Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Against the rough and mossy stone floor, the traveler’s footsteps echoed along the towering walls of the chapel, pealing like church bells no matter how light his step. In some corners, the chapel seemed to be caving in, supported by the thick ivy that crept up its sides. The traveler’s stride was purposeful, unperturbed by the otherwise overpowering silence that settled heavy in the air as he made his way down the aisle and through a sea of empty pews, half-rotted into the ground.

The traveler stopped directly in front of the shrine, clutching at a blackthorn branch in one hand and belatedly reaching to remove his hat with the other; the air was cool behind his pointed ears, but the sense of vulnerability only served as a reminder that the gesture was a symbol of respect.

Laid out before him was a magnificent display of walnut woodwork, carved and painted to display little cherubs and a cross above the tomb that encased the bones of a long-dead saint, which had been repurposed as an altar; the well-maintained condition of the shrine was almost a miracle in itself, considering the state of the rest of the chapel. 

Above the shrine, stained-glass windows soared up to a gothic dome, depicting devastating scenes from long ago. It was the central window that the traveler gazed upon with awe: a man with a halo behind his head stood tall, rising from the flames that danced wildly at his feet. In his grasp and trailing behind him was what appeared to be his own skin from which he had otherwise been stripped bare, miraculously untouched by the surrounding fire. With the setting sun outside hitting the colored glass at the perfect angle, it looked as if the flames were actually alive, shining orange light into the faded chapel and into the eyes of the traveler.

Blinking the momentary blindness away, the traveler brought his attention back to the altar. He clutched at the blackthorn branch once more before leaning forward over the wooden railing, laying down the offering onto the white cloth that had been draped over the tomb. Carefully choosing an unlit candle, he lit the wick with one of the flames leftover from previous worshippers, setting it back down into its place before clasping his hands—hat tucked under his arm—and bowing his head.

“My… companion… is a very reckless person in nature,” the traveler began, voice quiet but words perfectly clear. “All that I ask is for his protection to be ensured.”

He waited for a moment. For what, he wasn’t exactly sure, but it felt right to stand there in silence. The traveler peeked up, half expecting for some sort of sign, but internally chided himself when he was met with nothing but a flicker of his candle.

Huffing, the traveler nodded stiffly, letting his gaze linger on his offering for one moment longer before setting his hat back on his head, turning on a heel, and heading for the heavy front doors. 

As he made his exit, the fiery light from the stained-glass window seemed to throw long shadows down the aisle as it dimmed, as if the traveller himself was drawing a blanket of caliginosity over the chapel. His steps continued to echo, and he barely suppressed a shiver from a loose draft. Though he wanted to question the logic in seeking spiritual guidance, the logic in speaking unheard words and offering unreceived gifts, the traveler supposed there was something grounding about the crumbling chapel.

What the traveler failed to notice, however, was the figure that sat atop the walnut shrine: it was only now becoming visible before the stained-glass saint, kicking bony feet in lazy contentment as it watched the retreating traveler with the lyre upon his back.

The Bear and the Blackbird
With the branch in its beak
Are watching you closely
From the top of the peak.
Fear not, my dear travelers,
For you rest safe and sound!
Rise up, my dear travelers,
Sink your roots in the ground!
The stars will be dancing,
Wishing your fortune abound!
The stars will be dancing,
Wishing your fortune abound!

Long ago, when the stars were still young,
The sky was never peaceful at night:
Each constellation would come out to play
And to watch the magnificent, eternal fight.
On one side was a great big Bear,
Whose fiery passion and strength overpowered,
And on the other, a quick and nimble Blackbird,
Whose song taunted and flight towered.
Not once did their battle cease
For that same pedestal in the sky,
And neither seemed to notice the fractures
That would soon bring their desolation nigh.

And then one night, one fateful spar,
The Bear and the Blackbird went a little too far:
A rift formed between them and the sky finally shattered:
The Bear then fell to the earth: broken, beaten, and battered.
The Blackbird sung in joyful triumph,
Flying high above the ground,
For he now possessed the highest point in the sky:
An overseer of the night, a ruler crowned.
The Bear laid in his fallen sea of stars,
His own empty shard of sky so far away;
He grew so sad that a winter came,
Compelling the land around him to wilt and to decay.

“Why must you mourn so?” asked the Blackbird,
Weary of bone-chilling cold,
“I may have the sky but you have the land,
A remarkable domain to behold.”
“I do not belong here,” said the Bear in return,
Too fatigued to weep,
“Stars are meant to dance in the sky,
Not condemned to sleep.”
Their miserable disdain only grew stronger
As that eternal winter went on longer,
And still, it was hardest to accept that only
Without the other, they were lonely.

“I miss our fights,” said the Blackbird,
“Without you, it’s not quite the same.
It’s too empty up here;
I dearly wish springtime came.”
“Would if I could, I’d rejoin you,
I’d be there,” said the Bear,
“But I have no wings and you have no strength—
How do I climb back, and where?”
“I believe I can help you,” came a new voice,
So full of youth, goodwill, and hope,
“If you climb onto my back as I reach up to the sky,
Then perhaps you can reach home from the top of the slope.”

And so the Bear followed that voice,
Leaving a trail of stars in his wake.
He bid farewell to his fallen piece of sky:
The starry, crystal lake.
At the source of the voice, beneath his feet,
The Bear watched as the earth began to rise,
And upon tilting his gaze up to the heavens,
The stars drew steadily closer before his very eyes.
All at once, they stopped in their motion—
Only a short distance more did he require.
“I’m sorry,” said the mountain,
“But I can’t reach any higher.”

“You are forgiven,” the Bear replied,
“For you have done more than enough.”
With the last of his energy, he stood on two paws,
Reaching out to the stars with a huff and a puff.
Even so, at the very tips of his claws,
The heavens were just out of reach,
So the Blackbird lent down one feathered wing
To seal that final breach.
At the touch of the two rivals,
From feathered wingtip to claw,
The two were reunited at last,
And a new spring began to thaw.

The Bear and the Blackbird
Share the night sky year round,
Trading summer for winter
As time keeps them wound.
When the Bear climbs down the mountain,
The chill of his slumber begins to fall,
And when the Blackbird pulls him back up again,
He’ll fly down again to meet springtime’s call.
The mountain peak stands tall and carries the sky
While the constellations above twinkle brightly and burn,
And the Bear and the Blackbird, 
Once more and forever,
Unified,
Watch over the mountain’s domain in return.

The Bear and the Blackbird
With the branch in its beak
Are watching you closely
From the top of the peak.
Fear not, my dear travelers,
For you rest safe and sound!
Rise up, my dear travelers,
Sink your roots in the ground!
Rejoice and sing gaily,
For your fate has been found!
Rejoice and sing gaily,
For your fate has been found!

Winking and blinking where they hung frozen in the sky, the figures of the Bear and the Blackbird were the first pinpricks of light to peek through, just above the last tangerine bands of dusk. The Solitary Mountain so far in the distance had been shrouded in darkness, outlined by a halo of light that only dimmed as the sun crawled further below the horizon.

Sprawling so wide that it seemed to touch the very foot of the mountain, the crystal-clear mirror laid out another sea of stars so that you almost weren’t sure where the sky ended and where it began. Another Bear and another Blackbird and even another Solitary Mountain reached out and away from the land, replicating such a perfect reflection you could almost believe that you would fall to the heavens if you tripped over the edge.

A smaller constellation warped, and the stars rippled, breaking the stillness of the shimmering lake. At its source, a finger slowly swirled the chilly water, coaxing the stars around it to become disordered.

Quiet footsteps creaked on the wooden pier, and the finger paused in its ministrations. Closer and closer they drew, and it was only when they stopped just behind him that Jim withdrew his hand, watching how the droplets trickled down his finger and created ripples of their own.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he murmured, staring out into the vast darkness. Somewhere out there—somewhere he couldn’t yet see—was a place Jim called home. “All of it.”

“The Summer Bear climbs down to rest and the Blackbird starts to rise; soon, the Bear will greet this earth, and the living, soon, will die.”

A laugh slipped between Jim’s lips, and he swiveled in his seat on the edge of the pier, beaming up at the bard only a pace away. Spock stood tall with that exceptional posture of his, and the wide-brimmed hat only outlined his pointed ears as the soft dusklight fell upon his face, casting shadows over his features. He stared down placidly at Jim, waiting for his next course of action.

“That’s a bit of an over-exaggeration,” Jim said. “Many creatures sleep over the winter, and the trees grow new leaves in the spring.”

Spock raised a pointed eyebrow. “What is green turns white, and you grow bolder; do not ask for death as the air grows colder.”

Jim burst out into more laughter, falling back to lean against his arms. “You act like I didn’t grow up there,” he said, gesturing vaguely beyond the lake. “I know the lake and the land that surrounds it like the back of my hand, and you know that. All my life, I’ve loved her, and she’s taken good care of me in return: I trust that she’ll keep me safe.”

Returning his gaze to the bard, Jim couldn’t quite discern Spock’s expression; at first, Jim thought it was skepticism, but it was too dark now to really tell.

It had been a long time since Jim had last seen Spock — he’d been waiting all spring and summer, in fact, straining his ears as he trained for a plucked lyre and the mellow tones of an enchanting voice. As the weeks plundered on, Jim fought the urge to despair, to ache over someone he’d only known for three summers, but even as the Summer Bear perched at the top of the starry sky, Jim would still catch himself staring out into the wilderness beyond the old chapel, hoping in vain to catch sight or sound of the elusive bard.

And then, that very morning, with the chill of the autumn beginning to settle in his bones and waking him too early, Jim heard the song for which he had yearned all year. He had slipped away from his quarters and ran to the lakeshore half-dressed, but he couldn’t stop the smile that split his face in two as he caught sight of the figure standing before the crystal lake, turning to look over his shoulder as Jim’s footsteps pitter-pattered closer.

Over the course of the day, Jim talked non-stop, updating the bard on everything that had occurred while he was absent, and Spock listened intently to every word, nodding along. The song Spock had written over the winter that year was especially beautiful, and listening to the melody and lyrics in a daze, Jim felt like his chest would swell, growing warmer and fonder— until it did burst, leaving him with an empty feeling as he remembered he was to leave for his grand quest the very next morning.

“Come with me,” Jim found himself saying, and his heart thudded when he realized he’d actually voiced those words.

Spock, on the other hand, looked equally as shocked (even if in his own way): his eyes were wide and his lips slightly parted, and whenever he seemed to find an answer, he’d hesitate once again.

“I- I mean…” Jim floundered, waving his hands awkwardly. “You know the forest better than anyone else, and… and… that way you can make sure I don’t freeze to death in my sleep, or whatever you’re so worried about. Imagine the songs you could write, Spock! A knight! Battling a dragon!” Pausing for breath, Jim centered himself, gazing up at the bard and repeating softly: “Come with me, Spock.”

This time, Jim let the silence between them hang in the air. They held so still that Jim became conscious of how the evening breeze tousled his hair and rustled the reeds growing on the bank. 

“With haste, we should rest: the night will not prevail; for early morrow we rise to begin our epic tale.”

As Jim processed Spock’s words, that buzzing elation returned, and he felt like he was floating in his spot. Beaming, he hopped to his feet.

