Tales of the Mirror Universe
Blood Fire
Vulcan, 2267
Spock stood in the heat of Vulcan’s day. The family grounds around him. The burning of his blood drowned out rational thought. The Pon Farr consumed him. T’pring was near.
T’pring entered the depression in the desert where Spock stood, alone. Behind her was Sten. The one she, as illogical as it was, loved. She followed the dictates of protocol, doing what was required of her.
T’pau and her retinue entered the family grounds of Overseer Sarek. As was tradition, neither Sarek, nor his mate the human Amanda, were present. T’pau began the ceremony.
“Wait,” interrupted T’pring. “I do not wish to marry Spock. I ask for the Koon-ut-kal-if-ee. I wish to dissolve my betrothal and choose another.”
Blood roared in Spock’s mind. He barely comprehended the words.
“No. Must be mine!” he snarled like some Klingon thug.
“I wish to become Sten’s mate,” T’pring stated.
Spock wasted no time, he drew his Imperial dagger, strode across the depression to T’pring, “If you’re not mine, you’re no-one’s!”
The knife flashed in the sunlight. Green blood sprayed from T’pring’s throat. The cut was flawlessly executed, slicing across both her windpipe and her jugular. The female’s hands flew to her neck as the emerald fluid decorated Spock’s face. She collapsed to the sand. Sten stepped forward, his own dagger at the ready.
Spock turned to meet him. Sten’s first attack was clumsy and Spock easily deflected it. The other was a dilettante, no match for an Imperial officer. Spock stepped inside the next swing and plunged his dagger into Sten’s heart. The Vulcan collapsed, green blood darkening his sand-brown tunic. Spock retrieved the dagger. Even now, the blood fever was receding. T’pring and Sten had been united. In death.
Blood Fire
Vulcan, 2267
Spock stood in the heat of Vulcan’s day. The family grounds around him. The burning of his blood drowned out rational thought. The Pon Farr consumed him. T’pring was near.
T’pring entered the depression in the desert where Spock stood, alone. Behind her was Sten. The one she, as illogical as it was, loved. She followed the dictates of protocol, doing what was required of her.
T’pau and her retinue entered the family grounds of Overseer Sarek. As was tradition, neither Sarek, nor his mate the human Amanda, were present. T’pau began the ceremony.
“Wait,” interrupted T’pring. “I do not wish to marry Spock. I ask for the Koon-ut-kal-if-ee. I wish to dissolve my betrothal and choose another.”
Blood roared in Spock’s mind. He barely comprehended the words.
“No. Must be mine!” he snarled like some Klingon thug.
“I wish to become Sten’s mate,” T’pring stated.
Spock wasted no time, he drew his Imperial dagger, strode across the depression to T’pring, “If you’re not mine, you’re no-one’s!”
The knife flashed in the sunlight. Green blood sprayed from T’pring’s throat. The cut was flawlessly executed, slicing across both her windpipe and her jugular. The female’s hands flew to her neck as the emerald fluid decorated Spock’s face. She collapsed to the sand. Sten stepped forward, his own dagger at the ready.
Spock turned to meet him. Sten’s first attack was clumsy and Spock easily deflected it. The other was a dilettante, no match for an Imperial officer. Spock stepped inside the next swing and plunged his dagger into Sten’s heart. The Vulcan collapsed, green blood darkening his sand-brown tunic. Spock retrieved the dagger. Even now, the blood fever was receding. T’pring and Sten had been united. In death.
