Work Text:
“May I get you something to drink, Ambassador?”
“Yes. A beverage would be welcome. Spock?” Ambassador Sarek turns to look at his son.
Spock looks up from his contemplation of the view outside the windows. “I do not require a refreshment at this time. Thank you,” he adds, remembering his Terran manners.
The servant moves away and Spock is aware that his father is still looking at him.
“You are preoccupied,” Sarek comments.
“My apologies, father. I find myself... curious about mother’s homeland.” There is only a minor pause as he searches for an appropriate word, but he is certain his father notices it.
“Indeed,” is all the ambassador says, however. He is then drawn into conversation with a Terran diplomat and Spock feels at liberty to turn back to the window.
His mother’s homeland. In a way, it can also be said that it is his homeland, being half-Terran. This is, however, his first journey out of Vulcan. Spock finds himself fascinated by the differences between Vulcan and Terra.
For instance, he hears many Terrans complaining of the heat that, to him, feels merely warm. South, across the mountains between the two countries, Vulcan is primarily desert. At the sun’s zenith, on a midsummer day, even native Vulcans would be wary of venturing out into the heat.
This weather is quite mild, in comparison.
He has said as much to the few Terrans who have approached him. For some reason, this response to their comments on the weather was found displeasing and he was left alone again soon after. Spock is sure that his father would have him analyze his behavior to discover what he had done that caused offense, in order not to repeat it. However, he has no desire for companionship and therefore no reason to change behavior that has so far served him well.
Spock has never enjoyed diplomatic functions, and the change in location from Vulcan to Terra does not seem to make a difference.
Although joy is, of course, an illogical emotion and he would therefore not be experiencing it in any situation. But should it ever become appropriate for a Vulcan to experience joy, it would not be in these circumstances.
The large room has wide windows all along one wall, a high ceiling, and is ornately decorated. It is also full of people; dignitaries from various countries surrounding Terra, servants moving around the crowd with trays of beverages and small delicacies, and, not in the least, members of the king’s High Council. Members of Terra’s other councils are clearly evident in their distinctive uniforms; Healer’s Circle in green, Bardic Circle in red, and Herald’s Circle in stark white.
Spock has been told that he should find the Heralds to be the most similar to his people. All Heralds have mind gifts of some kind, like those that all Vulcans bear as a gift from the desert.
Aside from the shared mental abilities, Spock himself sees few similarities. Heralds seem to be an excitable people, driven by their emotions. Their very uniform is illogical. As a group with varied functions, such as message-bearing, law-keeping, and judging, they must face a great deal of danger. And yet they wear a white uniform, which is plainly incapable of being camouflaged. Spock fails to understand the choice in color.
He glances at the large, elaborately designed hourglass that is arranged on one side of the room. Seeing that he has been present at the ‘welcome party’ for two hours, Spock judges that there would be no great offense in his departing at this time.
From the windows of the reception room, Spock had seen sprawling gardens and a wide, green field. He makes his way there with minimum difficulty, though the palace servants that he comes across seem wary of him.
The variety of plant-life visible in the gardens is quite impressive, Spock has to admit. On the journey from Vulcan, they had been delayed in the mountain passes and were therefore made to take the rest of their travels at great speed. As much as Spock may have wanted to observe the lands of Terra with more scrutiny, he has been unable to do so until now.
Spock passes from garden to garden, seeing lush greenery that he has only previously seen as book illustrations. Many of the flowers even have a scent that is quite pleasant. What is, perhaps, the most profound difference between Vulcan and Terra is the sheer range in color. In one small square of of the garden Spock thinks he sees as many hues as he has seen in his entire life in Vulcan. It is nearly... astonishing, really.
He goes beyond the gardens to the field that is lined by sturdy wooden fence. He had assumed, when seeing it from the window, that it was another region dedicated to the leisure of Terran’s upper class, much like the gardens. Now Spock can see the white horses-- Companions-- that occupy it.
He has heard much of these Companions, reputed to have equal the intelligence of a man, but has never had the opportunity to make the acquaintance of one. Spock approaches the fence slowly, content to watch the creatures for the moment.
“Hello.”
Spock looks in surprise. That he hadn’t heard the man’s approach is unsettling. It’s an older Herald with streaks of gray through his short hair. His uniform is the ubiquitous white-- not as ornate as those of the Heralds that Spock had seen at the diplomatic function, but still of very fine quality. He is also smiling, which Spock knows is usually a Terran indication of friendliness.
“You’re with the Vulcan delegation, aren’t you?”
Obviously, Spock thinks, considering that his Vulcan-style clothing clearly stands out among the Terrans as well as the delegates from other neighboring countries. For politeness’ sake, he only nods.
The Herald looks him up and down in a way that is unthreatening, but oddly unsettling. “Spock, correct? I’m Christopher. We met very briefly this morning.”
Spock has met great numbers of people during his first day in Haven, but he has an excellent memory and there has only been one Christopher. “Your Majesty,” Spock says and inclines his upper body in a short bow.