“C’mon then, what are you waiting for?” Jim skipped ahead, lingering to make sure he was being followed. “We’ll need all the rest we can get.”

And like a sunflower needs the sun, Spock followed.

Spock had very clearly stated that it was absolutely unnecessary for him to borrow one of the castle’s ponies, and Jim had insisted that it would cut their travel time in half. Spock then continued that he was perfectly content to travel on foot.

Naturally, Spock found himself on a horse only moments later.

He wasn’t entirely sure how it happened, (and he had a strong suspicion it had something to do with Jim’s beaming face), but he remembered standing there, staring back at his unfortunate pony as Jim went to retrieve his own ride. Spock stared at its judging eyes and the horse stared back, twisting its ears and huffing once it arrived at an opinion about the bard. Definitely not offended at all, Spock glared miserably at the animal, resenting the fact that it probably didn’t realize just how lucky it was to get to walk on its own two feet—well, four hooves —all the way to the village .

Jim, of course, swung onto his own pony with mindless ease, turning around just in time to watch Spock kick and struggle to heave himself onto his own ride. Though he wasn’t laughing, Jim’s eyes were mischievous and his lips were curled into a wide grin. Even Spock’s horse snorted, stepping to the side with mild annoyance to regain its balance as Spock barely hooked a foot over the saddle, his arms clinging to the horse’s neck for dear life.

Once they actually got out onto the road, the ride didn’t turn out to be so bad; sure, Spock’s horse would drift to the side, pushing its limits by trying to graze out of spite and constantly shaking its head in an attempt to further loosen its reins, but Spock held on tightly to his reins and remained grateful that Jim never took their pace much above a walk. 

Jim, on the other hand, was getting along perfectly with his own steed, gently speaking with the animal as his reins were held loosely in his lap. Spock would occasionally find himself distracted, watching how Jim’s expression shifted to something softer as he scratched the neck of his horse, but then his own horse would drift in the opposite direction again, and Spock wouldn’t notice until he was almost facing an entirely different direction.

“—you go?”

Spock blinked, only now realizing he was being addressed. Turning to face Jim, Spock tilted his head in question.

“Where do you go?” Jim repeated himself. “You usually only travel during the winters, but…”

Facing forward again, Spock stared at the way his horse’s ears twitched, feeling how it swayed as its hooves clip-clopped against the gravel. He knew what Jim was referring to, but a pit of uneasy guilt settled in his stomach.

“Here, there, and everywhere,” he spoke cautiously. “Wherever doth sleep the Bear.”

When he peeked over at the knight, Jim was staring up at the cloudy sky, searching for something he couldn’t see. Spock knew he didn’t give him the answer he wanted, as he had told countless stories of his travels before, but he kept silent. After all, the Summer Bear had already begun its descent by the time Spock returned to the kingdom.

“Have you ever been as far as the Solitary Mountain?”

Spock followed Jim’s new line of sight, seeing the outline of the peak far in the distance. Many a time he had skirted the edges of the woods at its foot, but not once had he ventured within, having taken heed of the warnings passed on from his ancestors.

“As far as I’ve been, that’s one place I won’t go: for its forests are cursèd, wrought with misery and woe.”

Jim was frowning at the mountain, lost in thought. It was the quietest he’d been the entire ride thus far, so Spock ended up staring at him, wondering what could possibly be on his mind.

“That’s what we were always told, growing up,” Jim said at last. “Whenever I played with the kids from the village and the other farms around there, we were always told we were free to roam as we pleased, as long as we never crossed the bridge over the river.” He laughed, still watching the memories flit before his eyes. “We would play by the banks, and when we felt more daring, we would dare each other to see who could sneak across the bridge the farthest.” Jim grinned, glancing Spock’s way. “There was one time that I managed to touch one of the trees that bordered the forest on the other side before sprinting back, and that was the farthest any of us ever got.”

Spock wanted to say that he knew that, in the distance, hidden behind the foliage or concealed from the naked eye, he would observe the people in the village, study humanity and their way of life. He would watch as the young man—who had grown strong from a lifetime of farmwork, letting the smallest of the children swing from his arms—tease the others closer to his age about crossing the bridge, telling exaggerated tales about what lurked on the other side. There was a sprawling kingdom with a tall castle that stood on the other side of the lake, but time and time again, Spock had always found himself coming back to the small village, faces becoming more and more familiar with each year he returned.

Nevertheless, nothing was said.

“I just thought, well, y’know, as a sprite,” Jim continued, “that you’d’ve traveled through the forest before.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Fae are old but that forest is older; only danger awaits for the fool that is bolder.”

“Is that why you always visit the old chapel before your winter journey?”

Freezing, Spock eyed Jim, taken by surprise that Jim had been aware of his visit. “... The chapel?”

Jim nodded. “It’s too old and there are too few people who frequent the chapel for me to know much about its history, but those who do pass by usually ask for protection… or assistance of some kind.” Upon seeing that Spock was still staring at him, Jim elaborated: “When you’re not around, I like to spend time reading in the chapel: it felt so lonely when I first stumbled upon it, so I like to give it my company while getting the same peace and quiet I would from the center of the lake.”

Spock looked back out to their path again. Because Jim had spent all of his time training and becoming a fully-fledged knight for the kingdom over the past handful of years—and apparently frequenting the chapel in his free time as well—Spock was surprised he didn’t know more about its history; then again, though considered young for a sprite, Spock had just over a century in age and he still didn’t know much about the chapel and the remains it housed.

“Beneath the altar where old bones reside is the home of a saint who once lived and died hundreds of years ago in a foreign land that has long turned to naught but dust and sand. All that is known and what still survives is the story where, for his great love, he was skinned alive; forgotten are the people who built that shrine, tradition keeps travelers praying for protection divine.”

Jim pouted. “Even so, I almost never have company when I visit.”

“Yeah, it’s not like the damn place is falling apart or anything.”

Jim fell off his horse with a yelp.

( Almost fell off: with his feet in their stirrups, he was left half-dangling off his horse).

As it turned out—Spock found when he whipped his head around so fast he almost popped something—the unfamiliar drawl came from someone sitting on the horse behind Jim who hadn’t been there a few seconds ago. The individual in question was sitting to the side and facing Spock, with a long blue cape draped over his shoulders and hanging from the side of the horse. A soft but brilliant halo framed his head, which wore an unimpressed look directed toward Jim’s struggling limbs.

“Jim—” Spock gasped, but the knight was already righting himself in his saddle, flailing wildly. 

“Where’d you come from?” Jim asked curiously, seeming utterly unfazed for someone who almost bit the ground. Because the stranger was sitting directly behind him, Jim twisted and turned, even letting his head fall back so he could attempt to have a better look at their new companion upside-down.

The stranger had the audacity to look affronted. “From thin air, what do you think?”

“Okay then…” Jim hummed, like he was trying to solve a difficult puzzle. “Who are you?”

“The name’s Doctor Leonard McCoy,” he introduced himself sharply, grinning despite himself.

“I hold some suspicion for your validity as a physician,” Spock noted curtly, glowering at this so-called Doctor from the corner of his eye: putting Jim into danger like that had almost the opposite effect.

“And what do you know about medicine, you damn pixie?” McCoy retorted, squinting at Spock and pointing at him accusingly with a skeletal finger. Spock bristled at the nickname.

“Easy, Bones,” Jim spoke easily. “Spock means no harm.”

“And I do?” McCoy said vaguely. “What are a knight and a sprite doing in this neck of the woods, anyhow?”

“We’re going to defeat a dragon!” Jim declared eagerly, ignoring Spock’s warning look and subsequent exasperation about running his mouth around this suspicious and ghoulish skeleton. 

McCoy seemed more incensed than impressed. “Defeat a dragon? Are you out of your damn minds?” When McCoy whirled his head around to glare at Spock, Spock simply shook his head, having long reached a point of acceptance in his grief.

“The village at the end of the lake requested protection from the kingdom due to some recent sightings of a dragon,” Jim explained, blissfully unaware of the staring warfare occurring just behind him. “Because the village is on the outskirts of the kingdom’s jurisdiction, they were hesitant to send any forces for the concern, but I bravely volunteered to take on the nefarious beast myself!”

“So you’re both idiots,” McCoy grumbled. Spock narrowed his eyes even further.

“I’m bringing Spock along as my valiant bard who will record the epic tale of a brave knight slaying the mighty dragon!” 

“Who in their right mind would ever do that?”

“Is it not the dream of every knight to at one point become a fearless slayer of evil and all that wreaks havoc upon this land?”

“Only if they have a deathwish.”

“Oh, Bones,” Jim said, trying to bat his eyelashes at the spirit over his shoulder. “If you’re so scared, there’s no reason for you to follow along.”

McCoy scoffed. “I’m already dead — what do I have to fear?”

Something, apparently, Spock thought to himself, otherwise he wouldn’t be staring at Jim like that, convincing him to step down.

Forcing himself to draw his eyes back onto the path ahead, Spock ushered his horse further up ahead, ignoring the bright laughter that rang out from behind.

At a small creek that fed into the lake, they stopped for a midday meal and to stretch their legs. McCoy lingered with the horses as they drank, watching the water trickle over the pebbles in meditation. Spock and Jim sat at a distance, perched on a boulder with a roll of bread and cheese, watching their new companion. 

“It is of my opinion that we mind the danger and perhaps consider exorcising the stranger,” Spock carefully proposed. 

Jim straightened, turning in his surprise. “You want to get rid of him?”

Spock raised an eyebrow.

“There’s nothing threatening about him, he’s caused no trouble—” Jim rolled his eyes at the look Spock gave him, “—okay, maybe a little trouble, but it’s nothing we can’t handle. Plus, it’s nice having the extra company around.”

Sulking, Spock drew his attention back to the idle spirit. In truth, Spock preferred quieter company or the peace of his own thoughts, and whereas Jim had wormed his way past those defenses as an exception, McCoy’s passionate and emotionally-charged demeanour were nothing but nails on a chalkboard. Perhaps some of it stemmed from the way the spirit clinged to Jim, entertaining him over the duration of the ride and becoming the source of his bright laughter, but something in Spock’s chest felt heavy at the seeing the spirit float so close to Jim’s side, made him feel so very far away.

Spock’s fingers dug into his bread roll unconsciously, so he tore off another piece to eat.

A hand gently rested on Spock’s shoulder, and he startled, turning his head sharply to see Jim gazing at him with a soft expression, his eyes shining and the corners of his mouth barely curved into a smile. 

“I want him to stay as a spirit the very same way I want you to stay as a sprite,” Jim told him. “There’s more to who you are than where you come from, and how different are the two of you, really?” Spock wanted to argue, wanted to defend himself from being compared to the irritating ghost now staring back at them, but Jim’s warm smile was blinding, distracting enough to ease away some of his irrationality. “He antagonizes you, but you antagonize him in return, and I honestly can’t tell if you both hate it or love it. I asked you to join me because we didn’t get a summer together this year, and…” his eyes grew sad, “... I can’t stop you from leaving, hell, I never could, but… I want you to stay. Please, Spock.”

The admission made something shatter inside of Spock, and he wanted to wipe the melancholy from the knight’s face, but he couldn’t speak. In all the years he’d lived, with all the supposed prestige he held under his father’s throne, it was outright laughable how helpless he was to the mere plea of the humble human by the name of James T. Kirk. 

