Duality

He knew his parents weren't home because the house was still. His father was not shut away in his study, hunched over the small viewscreen and preparing himself for diplomatic missions, and his mother was not at the sink, washing the plants she had collected from her garden and humming Earth songs. The small house was empty of his mother's life and his father's concentration, so he stood in the center of the room and listened to the sand straining against the walls and sensing the heat that rose from them.

He loved this quiet feeling, this emptiness, because it meant he was alone. Alone, without any of his classmates silently, carefully watching him, waiting for a mistake they could attribute to his red blood, without his teachers eyeing critically his posture and attention. He was alone as he never was and was overwhelmed by it. Now there was no one to mold himself for. He smiled, slowly. It was the smile he never let escape but was, nonetheless, bright.

As he dashed to his room, his movements had a delicacy he normally kept hidden, but he let himself have a little dance. He would have closed the door, but there was no door because Vulcans did not allow themselves the "comfort" of privacy. Vulcans had no secrets, but Spock did. Humans would have considered it perfectly natural, but to a Vulcan, it was disgraceful, childish, a breach of control, an indulgence in emotion.

Spock picked up the small, smooth Vulcan harp that was his own and made as if to play it, but found he could not keep his fingers on the strings because they were shaking. He watched in horror at his body's uncontrollable physical reaction, even as he controlled the emotional one. He let out a shaky breath, clutching the harp closer to his chest, and tried to assess this fear. What was he afraid of? Essentially, two things: letting out his emotions in this way, and being discovered by anyone letting his emotions go could quickly escalate, until he was either raging around the house or curled up, body close to shut-down.

He knew it was his human blood that tormented him so, but when he was so tormented, his harp compositions went from static recitations of Vulcan composers to his own wild, ephemeral compositions. What he liked best about freestyling was that he could never play a composition twice. Each was unique, coming and going just as his emotions did. And he needed this, he tried to convince himself. Pushing emotions down did not obliterate them—it meant he merely accumulated them. Perhaps it was self-indulgence, perhaps it was improper, but it was one of the few chances he had to forget what everyone else told him he was and make himself.

Resolutely, he strummed a loud chord that resonated through the air. The instrument thrummed against him, familiar. He estimated 1.3 hours until his parents returned from their hike. The grit of sand nipped at his neck, and he rolled across the bed to face the window. The sand looked orange in the sunset, the dunes filling his view utterly, and he imagined himself standing alone in the desert, glorying in the sun that beat upon him. It only aroused his desire to survive, to make it across . . .

He began by letting his thin fingers flutter quietly across the strings. As he watched, he could see the sparse clouds drifting ever-so-slowly across the sky and the subtle shifts of color in the horizon, the changing angle of the shadows of the desert shrubs. He played what he saw and let his fingers go, paying form and composition no mind, until it was dark and he started, realizing it was silent. The hard, smooth harp still sang quietly against him. He put it away, knowing his parents would be home very soon. He had neglected his studies, but if he concentrated very hard, he could still be ready for his father's tests when he arrived. He felt his body growing stiffer, and reached for his PADD . . .

His mother's light, sincere laugh drifted up to him, and he looked up, disoriented for a moment. His inner voice was echoing math formulas and variables, and the computer part of his mind could not be yanked away from its calculations before they were finished. He continued thinking, hurriedly, careful not to mutter numerals aloud as his father's voice intertwined with his mother's.

Finally, he was able to write down the solution. He set his datapad carefully down on the bed and rose, walking steadily into the next room. Automatically, his hand formed the salute and his father returned it with his customary slow nod.

His mother smiled, her baby blue eyes carrying a secret. "Good evening, Spock. How are your studies coming?"

"They are progressing well," Spock answered, knowing she asked only because his father cared.

"That is good, my son." As usual, Sarek's voice was startling, managing to be both quiet and authoritative. "I expect you to be well prepared for your tests tonight."

Spock kept himself from swallowing and found that he could not speak. His mother saw into him, as usual, and her eyes filled with concern.

If you were truly concerned, Mother, you would ask me my condition, even in front of Father. Angrily, he silenced himself. How could he think such illogical things about the one who had hummed him melodies from the faraway Earth, the one who had secretly held him when came the beginning burnings of his first ponn farr?

Sarek seemed oblivious to the gaze his son and wife shared, and touched Amanda's fingers in the traditional parting gesture. "Forgive me, my wife. I must retire before I begin testing Spock. My son, I will be prepared in point five hours."