“Christopher, please. I’ve had enough formality for one day.”
“That would be highly inappropriate,” Spock tells the king.
King Christopher smiles in what the Vulcan identifies as a wry fashion. “We’ll work on it.” He indicates the field before them with a nod of his head. “Would you like to go inside? The Companions would love to meet you.”
And what, precisely, is that supposed to mean? The king doesn’t elaborate, however, and leads the way through the fence gate. One Companion immediately comes over to them; Spock assumes she is the king’s by the familiar way in which he reaches out to stroke her neck.
Another two approach, eyeing Spock with interest. He thinks he should perhaps be irritated by their scrutiny, but finds that he cannot. It is not like his introductions to his father’s peers, where the sense of being judged and found wanting was unmistakable.
The Companions, in obvious contrast, are merely curious.
“I understand that all diplomatic party members are briefed about Heralds and Companions before entering Terra,” King Christopher says idly, his fingers stroking through his Companion’s mane.
“It is logical, considering the major role that Heralds play in your government.”
“Do you know anything about the Monarch’s Own Herald?”
Spock tilts his head curiously. “The briefing was less informative on that subject. I believe I was told, however, that there is currently no Monarch’s Own.”
“That’s right. The last Monarch’s Own-- King’s Own, in my case...” Christopher sighs. “He was quite old.”
“I see. Is there any particular reason why the position has not been filled?” Spock doesn’t think that the King would consider the question to be rude, considering the informal atmosphere the man was attempting to encourage.
Christopher lips quirk in a smile. “It’s not a job just any Herald can do.”
“Is it a common trend for Terrans to speak in such vague terms?” Spock says and immediately regrets it. Informal or not, his tartness is disrespectful. “My apologies.”
“No, it’s fair enough. And I suppose I am the best person to explain it to you,” the king says, waving off his concerns. “Strictly speaking, anyone can fill the role of Monarch’s Own. It’s not restricted to any class or gender. It just takes a certain kind of mentality. Officially, we don’t know what it is that makes Companions choose us, aside from our mental abilities, but over the years we’ve picked up a couple clues.”
“Incorruptible,” Spock murmurs, remembering the briefing.
“Well,” the King says, looking modest. “We try.” Spock becomes aware that several other Companions have drifted over to join the small group; however, before he can decide whether to say something about it, Christopher continues.
“But what the position of Monarch’s Own actually entails? It means being a member of the Heralds’ Circle, along with the Dean of the Heralds’ Collegium, the Herald-Chronicler, and the Lord Marshal’s Herald. It means having a seat and a vote on the Terran High Council; a vote which, combined with the Monarch’s, can veto any decision made by the rest of the council. It’s a position with a lot of responsibility, Spock.”
“I would imagine so.”
“And then, of course, there’s the relationship between the Monarch’s Own and the Monarch.”
Spock arches an eyebrow at that comment.
“I’m sure you’ve studied history. Have you noticed that countries with stable leaders tend to be stable themselves?”
“I have noticed some proclivities among mentally unhealthy rulers that do not benefit a country in the long term.”
Christopher nods. “That’s it exactly. And that’s why in Terra, the King or Queen has a special Herald to rely on. For there to be at least one person in all the world that is completely trustworthy is a serious relief. The ability to provide mental and emotional stability for the monarch is just as important as the duties of state.”
At this point Spock takes the opportunity to return the Terran’s earlier scrutiny and looks the king over. “You appear to be coping well without a King’s Own.” Indeed, the man looked to be in good health, if overly pleased with himself for some reason.
Christopher grins. “A lot of the work we Heralds do is preventative, I’ll admit. And anyway, it’s easier to cope when I know the next King’s Own is on the way.”
“Indeed?” Spock says, certain that a response is expected.
“Yeah. I’m expecting him any minute now.”
To the side, Spock sees the ring of Companions that surround them stirring. The horse-like creatures part to let an altogether different kind of Companion approach. A stallion, clearly, with a muscular build, shining silver hooves, and a coat so white it dazzles the eye. The Companion looks at Spock with a great deal of expectation.
Spock’s eyes narrow as he looks from the Companion to King Christopher. “I’m sorry, your majesty, but the complexity of Terran pranks escapes me.”
“It’s not a prank, Spock. You’re the King’s Own.”
Spock stands his ground even as the Companion moves ever closer. “This is highly inconvenient.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Your majesty-- Chris--”
But the Companion is before him and Spock can’t do anything but look into the creature’s blue eyes.
It’s like being immersed into a pool of water, feeling it soak into his parched skin and seep into every empty crevice. It is unlike any mindmeld Spock has ever experienced.
Hello, Spock. My name is Syrak.
Spock reaches out to gently lay a trembling hand on the bridge of Syrak’s long nose. Struggling for composure, he looks over at the king. “You cannot be expecting a Vulcan to provide emotional support.”
Christopher shrugs. “We’ll work it out.”