Fellowship & Fairydust

He had stood in the doorway for some time before his son noticed his presence.

Spock was sitting near the window – in this case a roughly square hole hewn out of the rock – with his hands held together before his face in a perfect attitude of meditation. The dying light of 40 Eridani (for so it would be in his space-faring son’s mind, not Nevasa, not the light-bringer) caught his face with a golden-red brilliance. The colour was streaked in a pure beam across his temple and cheek, highlighting the sparse contours of his face, highlighting the slight furrow between his brows that indicated that all was not calm in the mind beneath.

“Spock.” Sarek said flatly. No logic in such human devices as clearing the throat or shuffling the feet to announce his presence.

His son lowered his hands with the slowness of one remembering how to use his muscles. Sakak, Sarek thought. Sakak, who fell into a thousand-year sleep under the spell of an angry sorcerer, and when he awoke had to relearn the thousand muscles and ways of moving. Perhaps the tales from the old time were relevant after all…

The son turned his head towards the father. The beam of light travelled over his face and was lost, casting his features into deeper shadow. There was the smallest narrowing of the eyes, the smallest deepening of the furrow between his brows, and then he said in a steady, but somewhat questioning, voice, “Sarek?”

“Yes, Spock.” he nodded, taking another step forward, “Sarek.”

“He who is my father.” Spock continued, his voice still suggesting a question, his wording the formal wording of the priestesses who had restored his Katra to his body.

“I am your father.” Sarek nodded directly.

Spock continued to stare at him, unwavering, and a brief moment of light passed through his eyes, as if a spark of knowledge had finally found its home. Sarek found himself wondering precisely what revelation his son had experienced, but he pushed that aside swiftly. The interior of Spock’s mind was his own again, for no one but him and the healers to question.

Spock held his eyes for a moment longer, then turned back to his hands, apparently examining the contours and creases of his fingers in their meditative position.

Sarek moved further into the room. He looked around, taking in the fact that there was only one chair, and sat on the bed, his back as erect as if he had been sitting on a posture stool. He regarded his son, unspeaking. Genesis had achieved a remarkable feat, apparently taking a speck of his son’s DNA from his decaying body, creating it anew, and accelerating his growth until it almost paralleled his age at his time of death. Strange it would be if he had been left decades younger, or decades older… But he had not. There was no logic in pondering that possibility, except in scientific curiosity. Fortuitously his son’s mind, when it was fully recovered, would have the precise sum of experience and knowledge that should reside in a body of that age.

He felt ill at ease. He had to admit that. He had taken a great part in his son’s learning as a child. He had helped to form his young mind. It had been a great shock when Spock had decided to reject all that he had learnt in order to study at Starfleet; more so because so much of what he had learnt had been of Sarek’s own teaching. And now Spock’s relearning was emphatically in the hands of the healers of Gol. Yes, it was – disquieting.

He realised that Spock’s eyes were still upon him, one eyebrow raised and his head slightly tilted in an attitude of query that reminded Sarek forcefully of his wife. Even Spock’s lips were pursed in an imitation of Amanda in possession of a wordless question.

“Spock.” he said, to break the silence. “It was suggested that a visit from a close relative would assist your recovery.”

That eyebrow moved upwards again, a minute amount, but it was perceptible to Sarek. A judgement. An unspoken judgement had passed through Spock’s mind.

“Should old acquaintances be forgotten …” Spock said, as if he had pulled the phrase blindly from a velvet bag.

“That is attributed to Robert Burns – a human poet.” Sarek informed him.

“Yes.” Spock nodded gravely, as if he were in the process of solving an age-old puzzle. “I am inclined to believe that old acquaintances should not be forgotten.”

His eyes narrowed again.

“Father,’ he said, then paused, as if tasting the word. “I – am uncertain as to the parameters of our relationship. I feel – a certain regard for you. I believe mother would term it fondness. And yet – “

He trailed off, fixing those bird-of-prey eyes on his father again, missing nothing on the landscape of his face, but wholly blind to what might lie beneath the surface.

Sarek inhaled. No logic in prevarication.

“There was – a rift between us, Spock,’ he said heavily. ‘Such as should never occur between father and son.”

“And yet – I am told that you were the primum movens of the recovery of my body?” Spock said, puzzlement clear in his voice.

Sarek allowed just a hint of a smile to warm his face.

“Spock,” he said gently. “You are my son. There is a vast difference between a disagreement, and a desire to leave your body on an alien planet and your soul drifting, uncherished, in the void.”

“Uncherished.” Spock repeated, as if he was tasting the word. Another degree of light seemed to pass through his eyes. “A father will cherish the son.” he said, looking down again, studying his hands again.

Sarek’s hint-of-a-smile grew by a tiny amount. Spock was quoting from the most ancient of Vulcan texts. Interesting what phrases chose to lodge in his fractured memory.

Spock’s eyes flicked from his own hands, to those of his father, comparing them silently.

“A father will cherish the son,’ Sarek repeated, nodding his head. He recovered a measure of control even as he felt it slipping further. He steadied his expression, and said, “T’Khit, the First Book of Wisdom. Written before the time of Surak. Before the acceptance of logic, Spock.”

Spock’s eyes seemed to become veiled again, the lids lowering a little.

“Yes.” he said, as if he had gained another measure of understanding of his father.

This time Sarek knew precisely what had passed through his son’s mind. He bit back a welling sense of regret, a tired longing, and drew his barriers a little higher. He stood, straightening his jacket with the smallest of movements, and inclining his head in a formal nod.

“Your meditation is vital, and I have disturbed it too long. he said, keeping his tone level and void of feeling. “I must take my leave.”

Spock lifted his eyes to him, and nodded. Then he turned his face back to the window, and the red-golden beam slanted across his features again, casting half of his face into apparent darkness in contrast with the light. He lifted his hands in a perfect posture of meditation, and Sarek stepped silently out of the room.

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