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Chapter Text

Spock motions for a halt before the hill of scree. The sehlats are huffing openly now, grunting and stomping their paws in excitement. Tokav’s mount even pops it’s jaw once, before the man calms the animal. The sound hits the mountain face and echoes back, sending a small flock of winged lizards flying from a high ledge. The sun shines through the thin membrane of their wings, highlighting the bones and capillaries in their purple skin. His companions circle around, while carefully watching for large predators. The le-matya is often nocturnal, but favourable terrain and easy prey may have them out.

This Spock reminds his companions about, assessing their readiness. Four sets of deep brown eyes met his steadily, while Stonn glanced away nervously when theirs had met. He will be dismissed once they return, his emotional responses making him shifty. “Remember, the outworlder must be taken alive. Dead, they are of no use. You will have your fun once they have been questioned.”

Spock organizes the marching order, with T’Peyra behind him, followed by Salok. T’Peyra has her lirpa in hand, with yellow ochre paint swirling up her strong arms, the olive tone of her skin close to glowing in the strong morning light. T’Mara and Tokav were next, followed by Stonn at the rear. It wouldn’t do to have him be overeager and ‘accidentally’ slip into a rage. Best to keep him away from the action.

Urging I-Chaya forward, the cool of the shadows slips over Spock’s back as he enters the mountain cleft. The rock that rises around them is a dark gray with streaks of oxidized iron striping the surface. The padding of the paws on the sand is almost silent, the tension in the air finally silencing the restlessness of their mounts. Spock has a momentary flash of triumph, seeing the crumpled figure laying on the ground, before a ripping growl comes from above.

Glancing up, Spock only manages to catch the landing of a le-matya directly behind him, jumping down from a ledge above as another rushes him from the front. Shouts issue from his companions as he hears the first tearing sounds of flesh tearing and the blunt end of a lirpa hitting, but he has no time to turn to properly assess the situation before the predator rushing him is there. The gray-green beast, its hide mottled to match the rocks springs towards them, its powerful legs bunching and thrusting it into the air. I-Chaya rears up to meet the opponent, almost throwing Spock off in the process. Spock readies his weapon as the two much larger animals snarl and snap at each other. The le-matya opens up a series of gashes along the sehlat’s shoulders with its serrated claws, while I-Chaya is snapping and biting at its face, revealing gruesome green flesh along the sides of its muzzle.

Both drop out of the feral embrace, wanting to circle but being unable in the narrow passage. Spock is too focused to determine how the battle behind is progressing, but he can see the slumped figure of the outworlder past the lithe body threatening him and cannot tell if they are still alive. His mount is preparing for another attack, and Spock leans forward, using the long reach of his lirpa to attack with the fan-shaped blade. Two strikes later, green blood is dripping lazily down the face of the le-matya, making the bared teeth colour slightly with mixed blood. The beasts charge forward once again, meeting and biting at each other, trying to reach a vulnerable area with either teeth or fangs. Spock stabs around the body of his pet, catching the writhing monster near the shoulder, closer to the chest. There is not sufficient force to deeply pierce the hide, and the cut does not go deep.

A hurtling weight hits Spock from behind, sending him out of the saddle, the dry and rocky ground not making for a comfortable landing. The lirpa is jarred from his grasp as he looks up to see another le-matya crouched on I-Chaya’s back, snapping at the back of his neck. The first le-matya takes advantage and rushes forward, claws extended. Spock jumps to his feet, his careful control on his emotions starting to crack. In the background behind the sound of collisions and fighting he can hear at least two of his companions screaming their fury as they fight. Spock takes out his blade, a gleaming half-sickle as he charges forward, sending a powerful swing at the first le-matya. As it leaps, the metal buries itself deep inside its gut, sending a spill of blood onto the red ground. Its shrill death cry is piercing to the ears, and Spock wrenches back his weapon.