Gulping down the lump in his throat along with his pride, Spock nodded.

The effect was immediate, given how the knight’s eyes wrinkled around the edges as he beamed, squeezing Spock’s shoulder one last time before dropping his grasp.

“I knew you’d let me keep him,” he teased, still staring at Spock.

Spock resisted the urge to sigh, because he knew just as well that he would too — just as much as the nonexistent handprint on his shoulder grew achingly cold with the absence of touch.

Jim first heard that enchanting lyre when he had watched the Bear and the Blackbird’s little dance across the sky fifteen times.

At that age, Jim and most of the other children from the village had already been helping out on their family farms or for whatever trade their family practiced. Because the winter’s snow had almost melted and the first buds of spring peeked from the greys and browns of last year’s growth, the farmers were kept busy readying their fields for that summer’s crop. 

He spent all of his days in the sun, and when he couldn’t, he’d spend them in the pouring rain. Bright and early in the morning, Jim would dash through his morning chores, attending to the little livestock they raised, and then he’d go out in the field or garden, tending to the soil to prepare it for seeding. Whenever he had time to himself, Jim would disappear with whatever tome he had gotten his hands on that week, reading page after page of romance and tragedy and action and adventure. 

On that particular day, Jim had wandered to the far edge of the village, barely treading along the border of the forest that spread far out to the east that side of the river. He had been whistling an improvised tune as he made his way to one of his favorite hideouts when he was stopped in his tracks, falling silent as he strained to make out what had joined him.

Hidden from view, the gentle strum of a plucked lyre floated through the foliage, luring Jim in with its hauntingly beautiful melody. He tread with care, quieter than a field mouse, weaving his way around branches and leaves to get as close as possible without being noticed.

In a small clearing only a few paces away, a figure sat with his back towards Jim: a large, green hat that blended them into their surroundings sat on the crown of their head, and in their hands they held an ancient lyre, plucking slowly at each string to draw out each note. Jim, with his eyes wide and his heart thumping in his chest, crouched down to listen unnoticed, entranced by the mythical stranger’s playing. 

And then the stranger opened his mouth and began to sing, and Jim knew he was cursed from thenon. 

On his way home, all that filled Jim’s mind—soft and sweet like cotton candy—was the soothing sound of the bard’s voice. The shadows doused everything not soaked in deep orange dusklight, and though Jim knew he’d be late for dinner, he couldn’t bring himself to care, sighing absently as foreign words slurred into countless melodies.

Though it was all for which he yearned, it would be a while until Jim heard the bard’s song outside of his dreams again — a day would not go by without him idly thinking about the stranger, wondering where he was at that moment and if he had merely been a miraculous mirage. As it turned out, Jim was led astray by the much-too familiar song of the bard’s lyre only a fortnight later, and his giddy mood stayed with him for the remainder of the week.

On and on the years would pass by, the Summer Bear and the Winter Blackbird dancing in circles across the sky. The winters were the loneliest of all, where all that lived went to sleep and the land turned cold, and Jim would collect firewood each and every day in the hopes that a certain song would ring out across the snowy blankets that covered the sprawling fields. It was only after the first year that he realized the bard’s song was a spring tune, the harbinger of joy and a breath of life returning back to the village.

Jim continued to grow and the bard’s music naturally became another part of his life, a secret he shared with no one else as he made excuse after excuse to explain each erratic absence. He also began to focus his training, running laps around the fields and play-fighting with hay bales with a desire to follow his dream in becoming a knight, a noble protector of his land. 

Rare was the occasion their quiet little village needed protection, but the few times the kingdom’s knights would pass through, they’d all stop and stare in awe, gaping at the pretty white ponies that stood shining and pristine in their royal garb. There was only one time that a kind-hearted knight—who had fallen ill and was unable to travel any further—allowed the village children to crowd around his bedside as he enlightened them with tales of ferocious beasts and faraway lands. 

“But most important of all,” the kind-hearted knight had told them, “is that you must love life more than yourself: ‘tis a noble pursuit, but a true knight is someone with something to fight for, with something to protect.”

Jim consumed those words like a gospel and never let them go.

Whenever he’d pass by the lake, Jim would stand tall on the shore, staring out far across the crystal lake at the kingdom that stood proud on its other side, with a castle that towered over all that it ruled. He’d imagine himself on a majestic white horse with a cape fluttering from his shoulders, an image of bravery and nobility rather than the poor farmhand he was then. 

And then came the day that Jim was fast enough and strong enough and brave enough, the day that he bid his family and all that he had ever known farewell before he hopped on his lowly horse and rode away, riding toward a shining dream for which he had always fantasized: no longer would he spend long days out in the field, sweating through the fabric of his shirt as soil embedded itself beneath his fingernails… no longer would he laugh and tease and play with the other boys and girls of the village, pass rosy afternoons in the wink of an eye with a ripe fruit in hand and a book in the other… no longer would he listen to the music of the mysterious stranger, hiding away in the bushes to bask in their song for hours upon end.

Jim knew he was cursed for an eternity because it was that last thought that made him pause, that last regret that forced him to hesitate before turning his back on his childhood and riding away to a pursuit of greater heights.

He was… lonely, at first. Jim would never admit to the fact, always putting on a bright smile and chatting easily with his peers, but too often would he catch himself gazing out and over the shimmering lake of stars, yearning to see the warm faces of his family and friends once again. It took until the first snowfall for Jim to realize that he missed the rare occasion he’d spend hours hiding away and listening to the mysterious sprite’s lyre, yet another piece lost from his life. Jim almost began to question his purpose as a knight in the first place, so he threw himself into endless training, distracting and tiring himself to avoid thinking about doubts with no easy answers.

In the spring of the second year Jim spent his time training in the kingdom, he had sprained his ankle and was forced to commit to a lighter regimen; consequently, he was left with too much time on his hands, and he did little else other than wallow in his own miseries. 

It was during this time, when he sat on the pier, staring out at a home he couldn’t see, that he was greeted by a distantly familiar voice:

“You are not in the village.”

Jim whirled around so quickly that he almost fell over, scrambling to confirm that this miracle was not merely a figment of his imagination.

Lo and behold, only a few paces away, stood the sprite with his wide-brimmed hat atop his head and his ethereal lyre upon back. Their eyes were widened, as if they, too, were surprised that they had spoken, and they were equally as frozen in their position as Jim was.

“You found me,” Jim breathed, and it was like something fulfilling finally slid into place.

And just like that, they clicked. Spending time together became easier than breathing, and Jim sought out Spock at every given opportunity. Now, whenever Spock played his lyre, strumming aimlessly, Jim was free to lay in the grass by the sprite’s feet, lazily cloud-watching as he listened to Spock’s gentle voice. Sometimes, they’d walk through the market together, where Jim would endlessly chatter as he bounced from stall to stall, all while Spock followed him quietly, listening intently to his every word.

As the Winter Blackbird began to rise and the grasses and trees donned their autumnal colours, Jim found Spock trying to leave the kingdom early in the morning.

“Why?” Jim pleaded, heart filled with sorrow. So many questions still filled his head, whirling around like the fall breeze that swept up fallen leaves and tousled his hair, but none of their words would fall from his lips.

Spock’s face fell at the sound of Jim’s voice, and he stood there tentatively, seeming to be lost for the first time in his life. “As the Winter Blackbird rises in the sky, leave and journey far away, must I.”

Having been spoiled over the spring and summer days and nights, living life in pure bliss, Jim only then remembered that Spock’s song was a harbinger of rebirth; those days had brought so much warmth, so much life, that the coming winter already felt colder, lifeless.

“You’ll come back, though… won’t you?” Jim asked hopefully. 

Staring back at him, tender but calculating, Spock nodded. “Do not fret, dear friend, for it won’t be long ‘til I find my way back with new tales and song.”

Though he ached, despairing the long months that were yet to come, Jim smiled, sighing in relief. Stepping closer, he lifted a hand to gently cup Spock’s cheek, watching how those dark chocolate eyes crossed ever so slightly as he neared. With a soft, lingering kiss left on Spock’s cheek, Jim pulled away, rubbing the sprite’s cheekbone with his thumb before dropping his hand entirely.

“For luck,” Jim promised, “and a reminder that I’ll be waiting here for your return.”

Spock had nodded stiffly, eyes wide, but Jim still caught the blush that dusted the pointed tips of the sprite’s ears just before he whirled around and set off on his long winter’s journey.

At first, that winter grew to be almost unbearable, so Jim threw himself into his training once again if only to distract himself. Then, about a week or two after Spock’s departure, Jim found the old chapel, to where he ended up returning time and time again with a book in his hands to revel in the peaceful retreat it offered.

By the time the spring returned to the Clearsky Kingdom, Jim had read through an entire shelf of novels, and the little chapel had been tidied enough times to not look entirely abandoned. The snowmelt muddied the ground and the first green of grass peeked through the straw, and Spock’s voice carried over the strum of his lute, returning to fulfill a promise.

Two more years passed with the same routine, and Jim grew content with the prospect of living out the rest of his life in this fashion. Every moment spent with Spock became one happy blur, where even the memories of early mornings sitting side by side, not exchanging a word, were dearly treasured.

And then, one spring, Spock never returned.

The snow disappeared from the ground, and Jim held onto his hope, telling himself the spring had come early. Then the leaves filled out the trees and the blossoms painted the land with bright colour, and Jim reassured himself that the sprite had been delayed. When the petals fluttered from the trees to make way for the fruit they were to bear and the summer storms blew through the kingdom, Jim began to worry that the sprite had fallen into danger, had fallen ill or incapacitated by injury. The hottest afternoons and the longest days came and went, and Jim sat by himself on the pier, staring out across the grey lake—too cloudy to reflect the stars in the heavens—wondering just where he had gone wrong.

So when there was word that his home village was requesting protection due to reported dragon sightings, taking the job offer was the easiest thing to do — after all, Jim didn’t think he could bear to spend another winter waiting for nothing to come.

And just like that, on the precipice between summer and fall, he was there, as if he’d been there all along.

It was ironic, how being with Spock only once before he was to leave on his great quest made him ache more than he did all summer.

“I missed you.”

Spock glanced up from the fire, the only indication of his surprise being how his eyes widened slightly; his hands were almost touching the flames, shifting another log into place, and his eyes were aglow with the firelight. Jim watched as they flickered over to Bones, who was lingering a ways away, watching the moonlight ripple over the lake of stars. 

“Mm?”

“I missed you,” Jim reiterated sincerely. 

Spock turned his head away, avoiding his friend’s gaze. 

Jim sighed and continued. “I won’t force you to tell me why, but… Spock, I was so worried. I- I thought maybe something happened to you, that maybe you got hurt, o- or…” He gulped. “The summer was so long I thought it would last forever. And... And… something tells me I would have waited forever.”

With his head bowed, Spock’s hat was angled in just a way that it shadowed half of his face. “I… I did not—”

“Just… can’t you tell me why?” Jim breathed. His fists curled in his lap. 

Sighing, Spock lifted his head, keeping his stare on the dancing flames. “I… did not trust my resolve and let my doubts evolve into something that kept me away no matter how I longed to stay. I see now that all it is I retain is the regret and torment of causing your pain.”

