SUMMARY: This story takes place after Kirk's death in "Star Trek: Generations". Spock, who's been living on Romulus since the TNG episode "Unification", visits a charismatic Romulan prophet who is able to speak to the dead.
DISCLAIMER: I am not affiliated with Star Trek or with Paramount Studios, nor any of its subsidies. I am only trying to tell a story about the power of love beyond death.

~ He Talks to Angels ~

Kirk/Spock fanfiction by Slasherfem
rated G
The people began gathering early, long before the prophet arrived. The big, green public meadow forty kilometers from Romulus' capital city, where local farmers brought their herds of kath'el to graze, began filling up with every kind of people just before sunrise. Rich and poor, merchants and nobles, soldiers and civilians, mothers and children, some in rags, some in plain clothing, some in uniforms, and some in silken gowns. There were priests too, from the traditionalist temples funded by the Romulan government, come to check out the competition, this upstart, itinerant preacher from the north country who was said to be gifted with prophecy and the ability to speak to the dead. His name was Haress'On.

The prophet and his three disciples arrived at the meadow just after sunrise. Haress'On, clad in his long, brown outer robe of kath'el wool over a white under robe, walked slowly over the green grass towards the hill in the center of the meadow, his feet, clad in woven straw sandals, carefully avoiding any plants or insects in his path. His disciples tried to emulate him, but they had to keep looking down while Haress'On, the enlightened one, was able to avoid stepping on any living thing but the grass, even as his eyes were turned inward to the visions that the gods sent him. The hood of his robe was drawn over his head, which was bowed low. His face was not visible, but one could hear his voice, that gentle, melodic tenor, singing one of his prayer songs as he climbed up the hill, followed by his disciples, oblivious to the many Romulans closing in on him from all sides.

"Sunrise doesn't last all morning,
a cloudburst doesn't last all day.
Seems my love is up
and has left you with no warning
but it's not always going
to be this grey.

All things must pass,
all things must pass away.*"
When he got to the top of the hill, he sat down upon a large, flat, white rock, crossing his legs beneath him and resting his work-roughened hands upon his knees in the pose of meditation. He sat with his head bowed, still singing softly to himself, while the crowd surrounding the hill gathered beneath him. His disciples went behind and to either side of him to discourage people from climbing up to disturb the master before he was ready. People from all walks of life looked up at him, the poor and desperate with hopeful expressions, the well-off and complacent with curiosity, the wealthy with skepticism tinged with hope, and most of his fellow clerics with outright hostility. Some of them were imperial agents in disguise, hoping to entrap Haress'On into speaking against the traditional religion of Romulus, and therefore against the government, since the emperor was the Defender of The Faith as well as the head of government. Some were agnostics and atheists who had never accepted the tenets of their religion, but whose sleeping faith had been aroused by the wise words of the prophet. And some came with heavy hearts burdened by grief, hoping for a last word with their departed loved ones. For Haress'On was a Ghost Speaker, one who could speak with the dead and make their wishes known to the living.

Had he been less enlightened, he could have made a comfortable living as a medium, charging grieving people a fee to speak to their departed loved ones. But his compassion for the living was as great as his sympathy for the dead, so he chose to roam from place to place, preaching the word of the gods of light, giving what comfort he could to the living and the dead. He was also enlightened enough to preach the teachings of Surak, the great Vulcan prophet whose wisdom had brought peace to his war-torn planet a millennium ago, but also resulted in the sundering of his people. That was why the imperial government took such an interest in Harass'On; they did not want another civil war between Surak's followers and the followers of the old gods, which was what had led to the Great Immigration so long ago, when those who refused to accept Surak's teachings had been forced to leave Vulcan in a dozen colony ships, looking for a world where they could continue their warlike ways and achieve strength through the conquest of others, instead of their own desires.

When the prophet had finished singing his prayer song, he pushed his hood off his head and sat there with his long, dark brown hair and beard shining in the bright, red morning sun of that desert planet. His eyes were closed as he communed silently with the spirits that only he could see and hear. All around him he could hear the murmurs of the living as well as the whispers of the dead, calling to him, pleading with him to speak to their loved ones on their behalf. Since he was a small boy, he had seen and heard these spirits of the dead, commonly called angels by the doctrine of the Romulan religion. In the Romulan language the word "angel" was synonymous with "ghost", and was interpreted as "one who has gone to serve the gods". All who had died were considered to be in service to the gods, whether they were the righteous and innocent who served the gods of light or the wicked and sinful who served the gods of darkness.

