Title: The Glory of the Sands (2/2)
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Characters: Kirk, Spock, McCoy
Disclaimer: No profit is being made on this story. This is flagrant entertainment.
Summary: Victorian-ish AU. A house party, a fortuitous meeting, and a renegade—these are the makings of a great tale, some might say.
Previous Part: 1
Or read at AO3

A frequently trodden path curves past a make-shift area for the soldiers’ dining and a tent for the cook until it meets with the western wall which marks the boundary between the English-occupied base and the outskirts of foreign soil. Beyond the low wall are leagues of sand dunes, majestic in their beauty but also treacherous. To travel by one’s self into that land would be utterly foolhardy.

One such man has attempted the journey before; there is a grave possibility that he is in his second attempt. Perhaps he is insane, muses Doctor Leonard McCoy. Leonard’s own journey to this outpost some three months ago in the care of two caravans of travelers has him convinced that the desert is irredeemably detestable. He cannot fathom why people—nomads, they are called—choose a life of wandering the sands, always gritty, always moving, when they might reside in walled and shaded cities. Leonard wishes only to serve out his assignment term with this particular regiment as resident physician; when his term is complete, he plans not to linger in this part of the world but return to the cool, if mundane, civilization of his homeland.

Currently Leonard is intent upon finding the missing Kirk, though he has little notion of where to begin a search. Dusk is quickly giving way to night and any trail or clues that might be followed by daylight are fading into a land of shadows and gloom. In his company are two men: one, a guard with the frenetic air of nervous man, called Matthews (the doctor found he could not continue to address the guard without proper knowledge of his name and thus asked it of him); the other man visibly stands apart from both McCoy and officer Matthews in robed garb and the characteristically exotic features of his people. His name is Mr. Spock; and quite frankly, Leonard thinks Mr. Spock’s curiosity will lead him into boundless trouble.

The three men come to a halt before the western wall. Matthews looks about then asks, voice hopeful, “Maybe he’s hiding in the armory, doctor. We ain’t checked there yet.”

“This I doubt,” answers Mr. Spock before Leonard has an opportunity to speak.

The doctor finds that he does not appreciate Mr. Spock’s rudeness. Regardless, he demands an explanation.

“One must consider the soldier’s history. He was discovered in the desert, traveling alone, away from camp. It is apparent that he intends to repeat his folly,” says Mr. Spock with remarkable serenity.

“He had been stabbed through, Mr. Spock, and was delirious with blood loss. Of course he was turned about—everything looks the same in this blasted country! If he was set upon by bandits or robbers…” insists Leonard, just beginning to launch into a counter-argument.

Mr. Spock interrupts him again. “Interesting. Why do you assume he was attacked by bandits, Doctor McCoy? Did he tell you this?”

“You know he did not but good God, man, he is a soldier! Certainly he did not have a row with one of our own and scurry into the desert like a rat afterward, or he would have been left to die out there as punishment for abandonment.”

In truth, Leonard had been told there was a wounded man arriving from the desert who would be need immediate medical attention. The messenger had been vague about the details—perhaps aware of no more than he was told—and Leonard, ever practical, had gathered up what supplies he could carry and forced his way into the search party, determined to treat a living man rather than receive a corpse at the ward because no one knew how to properly staunch a wound.

He stares out at the distant landscape with dismay. Yes, Leonard comprehends the logic of Mr. Spock’s suggestion; in fact, his instinct is inclined to believe the same of this Kirk. Once a fool, always a fool. The doctor starts restlessly for the nearest gate in the wall.

Matthews, who hurries to catch up with him, sounds very much afraid that they are planning to journey into the desert. Leonard thanks the guard for his participation in the search. He then says, as kindly as he can manage, “You will need to stay behind, I am afraid. You must tell Captain Pike where Mr. Spock and I have gone and why.”

Matthews’ bow is restive but relieved. “Of course, sir! I will, sir!”

Once the guard has taken his leave of the pair of men, Leonard turns to Mr. Spock. “I truly need your help now. You are familiar with this desert; I am not. Which heading would Kirk likely take?”

“South if he has any desire to live, doctor. There are no settlements elsewhere which would be less than a week’s journey.”

