lapse in superiority he would never again permit. Soon, the benefits of intense meditation became nearly addictive.

And with logic came a tranquil detachment that had saved him.

Now, harmony is unattainable. It is the failure to complete the purging that heats the copper of his blood into producing the opposite of meditation's intention; frustration adds volumes to the turmoil he cannot cleanse. It resurrects the skin of the unacceptable child, making him restless in the face of incompetence. The taunts of youthful tormenters find credence tonight and he brushes the ledge of volatility, gauging the ease of the jump. Then her hand is upon him, a feather on his shoulder aiming to keep him from falling further.

She is insufficient to prevent it

The first time his student had touched him, the pon farr had been recently satisfied at the hands of a virtual stranger. But Nyota's hands had been different, knowing him instantly and evoking the purest emotion, sweet in its quest. The last time she'd interrupted his meditation, she'd been using those hands to coax something primal from him and almost succeeded. Almost. Tonight, there is neither pon farr nor clarity as her fingers move to break him. Shrugging off the touch, he resettles himself into position to begin again. Though he's hurt her, there is potential for worse if he cannot lock down the rabid emotions. He can feel her back away just before he shuts out the world once more.

The corridors are darkened and the clutter is magnified in shadows. The path is uncertain, foreign and he looks for something familiar. There is no touchstone in this place, his mind rebelling against order even as he pushes through the haze of doubt. The false doors entice, offering a temporary reprieve. Deeper he delves until he hears his father's voice calling his name, the disappointment thick, strangling. Despair chokes him and the force of his desperation sears the nerves into blinding pain. Falling abruptly out of the meditation, he rocks in place, a palm pressed to a throbbing temple. His gasping is harsh to his ears, but it does not muffle the sound of her approach.

Despite his earlier rebuke Nyota sweeps across the floor and tumbles in a heap in front of him. She takes his face in warm hands but his eyes remain tightly closed. To see her is to lose what little control he still possesses. Fighting to catch his breath, he shakes his head but she doesn't let go. He tells her he cannot… and the words die on his tongue. Because he looks at her.

He is crumbling before her and knows not how to stop. And she's kissing him so hard as to steal his essence from his lips. The contact destroys him and rebuilds him concurrently. Suddenly he wants her more than peace and as with the urgency of pon farr, he is relentless, feral movement creating less a union than a salve. Uhura's scream replaces his mother's as her welcoming hands work to perform what his aborted meditation could not; he is reaching peace with every stroke, open eyes stealing back his essence. His mind falters when she peaks and his own release stops the thoughts completely. For the first time since the massacre, he is still and the arei'mnu is satisfied. And she whispers that the cure of her distraction is his for the taking.

He closes his eyes and gains the whole of knowledge.