Author: Laura JV (firstname.lastname@example.org)
Title: The Meditation of Blood
Archive: ASC/EM, R'rain's.
Warnings: I don't use warnings.
Summary: McCoy has a disturbing experience in Spock's quarters. Sequel
to _The Sound of His Voice_ and _Now_. Pre-slash, rather than actual
Disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek. I own this story.
Notes: I wrote this for Shore Leave. The folks at the TSU party liked
it, and I hope you do, too. Ann, you can have this for BLTS. This is
also a special present for Fizz, because I know sie wanted a sequel very
The Meditation of Blood
I wake up and reach for Spock, but he isn't there. For the past
week, I'd been sleeping in his quarters, letting him keep me sane.
Hoping there was something more there--I don't know. I know him so
well, and yet I don't know him at all.
I never would have thought the cold Vulcan I met that first day on board
could speak so softly, so gently; could understand my pain and be so
willing to help me heal. I never thought he would be my friend, even
when I dreamed of him as a lover.
His space on the bed is cold. I wonder if he leaves at night regularly,
maybe to avoid me and shield himself from my dreams. I doubt it, since
this is the first time I've woken up alone, here.
My eyes adjust to the dark slowly, and I see him, kneeling on the
meditation stone. He has his knife in his hand, that long wicked knife
he was holding the first night I came here, and his black robes are
nowhere in sight.
I can't look away.
The knife moves, reflecting light from the firepot. Spock moves, his
hands white in the darkness. Behind his hands and the knife, blood
flows. He chants, his voice low and soft and fast, and the knife moves
again. His hands flash. Blood flows.
The blood is black in the dim light, and he has two slashes on his right
shoulder, parallel to his collarbone. He passes the knife from one hand
to the other, twirling it in the air, and the quick white blur of
movement leaves another trail of blood.
The chant has become singsong, and the knife moves faster. Over his
chest, his shoulders, his arms and then, with a flicker of the pattern,
Across the forehead, along the cheekbones, straight down from the eyes
to the jaw--and I realize he has opened his eyes. That he sees me, and
knows I see him.
The knife never breaks its rhythm as he rises, slicing horizontal lines
across his stomach, crosshatches on his chest. The knife moves. The
hands flash. The blood flows.
The cuts on his face have bled into his eyes and mouth, and as he moves
towards me, I see emerald highlights in the black.
I have never been so afraid, not even when his counterpart forced his
way into my mind.
He opens his mouth, and his teeth gleam through the blood. I see fangs,
the fangs of a beast out of hell, and I hear it snarl, feel its breath
on my face--
He's holding me, and I'm soaked in sweat and shaking, my face pressed
into his meditation robes.
I can't move. I'm afraid that if I look up, I will see the beast. He
pushes me back and meets my eyes. "Lights, thirty percent," he says,
and the room lightens to a soft gray. I can still smell the tang of
blood in the air, but I force myself to look at him.
He looks...as he always looks in his robes. Severe and alien. "I'm
fine," I manage, and he lets me go.
"I will get you some water."
He stands and disappears into the next room, and I hear the hum of the
small replicator. I'm still shaking, and I can barely hold the glass
when he hands it to me.
There's something wrong with his robes, something not right. I study
him, trying to puzzle it out, and then I notice the smudges of emerald
on my glass.
I touch my face where I rested against him, and my fingers come away
sticky with his blood. I look past him to the stone, and the knife is
there, its blade dulled, the stone itself stained green and black.
I jerk away from him, spilling my water on the bed, and he watches me
without saying a word.
I swallow hard. "Spock."
He doesn't answer.
"Spock. You--I saw--"
He inclines his head, ever so slightly. "Yes. I apologize. You should
not have had to see that."
"What...what the hell was that?"
He quirks an eyebrow at me. "The Meditation of Blood."
"It, ah, doesn't seem...logical."
"It does to me."
"Ah." I stare down at the water on the bedclothes. I can feel it
seeping through to my skin. "You--your face--you were bleeding."
He unseals his robe, and it falls to the floor with a wet sound, and I
realize it is saturated with blood. The light pants he wears underneath
are emerald from the waist to mid-thigh, and his chest--
While he is streaked with blood where the robe was, there are no
wounds. No marks at all. I look up at him, unable to keep the fear out
of my eyes, and he shakes his head.
"You should not have had to see that, Len."
And he reaches out, touches his hand to my shoulder, and before I can
protest, I feel myself lose consciousness. As I slide under, I hear his
voice again, from a long way away, but I can't make out the words.
I wake up when the alarm goes off, and he's still asleep, one arm around
His robes are gone, the stone is clean, and the knife hangs next to the
sword, and for a moment I believe it's a dream.
I look down at the hand that rests, so casually, on my skin, and I see
the fingernails--Spock's usually immaculate fingernails--are stained