Leonard nods and swallows against the dryness of his mouth. Back onto the sands again. He observes that the moon overhead casts a chilling glow over the dunes.

By now the patient will have ripped apart the stitches Leonard had so painstakingly set into the man’s skin to hold the raw wound closed against infection. Jostling can easily upset the delicate procedure; and a man determined to run can do irreparable damage to an already sickly body.

Immersed in such grim thoughts, the doctor’s ire blossoms anew. He quickens his pace. The situation cannot be helped; Leonard must transverse the perilous dunes to find his patient. He must.

Mr. Spock does not state his intention of accompanying McCoy; yet when the men reach the gate, nod to the soldiers peering at them curiously, he matches his stride to Leonard’s out into the open. Leonard is grateful for the man’s guidance, feels immeasurably more certain that he shall not expire from this quest if he is in the company of Mr. Spock. Yet he thinks if he should say so to the man by his side, the atmosphere between them would be insufferable.

They find the man keeled over less than a league to the south of the base. He is easy to spot since he is the only note-worthy landmark in a sea of sand. Leonard, heart in his throat, breaks into a run as they crest a dune and sight the fallen Kirk. After dropping to his knees beside the prone figure, he gingerly rolls the man over.

The man instantly comes to his senses, blinking sand from crusted eyes, and groans.

“Can you sit up?” Should Leonard call him Kirk?

The solider laughs weakly, eyelids drifting closed again. “Damn, caught already. I had hoped to crawl over to the pool of water for a sip first.” His arm rises, and he points in a direction; then the arm drops limply back to the sand, the man’s energy spent even by such a brief movement.

Mr. Spock, looming over Leonard’s back, informs him, “There is no oasis within walking distance. Perhaps Mr. Kirk is hallucinating.”

“Kirk?” Lucidity returns to the man’s eyes when he opens them to squint up at McCoy and his companion.

Leonard inquires politely, “Is your name Kirk?”

“Yes,” he breathes out in a long sigh. “James Tiberius Kirk.” His smile is gently mocking. “But you knew that. Otherwise you would not have pursued me.” His voice is hard. “I am in no condition to offer a fight.”

“I knew no such thing,” insists the doctor firmly, “and I would be fairly ashamed of myself if I fought an injured man.”

James Kirk pushes him away with sudden strength and sits up. “Who are you?”

“You do not remember?” Kirk’s eyes are the color of a cloudless sky; without warning, Leonard feels nostalgic for home.

After a short, intense study of Leonard’s face, Kirk says, “I think I recall you.” Then, “Your bedside manner is sorely lacking, doctor.”

“I do not have one. Would you care to explain yourself? I and this gentleman—Mr. Spock,” he introduces briefly, “left behind a perfectly pleasant evening soiree to fetch you.” He says more sharply, “You are not well, and yet you spurned available care knowing this. What reason could justify such an act of idiocy!”

“I wish to live” comes the simple, sobering reply.

Leonard is speechless.

“As I suspected,” says the diplomat. “You are an outlaw, Mr. Kirk.”

“Obviously.” Kirk explains, “My birth merely set the stage for such a condition; my father’s death, the script I play by.” The hard lines in his young face softens. “Yet I understand now the reasons behind his actions—and I cannot say I disagree with them. This, above all, is why I shall not deny I am a renegade.” Shrewdly, “You intend to return me to my imprisonment.”

Mr. Spock asks (and for once Leonard is happy to have the duty fall to another), “Who was your father?”

Kirk’s answer is challenging. “George Kirk, commanding officer of Her Majesty’s 23rd regiment.”

Leonard starts. Christopher Pike is captain of the 23rd regiment—the very same regiment which resides not a league away from their current position. Needing a moment to sort through his thoughts and to briefly recollect history lessons he had previously deemed unimportant during his enlistment training for her Majesty’s service, Leonard finally catches on. “I see! George Kirk, turned traitor to the Crown during the War.”

James Kirk, son of George, stiffens on instinct. “My father,” he says with simmering fury, “was no traitor to his country.”

“I suppose,” concedes Leonard without heat, “from an opposite perspective he died as a hero for his cause.”