One of Haress'On's disciples, the short, cheerful, long-nosed one named Stark'Kie, now urged him to break his fast with flatbread, soft curd cheese and ginga root tea, the humble fare of the poor folk he came from, while the other two, Macca and Lenono, were sorting through the petitioners, listening to their stories and lining them up to see the prophet by the recentness of their loss. Those who had not lost anyone to death but wished to hear the wisdom of the prophet were told to wait at the bottom of the hill, while the rest were guided gently up the hill to the prophet's seat.

The first petitioner was a Romulan lady, no longer young, garbed in a black silk mourning robe with the name of the deceased embroidered in spidery silver characters along the left side, its hood drawn over her graying coiffure. Her carefully made-up face hid the greenness of her tear-swollen eyelids as she bowed to the prophet and addressed him in a cultured voice that was always on the verge of weeping.

"Rabbanai Harass'On," she said, calling him "great teacher" in Romulan, "I come to you because I seek the truth. My only daughter died thirty days ago, murdered in her own bed while her husband was out of town on business. Or so he says. After my daughter's funeral, I received an anonymous letter from someone claiming to be the maidservant of a hetaera he was visiting secretly." Hetaera is the polite Romulan term for a woman who is a paid companion, or high class prostitute. "The letter said that my daughter's husband was the one who had killed her, so that he could marry his mistress, since he knew that my daughter would never let him take a concubine while she lived. I questioned my son-in-law, but he denied everything and swore that Tiranni, my daughter, had been murdered by an intruder who came in through the bedroom window. She was just unlucky enough to wake up while he was stealing her jewels, forcing him to kill her before her cries could rouse the servants. Now tell me, Rabbanai," the grieving mother begged, "is he telling the truth? Was my Tiranni really murdered by an intruder? Or did her husband have a hand in her death?"

As she spoke, Harass'On looked not at her, but at the young Romulan woman who stood by her side, unseen by anybody but him. She was a pretty woman in a white silk nightgown, whose delicate forehead ridges were like the outspread wings of a small bird; her long hair, unbound for sleep, hung down her back like black silk. The front of her nightgown was stained deep green with blood, which still flowed sluggishly from a knife wound in her heart, right beneath her left breast. She looked sadly at Harass'On as she pointed to the knife wound with her right hand, whose manicured fingernails were painted golden yellow, while saying "Geroll", a Romulan male name, over and over again.

Harass'On looked at the grieving mother and asked her solemnly, "Elder Sister, what is your son-in-law's name?"

"His name is Geroll T'Indico."

"And he told you that he was out of town on business the night your daughter died?" The mother nodded, while the spirit of the daughter shook her head and pointed to the knife wound again, saying her husband's name. "Does he have witnesses to prove he was not in town that night?"

"Yes, his business partner and their drinking companions. Though how they can remember he was present after all the wine they drank is a mystery to me," the mother said scornfully.

Harass'On beckoned her closer. When she knelt before him, he whispered, "Elder Sister, your son-in-law is a liar and a murderer. Your daughter's spirit stands beside you with a knife wound in her heart, pointing to it and saying "Geroll" over and over again."

The mother gaped at him. "Can you truly see my daughter beside me?"

"Yes, Elder Sister, I can." Harass'On went on to describe how the spirit looked, what she was wearing, even the color of the nail polish on her fingers.

The mother wept, clasping her hands together as she bowed deeply to Harass'On. "Thank you, Rabbanai, for telling me the truth. Now tell me how to avenge my daughter!"

"No, Elder Sister, it is not vengeance your daughter needs, but justice," the Ghost Speaker told her, his soulful dark eyes full of compassion as he clasped her hands in his. "Do not stain your hands with the blood of vengeance, but hire a private investigator and find out if your son-in-law was really with his companions on the night your daughter died. Perhaps one of them was not as drunk as Geroll thought and saw him slip away. Or maybe the investigator can locate this maidservant who wrote to you, and get her testimony about the relationship between her mistress and Geroll. That will be enough for the authorities to arrest him on suspicion of murder. Perhaps if you offered a reward for information to any witness who saw this so-called intruder break into your daughter's bedroom, someone will come forward to say what he or she saw. Use any lawful means at your disposal to entrap your daughter's husband, but do it in the name of justice, not vengeance. Or you will never see your daughter in the next life," he reminded her gravely. "Only those without stains upon their souls can serve the gods of light. Tiranni is already destined to serve the bright ones, but she cannot rest until she sees her murderer brought to justice. Do this for her and you shall surely be blessed, and you will walk among the angels with your daughter for all eternity."

