It is time to forge our Bond. I hold my forefingers in the marriage embrace and she who is now my wife by all our law and custom, responds in kind. As our eyes fasten on one another, our shared bond begins to strengthen into a true Bond. I move my two fingers to trace her hand and breathe on her eartip. She begins arousal and that, in turn, starts to ignite my own. With one part of my mind I recognize the pheromones that are producing the flame in my belly and in the hollows in my back. With another part I am only aware of the heat.

Our fingers trace one another's patterns. This is quite eloquent among our people. Not for us the mouth to mouth contact that is the custom of so many now the humans have spread it. We do not need such. With our minds preparing to join in a link, the sensitivity in our fingers and hands speaks in an ancient language which needs no words.

Somehow our clothing has been discarded. I have little experience, but need is a great teacher, and somehow I need this as much as does T'Pel. Yet I will hold back as much as I can with her and make certain her first time is, for such her mind tells me this is, pleasurable. I reach for her meld points and she for mine and I feel the exquisite joy of the Bond. This is the real heart and soul of Vulcan. I do not know if this Bond is the same as my parents'--Vulcans do not speak of such matters at all, not even among our own kind—but the depth of feeling belies the face of Vulcan, as we show it in public. Here, between us, is no ceremony, no bells nor gong and no procession as such are only outward symbols of the heart of my people and my clan. They are not needed here and now.

In our minds we speak the traditional words.// Dahshal s'nash-vehe worla dahsahl//
And I feel her answer//Worla eh kwon-sum estuhn he vesht estuhl//. We say them aloud in Standard. "Parted from me and never parted. Never and always, touching and touched". I feel her arousal and mine matches it. My chenesi grow tender under her touch and I feel my erection unfold from its sheath and start to lubricate. I see her furred mound swell slightly and the warmth from her body ignites mine further.

I cannot hold back much longer. With a growl that almost surprises me, I flip her on her back and she parts for me like the sands of home parting before the coming storm, and I sheath my sex in her welcome heat. She arches her back and our nipples brush, igniting sparks in our minds, and I seem to see T'Kuht as she rises in the night of home, red as the sands of Gol.

My mouth descends to her breasts. And somewhere coherent thought shatters and does not reform for a very long time.

When we reach the height together, I hear a sound which could be a le-matya, crying in the night—but it is us, together.With one part of me, I wonder what the household will think.
T'Pel hears my thoughts as they reform in order. "Let them worry, husband. Or not. I think this building hears many such sounds." Her thoughts are honey, tinged with smoke, and the smoldering embers arise again. This time it is her turn to flip me over, Vulcan strength against my own, suddenly weak as I become in my hunger for my wife. This time she straddles me, and takes my once again hardening member inside her. Ayeh, I will turn into a veritable hedonist if this continues. I am powerless to want to end this joy which is one of the many permitted—nay, encouraged—in the marriage bond.

And I feel her joy welcoming mine, echoing and building again, relentless as the winds of home, our flesh velvet on steel as we embrace one another.

I pull her down to my chest and our minds fill each the other's empty places, our joy tempered by knowledge that we cannot stay within one another's safe embrace for all time. But that makes this stolen pleasure sweeter for its ephemera.

At long last we each fall into sleep, twined and sated, mine deeper than it has been since my arrival in this place.

All too soon the time comes for us to rise and go to our duties, but not before we cleanse one another in the showers here. The cold is all to the good. It wakes me and brings alertness.

T'Pel seems content. I cannot be, but as there is nothing to do but what I have been doing, I file my discontent within my mind, a thing not to be acted on but simply accepted for what it is.

My young master seems determined to goad me. I am told by Regul that he was once a sweet child though petted and spoiled. His has been a privileged upbringing but with no discipline, no consequences. My own seems spartan as I think on it, but it has equipped me for survival in this situation, whereas his has equipped him only for indolence.Perhaps it is boredom which adds to his wish to make my life unpleasant.

T'Pel tells me that he was a playmate when they were children, that he had been kind to her and given her some of his sweets and picture books when he outgrew them. Though she never learned to read, she liked the pictures in them, which she had treasured until her mistress had taken them from her, telling her it was time for her to put away childish pursuits. They had played as equals for a time. That had all changed when he'd been given a tutor and encouraged to learn some of the skills he would need as an adult. He'd also acquired friends as indolent as he, but also in his own social stratum. She tells me when he changed, she had no contact with him day to day, as she was kept busy with her own chores.

