Title: Deep Bright Secrets Author: Istannor Series: TOS Part: 15 Rating: [PG13] Codes: Summary: Spock discovers something about himself. Disclaimer: These are the characters of Paramount and Viacom, they own them, I only check 'em out from the Library. Feedback to mailto:Istannor@Aol.com Spock sat on the edge of the precipice and stared out over the desert of Gol. Behind him, Mount Selaya stood guard over the fortress now, as it had for all the years which stretched back into the distant past to Gol's beginning. Above him, cloudless orange skies, below him rocks and deep sand which swirled against the high walls. The Formaji began at the gates of Gol and stretched for 1023 kilometers of unrelieved shifting sands, only marred by the rare and zealously guarded rocky well. All the wells were marked by Vulcan signs of welcome and animal signs of the death struggles of weaker beasts caught unawares sipping at the wells of life. It had not always been so. Once the wells were places of death for Vulcan and beast, controlled by ruthless Sak'ti's with the power of life and death over all the members of their clan-sept. In the days before and many years after Surak, the Wells were wealth and power and Gol was God in the desert, for only Gol was safe and free of fear from Clan retaliation or control. At Gol, the Mystics ruled and reportedly saw threats before the army was armed. Death would come with a thought and enemies of Gol were neutralized with ruthless efficiency. It had been said, that to scheme against Gol was proof of personal insanity or the desire to die. Gol, the distant and aloof ruler of the desert, had become the distant and aloof ruler of the mind. Here, in Gol, he sought to be left alone with the empty years stretching out before him. He turned at the sound of approaching footsteps. "Do you contemplate the desert, or the sky?" It was a woman, uncommonly pleasing to the eye, had he still any inclination to note that fact. She was the dark red brown of the Southern Desert Flows, whose tribes remained always on the leading edges of Vulcan thought and balance. Driven by millennia of constant battle against the elements, their mind-skills were always strongest, their passions always greatest, their power paramount, until Surak gained sway and taught them peace. Now they were the priestly elite, philosophers, and warriors of Vulcan; hidden from the knowledge of outsiders until recently. So jealous was Vulcan of their skills, they wanted none other to draw their attention, or their passions. He waited for her to gift him with her name. It was the woman's right to lead. "I am Tr'al." "I am Spock." She gave a slight smile. "This I know, as I was sent to teach you." Her voice was soft and husky. He shrugged slightly and turned again to the desert. "What shall you teach me, Tr'al that I do not already know?" She sat beside him and he resisted the urge to lean towards her. She smelled of desert flowers and cinnamon. "What would you learn, Spock?" "I am a student and unworthy to decide. I am an empty vessel and am content to remain such until I am filled by the wisdom of those greater than I. If I die empty, so be it." She blinked slowly and whispered in the archaic tongue of the desert. The words floated towards him carried on the gentle breeze that moved her hair across her face. "Thee are truly lost or seeking favor to answer me so." Her eyes closed and he felt the briefest of touches in his thoughts, past his shield as if they were gossamer strands. The touch startled him. He turned in shock to confront her. "You dare invade my thoughts without permission?" He began the ritual statement of proclaiming offense, without requiring revenge. "I do not see you. You do not exist." He fought against the rage, rising from his soul and rapidly rose to leave before he gave or received further injury. A hand on his arm attempted to slow him, but he shook it off and turn to confront its owner. She held a palm up and out, a sign of peaceful intent, which made him pause. "I am a seventh level priestess of Gol, Spock." Her voice was calm and soothing. "I dare all things and have the right to cure the wounded and diseased, even if they have not the sense to ask it. Disease of the limb affects the entire body. You are part of the body of Gol now, and your disease can no longer be tolerated. To do so would be folly on our part and to continue down your present trail would demonstrate the purest of selfishness from you. Would you have us both sin by inaction?" Her eyes were the gray of winter rocks, frosted by the slightest film of frozen ice, but he sensed no coldness in them, only warmth, banked but threatening to flare. He felt for a seat and sat bonelessly, bereft of air and any answers. Seventh Level, his mind repeated in disbelief. Once, Sarek had taken him to meet a male who had surpassed the fifth level. He had been so powerful, he could heal with a light touch. Thus, a wounded half- Vulcan’s hurt had been eased. It was an impressive accomplishment. He realized she was waiting for him to continue. "I did not sense who or what you were. I acknowledge your right to do as you have done," he said with a slight bow of the head. They sat and appraised each other silently. She was tall, fully two centimeters taller than he, and lithe, with a grace and efficiency of movement which bespoke power and assurance. Her skin glowed in the rays of the desert sun, without blemish, flowing over features that were flawless and perfect. "My God, Spock, look at her. She's