Kirk jerks up from the ground, undoubtedly to confront Leonard, but gasps aloud with pain and loses color in his face. Unable to simply watch, Leonard takes him gently by the shoulders and guides him back into a sitting position.

“Let me see the wound,” he says, squatting down to pry at Kirk’s hands. The copper smell of blood is strong and the hands come away wet at the palms. As he suspected, the stitches have burst. The weeping tear in the skin is swollen and motley in color but Leonard smells nothing putrid about it. Well, perhaps there is hope after all.

James Kirk is watching him from under hooded eyes. “My father was not a traitor. He lived by honor, by sincere principles as any other man. It is the Crown who betrayed him.”

“I am not here to debate the issue with you. Hold this.” Leonard removes a white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his doublet.

The man takes it, bemused.

“And do not use it,” Leonard warns him sternly.

From behind them, Mr. Spock wants to know, “How may I be of assistance?”

Leonard almost tells the diplomat to preserve his current state (which is doing nothing) but a dearth of supplies and options prompts the doctor to ask instead, “I could use a strip of cloth from your robe to bind his wound.”

Mr. Spock gives no protest, which greatly surprises Leonard. For some minutes, they work in silence, wrapping a fresh bandage about Kirk’s waist with the handkerchief as gauze and the strip of cloth to secure it in place. Kirk only murmurs “My thanks” when the task is done.

Mr. Spock, however, afterward appears more interested in conversation that aiding Kirk to his feet and escorting him back to the base. “While the reality is often that a man may be judged by his family’s deeds, I highly doubt you would find yourself imprisoned if you did not commit an offense of great measure, Mr. Kirk. I know nothing of your English sire or his crimes, yet I can only conclude that you mean to pursue his path and, in fact, have.”

“Very astute, sir,” James Kirk remarks mildly, as if he has not over-exerted his weak body and is at present suffering for it. “‘Every man has a right to freedom.’ This my father wrote to my mother when she lay bed-bound during pregnancy and living solely for two events: his letters and the day I would be birthed. Freedom,” repeats Kirk softly. “I read that last letter until it crumbled apart in my hands. He did not sound criminal, nor insensible… only sensitive and heartsick of what the Empire required of him.” The young man regards them, his vivid eyes steady in his gaunt face. “I shall do it—I shall see his cause brought to fruition.” Strong, implacable words.

And you shall likely die for it, thinks Leonard.

Kirk sways.

Mr. Spock’s expression remains closed and inscrutable. “Most interesting. What stratagem do you have in mind?”

Leonard hisses, propping Kirk upright, “Now is not the time to indulge his lunacy, Mr. Spock. The man is clearly feverish!”

“I am not feverish,” argues the ill renegade but his body indulges in an involuntary shudder as he says this.

Thus the doctor feels his conclusion is fully justified. “Mr. Kirk, I do not care if you are a son of a traitor or a misbegotten child of the Pope. You are in need of medical attention again, a situation which could have easily been avoided had you acted responsibly and with common sense. You are, in short, a half-wit.” Mr. Spock lifts an eyebrow at this verbal slap, but the doctor resolutely ignores him. He concludes, “We will return to the camp immediately or, by God, I will wash my hands of your foolishness and leave you here to rot with gangrene!”

“He is not very pleasant, is he?” Kirk remarks to Mr. Spock.

“We are only recently acquainted. I cannot confirm or deny this as of yet; however… per the doctor’s reputation, it seems likely that he is easily irritated.”

“Ah.” This appears to be explanation enough for Kirk.

Leonard finds that he has balled his fists, the fabric of his gloves stretching tautly over his knuckles. He has an ungentlemanly urge to lash out, but a man does not brawl without good cause. An insult, however teeth-gnashing, is not worth bruising his hands. He needs his hands hale, quite ironically, to fix the fool that is James Kirk before Death pays an untimely visit to the youthful man and snatches him away.

The doctor reaches down and hauls Kirk upward by the back of his dirty regiment jacket. He asks pointedly, “Are you brave enough to return with us, Mr. Kirk, or do you prefer a coward’s death among snakes and scorpions?”

The man fixes upon him, eyes now stormy blue. His words are dark. “Not all snakes and scorpions live in the desert, doctor. Some are much closer to home.”