"Yes, Rabbanai, I will do as you say. Thank you, thank you!" the lady said between sobs as she bowed repeatedly to him. When she got to her feet and turned to leave, her daughter's spirit embraced her, attempting to comfort her beyond the veil of death. But the mother merely fanned her face and muttered, "How warm it is up here!" before slipping away. Tiranni's ghost stood looking after her sadly.

"Go in peace, Sister," Haress'On told her. "I have done what I could for you. Now it is up to your mother to give you the justice you need to rest in peace."

Tiranni's ghost bowed to him gratefully, and then turned to follow her mother down the hill.

The next petitioner was an elderly Romulan lord, also in a somber black mourning robe. "Rabbanai, my only son died in battle against the accursed Klingons a month ago," he told Harass'On. "Recently a young woman with a baby boy came to me, claiming to be my son's wife. Is she telling the truth? Should I acknowledge the child as my grandson, since I have no other living heirs?"

Beside the old man, Harass'On saw the spirit of a young man in the uniform of a Romulan officer, the blackened trail of a Klingon disrupter beam running diagonally across from his right shoulder to his left hip. He said urgently to the prophet, "Tell my father that she is my wife! Tell him that the child is mine! We had to get married secretly because she was betrothed to another on board our ship. But he is dead too, so he cannot challenge the marriage. I told my wife if I fell in battle to go to my father for refuge, she and the child she was bearing. She's been staying with her family, recovering from the birth. Tell him to contact them, they'll back up her story with the letters she sent them about our courtship and marriage!"

The Ghost Speaker assured the elderly lord that the young woman's claim was legitimate, gave him the name of her family and sent him away happy, along with the ghost of the young man, who went gladly to the Bright Realm now that he knew his wife and child were safe.

Harass'On then had to comfort another grieving mother, a refugee from the flooded seaport city of Bic'Ezy, whose four children, two sets of twins aged seven and fourteen, had drowned when the levee broke during a hurricane. She had lost her fisherman husband to the sea only two years ago, now she had lost her children as well.

"Rabbanai, please tell me whether all my children are with the Lords of Light," she begged as she knelt before him in her baggy green tunic and grey trousers, donated clothing that had been given to her at the local homeless shelter where she now lived. Her sun-bleached hair was plaited into a single braid hanging down her back, tears were running down her brown-skinned face, and the lids of her dark eyes were green and swollen with weeping. "One of the priests at the local temple told me that my little ones would not be admitted into the Realm of Light, because they were not initiated into the temple before they died. My older son and daughter were already initiated when they were seven, but my younger children had just turned seven, and we were still waiting for the day of the ceremony when the levee broke and flooded the city. The priest offered to say special prayers for the little ones so that they would be admitted into the Bright Realm, but he wants me to make an offering to the temple first. I lost everything of value in the flood, and I make very little money working as a cleaning woman in an inn. Should I pay this priest to say the special prayers for my children? If I do not, what will become of their souls, since they were not initiated into the temple when they died? Will the gods reject them?"

Harass'On wondered which greedy priest had told her that her children would not get into heaven because they hadn't been formally initiated at the age of seven, as was customary for Romulan children who survived the ritual Khas'wannee, or Wilderness Walk, that was arranged every year by the local temple in every district. It was an ancient custom carried over from their Vulcan forebears, who still practiced it on their world, calling it the Khas'Wan Ordeal. He knew it was common practice to pray for the souls of children who were uninitiated when they died, but the offering to the temple was supposed to be voluntary, not mandatory. He also knew that most of the offerings ended up in the hands of corrupt priests eager to profit from the desperation of grieving parents.

As the mother spoke, he saw behind her the spirits of her children, all dripping wet, still wearing the clothes they had drowned in; a pair of teenage boy and girl twins in red, short-sleeved tunicas, black shorts and waterproof sandals made from the rubbery bark of the corkus trees that grew so abundantly down by the river, and a younger pair of boy and girl twins, wearing only their little red tunicas, their feet bare. Both the girls wore their hair plaited into a single braid like their mother, while the boys' hair was roughly cut, ending at the nape of the neck. The older children stood behind their mother resting their hands on her shoulders as she wept, while the little ones held each other's hands as they stroked their mother's back with their free hands, all of them trying in vain to comfort her from beyond the veil. All the children's spirits were weeping along with their mother, because they could not talk to her.

