“Spock?” When your silent presence penetrated my sleep and I turned over to see you, I could not understand why you were kneeling by my bed. You were wearing your black meditation robe, your head bowed, your hands clutching the lean thighs outlined through the thick fabric. Though my time sense is modest even for a human, I was certain that it was the middle of ship’s night. What had brought you to my quarters?

I repeated your name, a prayer and a meditation. You barely acknowledged my voice, unable to lift your eyes to return my gaze. “What is wrong?” I asked in a whisper. The fear I felt at your unnatural stillness restricted my throat, strangling my voice. Something was very very wrong or you would be in your own quarters still asleep. That which had brought you here did not concern our ship. I knew instinctively that all systems were functioning normally. The problem was within you. “Why are you here?”

Still you did not answer, did not respond. At a loss to understand, I sat up, the covers over my bare stomach and legs. There was no way for me to contain my shock when you bent even lower and kissed the top of my foot. “Tell me what’s wrong,” I ordered, hoping your military discipline would surface to provide me some understanding.

Slowly and with more hesitation than I have ever before witnessed from you, you obeyed me, instinct and training taking over. You confessed to the horrors you felt when you thought you had killed me on Vulcan. That you were a victim of your own biology brought no comfort to you. By your own hands and by your own admission you had murdered your commanding officer, your best friend. There was no justification for it. There was no living with what you had done. You could not forgive yourself and you could not bring yourself to ask for my absolution.

That I was not dead did not factor into your equation. That I was breathing, warm, alive, was not enough. Not for you. And how could I make you understand that there was nothing I would not do for you, include die a hundred times more? When we were on Vulcan, I felt no fear of dying at your hand. I knew that if we did not fight, you would be dead. Either way, I too would die – a fate I would choose for myself rather than live without you. None of these things I said as you knelt before me. There are occasions when it is not words that are required for clarity.

I slid off my bed, kneeling in front on you, my bare knees touching yours still covered in black velvet, our breaths intermingling. I could smell your essence, your desire, your surprise at my gesture. My right hand reached up to stroke the side of your face. When you leaned into the touch, I hoped it would be enough to provide you access to my feelings, my thoughts. Then you would know that I was not angry. That I did not hold you responsible for what your heritage had forced on you. I knew your pain. And I mourned for you.

The contact was effective in providing you the needed insight into my thoughts. I felt you relax, accepting my belief in you when you could not believe in your own innocence.

And the touch was reciprocal – making your thoughts available to me. Where had you learned this passage from the ancient and sacred Earth text? Had Amanda read it to you, to provide to you a grounding in what it was to be Human? There it was, at the forefront of your swirling thoughts: Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.

“I don’t really believe in God,” I finally whispered, laughing on the inside. “And I would never ask you to leave. I could only ask that you stay.”

You took a deep breath and met my eyes. I saw within the depths of your shining ebony eyes everything that you were unable to say – the lingering guilt, the fear, the love. Yes, even if you hadn’t been clinging to that passage as your salvation, I would have known that on this day we had become one. And I rejoiced in the knowledge. I also rejoiced when you nodded your head, the slightest of movements that I would have missed had I not been looking for it. It was the acknowledgement that you had found the answering love which lived in my thoughts, in my heart. “Did Amanda give you that passage?” I whispered into your exquisite ear, an object of my lingering desire.

You confirmed that she had provided it in an attempt to bring clarity to what it was to love. Those were the very words which had persuaded her to marry your father. I know you felt my surprise when you confessed that it was Sarek who had spoken them as his promise to Amanda, a promise that his love would be equal to that which he was asking from her. Had he not spoken them, she would not have agreed.

Following the example set by your father, you recited the words to me. I have never heard a more beautiful sound. I cannot imagine ever hearing anything more wonderful than when you said them aloud, just for me. With those ancient words, you gave to me your most sacred promise. And I knew that you would keep it. As would I. For all time.