Doubts… About what? Jim wondered. He kept his gaze trained on Spock, seeing how the sprite resolutely kept himself still. Though he had thought that he valued their relationship more than did the sprite, Jim found himself considering the possibility that Spock had similar insecurities, and his expression softened.

“Spock…” he sighed, weary. “Please let go of your regret: I forgive you, of course I forgive you. I’ll always forgive you, even if it’s my greatest downfall.” Spock threw him an accusatory glare and Jim rolled his eyes. “Everyone has a weakness, Spock, and you just happen to be mine.”

Jim let the silence be drawn out as Spock processed his words. They both sat there, frozen in the light of the campfire, waiting for the stillness to be broken.

With the snap of a twig, Spock tossed the pieces into the hungry flame before finally speaking. “From now on, my loyal duty—I now declare—is that no matter your plight, I will always be there. The only thing I abhor is to see anguish in the one I…” He gulped. “The one I care for,” Spock finished weakly, as if that had not originally been his word of choice.

Nevertheless, Jim smiled wide, feeling an almost unbearable fondness for the bard.

“Your presence is all that I need, for you are life itself; stand by my side, and I will have something to fight for.”

High up in the sky, the moon shone brightly with the stars, reflecting down onto the starry lake. Small clouds drifted by here and there but did little in obscuring any light. 

Leonard, who was standing closer to the lake by a tree, sighed. This was prayer business, after all, and it was for Jim, of all people, but for a sleepless being, Leonard was already exhausted.

Dragging his gaze down from the stars, he turned the palm of his hand, moving his fingers to see how each individual and exposed bone shifted in its place. Bones, Jim had called him. Leonard twisted his hand around to inspect how the exposed bone continued up his wrist and underneath the shimmering fabric of his robes. It’s not like the nickname was inaccurate.

He turned around to peek at his companions by the campfire. Jim sat behind the flames, a solitary golden curl peeking out from underneath his chainmail hood. The knight was smiling softly, still chatting contentedly as he had been doing the entire day. 

Leonard knew Jim. He knew Jim very well, in fact. All winter, when his chapel was the lonliest, Jim would stop by and stay for hours, pouring over novel after novel, tidying up the shrine, and sometimes even telling Leonard about his day. Leonard grew to look forward to these visits, listening for Jim’s bright voice and finding himself disappointed on the rare occasion it happened to be another visitor. 

Even though he came to know Jim as a friend, Leonard kept himself out of sight, and thus remained a stranger to the knight. It pained him, but Leonard could not conceive of a valid reason to show himself, supposedly devoted to his role as a saint, so as soon as that sprite had visited his shrine with his request, Leonard had seized the opportunity and trailed along on their quest.

Yet, even then, he remained the outsider, Leonard idly observed as he watched how Jim’s bright expression gravitated toward the sprite.

Leonard’s focus shifted to the sprite in question. 

He wasn’t exactly sure what it was about Spock that irritated him. Sure, the damn pixie was uptight and unnecessarily judgemental, but Leonard had dealt with plenty of individuals like him before. No, he told himself, it was the fact that Spock had very specifically prayed for Leonard’s help, and then when Leonard had tagged along to actually try and help, that damn pixie thought it was his god-given duty to try and keep Leonard from doing his job. Leonard was no fool: he saw the glares Spock had given him throughout the trip, seen how he had despised Leonard’s very presence.

But perhaps it wasn’t just that. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Leonard could plainly see the affection that Jim exuded, plainly see the love that the knight offered so willingly, to the one person who would not reciprocate in the way that Jim deserved.

Sighing, Leonard turned away to look out toward the lake. As he drifted away from the camp, down to the shore, his hands clasped and his gaze lifted to the heavens, seeking out divine guidance.

Rising and falling to meet each other in the sky, the Bear and the Blackbird shone brightest, meeting Leonard’s stare.

“What am I supposed to do?” he pleaded up to the stars above. “They’re both hopeless fools.”

The Bear and the Blackbird did nothing but wink and blink their brilliant beauty back at him.

Turning back around, Leonard watched over the camp. The fire had dimmed to a few embers by now, and even Spock was resting quietly, nodding off against the log he was sitting by. Jim was already dozing in his bed roll, golden locks of hair curling over his forehead and long eyelashes resting against his cheeks.

Reaching out, Leonard pulled the blanket further over Jim, tucking him in. Jim snuggled into the extra warmth, and Leonard smiled softly.

“Lord help me,” he murmured, setting his hand back in his lap, “for I may be one too.”

At dawn, the sky painted with pinkish hues and every shape in the distance nothing more than a few outlined shadows, Spock had already woken. He busied himself with the castle ponies, ensuring that they would be ready for the long ride ahead of them.

The soft sound of laughter made Spock’s ears perk up, and he peeked over to the camp. There, sitting up with his blankets pooled into his lap and his hair a ruffled mess, was Jim, rubbing at his eyes and grinning lazily. By his side was their impromptu guest, scolding Jim for something or another; the light of his halo was bright enough that it lit up Jim’s face, making his features clear to see from where even Spock was standing.

McCoy grounched about something else, and Jim half-heartedly reached over to shush him, smiling all the same. Though they had only met less than a full day ago now, there was something about the spirit’s actions that made them seem so familiar with each other. Even Jim had let his guard down around this stranger, murmuring sleepily into his breakfast as he gravitated toward the skeletal phantom.

Reining in his control, Spock whirled around with a huff, forcing himself to focus on the horses’ saddles. There was no reason for him to be so bothered by whatever McCoy and Jim were doing, and yet, here he stood, swallowing down the feeling of unease that had plagued him since the spirit had first appeared. Jim was technically correct in pointing out that McCoy had done no wrong, even if the reason he was even accompanying them remained shrouded in mystery, but Spock seemed determined to remain suspicious… or whatever it was that compelled him to take Jim and leave this doctor behind.

Then again, Spock was the one that left Jim behind. Simply thinking about the hurt on Jim’s face made Spock ache, but he reveled in the feeling, burying it deep inside of himself so that he could never let himself make the same mistake again. Either way, he was the one who had made the mistake, and he had no right feeling in such a way.

Illogical, Spock chided himself, pulling a buckle taut. All of it.

As fate would have it, there was no such miracle to magically cure Spock of his lack of horse riding talent overnight; this time, however, he had twice the audience.

McCoy spared no energy in concealing his laughter, guffawing so obnoxiously that he almost fell backward off his and Jim’s horse. Though Jim was slightly more mindful, scolding “Bones” about how Spock was barely hanging off his horse’s neck and struggling to swing his leg up, he was still doing a very poor job in biting down his own amusement. 

Keeping his hat down, shading his eyes, Spock led his pony ahead, trotting down the trail in miserable silence as he listened to Jim and McCoy’s chatter from behind.

For a midday meal, the troupe stopped by a flower field. Leonard found the event equally irritating as it was endearing.

Jim was a ball of sunshine, as per usual. As a saint, Leonard was no stranger to miracles, and how Jim ate his rations so quickly while talking nonstop without choking was definitely up there. Nonetheless, his hands were always kept busy, repeating the motions Spock had shown him to weave together a wildflower crown.

“How big should I make it?” Jim mused out loud, interrupting his own train of thought to hold up his craft in a ring. He twisted around so that Spock’s face was framed in the flowers. “I think this crown would suit you perfectly, Spock.”

Despite being offered a gift woven from Jim’s own hands, Spock tensed. “Beautiful is the gift one cannot buy, but yet another crown, need not I.”

Leonard snorted. That would explain a thing or two about that pixie’s damn disposition. Spock shot a glare at the saint, but kept his lips pursed and didn’t say anything further.

“I think it would look best on your own head,” Leonard piped up before Jim could look too disheartened. 

He shifted his attention to stare admonishingly at Spock, but as his eyes landed on the sprite, he finally noticed how Spock’s expression had changed: with his gaze on Jim, Spock’s face had… softened, ever so slightly, and there was a muted melancholy hidden underneath. The change was not something Leonard ever expected to witness on Spock, and he was momentarily shaken, turning back to Jim in his confusion.

Jim frowned at his wildflower crown, which was now resting in his lap. Then, he looked slowly between the wide-brimmed hat atop Spock’s head and the brilliant halo behind Leonard’s. 

“You’re right,” Jim decided, his bright smile having already returned. “I’m the only one without a hat… and with this, I can finally match you two.”

“Match—” Leonard sputtered, absently reaching for the crown of his head. “My halo is not a hat, dammit!”

Jim’s laugh was loud and clear, piercing through any remaining tension that lingered in the air — the sound itself was divine. It was there, where the blossoms smelled sweet in the breeze and the sun was like a warm embrace, that Leonard found himself the happiest he’d been in centuries.

And while Jim was the magnetizing epicenter to which everything gravitated, somehow, in some way, it was the hint of a smile playing on the sprite’s features that made that picture complete.

They were less than a day’s journey to the village, but, needing the rest, they stopped for the night. 

All three of them were spread around the blazing fire, which Jim kept feeding to produce a furnace that would remain lit for most of the night. He still wore the wildflower crown he had weaved earlier in the day, and the petals remained bright and still smelled sweet, which may or may not have been the result of a song of blessing Spock had sung on the road. With his meal finished and the dirty pot washed out, Jim kept himself entertained by snapping twigs into smaller fragments before tossing them into the flame.

McCoy sat to Spock’s right, hunched over and hugging his knees. The brilliance of his halo rivaled that of the flames into which McCoy stared; Spock found both to be too blinding, so he maintained his focus on the lyre in his hands.

“What are you planning on doing when we get to the village?” McCoy piped up. His gaze flickered over to Jim, which the knight did not return. Spock’s did as well, as he, too, was wondering about how their quest was to unravel.

“I’ll… protect them, I think.” Snap. Jim tossed the branch halves into the fire. “That’s what I was told this mission was about, anyway.”

McCoy raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And your solution is to defeat a dragon?”

Jim shrugged, frowning. “Well, how else am I supposed to get rid of it? Isn’t slaying a dragon what sets apart a great knight from a legendary one?”

In a rare occurrence of agreement, McCoy glanced over at Spock with mutual apprehension: neither of them seemed to know what to say. What made the situation further disconcerting was the fact that Jim also seemed unsure of himself… upset, even. 

Plastering on a smile, Jim looked up, directing his attention to Spock. “Won’t you play us a song? You know how much I love that one about the gravedigger’s son.”

Spock’s fingers hovered over his instrument for a moment; it was obvious that Jim was trying to bury the inevitable, avoid thinking about an affair that would dawn much too soon, but there was nothing Spock knew that he could do except comply.

Nodding, he plucked at his lyre to check if the strings remained in tune, weaving out a short intro as he recalled the lyrics. The tale was an old one, already a forgotten myth by the time Spock was born into existence — all that remained were the ancient words passed from mouth to mouth, generation by generation.

“The old gravedigger, 
Mysterious in his trade,
Lived up by the chapel
On top of the hill. 
Though he dedicated his life to the Almighty,
The old guardian never found himself alone,
Working with those sleeping in the crypt beneath the chapel
And tending to his garden of bones.
The people would fear and reject him
For his close acquaintance with Death,
When this intimacy only increased his admiration
For the precious beauty and a love for Life.
The old gravedigger’s devotion did not go unseen,
So the Father Almighty blessed upon him
The most precious gift Life could bestow:
A beautiful, baby son.
The old gravedigger loved his son with all that he had,
Taught him everything he knew and more:
How to prepare the dead and how they ticked when alive,
And, most importantly, the special significance of Life.