"Please, sir," the older boy's spirit said to the Ghost Speaker over his grieving mother's head, "tell my mother that we are all welcome to enter the Realm of Light. No ritual is necessary for little children's souls to be admitted. But we had to turn back because of our mother's grief. As long as she mourns for us so heavily, we cannot rest."

"Mother, please don't cry," said the little girl's spirit as she petted her grieving mother's back. "Your tears make us sad inside, and we can't enter the Bright Realm while we feel so sad for you."

Harass'On felt so sorry for the children that he nearly wept himself. But the only way he could comfort them was to comfort their mother, so he reached out and took her hands in his, clasping them gently. "Please do not weep, Sister," he told her. "Your tears are keeping your children from entering the Bright Realm. All of your children are welcome there; the gods need no rituals to receive the souls of innocents, little children and infants. Whoever told you different is mistaken, or greedy for gifts for his temple. Pay no heed to such priests, do not give them any money to pray for your children's souls. No one should be paid for praying. Those who would serve the gods must be as unburdened by wealth and worldly goods as they would be of sin. Money is a useful servant, but a poor master, and those who serve the gods for money pray in vain, for one cannot serve both the gods and his own greed. I will pray for your children, to comfort their souls, and yours, so that you may all be at peace." So Harass'On sang his prayer song for the dead, while the poor refugee woman knelt weeping before him.

"All things must pass,
all things must pass away.
All things must pass,
none of life's strings can last.
So I must be on my way
and face another day."*
And as he sang, the woman felt the burden of her sorrow lift itself from her shoulders and fly away, like a black koribani bird seeking fresh prey. When Harass'On finished his song, he urged her to call her children by name and dismiss them, one by one, to the Bright Realm where they belonged. So she called each child by name, urging them to go in peace to the land of light. As she did so, the prophet spoke to each child as well, urging him or her, "Be a good child and obey your mother. Go to the land of light and wait for her there."

The spirits of the drowned children smiled and bowed to him in thanks with their folded hands on their breasts, showing him the same respect as one of their teachers. One by one they slipped away, pausing only to touch their mother lovingly one last time. When they were gone, Harass'On told the mother, "Your children are all at rest now, Sister. Go in peace."

She thanked him and blessed him through her tears, but they were tears of joy now. He spoke words of comfort until she was calm again, then dismissed her with a blessing. She left with a much lighter heart than she had come with, unburdened by grief, with no small ghosts following her.

At the back of the vast crowd stood a tall man, wrapped in a plain black robe, the hood pulled over his graying head. Beneath the hood was a calm, craggy face with a prominent nose and no forehead ridges. He was Vulcan, and he knew if he was recognized by any of the imperial agents here he would be arrested or killed on sight. But that didn't matter to him; he was here seeking the truth, like all of these others. While he didn't believe in ghosts, he did believe in the wisdom of Surak, which he had dedicated his life to teaching among these Sundered Kin of his people. If this young Harass'On was also an advocate of Surak, then it was his duty, as the elder, to be certain that his knowledge of the great Vulcan prophet was accurate. It was the only logical thing to do.

As the day wore on, the hooded man drew closer and closer to the hill where the prophet sat. He felt hunger and thirst, but dismissed them as minor discomforts, along with the pain in his feet from long standing. Vulcan discipline prevailed over the body's weaknesses, enabling him to wait patiently until he was finally at the front of the crowd, standing at the foot of the hill where the prophet sat. The red sun was setting in the distance, but when he looked behind him he saw that there were still as many people in the meadow as there had been this morning. All of them wanted to see the prophet, hear his words of wisdom and comfort, to know the fate of their lost loved ones.

Not all the people desired peaceful speech with the prophet; a group of priests from the local temple came to argue with him about the advice he had given the refugee woman, complaining that the temple would suffer if the people did not give offerings to compensate the priests for interceding with the gods for them. Harass'On calmly refuted them, pointing out politely that nowhere in any of the sacred scriptures did it say that the servants of the gods had to be recompensed for doing their duty. He also reminded them that Lady Poverty and Lady Chastity were the two virtues that every good cleric must embrace upon taking his vows. This did not sit well with the married clerics, or with those who frequently took sexual advantage of female parishioners who could not afford to make monetary offerings. The prophet reassured those who were married that they were still in good standing with the gods, provided they cleaved onto their wives and no other females. This made the unfaithful ones squirm, especially those who enjoyed private prayer sessions with impoverished female parishioners. In the end they all went away abashed, the good ones vowing to mend their ways, the bad ones vowing to hide their evil doings better and find some way to bring down this presumptuous young man who claimed to speak for the gods, because he said things they didn't want to hear.