As he keeps me busy with mine.

I see no kindness in his eyes as he regards me in my chores. And I see him look at T'Pel with new appreciation. I do not pretend to understand why he seems to dislike me. Certainly I give him no cause. When he is short with me, I accept it, I attempt to anticipate his wants, and I offer servility in my manner. I hardly speak to she who is now my wife when we are in the house, yet she finds it difficult to conceal her naked happiness when she sees me. Time and again when we are alone, I exhort her to mask her feelings against the day she can control them better.

But Owen notices. Eventually, he tires of simply flaunting his sexual appetites before me, having attempted to –what do the humans call it?--"get under my skin" by his rough treatment of some of the women he takes to his bed. My face, however, is stone, as I sometimes have to carry the women back to quarters to be tended by the mistress of slave quarters, who has some healing skills, or as I strip bedding or have to hand him drink as he indulges himself. He's taken to shoving me with his foot while I kneel, waiting for his orders or the snap of his fingers.

Each night I find myself wresting hours of meditation from what should have been time to sleep in order to quell rage which sometimes threatens to erupt. I know well what happens to slaves who indulge in that kind of passion. So I bow my head and kneel, and remain his docile servant. It costs me.

I know so little about human emotion and thought. T'Pel tells me he is jealous of me. I do not understand this. I have nothing; I am nothing, and it is not logical for a man who owns what he will to be jealous of such as I. Sometimes he comes to the kitchen when I am eating I stand in respect, and he orders me back to his service. It's becoming difficult to finish a meal or to get enough hours of rest. It makes no sense to me that he would sabotage what he says he wishes—to have the perfect servant. And soon, no matter what I do, it is not enough.

Regul tells me that Owen had, as a child, sat in the very seat I have been occupying in the kitchen. I move to another; it makes no difference. Apparently my young master feels displaced by me. That is not logical, and I do not understand it.

I do recognize the mark of a bully, though. I remember when I was a child, when Selik and Seran would lay in wait for me and call me "komihn" and "ulef-kosh-ves", and tell me I could not possibly ever be a true Vulcan. Together, they would hide my schoolwork and erase my padds, so that I would have to do each task twice over. No excuses were ever accepted by my father, and though I understood why he held me to such a high standard, tainted as I was by my human blood, it did not make it easy. I overcame such torments then, albeit with the help of my sehlat, in whom I confided nightly, but I do not need such now. I am an adult. And I have learned to control my human half.

Eventually my master seems to settle on a new tack and begins ordering T'Pel to his bed. She cautions me not do do or say anything, believing he will tire of her quickly, for, she says, "We are his property.
He can do as he likes."

"Will not the Mistress protect you?"

"She will not. Spock, every female slave—and many a male, or androgynous slave for that matter—is aware this can happen. Humans are very promiscuous. He cannot hurt me, husband. Not really. You have taught me well. It is only the body."

I know this, but Vulcan passions run deep, and mine whisper to me that I must protect my bondmate. Yet it is illogical to suppose that I can. So I continue to endure what I must in silence.

Yet ultimately it is my inexperience and youth which finally prove my undoing.

I have no appetite, and my controls are slipping. T'Pel and I have not seen each other for some weeks, as there have been visitors, and we have both been kept busy by our duties. So neither of us is sleeping on any schedule that allows interaction. When my young master shoves me with his foot, I find myself shaking with the effort to not break his neck. He appears not to notice and I complete my chores so that I may sooner seek out T'Pel.

All I know is that I am on fire and only one can extinguish that flame. I find her on the back steps, coming down from my master's chambers. Her tunic is torn and when I lift it from her neck where she holds it, I see bruising—his fingers—on her shoulder. My pulse thunders in my ears like the roar of a maddened sehlat and T'Pel, not understanding any more than I what is happening to me, places a finger to her lips and glances up. I see my master's triumphant gaze before my eyes close as I try to control the pain and rage I feel welling up.

I believe I am only partly successful, because my master taunts me with graphic descriptions of what he has done with T'Pel. I pretend not to hear, not to see as I attend to my duties, and I answer as little as I need to. But when the day ends, I seek my wife.