The son studied and grew into a handsome young man,
Who cared so vastly for those around him,
He felt their pain as his own:
After all, while both he and his father were Believers,
Seeing the dead and their eternal home, they knew
If they didn’t care for each other, then mankind was alone.
Inspired by the students that came to his father
With a request to study some remains,
The gravedigger’s son went away,
With his heart and his mind
Filled with his father’s teachings,
To pursue the study of the perseverance of Life.

Years came and went
And war spread across the land
The gravedigger’s son returned home for refuge
With a wife and unborn child in hand.
Soldiers marched past the chapel to their gruesome end,
And the gravediggers would wonder 
Which ones would return home 
And which would join them.
The gravedigger’s son continued to study,
Hidden below the chapel among the tombs,
Drawing pictures by candlelight for a book of anatomy and medicine
With the assistance of the newly-fallen soldiers.
Soon, the gravedigger had a granddaughter,
And still the wars raged on;
The people of the land who always feared the gravedigger
Now feared his son,
And with so much fear festering in their hearts
They let their suspicion bloom.
Even with his role as a doctor
For those who still grasped at life’s thread,
Often would the gravedigger’s son find his work ruined
And hear vile rumors spread.
Forever true to his father’s teachings
And to those of the Almighty above,
The gravedigger’s son treated all equally,
Showing mercy to everyone.
While there were those filled with hate,
Others were not immune to his great love;
The weak and the wounded sought out his help,
Ally and rival alike.

The battles washed closer like the tide
And the plague of terror ran rampant across the land;
‘Twas when that fateful day arrived,
When the wary townsperson paid visit to the chapel’s crypt
And caught the wife of the gravedigger’s son
Beside the examined corpse of a fallen soldier.”

McCoy stood up so suddenly that the action startled Spock from his song. Having been so caught up in the tale playing before his eyes as he sung, Spock hadn’t noticed McCoy’s expression throughout the song, and by the time Spock and Jim turned to the source of the disruption, McCoy already had his back to the campfire as he stormed toward the lake.

Both the knight and the bard stared at McCoy’s retreating figure in stunned silence until it disappeared from sight. Biting down a rotten feeling, Spock glanced down at where his fingers remained frozen over the strings of his lyre, wondering what part of his playing was so revolting that the saint couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Do you think he’s okay?” Jim finally spoke, and of course he was worried. The knight glanced over to Spock. “I don’t know why he’d get upset like that… Do you think he knows someone in the story?”

Spock shook his head. “That is where my understanding fails: these are only myths. Legends. Tales.”

“Hm.”

A log popped and crackled, tossing embers upward to join the stars. Jim reached for his blanket, tugging it up to his chin and snuggling against his bag.

“Can you still finish telling me the story?”

Spock raised an eyebrow at that: Jim had heard the tale countless times, and there was nothing novel about the melody. Nonetheless, as always, Spock complied, picking up where he left off.

“Deluded with their paranoia and terror,
An enraged riot of townspeople marched up to the chapel
And surrounded the gravedigger’s family
To accuse the son’s wife of heresy, witchcraft, and treason.
But the gravedigger’s son loved them more than Life itself
And took it upon himself to shoulder the blame:
He told them to take him, that it was all his doing,
That he had forced this poor woman along into his scheme.
Already filled with contempt for the gravedigger’s son,
The townspeople agreed to the deal:
Come morning, after the cock crowed thrice,
The gravedigger’s son would be skinned alive instead.

Morrow came, and they took him away,
Stripping him of his skin in the town square for all to see.
There was no small miracle 
When the gravedigger’s son made no sound,
Except for the fevered prayers 
For divine protection of all those in the town.
After he was stripped bare,
Lying naked before the world,
The last of his skin dropped to the ground
And the town was besieged.
Raw terror and pandemonium erupted all around
And everything wood was licked in flame,
Yet there, in the center of it all,
Laid the body of the gravedigger’s son.
Though some doubted their eyes,
And others simply refused to believe,
They say the son was blessed with the breath of Life
And stood tall once more.
With his skin in grasp and destruction all around,
The gravedigger’s son moved forth into the flame without fear,
Commanding the enemy with a pointed finger and steady repose
To leave and to never return.
Upon seeing the image of the stripped and condemned man,
The enemy was filled with fear and ran,
Saving the very townspeople
From where that fear began.

The old gravedigger,
Now aged and tired,
Watched as his precious gift from Life
Was handed over to an old friend.
The old gravedigger,
Always knowing this to be the inevitable end,
Smiled and sung his son to sleep
One last time.”

The last chord from the plucked strings rung out into the night, washed away by an evening breeze.

Spock would have thought Jim to have been asleep by now, if not for the fact his eyes were still half-lidded, gazing into the lowering fire.

“Why do you love this piece so?” Spock said, burdened with curiosity. Jim’s attention was evidently drawn at the lack of rhyme in Spock’s question, given how his eyes flickered over to the bard, though he didn’t say anything about it.

“When I was a boy,” Jim recounted suddenly, “back in the village, sometimes the kingdom knights would pass through. You must love life more than yourself. That’s what one of them told me. It’s what made me want to become a knight in the first place.”

The silence relapsed. Jim stared into the campfire, listening to how the crackle slowly died away. Reaching over, he grabbed a handful of twigs from his pile and tossed them into the fire.

“The gravedigger’s son reminds me of that,” Jim continued, glancing at Spock once again. “I love it because it reminds me of who I am.”

Spock reflected over the words from the story, attempting to piece together where Jim fit into that picture: the knight wasn’t exactly the person that came to mind alongside the context of the song… that was until Spock realized Jim was referring to the martyrdom.

“Do not think of sacrifice, for in matters of importance, with your perseverance, there is nothing above,” Spock insisted, sitting tall as the words found themselves tumbling from his mouth. “I will do everything in my power to ensure your safety, for I do not want to imagine living a life without the one I… the one I…” he trailed off, the last word lodging itself firmly into his throat.

Jim was wide awake now, sitting up with his blanket pooling into his lap. “The one you what? The one you what, Spock?”

Overwhelmed with a sense of dizziness, Spock clutched at his lyre and stood up, gulping down that last, treacherous word. “I believe I need time to go think,” he said rather stiffly. “Goodnight, Jim. Sleep well.”

“... Goodnight, Spock.”

Spock was hardly surprised to find himself retracing the path McCoy had likely taken in his episode of upset earlier in the night: the calm, crystal lake always provided a sense of tranquility for whenever Spock needed it the most.

Just as he was approaching the shore, however, he caught sight of a figure in the distance. Lingering at the treeline, Spock observed them from afar.

McCoy had his head tilted up to the sky, illuminated by his own bright halo. His arms were open out in question, as if he were silently quarreling with the constellations above the lake. Every once in a while, he’d pace the shoreline, agitated like an animal in its cage. The blues of his robe and cape that fluttered around his figure blended him into the night, giving him even more of a spectral appearance.

In short, he was simply beautiful.

Spock was entranced; there was so little he knew about the saint, and while he took it upon himself to personally irritate the bard, Spock found himself wondering what McCoy could possibly be praying about. 

Doctor Leonard McCoy was a frustrating, fascinating enigma.

When the saint whirled around, having thought he’d heard something rustle in the trees, he found himself to be alone.

Meanwhile, Spock concealed himself against the trunk of a sprawling tree, bewildered at his own reaction.

Something rustled in the trees, and Jim peeked one lazy eye open. 

He was alone by the dwindling campfire, burned down to only a few glowing charcoals: Bones had probably disappeared for the night in his ghostly way, and Spock had mostly likely wandered off to pursue some fleeting muse (or at least, that’s what Jim thought mysterious musicians like Spock got up to in the middle of the night).

Just as he was about to dismiss the noise as the wind… there it was again!

Sitting up, Jim rubbed at his eyes, blinking away any lingering sleep. Even with his sight adjusted to the darkness, he couldn't spot anything out of the ordinary, and the notion set him on edge more than anything else. What on earth was making that noise?

With his gaze scanning the treetops, brushing over the constellations that painted the sky, Jim froze as he spotted movement, rustling the highest leaves caught in the breeze. Shifting so he could have a better look at the entire sky, Jim waited, heart thump-thump-thumping in his chest. His gaze landed on the images of the Bear and the Blackbird, twinkling against the endless backdrop of space—

—And then they blinked out of existence, and new constellations shifted into their place.

Jim blinked in return, rubbing his eyes and pinching his side to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, double- and triple-checking where the Bear and the Blackbird had once been.

Instead, it was as if a piece of the very sky fell to the earth, landing all in one heap in front of the knight. Jim squinted his eyes and crawled closer, trying to make sense of it all.

Only an arm’s length away, the sky blinked: two round, large, and yellow eyes revealed themselves, shining brighter than any of the stars around them.

He stared at the starry sky and the starry sky stared back, beautiful and awesome in all of its grandeur. 

Amidst the witching hour of the night, Spock finally returned to the camp. Nothing but ash remained in the firepit, and Jim’s sleeping spot was vacant, his blanket tossed to the side.

At first, Spock assumed Jim had left to take a quick trip into the brush. Then, as the minutes crawled past, stretching out second by second, Spock grew restless, pacing the area around the camp as his patience wore thin.

“Jim?” he called out when nothing but the breeze passed — hearing how his own voice echoed in the empty woods only made Spock’s heart pound faster. “Jim?”

His movements growing erratic, Spock circled the camp for any hint whatsoever: Jim’s belongings were still there, which meant the knight hadn’t left voluntarily… but Spock soon came to realize that it was the alternative that scared him the most.

“Spock? Spock, what the hell is it?”

Swiveling around, Spock saw McCoy emerging from the forest, quick on his feet and with a grumpy concern amidst his expression. Spock teetered where he stood, battling down his panic.

“I believe something has gone terribly wrong,” he said, feeling rather ill actually voicing it out loud. “Jim has not returned: he is still gone.”

McCoy froze in his spot, staring at Spock with a blank expression. Then, very slowly, he turned his attention to Jim’s abandoned blanket.

“How did you lose him?” McCoy suddenly erupted, alarm laced in his voice. The bones of his fingers clicked against each other as he wrung his hands. “Weren’t you watching over him?”

“You are one to talk,” Spock replied icily, “when you disappeared to go on your walk.”

McCoy simply glared at him in return, pressing his mouth into a thin line. Ripping his stare away, the saint studied the area around them, light spilling onto the ground from his halo. “Well, he couldn’t have simply disappeared into thin air,” he grumbled. 

Moving to step away, McCoy was stopped by the tug on his sleeve where Spock’s hand had whipped out and grasped on. When the saint turned to face him, Spock pointed down to what he had only then just noticed.

The saint, the bard, and the knight’s blanket all stood in an indent in the dirt, one that oddly seemed to resemble an immense, clawed footprint.

“Well, then,” McCoy remarked, meeting Spock’s eyes once again. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a dragon to catch.”

Chapter Text

So caught up in the anxiety of Jim’s disappearance, Leonard didn’t even bother poking fun at Spock’s awkwardness around the horses, helping him pack the saddlebags and mount his steed with haste instead; he’d already failed in his prayer-answering mission once, and he wasn’t about to let that happen again.