Many an imperial agent disguised as a priest or an ordinary citizen also approached the prophet, trying to entrap him into saying something treasonous. One disguised as a young novice in a white robe asked him humbly, "Are you the new Surak who was promised to our people by the Unificationists?"

"Nay, I am not he," Harass'On told him. "I am but a messenger, a harbinger for the Last Prophet who is predicted by the Prophecies of Surak. I teach you the Word of Surak that you may be better able to recognize the Last Prophet when you see him. Rest assured you will know him when you see him. Even praetors will be moved by his words." He smiled enigmatically as he said this. The puzzled agent tried to get him to speak more plainly, but he only said once more, "I am not he whom you seek. I am only here to prepare the way for him." So the agent had to leave unsatisfied.

A pair of wealthy merchants offered him a bag of gold talents, urging him to buy bread for the poor. They just wanted to see if money stuck to his hands as easily as it did to other clerics'. But Harass'On told them that if they truly wished to give charity to the poor, they should buy bread and distribute it themselves instead of depending on others to do it. "Remember, Brothers, that those who help the least among us do the work of the gods, even if it is only for their own glory. To do the right thing for the wrong reason is better than not doing it at all. Sometimes this is the only way that some can perform works of charity," he said dryly, looking at them as if he could see the stains of long years of sin upon their souls beneath their fine clothing. The merchants felt as ashamed as if they stood before him naked and hastened to leave his presence.

When at last the tall man in the black robe stood before the prophet, the red sun was lingering on the horizon, like a candle flame on the verge of going out. Harass'On was turned to one side, accepting a wooden bowl of food from his disciple Stark'kie, when he suddenly became aware of a long shadow falling over him. When he looked up and saw the tall man, he knew immediately that he was not like the others. "Good evening, Brother," he said cordially. "Come, sit down beside me. We be of one blood, you and I."

Spock raised one eyebrow briefly in surprise before accepting the prophet's invitation. He sat down beside him on the white rock, folding his long legs beneath him, allowing himself to feel relief at finally getting off his feet. "Good evening to you, Rabbanai Harass'On," he said with equal courtesy, keeping the hood up over his face. "I fear I do not understand you. Surely you and I are unrelated. So how can we be of one blood?"

"You are not of my family, but you are of my blood," Harass'On assured him. "Your people and mine once walked the same path in life, till darkness divided us and we went our separate ways. Now you and I both seek to reunite the Sundered Kin before the coming of the Last Prophet. In this respect, we are both of one blood." He offered the bowl of vegetable dumplings to Spock. "Here, Brother, eat what you will. I know you have not eaten since before sunrise."

Spock didn't ask him how he knew this, sensing that he had the Sight among his other gifts; he simply thanked him gravely and took a dumpling, eating it slowly. It was steamed dough with a filling of roasted grain and spiced vegetables, plain but filling. Harass'On also ate a dumpling to keep him company. There were a dozen dumplings altogether, so Spock and Harass'On divided them equally, washed down with water served by another disciple. As they ate, they spoke together, keeping their words as obscure as Spock's face to foil eavesdroppers.

"You follow the path of Surak, but do you truly know the way?" Spock asked.

"Not as well as you, Brother. I sense you are further along on the path then I. In life, as well as in wisdom."

Spock nodded. "Yes, I have seen at least a century more than you. But I sense in you an old soul, one whose inner eye has seen more than your outer eyes."

"My inner eye sees many things, Brother. It is why I have taken this path in life, to comfort the living and lay the dead to rest. Not all ghosts haunt the living from malevolence. Some do so from sympathy, because the grief of the living causes such sorrow in the dead that they cannot rest until the living one is comforted."

"You believe that the dead are still capable of feeling? Does not death bring an end to all these unseemly emotions, releasing the katra to seek a higher plane of existence?"

