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Til Human Voices Wake Us

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He sleeps for hours in a warm, dark place.  Sometimes he dreams -- of
wars in the vacuum of space, of his days here on ch'Rihan, the planet
that the humans call Romulus, of an older time when he was a soldier and
a lover and a much younger man.  He dreams of his death and resurrection
and the time in between when he was part of the mind of a friend.  Not
infrequently, he dreams of Jim Kirk.

What he remembers best at this late date are the hands.  The fingers
were always shorter than his own, but amazingly animate.  They were
always moving.  He dreams of long nights in which those pale golden
hands stroked his body, tracing cool patterns between his ribs, along
his thighs.  He dreams of waking to find human digits tangled so tightly
with his own that he could not tell where his hands left off and the
other's began.  They were lovers time out of mind.  He still remembers.

There was the time between as well.  Jim was gone but Spock still
dreamed  of him at night as a happy man in a beautiful place.  No fear,
no suffering.  Though every file listed the admiral as dead, it was
more to Spock that Kirk was too far away to touch, but close enough to
see.  In his waking hours, he knows that this was the time Jim spent
Nexus.  He knows it was a gradual weaning period from the passion they
shared in life.

While he lingers on the edge of sleep, the ghost whispers about the
room.  He kisses it, mentally.  In this time before dawn it is restless.  
Soon they will be leaving.

*Spock*

*yes beloved?*

*now?*

*soon*

A pause.

*now?*

*you always were impatient, beloved*

*I'm sorry*

*this is unlikely*  And a sound of telepathic laughter.

He can't remember anymore when the ghost found him.  A Vulcan could
never have done it.  The Vulcan katra is too concrete to travel the
maddening distances between worlds.  Unclaimed, it only dissolves into
the oblivion of space.  But the human soul is less defined.  No one has
ever said, "The soul can do this," or "The soul cannot do that."  No one
ever claimed that a human soul could not travel across the galaxy to
find its bondmate after death.  He should not have been surprised.

Even so, it took almost a year.  Word had reached him though unnamed
channels that Admiral Kirk had emerged from some other plane of
existence, only to die saving a planet of millions.  Vaguely, he had
felt the dying.  But the bond, madly enough, was still there.  He should
have supposed it would be.  Jim had told him once that during the time
of Spock's own death, the bond had still existed, solidly and silent.

And then he woke one morning and he was not alone.  Jim's lips brushed
his in greeting, frail as a ghost and radiant with joy.

*found you!* Like a child who has won a game of hide and seek.

*yes, t'hy'la, you found me*

*I have a million things to tell you*

He has not mentioned this to anyone.  As it is, people tend to think he
is a little mad.  On this alien world at the centre of the Romulan
Empire, he teaches *cthia*, the reality-truth of which logic is the
beginning.  His own truth is simple.  Ambassador Spock in his hundred
and sixty-eighth year resides on ch'Rihan, teaches *cthia* to those who
would know it, and lives every day with the ghost of Admiral James Kirk,
his lover, wrapped around him in an embrace as close as any they shared
in life.

The pool in the floor of his room is a natural one, but hands shaped it
into a regular shape a thousand years ago.  The water in it is so cold
it hurts.  The brief splash of it across his body wakes him completely,
so that for a moment he is surprised to still feel Jim's presence.  Then
his thoughts settle again and he washes himself more completely, letting
the cold help lift both dirt and sleep from him.  He stands, after, and
centres himself: a grey-haired half-Vulcan, shirtless in the stone chill
of an alien planet, standing barefoot and still wet.  

His travelling clothes and cloak are folded next to the pallet that
serves as his bed.  The transport, a converted farm vehicle that would
not have been out of place on Soviet Earth, is expected in some twenty
minutes.  He needs to move on to ch'Havran, Remus.  The next cell is
waiting there.  He's loved Romulus, the feel of it, Vulcan hardness with
a very human fire added, and there are days when he is reluctant to
change anything about it.  In another life, it might have been his
homeworld.  In this one, it is the only place that still fits the man he
has become.

He shoulders his pack and waits for Jim to follow him, glittering hazel
in and out of crevices in the rocks.