They had the time to pace themselves initially, so the horses never exceeded a trot prior to that point, but with those novel, desperate circumstances, Leonard asked Spock if he could ride at a canter, and with a terse nod, Spock agreed. When Leonard chirked, however, and the ponies kicked up their speed, it was evident the experience was a new one to the bard, who paled as he clutched at both his hat and the reins with much intensity. Nonetheless, Spock never said a word, so they kept up their pace the rest of the short distance to the village.

As they rode into the village center, heads turned from every direction, gawping at the telltale white kingdom ponies Leonard and Spock were riding. Spock dutifully followed behind Leonard, who led their ponies to an open market: at this time of day in this season, it was sure to be full of people, and Leonard was sure someone would know something about that damned flying lizard.

The crowd began to part, and Leonard gestured for Spock to stop his horse as a burly blacksmith stood before them, his arms crossed.

“What brings you to our village?” the blacksmith greeted them brightly, but given the stiffness in his posture, he remained wary.

“We’ve lost a friend,” Leonard replied easily, staring back. He hesitated for a moment, wondering how he could make Jim’s situation seem the least… well, stupid. “He was on his way here to protect the village from… from a threat, so we came here to see if we could gather any clues on where he could be.”

The blacksmith glanced around at some of the other farmers standing around him, silently sizing up the two strangers. “So the kingdom decided to send us some support after all,” he continued, though, judging by the way his eyes flickered between the saint and the sprite, he still held a misconception about their role. 

“Jim was the first”— and only —”to volunteer his service when he heard you were in need,” Leonard reassured them. “We merely followed.”

“Wait… did you say Jim?” A woman pushed herself to the front of the crowd. “Jimmy Kirk?”

Leonard glanced over to Spock, who shrugged and nodded. “Yeah, that’s the one,” Leonard confirmed.

The crowd seemed to relax, which was further evident by how the woman stepped forward and offered a hand out to take their horses’ reins. “You said he was lost, didn’t you,” she said, her brow furrowing. “What can we do to help?”

Breathing out a sigh of relief, Leonard hopped off his steed. “What can you tell us about the dragon?”

A few of the lingering spectators gasped, and hushed whispers ran between them. The blacksmith’s face hardened once again.

The woman took a step closer, keeping her voice hushed, much to the dismay of a few prying children. “The dragon was nothing but a myth of chaos and destruction until a few weeks ago, when we spotted it flying low around Rajaa, the Solitary Mountain,” she explained. “Since then, we’ve been plagued with omens of evil. If it is true, what you say, then I fear that Jim’s disappearance may be one as well.”

“Half of my crops burnt to a crisp!” a farmer interjected.

“All my vegetables rotted,” another added, and the rest of the crowd erupted into chaos, chiming in with recounts of their own. Elderly had fallen ill, drought ran the water supply low, and children had grown clumsier and more accident-prone.

At the front of all the cacophony, Leonard held up his hands, calming the crowd with the mere motion. “All we wish is for the return of our friend,” he told them, glancing over all of their worried faces. “He came back to this village to protect all of you and all that you have, so once we find Jim again, we’ll be able to offer the help you need.” 

“You and your friend should rest,” the kind woman told Leonard, reaching out to touch his arm. “The journey will only become more perilous from here: I’ll make you a cup of tea and tell you everything you need to know.”

The woman took the reins of both their horses, and when Leonard turned to address Spock, only then did he realize the bard was still sitting stiffly atop his steed.

“Need a hand… friend?” Leonard grinned, using the woman’s words. Spock narrowed his eyes at him. 

Nevertheless, understanding that—in some strange way—he and Spock were forced to be allies or completely alone, Leonard shuffled over to lend his shoulder for the bard to hold onto as he dismounted. Leonard could’ve sworn he heard the sprite sigh the second his feet touched the ground. 

“No one’s gonna notice your damn pixie ears,” Leonard hissed, thwacking Spock’s shoulder when he caught the bard fiddling with his hat for the third time. “For God’s sake, I’ve got a disc of light behind my head.”

“I do not see your reason to whine, as your purpose is one most divine,” Spock grumbled. 

“What, and yours isn’t?” he said before he realized what he was saying; when he finally did—though he had absolutely no reason to do so—he whirled around on his heel and quickly marched ahead, following the kind woman to her home.

Spock was sitting patiently at the little table in the one-bedroom house, watching how a few of the village children scampered around, chasing each other and hollering; Leonard had to hide his smile every time he caught Spock leaning away ever so slightly when one of the loud little gremlins ran past screaming. Meanwhile, their host stood by a cooking pot hanging over the fire, humming as she attended to a whistling kettle.

Leonard temporarily distracted himself with a bookshelf, peering at the titles of each bound novel and textbook inked onto the spine. With his index finger (well, rather, the bones that were left of it) paused over an old and well-loved tome, Leonard pulled it out of its place and began to skim through the pages.

“Interested in medicine?” the woman asked. Leonard’s head whipped up abruptly, and he just barely kept himself from snapping the book shut. Weaving around the playing children, she brought over a cup of tea for Leonard, having already given Spock one of his own.

“Something like that,” Leonard muttered vaguely. 

She smiled. “Mm. I’m somewhat of a healer myself, which is why that book in particular is falling apart at the seams.” Gazing at it warmly, she held out Leonard’s cup of tea but didn’t rush him, seeing how his distal phalanx brushed over an intimately familiar diagram of an eye dissection. “It’s older than anyone can remember, and yet we keep on reprinting it, passing it down generation by generation, because even after all this time, it offers the strongest foundation any physician could wish for.”

Page after page, word after word: all of it was exactly as Leonard remembered. He remembered sketching out each diagram over and over again until they were absolutely perfect. He remembered binding each scrap of notes together, stuffing them into crevices around the underground crypt and away from prying eyes. All of those delicate pages, carefully collected and published into a textbook, sat reunited with Leonard’s hands, countless centuries later.

“Sir? Sir, are you alright?”

Leonard blinked back up at her, slowly processing the emotion that was evidently showing on his face. Clearing his throat, he shut the book and slipped it back onto the shelf, accepting his cup of tea.

“Yes, I’m f-fine, thank you,” he murmured, sipping at his drink. “I was simply wondering what the author would be thinking… seeing the impact of his own work.”

“Hmm, well.” She tapped her chin pensively. “I imagine he’d probably be dying to know how medicine has developed since his time, first and foremost. Now, then… you two probably want to talk business.”

Coming back to the matter at hand, Leonard glanced over to Spock… only to see that the bard was peering back at him, a questioning eyebrow raised. Since he didn’t really want to have it brought up again, Leonard shot him a look and turned back to their host.

“You know Jim?”

“We all do,” she said as she continued cooking, adding ingredients to the pot above the fire and stirring. “My Hans and I grew up with him, in fact: he was like an older brother to us.”

Leonard nodded. “We appreciate your assistance: we’ll get him back if it's the last thing we do. What else can you tell us about the dragon?”

The woman cradled her own mug of tea, staring off into a corner of the room as she thought. “Many of the village people spotted it gliding around the foot of Rajaa, and legend goes that it guards a tower at the very top of the mountain. It is said to be impossible to reach because no one has ever completed the journey before.”

Glancing over at Spock, they exchanged a muted look of unease at the implication. “... But you do know the way?” Leonard asked anyway.

“Once you cross the bridge—the only way across the river—you must venture through the Whispering Woods to reach Rajaa, which are filled with bandits and creatures from the most despicable of nightmares.” 

“As far as I’ve been, that’s one place I won’t go: for its forests are cursèd, wrought with misery and woe,” Spock added as if he were quoting something, nodding wisely.

“At the foot of the mountain sits a gatekeeper: she guards the only way to pass through, which she will only allow you to do when you answer her riddles three. Even if you make it across, you will forever be trapped in the forest labyrinth that leads to the peak, riddled with ancient magic that will keep you wandering for an eternity. It has been said that it takes more than just faith to escape.”

Leonard stared down into his tea, watching how the floating leaves twirled around and around. He was aware that facing the dragon wouldn’t be easy, but having to trek all the way up to its lair? And without Jim?

No, he scolded himself, doing this was quite literally his job: Spock had asked—even if unknowingly—for Leonard to ensure Jim’s protection… and the least he could do now was search the ends of the earth for one man.

With a sigh of acceptance, the saint’s gaze met that of the sprite’s, and the two of them silently acknowledged their fate.

The kind woman had informed them that the Whispering Woods would be too dense for a horse to traverse, so Spock and Leonard had collected their belongings and left their ponies behind. Spock seemed far more comfortable to be traveling on foot, anyhow, being less quick to snap at Leonard.

Neither of them said a word the entire way to the bridge, having reached a mutual pact to avoid conflict for Jim’s sake. In all honesty, the task was somewhat difficult for Leonard, as even alone, he could be found talking to himself merely to fill the space in there. What’s more is that Spock seemed to know the path to the bridge like he’d traveled it a million times before, and Leonard was itching to ask why.

However, as the bridge came into view, they were greeted with something rather unexpected: not far off from their bank, part of the bridge had crumbled, and wedged in that rut was a horse cargo chariot, blocking the entire path. On the side of the chariot that tipped over the crumbling stone, the wheel had fallen off, lying to the side of the debris and strewn cargo. A large man in blacksmither’s attire stood at the foot of the bridge, his hands propped against his sides as surveyed the damage.

“Ho there!” Leonard called out in greeting, raising his arm up high. From the corner of his eye, he could see Spock flinch at his brashness. “What happened here?”

The man turned around at Leonard’s voice, staring at them in surprise before laughing sheepishly. “Seems ah found m’self in a bit of a pickle!” he exclaimed as the saint and the bard drew nearer.

Leonard took another glance at the damage. “Seems like a bit of an understatement!” he shouted back.

“Bandits caught me with mah pants down,” the blacksmith continued, gesturing to the mess. “With me wagon broke, ah canny return home.”

“Did they take anything from you?” Leonard asked, now close enough to properly assess the situation and offer any assistance. “Other than your ride, of course.”

The man laughed again, the crow’s feet probably etched into his face. “Nay, laddie: I had little coin in my purse. This was a supply run, after all.”

Leonard was about to make another comment when he noticed Spock meandering around the horse chariot, carefully stepping around the obstacle to the other side of the bridge. “Hey!” Leonard cried out sharply. “Hey, get back here, you damn pixie!”  

Spock continued walking as if he never heard Leonard in the first place.

“Spock, you—!” Sighing, Leonard squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I apologize for his nerve. Do you need a helping hand?”

Though the man—Scotty, was his name—insisted he could manage, Leonard’s stubbornness won out in the end, and he helped the blacksmith lead his calm workhorse Bonnie to the other side of the bridge. 

When he returned, he found Scotty peering at the bared axle of the chariot, frowning at it in frustration. 

Not understanding a lick of engineering, Leonard bounced on his toes. “Is there nothing that can be done?”

“Without its bolt?” Scotty murmured, rubbing his chin as he continued his relentless study of the problem. “Aye, m’afraid not.”

“Where have you looked? Did you see the direction it went?”

Scotty shook his head sadly. “Though I have a bad feeling it was tossed in th’water.”

Both Leonard and Scotty took a moment to stare down despairingly over the crumbling edge of the bridge and into the turbid and rushing river. 