"Softly, Brother!" Harass'On cautioned him in a whisper. "Do not say Vulcan words aloud in public. Not all of our brethren are ready to reunite with the Sundered Kin." He added aloud, "Nor do all souls seek the Bright Realm when they leave their houses of flesh. Some remain tied to the ones they loved in life, guarding and guiding them as best they can beyond the veil. Like your brother there." He nodded to the empty space at Spock's left.

Spock automatically turned his head to the left, even though he knew he would see nothing there. He murmured "Sybok?" as he envisioned his late half-brother, whose gift for seeing the painful memories of others had been so similar to this young Romulan's.

"No, not Sybok," Harass'On said, studying the human man sitting beside Spock with dark blond hair going gray, wearing an old-fashioned scarlet Starfleet uniform. "He says his name is Jim."

"Jim?" Spock's heart skipped a beat at the sound of his bondmate's name. It had only been a month ago that Captain Picard had visited him again to bring him word of Jim's second, true death on Veridian III, reopening the old wound in his soul he had been dealt seventy-three years ago. But back then he had not felt the breaking of their bond at the moment when Jim was supposed to have died, which had given him hope that he was still alive somewhere, in another dimension or time portal by the feel of it, that he would come back when he was needed most. And he had come back, but not to answer Spock's need. It had been the call of duty that had summoned James T. Kirk back from the Nexus; it had been for duty that he had died. And when he did, Spock had felt it in his soul. "You are mistaken, Rabbanai Harass'On," Spock now told him as calmly as he was able. "Jim was not my brother."

"I beg to differ," the younger man said. "He was born on Earth, as was your mother. The Earth gave life to you both. Therefore he was your brother. But you called him T'hy'la." Harass'On whispered the Vulcan word to avoid attracting attention.

"Yes, we were T'hy'la," Spock said hoarsely, his hooded head bent in sorrow. The ghost of Jim Kirk put his arm around Spock's shoulders, looking at him with such longing that Harass'On was left in no doubt about the nature of their relationship.

"Jim, what do you want to say to him?" Harass'On asked softly, careful not to say Spock's name aloud.

The dead human looked at the living Romulan with such sadness in his hazel eyes, Harass'On longed to comfort him, like all the poor lost souls who appeared to him like this. "Tell him I love him," the spirit of Jim Kirk said, his voice harsh with longing. "Tell him I'll always love him, and that I'll never leave his side."

"Brother, Jim says that he loves you," Harass'On told the grieving Vulcan gently. "He says he will always love you, and that he will never leave your side."

"Where has he been all these years?" Spock demanded, striving to keep his voice low though he longed to cry out loud. "Why did they tell me he was dead seventy-three years ago?"

Harass'On leaned closer to listen to the ghost's explanation. "He says he was in another dimension, a place called the Nexus, which exists out of time. He was thrown there by an explosion on board the ship he was on--the U.S.S. ENTERPRISE-B?" He looked inquiringly at the ghost, who nodded earnestly before he continued. "He says that he was attempting to repair an engine when the ship was caught in the Nexus Wave, a wave of pure energy which serves as a portal to this other dimension. It was a beautiful place, filled with scenes from his past life, all the happiest days of his life. Especially the days he spent with you."

Spock was sitting with his head up now, listening to every word the prophet said, while the ghost beside him poured his heart out to the only living ears that could hear him. Harass'On faithfully repeated everything that Jim told him, sensing the loneliness and sorrow of both men divided by the veil between life and death.

"He says that he relived all the happiest days of his life, before and after you two met, while he was in the Nexus. To him, it felt like years. But when the other Starfleet captain--Picard? Yes, when Picard came to him and told him that it had been seventy-three years since his supposed death, to Jim it was as if he had only just arrived. And when Picard finally persuaded him to return to this time period, he let him think that it was out of a sense of duty to the Federation that they both served. But it was really because he wanted to see you again." When he finished saying this, Harass'On saw the ghost of Jim Kirk put his head on Spock's shoulder, saw tears running silently down his face. Spock's _expression remained stoic, even within the shelter of his hood, but his dark eyes glowed with love as silent tears fell from them.

"He says he found his way here after he tried to find you on Vulcan," the Ghost Speaker said softly, repeating the ghost's words to his living bondmate, who was soaking them up like the dry, desert soil of Romulus soaking up water from one of its infrequent rainfalls. "He was drawn to you, like a moth to a flame. He could not stay away. He has been trying to get through to you for over a month, speaking to you when you are alone, when you are in a crowd, even in your dreams. But you never hear him. He touches you often, when you are awake and when you sleep. But you never feel him."