I know now that I Burn. And she comes to me and echoes my Need with her own. I do not remember much except the hot dryness of her skin cooling my own which is flame, and the white hot furnace of my body's need and how it destroys my reason. She is patient with me, and meets me again and again. And later, I remember that which destroyed us.

For T'Pel leaves me long enough to seek our owners and let them know it is my Time, but she never arrives at the house, as Owen seeks her out and clasps her to his body. But I have woken, and I am conscious only of one thing and that is my mate being held in another's arms. I see that man's face grow white as I reach for his neck and he scrambles for his bracelet, pushing my bondmate toward me as he does so. All I want to do is kill him. I see his fingers touch the buttons on his bracelet and I know no more.

I awaken slowly, groggily, and find that I have heavy chains on my wrists and ankles and I'm in a shed I've seen set apart from the house and the slave quarters. Sanity has returned, the Plak Tow broken, and my Need has gone. And with it, I am aware of the enormity of what I have done.I know the penalties for laying hands on a human, and I have no reason to believe that the fact that I was in the mating drive will mitigate my crime. It is as I fear; I will leave T'Pel alone, unable to be of any help in protecting her.

I struggle to sit under the weight of the chains and then kneel, waiting for whatever they decide to do to me.

The door opens, and it is she who is my wife. Her face is tear streaked and she kneels next to me, struggling for composure. With difficulty in my bonds,I lift a finger to her cheek. "Wife. You must not waste moisture on me."

"I cannot help it, Spock." Her distress is evident, and she looks at me as if I would scold her. "I regret my emotionalism, husband."

I sigh, dropping my hand. "The cause is sufficient. Do you know what they plan?"

T'Pel's voice is bitter. "The Master is being...merciful. He says you're to lose your sight, that you are too dangerous to keep. They're selling you, husband, and they won't sell me with you. I have begged them to. Mistress wants to keep me. But...I carry our child. I do not wish to lose you."

"We have already lost one another, T'Pel. If the time comes you must find a healer who will help you to break the Bond. If they do not wish to lose you, they will do that much."

My control is not as complete as I would wish. I find my hands trembling for a moment. With effort, I still them."A daughter," I feel her spark."You must be strong, for her sake. The Plak Tow is broken. I will live, until next time. You must break the bond. I cannot. I have not the strength, not yet."

"How can I? You've been my light, husband." T'Pel attempts to control herself as I have taught her." I will wait. If the time comes, then perhaps I will try. You must also—or seek a surrogate. Do not die. Somehow, we must find one another again. Some way."

She lays her hands over mine which I have again folded in my lap, and continues,"I don't have long, Spock. They'll want me back at the house. But you've shown me another way. I can't lose that. I can only hope that somehow we will find one another."

I turn my hands palms up and make the ta'al into hers so she can feel me."Do not grieve, T'Pel. I regret that I cannot protect you or the child. It was my weakness which led us here. It is my weakness that I cannot break the bond."

"And MY weakness that I do not want to, husband. Remember that." She leans forward, touching my cheek with her own."I must go now." She whispers in my ear in a voice only I can hear,"Diftor heh smusmeh, Spock."

Then she is gone.

Once alone again, I wait for less than an hour.Abruptly the door to the shed opens. I see Owen step in, his face bruised and puffy. I bend my head in supplication. If I could mitigate the damage I have done, I would, but I cannot, of course. I feel his eyes on me and he spits and I feel the moisture hit my cheek. I do not move or lift my eyes. His boot lands on my knee. "Treacherous slave. If you were mine, I'd have you whipped to death. But my father is more merciful." He kicks me again, sharply, but I do not move. I hear the door slam once more and I lift my hand to wipe his spittle off my face.

Then I wait again. My death sentence is only delayed, not immediate, because if I am alone during my next Ponn Far cycle I will likely die unless a trained surrogate is available, someone who could help me forge a temporary link and break it after. And that is unlikely. I know of the disciplines for such—there are trained surrogates on Gol in my universe—but I do not know if there is any equivalent here, nor how successful it would be in the unlikely event one could be found for me. This will only delay the inevitable. However, it is not logical, but I remember my own Captain Kirk saying there are always possibilities, and though I have taken that as an axiom while at his side since somehow it has always proven so, I am no longer as certain. But there is little I can do except wait and be prepared to adapt, again.