“Is this the reason your moods are so bleak? If so, I believe I might have the item which you seek.”

Leonard and Scotty whirled around to see Spock standing there passively, eyebrow raised and a wooden peg in his hand.

“My boy— you’ve found it!” Scotty cried out suddenly, leaping up and bounding over to grab Spock’s shoulders with glee. The bard stood there, silent and stunned, as the loud and eager blacksmith beamed and curled Spock’s fingers around the peg, patting his hand. “Wher ever did you search?”

Blinking dumbly, Spock took a moment to recover himself. “Judging by the location of the accident, and downstream, a bend, I surmised that it would be possible for that shore to be this object’s end.”

Scotty continued to commend the bard with that boisterous accent of his, rambling excitedly like a big dog to a kitten, yet Leonard didn’t hear a word of what he was saying; instead, his focus remained puzzled on Spock, trying to reassemble his impression of the sprite.

Spock had left without a word, ignoring Leonard’s cries of exasperation that followed him, and Leonard had simply assumed that Spock was heartless enough to leave poor Scotty in the dust. The lack of clear communication was definitely a problem in itself, of course, but having seen Spock investigate the scene from up close and still prematurely judge his actions was not exactly very saint-like.

From beneath the brim of his hat, Spock shot Leonard a pained expression upon still being assaulted by Scotty’s generosity, and Leonard couldn’t decide if the winded feeling in his chest was due to the shock of beginning to understand such an odd being, or if it was perhaps the blossom of a warm and tender fondness. 

Eternally grateful for McCoy’ and Spock’s assistance, Scotty had offered them a ride to wherever they were headed next. Spock stood to the side as McCoy feigned refusal (Spock had once been told this was sometimes considered polite) before finally giving in, accepting the refusal of Scotty’s additional supply offers due to both the sprite’ and the spirit’s mythological nature possessing far lower standards.

With the efforts of all three, they reattached the wheel, pulled the chariot from its rut, harnessed Bonny to the salvaged vehicle, and reloaded the cart with Scotty’s cargo in little time, finally back on the road just as the autumn sun began to set.

From the horse, Scotty rode up front, softly singing to the mare as they rode along. Both Spock and McCoy sat side-by-side on flour sacks stacked near the top of the cargo pile, watching as the bridge grew smaller in the distance until it disappeared entirely from existence. At some point during the ride, McCoy curled up on his makeshift seat, dozing lazily at the shifting scenery around them.

Soon, the land was draped in shadows, and the sky painted itself with light orange and purple hues. Spock swung his feet against the cart and breathed deeply, finding a calming sense of meditation as he lost himself in his senses and tumbled head-first into thought.

It wasn’t long until Spock’s heart ached, reminded that while he wasn’t alone, it wasn’t Jim by his side. For a moment, he wondered where Jim was then, if he was still alive and well, or if he was scared to his wit’s end, before he realized the illogical implication and danger of fallacy in dwelling on what ifs and that which is unknown.

Spock clutched tighter to the lyre in his embrace. What was known was the fact that he’d abandoned Jim that year, only to come back after Jim decided he couldn’t bear another long winter in the kingdom and pounced upon the first opportunity that would bring him back home. What was known was the fact that Jim had waited all summer long, clinging onto a fruitless hope that Spock was only late, or caught up, or simply hindered by any means. 

The thing was… Spock wasn’t late. He wasn’t ill, he wasn’t injured, he wasn’t caught up in business or hindered in the very slightest. 

No: Spock was very simply avoiding Jim.

As it turned out, however, Jim seemed to have misinterpreted Spock’s intentions — while the knight expressed relief at Spock’s return and his simple desire to merely remain in Spock’s presence, Spock’s rationale was, retrospectively, far more selfish.

When Spock ventured far away from his home land, it was his interest to observe humanity from afar, to study their mannerisms and understand their way of being. For many years, that was exactly what Spock did… until he studied James T. Kirk. 

Spock had been observing the village for a while at that point, and while he had recognized Jim as one of the older ones who’d play with the smaller children, it was a gradual interest that developed: first, he noticed the bright laughter and the sunny smiles that were contagious to all those around him. Then, he noticed the kindness, the humble support and the effortless generosity that he offered so freely. At some point, Spock began to wonder if Jim could sense his presence, sometimes pausing for the briefest moment to look around when Spock was concealed not so far away.

It was only after Spock returned to the same village for a sixth year in a row that he came to realize that there was really only one individual he’d come by to see time and time again. Initially, Spock tried to avoid the notion, letting himself drift with the ebb and flow of time, but then Jim disappeared from the village, and Spock found himself searching the land all of the subsequent year.

Even when Spock first spoke to Jim, breaking a pact he’d made with himself to never make himself known to his subjects, he couldn’t understand why he flew closer and closer to the sun, drawn to the human knight like a bee to sweetly-smelling blossoms. Luxuriating in his transient happiness, Spock let himself live in doubt, shying away from any stray thoughts about what his actions could possibly imply.

And then, like a glass of water filled to the brim, Spock became too overwhelmed and decided he needed the time to regain his senses. Just that year prior, Spock bid Jim farewell, nodding to an empty promise as he turned tail and ran away, carefully straying from the kingdom even as the winter snow melted and the trees began to bloom. The effort ended up being in vain, however, as Jim was all about which he ever thought, so, plagued with guilt and a longing sense of pain, Spock returned to Jim’s side, even if just for a day.

Spock never fully found it in himself to explain his entire predicament to Jim, and now that he was gone, Spock found himself wondering if his disappearance was the lasting impression he made on his friend.

“Hey, Spock?”

Thrown from his spiraling thoughts, Spock tipped his head down and to the side, seeing McCoy still curled up in his spot and face the other side. Though the night was quickly falling and the land around them was growing dark, the halo hovering behind McCoy’s head shimmered softly like laternlight. 

“Mm?”

McCoy still didn’t move. “You need better communication skills.”

Spock barely stopped his jaw from falling open, his brow furrowing in confusion. “I… do not believe I understand the intention of your implications at hand.”

He finally rolled over, squinting back up at Spock. “You don’t— Look: I thought you were going off on your own and leaving us behind, back by the bridge.”

“I— I thought…” Spock swallowed down his first words and tried again. “I thought my best assistance would come from use of my persistence.”

McCoy was frowning despite Spock’s clear explanation. “No, I mean… next time, just tell me what you’re doing.”

If it was even possible, Spock’s brow furrowed even further. “... Why would you be informed of my every word and action performed?”

“Spock—” McCoy (or rather, what was that nickname Jim had given him? Bones? ) bit out, cut off with an irritated sigh. Rolling over onto his back, propped up by his elbows, the saint glared at Spock. “Spock. I misinterpreted your actions today and I am trying to make an effort not to do the same in the future.”

Straightening to face ahead (or behind, given the direction of the chariot), Spock listened to the rumble of the wooden wheels over the gravel and the clip-clop of Bonny’s hooves. Spock wanted to be wary, unused to the spirit that tormented him at every opportune moment genuinely trying to understand him, but at the same time, he rationalized that the effort could go both ways.

“How shall I choose what to pick and tell you?” Spock murmured slowly, turning his head to meet McCoy’s eyes with an inquisitive raised eyebrow after he’d chosen his words.

“Just…” McCoy balked and shrugged in frustration. “I don’t know… Everything?”

Spock’s eyes flashed and his expression settled with carefully contained amusement. Then, he faced forward again, keeping his hands neatly placed in his lap.

“Very well, then, if that’s what you need: I’ll now tell you everything, just as we agreed.”

From the corner of his eye, Spock could see the saint sit up even further, propping himself up on his hands. “Spock…” he warned.

“I think now I’ll just sit here, very quietly and still — and perhaps slightly irritated by the cool autumn chill.”

“Dammit, Spock, you know what I meant—!”

“I’m afraid I am unaware of your intention; please understand that this is by no means circumvention.”

McCoy growled, reaching out with the half-thought intention to shove the mischievous bard. “Yeah, well, I’m perfectly aware of your intention! To irritate m—!”

“I am now setting my instrument aside in fear of what shall happen if it were to collide.”

“And that’s another thing! Why must you always rhyme?!”

“Rhythm is a part of me like a beating heart as is my rhyme; I fear that if I do stop, I will meet the end of my time.”

“That doesn’t— You won’t die if you stop rhyming! I know you can speak without rhyming for once in your damn life!”

“It is not polite to ridicule one’s condition — is that not common knowledge, as a physician?”

“Half of these don’t even make sense! What, do you get slightly ill if you make a half rhyme?”

“I can push through if the rhyme is only half. Earlier today, did you see that calf?”

“Spock—! If you don’t shut up soon, I’ll personally show you how to lose a status as a saint.”

“While I’m honoured, of course, we’ll have to take it slow: I have little experience in these sorts of things, you —!”

“Okay, that’s it—!”

Spock only almost fell off the chariot once the entire ride.

The journey into the Whispering Woods was more intimidating than actually dangerous at first. For the first few hours, the trees remained relatively sparse, easy enough to traverse, but then the forest grew thicker and more foliage covered the floor, and the two travelers were forced to spend more time plotting out their path.

Even under the most dense canopy, Spock and McCoy were lucky to have the saint’s halo as a decent source of light, making visible all that was within a few meter radius of McCoy. The makeshift lantern also had the benefit of scaring away the more nocturnal creatures, far more used to the shadowy cover the Whispering Woods provided. In fact, for the first day or so, the most danger either of the two ever encountered was Spock’s hat snagging on a scraggly branch or McCoy repeatedly tripping over roots and cursing creatively at them.

Around the time a few hours passed since McCoy first began to grumble about the forest being duskier than his very own chapel, the soft light of day started to warm the trunks near their path, and they followed the trail back to its source: a small courtyard-like clearing with what sounded like a stream passing through.

Brightening the moment he saw the trees thinning up ahead (and quite literally, as Spock watched the saint’s halo intensify in its brilliance when McCoy perked up and bolted; becoming accustomed to such dim conditions makes one more sensitive to change in light, and while they made their way through the dense wood, Spock had the opportunity to observe the brightness of McCoy’s halo waver alongside his mood), Spock was left behind in the dust as McCoy burst through the last barrier of brush.

By the time Spock finally reached the clearing’s edge, he stopped there at the treeline, having a dreaded gut feeling that something was actually going to go wrong.

Standing tall and proud in the middle of that opening, seeming to guard the babbling creek, was a man with a silver rapier planted in the ground before him and a wide smile that spread cheek to cheek. McCoy faced him with his arms crossed and his shoulders squared, glaring back in stubborn defiance.

“None shall pass,” the stranger said with a dramatically rounded voice. Based on the way his eyes glinted and his grin remained mischievous, it was obvious that he was trying to get a rise out of the saint.

Unfortunately, it seemed to be working.

“Pass what?” McCoy cried out, gesturing at the scenery around them.

“NONE… shall pass,” the stranger repeated.

“Pass what?! There’s nothing here to pass.”

“I move… for no man.”

“Well ain’t that just peachy … Do you have any exceptions for senior citizens or ordained saints of the Church? What if I simply walk around the other side of the—”

“Then… you… shall… die.”

“Bit late for that, I’m afraid,” McCoy grumbled, stepping to the side to go around the stranger.