Turning to look, the second le-matya is simply raising its head from its kill, ropes of viscous saliva and blood dripping from its grin. I-Chaya is slumped on the ground, the whites of his eyes darkened with blood, his breathing laboured. Spock again only has time to notice that his party is retreating to open ground before the weight of the le-matya is pinning him, claws inches away from his skin but held back by his shoulder plates. The stinking breath hits his face, smelling acidic and of putrefaction at the same time. In a last-ditch effort, Spock reaches up with his hand, trying to grab a hold of the nerve cluster near the neck, but the movement of the feline and the sinking of its teeth into his upper arm make it impossible. The pain is sudden and terrible, and Spock screams. Despite all his training with the Masters of Gol, fear shatters his peace, fragmenting his ordered thoughts. He continues to fight against the creature, closing his eyes. Spock’s movements become desperate, fighting to get the le-matya off of him.

A loud crack can be heard from above, and when Spock opens his eyes the beast falls limply on top oh him. Its neck is broken, and it is bodily shoved to the side by Stonn. Quiet has fallen inside the gorge, and only distant sounds of fighting can be heard upon the scree slopes outside. Spock can feel himself breathing- too fast- and consciously tries to slow it. Stonn is standing there, body covered in blood and face a twisted mask of rage and pain. Spock can tell one of his shoulders is dislocated, but Stonn still reaches out his good arm to Spock, lifting him off the ground and into his space.

Spock can sense trouble when he looks into Stonn’s eyes- they are swimming with emotion Spock doesn’t have time to untangle as Stonn whispers, “You,” His face twists. “Have not earned the honour. To lead me, to order me, to keep from me.” His teeth are grinding so hard that Spock can hear them, and the grip around his wrist is too strong to break. He can feel his blood dripping down his arm from the deep gashes of the predator’s teeth. Spock is not focused, unable to respond, just trying to figure out what the meaning of the words are in that order.

And Stonn doesn’t wait for a response. Spock feels a hit to the chest, knocking the breath out of him, followed by a strange invasion as Stonn runs him through. Spock coughs once, and falls. He stares up at Stonn in shock as the other Vulcan places a sandaled foot to his chest and pulls out the blade, letting the drops of green blood run off the length and patter onto the sand. After stowing the weapon, Spock can feel himself being dragged further down the gorge, around the nearest bend and dropped. The sky, far, far above him is marked with the tiniest wisps of cloud that he knows will never show this place any rain. His body is slowing, heading for a healing trance. Will Stonn finish him off? He hears another body being dropped next to him.

He sees Stonn one last time before he blacks out, looming over him and smiling. “For your human heart.” The spit Spock feels land on his face before his eyes slip closed only adds insult to injury.

-
When the trance fades naturally, hours later, Spock is shocked that he is still alive. His hand comes up to touch his chest, feeling a patch of puckered skin. His emotional shields are in tatters, and the potent betrayal he felt still occupies his mental focus. He takes a moment to check his status. Because he had been well rested, most of the damage is already repaired, only a slight hitch in his breathing to show that his left lung was not completely healed. Stonn’s spit had dried to a crust hours ago, as the sun looked like it was preparing to set. Rising up, Spock stumbles for a second over a body lying beside him. Pushing it over with his foot, Spock doesn’t recognize a member of his party and decides that this must be the outworlder.

The features indicate that they were Terran, and likely male. The skin of the face was reddened and irritated, drawn in a pattern of premature tiredness. Short golden brown curls were splayed against the sand, the stranger’s body limp and unresponsive. Not the problem right now.

Walking around the corner, Spock could fully appreciate the carnage the ambush had caused. He grieved for I-Chaya, who had obviously succumbed to the poison of the le-matya’s claws while Spock had been healing. The old sehlat was laying on its side, saddle and supplies still attached. Three le-matyas were bloating in the heat as well, but Spock saw no evidence of the rest of his party. He refused to think about what that meant. The slopes outside of the gorge had another dead le-matya, along with the sehlat of Tokav; gouged and ripped in places. Again, none of his party could be seen, so he gathered all the equipment he could from the dead mounts and walked back into the gorge. The sand clung to his sandaled feet where the pools of blood had not dried completely, making a black mud. He took a moment to notice that his communicator was missing. The numbness of sorrow was doing more to re-establish his control quickly than meditation could have.