I have not long to wait. The door opens and with my head still lowered I see the boots and legs of the Master of the house. "Slave, look at me," rumbles his voice, and I lift my head and look in the eyes of the man who holds absolute power over me. I wait. I am well used to waiting. "I am actually sorry I have to do this, but you must be made an example of. I know you are less to blame than my son is. I've spoiled him and now I lose valuable property. I dislike maiming an animal, but I cannot have a slave who has laid hands on his master. I trust you will be cooperative?"

I take a breath. If I were an emotional creature there would be bitterness, but my controls are in place now."Master," I keep my voice low." This slave deserves no mercy. This slave regrets.."

He interrupts me. "Good. You should." He unlocks my chains and tells me to stand and I do so. He motions for me to follow him and I comply meekly. I am led to a waiting transport. I am locked into a bracket in the back, and through a window I am able to watch the receding home of my wife and all I have thus far known as friendly in this place.

Once on the main road, the trip goes swiftly, and several minums later the transport pulls into the back of a warehouse of sorts, with individual pens. Each has a sink and a toilet and a blanket on the floor. I'm ushered into one of them and handed a bowl of gruel, but no utensil. Evidentally I'm expected to eat with my fingers. It is only logical to consume food while I can, so as soon as my pen is locked and I am left alone, I seat myself and eat. It's tasteless, but filling. I use the small sink to clean my hands and face and then my bowl.

Then I wrap the blanket around myself, and perform the first and second levels of mind rule, even more critical now that my time has been limited for meditation. Then I place myself in a light trance so that I may allow fatigue poisons to seep out of my muscles. In this way I am able to stay alert for as many days as I may need to. I remember the adjustments I was starting to make before, when in the wake of the Denevan plague, I had thought I was blinded once before. I can adjust again.

Kaiidth.

By morning, I am rested. I bathe my face and smooth my hair, thinking it is fortunate that I had recently had it trimmed.My hair grows quickly, and I may not always have the luxury of grooming. It is another adjustment I may have to make.

The man who locked me in the pen opens the door to take my empty bowl and replace it with another nearly full one. He does not speak to me, and I maintain silence. Slaves are not allowed to ask questions. I do not wish to be punished any more than I will be.

So again, I eat, and wash, and wait.

By midmorning, I hear footsteps and soon see a man with a medkit. Without waiting for orders, I kneel, and the door to my pen is opened. I remain still as the man, whose demeanor reminds me of my own McCoy, runs a medical scanner over me and then over my bracelet. He consults a medical tricorder and speaks. "No mistake. They want you blinded. Why, boy?"

I bend my head. "This slave was in the madness of the mating drive. This slave struck his master."
The man snorts. Do I imagine disapproval? "They should have known enough to pen you. People who don't know how to deal with Vulcans shouldn't own them. I trust you're suitably repentant?"

"Affirmative, Lord."

"Well, pity it's not my decision. They pay me to carry out commissions, not argue with them. Turn your head up. This won't hurt, but you'll see a flash."

I lift my head and see a surgical laser approach my face. I do not blink, though I know that keeping my eyes open is not necessary but holding still is, if I do not want peripheral damage. I indeed see a bright flash in each eye, and then darkness, absolute. This time my nictitating membranes will not aid me.

I hear the scanner again."Optic nerve destroyed. Let me amend your tat." I feel cold, possibly topical anesthetic, as I feel pressure, but no pain on my thigh and then my arm. The voice continues,"Doesn't destroy your looks, but you'll have to learn to get around without your sight. Vulcans are usually adaptable. I don't think it'll take you long." I hear the sound of him rustling as he presumably stows his equipment. "They'll be coming for you very soon. I suggest you do whatever's needed to be ready. You're to be collected by the dealer who'll have you til you're sold off, and facilities aren't always available. Can you manage?"

"This slave thinks so, Lord. This slave will adjust; it is only logical."

I feel a pat on my shoulder, the footsteps retreat, and the pen door locks again.

I stand carefully and pace out the small interior of the pen, making my way to the sanitary facilities, such as they are. Touch serves me well, and given time, I will find my way, but for what duties will a blind slave be needed? I will not be able to be a body servant any more. I file this question; it will be answered in due time. I may yet be assigned to labor.

My run of favorable random chance seems to have run its course.

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