“Be that as it may,” intercedes Mr. Spock, “you are guaranteed a chance of survival in the company of men; here, the desert is not so merciful, particularly to the weak.” He speaks as a native, as someone whose understanding of the land’s nature far exceeds either Kirk’s or McCoy’s.

Kirk drops his chin to his chest but slits his eyes rather than closes them, contemplating a patch of sand between his feet. His silence is not resentful as Leonard expects; instead the air is heavy with indecision. At last, Kirk raises his head. Wordless, he rises, turns, and takes the lead of their small party. Leonard follows him, watching Kirk’s slow trundling progress, and is inexplicably relieved. Mr. Spock is not far behind.

When the camp comes into view as a sparse dotting of dimly glowing lanterns (signs of civilization Leonard rejoices to see) a long-held tension uncoils inside the doctor and his heavy footfall becomes lighter, quicker. Ahead of him, James Kirk never once breaks his stubborn stride; not as he crosses the threshold of the border, through the gate of the wall; not until he comes abreast of the stern-faced Captain Pike and a team of armed guards.

Pike speaks to neither Leonard or Kirk. “Mr. Spock, I am told you are greatly missed at the consulate’s party.”

Mr. Spock inclines his head, perhaps purposefully ignorant of Leonard’s exclamation of “I doubt so!” He says, “Then I must return where I am needed. The message is well-received, Captain.” The foreigner leaves without protest.

“Doctor McCoy,” acknowledges Christopher Pike next. “We meet under quite impressive circumstances. Once again you have aided in the return of this man.” Pike signals the guard bearing chains to come forward.

Leonard waits until Kirk’s hands are shackled then turns to Pike. “Please escort Mr. Kirk back to the medical ward. By law, he is allowed tending to and he needs it badly.”

Kirk’s eyes are upon him; Leonard does not dare meet them while under the captain’s scrutiny.

“Two guards must be within short distance of him at all times.”

Leonard stiffens with indignation. “I will not tolerance interference in the operation of my ward, sir.” He cares not if Pike thinks he is stretching the limits of the authority delegated to a physician. The medical ward is Leonard’s.

“Then we share an understanding,” rejoins Pike, unyielding but not unkind. “I do not tolerate interference in the establishment of order and justice.”

Leonard frowns but says nothing. Is this man insinuating that he might attempt to protect the renegade from an untoward fate? How ludicrous; after all, Leonard prompted Kirk to return here despite the dreadful circumstances which awaited him.

Pike signals for two guards to hurry along the prisoner to the medical encampment within the base. Then he says, not directly at Leonard but to him nonetheless, “Beware of Kirk’s charms, Doctor McCoy. He can be convincing; his speech, sly.”

Leonard exhales in a soft snort. “You must think him exceedingly dangerous, Captain, to offer advance warning.”

The man turns his head and meets Leonard’s eyes. Leonard is told lightly, “His initial escape testifies to his ways.”

Unnerved, the doctor inquires, “Do you know who released him?”

The captain’s mouth curves at the corners, not unlike a cat’s. “I do.”

Leonard’s palms are suddenly damp inside his gloves. He feels he must know more. “Do you intend to take proper disciplinary measures against that individual?”

He wonders, sick, if it is someone he knows well. Should he expect an execution at dawn?

Pike’s left hand comes to rest on the jeweled pommel of the saber sheathed at his waist. “Morals are a queer thing. They do not always coincide with duty.” His smile never wavers, an eerie contrast to the lethal seriousness of his gaze upon McCoy. “Remember that, and pray you do not find yourself in a similar position as the… accomplice.”

“Position?”

“Quandary, shall we say? A quandary which would perturb the most level-headed and upstanding of men.”

Pike’s expression, Leonard realizes, is not malicious but ironic. In light of this revelation, the doctor finds himself nodding somewhat stupidly in turn, unable to think of a response and even more certain that to give a response would acknowledge a truth which must never be openly admitted, or Leonard would be guilty of the crime by association.