Spock knelt near the stranger, checking his pulse. It was faint and fluttering, but still there. Guessing at severe dehydration, simply from the look of the cracked and parched lips, Spock grabbed the outworlder under the armpits, dragging him and the supplies further into the gorge. The light was fading quickly, and Spock knew the risks of this terrain.

The le-matya were not known to hunt in packs, and Spock guessed that the animals had been preparing to attack the prone stranger. Perhaps the scent of easy prey had lured them out into the daylight. He was too numb to feel relief that his mission might yet be completed by the sheer luck- or horrible misfortune- of interrupting that hunt. His duty to his family and him home was deeply ingrained in him, and he continued down the gorge.

Walls of rock continued to grow higher and higher above his head, and finally the caves began. Pockets of air, leftover from when these mountains were forming had created a complex and deep system of caverns and tunnels. Their sides were smooth and rounded, often connecting and branching from one another. Spock finds one suitable for their needs, as it is wide and deep, but all of the branches are too small for the desert predators. Starting a fire is a matter of moments, the grasses gathered off of the sehlats burning merrily. Spock continues to set up camp on the ever-present red sand before turning to his prisoner.

Spock begins to examine the humanoid, turning the body onto its back. He considers his options before bringing over one of his full waterskins, lifting the other’s head and slapping him, hard. Spock is gratified when the man tenses and tries to open his eyes that are glued shut by dried mucus and sand. Alive enough to respond. Shoving the neck of the bottle between his lips and pouring, the Terran is conscious enough to swallow. Spock gives him only a little, knowing how the body can reject water when it has gone without for a long period. He lets the man fall back to the sand, sputtering in a half-awake haze. Spock watches as the man reaches out, likely looking for the water, his hands stained red from the dust of the desert. Spock allows him a moment to adjust before allowing another small drink. When he pulls the drink away a second time, a small broken noise of protest comes from the man’s throat. After a third drink, Spock stands and walks away, leaving the man to rest.

Spock realizes that he is in a uniquely complicated situation. He folds himself into position for meditation but just thinks. He is stranded without a mount between a desert and a mountain range, with limited resources. He is not even in his home province, but the one neighbouring his to the west. He has no mount, no communication, and just a vague idea of the nearest city. At least one member of his hunting party had betrayed him, and Spock would only allow himself to believe that the others thought he was dead. It was unfathomable that T’Peyra could betray him. Before Stonn had stabbed him, it was unfathomable that any of his companions would betray him. Could leave him for dead. He clenched his fists as sick hate filled his mind, as slimy and black as tar. He would have to meditate later, banish that feeling. If his controls were compromised it was unlikely that he would survive this ordeal.

To complicate matters even further, he now had a living captive outworlder with him, sick and dehydrated.

Spock allowed himself a brief moment to pinch the bridge of his nose when coughing interrupted his train of thought. He moved back over to the man, lifting his head and allowing a bigger drink. Spock watched in fascination as he noticed a light gathering of moisture had appeared on the man’s forehead. He was still semi-conscious, breathing heavily and barely moving. Spock ran his finger over the man’s face, gathering a touch of the moisture and examined it. He knew only basic Terran physiology but guessed this was perspiration; a highly inefficient form of thermoregulation.

Spock wet a corner of his tent canvas with water, and ran it over the man’s face, clearing his eyes of debris. After a few more rounds of drinking and resting, it was late into the night and the outworlder was sleeping soundly. Spock could feel the distress slowly fading from the man as he drank his fill, the discomfort obviously fading. His appearance was drastically different from when Spock had first seen the man, the skin of his face no longer sagging and tired but taut, as if the water had given him back years. It was fascinating.

He took the extra precaution of tying the outworlders hands before stoking the fire and falling into meditation, trying to order his thoughts.