absolutely gorgeous." A too well-known voice echoed in his head and he pushed the remembered sounds away. "Now that you have had an opportunity to study me, what have you concluded?" She smiled faintly and waited patiently for his reply. "I have concluded that you are without visible physical flaw, esthetically pleasing to the eye, the ear, and . . ." he took a deep obvious breath, " and the nose. You obviously are a powerful telepath and a brilliant person to have achieved your level of expertise at your age." She bowed in mild amusement at his proclamations and then turned her head to the side as if the different angle would change who sat in front of her. "How old am I, by your estimation." He stared at her hands and neck for a brief minute. "I estimate you to be no more than 72 Vulcan years." Middle age for a Vulcan was from the age of 60 to the age of 120 Vulcan Standard years. She leaned forward and came closer to his face. She smelled of desert flowers and dry winter days, when the blooms merely hinted at their glory. "Estimate again." He touched her skin. Smooth and whisper soft as his Sehlat's fur, it felt supple and full of life. "Perhaps younger, only 50 standard years". Briefly, he wondered what intentions were hidden in her question, but he had a great deal of time, and nothing but emptiness to fill it. She sat back gracefully and lifted one elegant eyebrow. "I am 205 Vulcan standard years." His eyes widened, and he did not attempt to hide his astonishment and disbelief. This should not have been possible. T'Par was only slightly older and looked every year her age. "How is this possible?" "Many things are possible to those who have the will and the way." "You have done this by will?" "I have done this by training and will; all else followed. When my will fades, and I desire the end, I will age rapidly and seek A'tha. Until then, I find it more gratifying to not have my bones ache and my joints creak.I also suffer from an excess of ...pride. I enjoy the way I look and I enjoy the way you look at me. " "You have this amount of control?" He was incredulous. "I have many things; some you will discover and some you will never know. She tilted her head slightly, which reminded him so strongly of the mischievous look McCoy would give him before he would begin some interminable harangue on Vulcan deficiencies. What would you do with this type of control, Child, if you learned it?" He stared out over the rocky plain below him. The wind picked that moment to stir and whipped his hair across his forehead. He brushed it away; sand coated his fingers. "I would choose not to burn." A small exhalation escaped her perfect full lips. "Perhaps, if you knew the entire truth, you would choose to burn." He turned to stare at her, his posture communicating his disagreement. "I see you doubt my assertion. Shall I show you how to burn from my touch alone, Spock?" "Is that what you have been instructed to do?" He was curious, in a distant fashion. "I have been instructed to instruct. I see you must learn to burn the slow burn, before you burn with open flames. You fear what you do not understand, and what you see as a failing of our race. There is no failure in Pon Farr, only ecstasy and sublime oneness. It is not an animal act, as the followers of Surak would have you think. No mere animal could ever share the depths of oneness seen in Pon Farr. Do you know what Pon Farr meant in the old tongue?" "To Burn," he answered. "No, that is the definition from the High Speech, and came later. Pon Farr was first used by those who spoke in the spaces between the wells. It meant: two who burn to share all. In the days before Surak, we celebrated its arrival as a sign of the fertility of women, and evidence of the richness of the land. Men did not burn unless the linked woman was fertile and called out to them. If men were bonded to men, the dominant male burned with cold flames, held in the arms of his mate, and gave his and his mate's seed to widows, or unbonded females. In that way, families could be joined and clan ties deepened. If women Bonded, they never burned, and gave service freely to a man without a mate, to have a child of the clan." She paused and looked out over the wall into the distance, which stretched out before them. "Now, children are the unusual evidence of animalistic activity, and men are ashamed of being dependent during Pon Farr. How strange." His disbelief was palpable. "I have been taught otherwise. I do not know anyone else who has ever said what you have just stated, nor am I aware of any texts which support your view." "That is obvious." She stood and stretched out her hand for him to take it. He refused and stood up without assistance. "A stubborn man; how intriguing," she whispered, then smiled mysteriously and began to walk away. Each step was a note in a visual symphony. When she reached the door into the interior of Gol, she stopped and looked over her shoulder. Her voice floated back over the breeze on the high walls. "Come, young one. It is time for you to learn to touch the fire and not be scorched." He stared at her as she descended into the dark doorway. Her ghostly mirage filled the door briefly, a reflection of the sun off the cooler stones of Gol. He was admittedly . . . intrigued. Perhaps she had knowledge, and without a doubt, he had nothing but time. He rose and followed her into the coolness of the stone walls of Gol. In the distance the wail of a lone Sehlat, calling its mate, echoed across the desert wind.