"But I have felt him," Spock whispered in wonder. "Sometimes, when I am meditating, it is as if I can feel his head on my shoulder. When I am bathing, I feel as though he is caressing my back, the way he used to when we bathed together. And when I am in bed--" A brief flush of green came to the worn face. "It is as if I can feel him touching me, the way he used to when we shared a bed. Oh Jim, if you are there, if it is you indeed, speak to me words! Show me your face!"

"He cannot, Brother," Harass'On said sadly. "The dead have moved beyond the sight and hearing of the living. Only those rare enlightened ones like myself, whose inner eye is open, can see and hear beyond the veil of death. You who loved him can sometimes sense his touches, because your bond was of the spirit as well as the flesh. But even though you cannot share the closeness you once had, you can still be together. I sense between you the same closeness that I feel between a man and a woman who have been married a long time, who love one another so much they need no words to communicate. Remember, marriage lasts only as long as life, but love lasts after death. Tell Jim that you love him," he urged. "Not with words, but with your mind. Reach out to him and see him with your inner eye. Call him by his true name, by which he bound himself to you when you were bonded, and open your heart and mind to him."

So Spock bowed his head, closed his eyes and opened up his psi senses wide, and felt an unmistakable presence close beside him, a presence he hadn't felt before on account of his deeply buried grief over his renewed loss. *James Tiberius Kirk,* he said silently, as if communing mentally over the marital bond he once shared, *I love you with all my heart.*

"And I love you, Spock," the spirit of his bondmate replied, wrapping his arms around him as he rested his head on the Vulcan's sturdy shoulder. And even though he couldn't hear his words, Spock felt the warmth of his embrace and the weight of his head on his shoulder, sensed the love Jim still felt for him pouring over his wounded soul like healing balm.

*James, parted from me and never parted, never and always touching and touched,* Spock's mindvoice was tender as he repeated the words of the bonding oath, *I greet thee in the appointed place.*

"Spock, parted from me and never parted," said Jim's ghost in a voice half-choked with sobs, "never and always touching and touched, I await thee in the appointed place."

Harass'On witnessed this silent renewal of vows and blessed the two who spoke them. "Too fine to sunder twice," he murmured, smiling at his pun. "Go in peace, my brothers, and may you never be parted again."

"I thank thee, Rabbanai," Spock said hoarsely, preoccupied by the thrill of feeling Jim's invisible warm fingers stroking his hand. "We thank thee." He rose to his feet a bit awkwardly, feeling the aches and pains of advancing age in his lower extremities. Jim's spirit tried to help him, but succeeded only in giving him a warm, soothing caress as his hand gripped Spock's elbow and slipped down his arm. Spock stood still while he regained his equilibrium, relishing the feel of his bondmate's touch which threatened to release all his carefully controlled emotions. When he was sure that he had his emotions under control, he walked away with dignity and grace, his tall, dark figure casting a long shadow in the setting sun, the slightly shorter scarlet figure by his side casting no shadow at all.

As Harass'On watched them go, his gift showed him a vision of the reunited bondmates walking together for a short time in this life, then a vision of Spock as he lay breathing his last, before his spirit rose from his dead body and embraced Jim's spirit, and the two of them walked toward the light together. He also saw his own death, chained and tortured in a dark dungeon for speaking against the Praetor, dying with the name of the Last Prophet on his lips, even as that one was walking through the desert on his own personal Khas'wanee, beginning his mission of enlightenment for all of Romulus which would lead at last to their reunification with the Sundered Kin.

"So be it," the Ghost Speaker murmured. "Let my mission end as his begins, and let there be no end to the love I feel between these two souls. For marriage lasts only as long as life, but love lasts after death." He closed his eyes and began singing softly to himself as night fell upon Romulus, the glorious reds and golds of sunset painting the horizon as his disciples formed a protective half circle around him to signify that he was through receiving petitioners for today. All who had yet to see the prophet murmured disappointedly, but accepted their fate with grace, hoping to have better luck tomorrow.

"Now the darkness only stays at nighttime,
in the morning it will fade away
Daylight is good
at arriving at the right time
It's not always
going to be this grey.

All things must pass,
All things must pass away
All things must pass,
All things must pass away..."

THE END (OR THE BEGINNING?)

*"All Things Must Pass" written by George Harrison, 1970
from the album of the same name.

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