Spock nodded slightly, hardly moving his head in acknowledgement. He and his mother were silent until the overwhelming presence of Sarek had gone. Then Amanda rose—ah, she was so thin and frail!—and sat beside him. "Spock," she said, in that straightforward way she had, "what is it?" Her blue eyes pleaded an answer.

"I . . ." He tried to begin and sighed only the slightest in frustration when he could not. ". . . am unsure of how I may explain."

Amanda smiled, and Spock saw the beauty that his father must be drawn to in her. "I do not ask for exact equations, Spock, or answers that have been tested, critiqued, or examined. You have your father for that. I am here, as always, to further you in other ways."

Spock sighed gently. "I shall attempt to explain. I have done something . . . disgraceful."

Amanda's eyebrows rose, then she smiled. "Oh, Spock. Just as your father, you are one for overstatement. What could you have done that is so awful?"

He was silent.

"You are much too old for me to force anything out of you, Spock. If you don't want to tell, I will understand."

"No, mother," Spock said, voice growing hoarse despite himself. "It is not that. I do desire to tell you. In fact, I believe you are the only being on Vulcan that can understand." He hesitated. "I played my harp today."

Amanda stared at him, waiting for him to continue. When he didn't, she realized that that was supposed to have been the big bomb and couldn't help but laugh at her son's dead-serious expression.

"There is more," Spock said tersely, cutting through her laughter. Such power and command in that voice! She marveled. "I did not play any known composition," he said, more quietly. "I played . . ." Both his eyebrows rose in helplessness. ". . . my emotions."

"Spock . . ." She shifted on the sofa and folded her hands before her, before meeting the deep brown eyes, which nearly flickered away in uncertainty. "Do you mind if I ask you to explain? I'm afraid I can't understand unless you tell me a bit more."

"While you and Father were gone," he began, summoning all his courage, "I made as if to practice my harp, as usual, except I did not retrieve my lesson books."

"Why not?" Amanda asked.

"My intention was not to practice."

Amanda gave him a curious look that said, Go on.

"As I sat on my bed, I observed the view outside of my window, and as I did so, I began to play. My fingers moved . . . as if of their own accord, and . . . I allowed it!"

"What did you play?"

Spock tilted his head slightly. "I recollect that I played, but I do not know what. I also found the experience . . . quite enjoyable."

"And you believe it was wrong, that you enjoyed it? Is that why you're confessing this to me?"

Spock said nothing, but bowed his head slightly in shame.

"You are human, Spock, and as a human you will experience both joy and sorrow. It is perfectly natural for you to experience enjoyment, especially caused by something as dear to you as music."

"It is incorrect," Spock said, holding his body stiff. "Improper. I should feel nothing."

"But you do! It is foolish to deny what you are, Spock. You would be wise if you were to try to understand that, and learn to live with it, even if it is difficult." She stared at her son, so serious, more like his father than either of them would ever understand . . . "You see, Spock, you are gifted. You have the ability to control your emotions in order to perform objective, unbiased research. You could be a great scientist! And yet you can also be a great artist. You can allow yourself to feel when the time is right, perhaps more deeply than you thought you could. You can be either or both, Spock—realist or romantic. There are dual possibilities in you because of your dual heritage. Begin to look upon it not as a burden, but a gift." She stood. "Next time it happens, you should record what you play and listen to it afterward."

He stared up at her and stuttered, "H-how would that help me, Mother?"

There was a secret twinkle in her eye. "It might help you to see that your human half isn't as much of an annoyance as you think it is."

Spock considered that.

"Now I know you'll do it because you're curious," she said smugly, tousling his hair. "Want to help me in the garden?"

Silently, he nodded and followed her as she went towards the sliding glass door that led to the garden.

Instead of going out, however, she stopped and turned and gave him a suspicious look. "Why haven't you said anything since I made my suggestion?"

He quirked up a single eyebrow in rising confusion. "Because . . . I had nothing to say."

She couldn't help but laugh. His expression, in combination with his words, was simply funny. "And your father told me that Vulcans have no sense of humor. Hmph."

"I possess a 'sense of humor,'" Spock replied, and she looked at him, uncomprehending. "As you have told me, it is not my fault that it is exceptionally dry." He followed his mother's answering laugh out into the twilight.