When Pike sketches a bow, Leonard is quick to offer his own farewell. The captain of the 23rd regiment disappears into a deep shadow of a tent. For an instant, the doctor is unsteady, as if his legs might not hold his weight, but the sensation passes in the next breath. He removes one glove and cards his bare fingers through his hair.

Tonight he must attend to James Kirk and every day thereafter until he can deem the man fit for travel on a long trek to the ends of this country and down to the sea; there Kirk will be placed upon a slave ship for journey back to the Seat of the Crown to hear of and endure his sentencing. Leonard must resolve, then, to deafen his ears to any plea or persuasion that Kirk may try upon him in the meantime.

But could he also act blind if Kirk were to recruit person besides Leonard and plot to escape? The doctor instantly thinks of Mr. Spock, who shall no doubt visit this outlaw James Kirk, whether drawn ever closer by that infernal fascination of his or by some other motive. Of this event Leonard feels in his very bones to be fact, despite premature prediction.

His thoughts meander as he slowly walks the familiar path to his ward. He thinks of the scandal of George Kirk, of stories he heard in his early youth about the invasion of the East, now referred to in these parts as the War. James’ father was branded a revolutionary and thereby a risk to the system of the English; hence a traitor. Something about George Kirk’s rebel-rousing against the cruelty of English imperialism and—oh blast, but Leonard has never paid much attention to war-time stories meant to frighten men into obedience. Truthfully, Leonard has only ever been a man of obedience unto himself.

The starkest of facts is this: George Kirk lost his life when he turned traitor. He parlayed to the other side—to the infidels whom the Crown sought to assimilate into its empire.

Mr. Spock’s side, Leonard supposes. What an unsettling thought.

His father had principles, James had said. Principles. The right to live freely.

Pike is correct, Leonard decides. Herein lies not just a quandary but a morass a man could succumb to should he open his mind to it. And Leonard, who has always focused on his work and ignored the work environment, shivers, his reaction un-inspired by the cooling of the night air. He can easily imagine that a tiny spark has flared to life within him, a calling to awaken and to be aware. Awareness, Leonard knows, can be both frightening and exhilarating; more importantly, it is a light which once lit can never be extinguished.

The choice to act would be his choice now, as Kirk’s choice was to walk into the den of an enemy, resolute to both his path and what is necessary to survive.

Leonard muses on all these possibilities until he reaches the entrance to the ward. He hears a voice—James Kirk’s voice—speaking in stilted but humorous tones. It has its raw edge of pain but has strength, too. McCoy is drawn forward to Kirk by an invisible string, listening now as he had not before.

Treason. Morals. Duty. Rights.

I am a doctor, he thinks, a man. Just a man.

Kirk’s eyes land on him when he pulls back the curtain of the room sectioned off from the ward. Leonard is assessed and is judged.

“Bones,” the man says by way of greeting, and Leonard—even though Bones is not his name, is in fact what he has always considered a derogatory reference to an esteem-able profession—knows straightaway he is caught in a spell. This is the point at which he notices the person Kirk had been addressing is, of all people, the inquisitive Mr. Spock. Apparently the diplomat has no intentions of returning to the house of the Consulate where he belongs.

Mr. Spock meets Leonard’s long-suffering stare with a collected countenance and knowing eyes. “Welcome, doctor.”

If a spell has indeed taken them both, Leonard thinks, will either he or Mr. Spock wish to see it broken?

James Tiberius Kirk, rebel extraordinaire and danger to the Crown (just as Kirk’s father before him), relaxes into the thin mattress of his small cot. He tells Leonard, “I could use your expertise again, Bones” and gestures at the patch of red already re-coating his bandaged side.

Somehow Leonard hears an undertone to the soft request. He answers without thought. “I know. Presently I will do what I can as your attending physician. Your future however,” Leonard says in a voice he uses to deliver prognoses, “lies solely in your hands. You must make the choice to live, Mr. Kirk.”

“I have already given you that answer.”

Yes, he has; he said he wishes to live. Moreover, he spoke of how he wishes to live, and why. “Then you shall always have my aid, James.”

Kirk smiles.

The answer to Leonard’s own question, then, is quite possibly—probably—no. What man would want to break such a spell?

What man could?

-Fini

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• The Glory of the Sands (1/2) – from September 14, 2011