In the blink of an eye, the man flashed into action, crying out “En guarde!” with glee as he moved forward in one swift motion and swiped at McCoy. Having not expected the sudden attack, McCoy was late to react, and though he jumped back to move out of the way, the tip of the rapier still made contact and slashed through his body, forcing him to crumple to the ground.

“Leonard!” Spock called out, stepping into the clearing with an outstretched hand before he could even process what had just happened, but he fell right back with an undignified yelp when the upside-down face of a child appeared out of thin air.

“It is not polite to intrude on another man’s fight, no?” 

From where he sat startled on the ground, Spock blinked up at the young man hanging and swinging upside-down from a branch directly above him. Frowning, he got to his feet again, brushing dust off his tunic.

“And who are you?” Spock asked the strange individual.

Grinning devilishly in a way that was not unlike his comrade’s, the upside-down stranger reached up to grab the branch and swing around like an acrobat, flying through the air and landing gracefully on his feet only a few paces away.

“We are Chekov and Sulu!” he exclaimed, hands thrown in the air from completing his little stunt. 

“Chekov and Sulu are we!” the other standing above McCoy added, thrusting his rapier triumphantly into the air.

“You’re damn irritating, that’s what you are.”

Spock’s attention flew to McCoy, who, looking rather like a displeased cat, was pulling himself back up to his feet. Despite the fact the blade had gone through him, there wasn’t so much as a loose thread on his robes.

“Len- Doctor, are you alright?” Spock inquired, only taking one step forward and a wary eye on his nearest rapscallion. “Why was there a fight?”

“You have trespassed on our domain!” the sword-wielder answered. “You must pay the toll!”

“We make the rules here,” the other added, “so it is our law you must abide!”

With caution, Spock made his way over to the paled saint, keeping a constant watch on the pair of grinning bandits. McCoy was distracted with his own hands, staring down at his open palms and wiggling his fingers.

“Are you hurt? Are you in pain? Did your injury give you any strain?” Spock murmured, voice low. He squinted his eyes, attempting to determine if there was any change in the spirit’s appearance.

The image of McCoy’s bony hand wavered slightly as if it were merely a mirage. Hesitating, Spock moved to offer some semblance of comfort by gently touching the doctor’s arm… until his fingers slipped right through, collapsing against his own palm. 

“That damn Chekov’s sword must’ve been pure iron,” McCoy griped. “At least it didn’t go all the way through, but I’ll be like this for a while.”

“Chekov is not my name, for I am Sulu!”

Both Spock and McCoy looked over their shoulders with eerily similar faces of exasperation. 

“No, no, Chekov lies! He is Chekov, and Sulu am I!”

The swordmaster burst out laughing and the other followed in suit, seeming to think their charade was rather clever. Between the swordmaster’s black hair and slightly taller posture, and the acrobat’s chestnut hair and rounder face, Spock didn’t really think they were pulling off the twin confusion trope quite as well as they hoped; even the swordmaster had one more feather tucked behind his ear than his companion, which was a discerning feature enough.

“Will this be a concern?” Spock turned back to McCoy, thinking it best to simply ignore the two bandits. “Should you go back and return?”

McCoy shook his head stubbornly. “I’ll manage,” he said. “We just need to leave these two rascals behind.”

“Oh no you don’t! You still haven’t paid your toll!”

Glancing to McCoy for a second opinion, Spock was met with a raised eyebrow. Sighing and deciding that it would be easier to comply, he addressed the swordmaster: “What do you require for the two of you to retire?”

“None shall pass…” the swordmaster repeated from earlier, “except those who are worthy. Best me in a duel, and you will be free to continue on your journey.”

“I see you before,” came a voice from Spock’s side, and Spock almost leapt in surprise. “I think you fight a prince, Sulu!”

Spock froze, and he felt his heart stop in his chest.

“A prince?” Twirling his rapier in the air, Sulu’s eyes lit up. “How’d you find yourself way out here? Were you exiled?” Spock, grimacing, was about to dismiss the notion when Sulu continued anyhow. “I’ve decided! You must offer something in return if you lose this fight!”

“I thought you were already going to keep us from leaving,” McCoy muttered under his breath. Spock forced himself to exhale slowly instead of giving the saint a dirty look.

“If I lose the spar and you keep us long, I am able to provide my services in entertainment and song,” Spock decided, straightening his posture and feeling the lyre shift against his back.

At that, Sulu and Chekov wordlessly glanced between each other and the bard, communing with exaggerated facial expressions until they reached a decision with a sharp, mutual nod.

“We accept your proposal!” Chekov declared. Leaping to his full height (which still wasn’t much to account for), the bandit curiously peered at Spock from far too close a distance.

“Let the battle commence!” Sulu cried, waving his rapier in the air.

“... Excuse me for my question, but how will we duel, what is your suggestion?” Spock interrupted their fervor, standing unmoved and awkward.

“By duel of course!” Sulu said.

“He’s the greatest in the land!” Chekov added on.

“But I do not have a weapon with which to fight,” Spock argued. “It wouldn’t be fair. It wouldn’t be right.”

Sulu’s face scrunched in appalled confusion. “What kind of a prince has no weapon?”

“I don’t know, maybe one that plays music for a living?” McCoy snarked to himself again.

A spare rapier was thrown at Spock’s general direction, which he fumbled and struggled to catch the hilt. 

“Good luck!” Chekov told Spock as he dashed past to perch on the top of a boulder to spectate. “You will need it! En guarde!”

At the command, Sulu leapt into a readied position, excited grin pulling dimples into his cheeks and rapier pointed toward the bard. In the awkward fashion of a beginner, Spock clutched at his own weapon with far too much force, shuffling his feet into a vague reflection of his opponent’s stance.

“Allez!”

The second the word was out of Chekov’s mouth, Sulu began to prowl, eyes following Spock’s every movement and forcing them to steadily circle each other. Spock’s fingers clasped even tighter around the hilt of his rapier.

And then Sulu leapt into motion, bounding forward with a war cry. Spock lifted his own weapon to protect himself, and out of luck, it ended up blocking Sulu’s attack. As Sulu furiously slashed away, doing his best to poke Spock in the chest, Spock fell backward, stepping away from the blade that waved around his face.

Spock was doing all in his power to not get stabbed, and in the background, he barely processed how Chekov was hollering and whooping and cheering on Sulu. At some point, Spock could’ve sworn he heard McCoy shouting at him to bend his knees, and he almost had an ear taken off in being distracted wondering when the doctor had learned to fight.

How Spock managed to survive as long as he did was a mystery to everyone present. Sulu was steadily advancing onto Spock, and Spock, backing away with as much haste as possible, became trapped when his back was met with a tree trunk; Sulu’s smirk only grew wider.

From somewhere behind Sulu’s shoulder, Spock caught sight of McCoy desperately waving his arms around, gesturing something that Spock couldn’t interpret while maintaining his focus on not getting killed. When Spock still didn’t react, McCoy threw his arms up in frustration and cupped them around his mouth instead:

“DUCK!”

… Duck?

Eyes widening, Spock let his legs buckle and fell to the ground right as Sulu lunged forward and swiped his rapier across the space the sprite had been only a second before. As it turned out, Chekov had been creeping up to attack Spock from behind, and, swinging forward, met with Sulu’s sword instead. Chekov fell back from the opposing motion of the rapier, and Sulu’s excessive circular momentum had him twisting around until he lost his balance.

Scrambling to his feet first, Spock pointed his own rapier at Sulu and gently tapped his chest. “Touche.”

“That does not count!” Chekov pouted, already back on his feet with his arms crossed. “He did not disarm Sulu!”

“We won fair and square!” McCoy argued, marching closer and wagging an insistent finger at the bandit. “At least we didn’t cheat!”

Chekov relented and shrugged. “Touché.”

Despite causing so much trouble, they both seemed placated with the duel, having admitted that they were really only looking for some entertainment. So with that, and a few over-enthusiastic “good sportsmanship” handshakes, Sulu and Chekov waved at them in farewell as Spock and McCoy went on their way.

They continued their journey in silence for a long while, only broken by the crunching of leaves or snapping of twigs beneath their feet.

“They called you a prince,” Leonard finally said, unable to contain his curiosity any longer.

At first, Leonard thought Spock was pretending to ignore him, unstopping in stride. And then, a minute or two later, the bard answered.

“In the land from where I come, far, far away, I am the son of he who is King of the Fae. My mother, who he, long ago, made queen, was but a mere mortal, which for fae, was unheard of, unseen. They saw me, too, as a mortal, instead of what I am: I was not a part of their kingdom, but rather, a scam. My father wishes for my return so that I may be king, but instead I left to study humans and sing.”

When Spock fell silent, Leonard didn’t say a thing, continuing to listen to how each bush rustled as they passed. As Leonard considered the information of which he had just heard, it felt like a few more puzzle pieces were slotted into place, as if different aspects of the bard’s disposition were finally explained.

“I called it,” Leonard said instead. “I knew you were part of some royalty.”

Spock glanced over his shoulder to shoot Leonard a glare, but upon seeing the soft, understanding smile upon the saint’s face without a hint of malice, Spock turned back around, and Leonard could’ve sworn that there was the beginning of a smile dancing on his lips.

The pair broke out into another clearing that opened up to the foot of the mountain, towering high up into the clouds. At first, it seemed that the clearing was only one long strip of field crossing their path, but when the bard and the saint ventured forth, the great big maw of a canyon-like ravine came into view, dropping off a cliff to a thundering river below.

“How the hell are we supposed to cross this?” McCoy wondered aloud after he and Spock stared down at the drop below their feet for a few minutes in silence. 

As Spock began to construct an answer, his train of thought stopped dead when he saw the large mound in the ravine open one large, yellow, cat-like eye, blinking up at the new disturbance. A large ear twitched, and then the being began to unravel itself, creeping over on her paws to rise above the cliff’s edge.

“—said something about a gatekeeper, but I don’t even see a gate here, much less a keeper—Spock, are you listening to me? Sp… ock…?” McCoy trailed off, finally catching sight of the creature that kept the bard transfixed. 

Gaping in awe, Spock’ and McCoy’s heads tipped up and up and up as the giant sphinx continued to rise, peering at the two of them like a cat to a mouse. They cowered in her shadow, too stunned to move… and then she dropped down, tilting her head and propping up her chin in her palm, resting her other paw on the cliff’s edge and tapping her claws against the grass. 

“Well aren’t you cuties!” she gushed, blinking down at them with her great big eyes.

His shock leaving him all at once, McCoy bristled indignantly. “Cuties—?! Look, Miss: we were just wonderin’ if there was a way to get to the other side.”

“Of course there is!” she blinked innocently, her tail lazily swishing from side to side. “How else would people get there?”

McCoy groaned in frustration with so much passion that his halo flickered.

Sighing, Spock spoke up instead. “Excuse me, ma’am, we don’t mean to debate — we were merely wondering if you were the keeper of the gate.”

“The keeper… Oh, yes! The gatekeeper! It is I,” she exclaimed, straightening as she moved to clap her paws together in excitement. “What is your reason for passing by?”

“We are searching for someone we lost, a very close friend; we believe he is on top of this mountain, which is why we wish to ascend.” 

At that, the sphinx's ears drooped slightly so her hooped earrings hung by her cheeks, and her tail slowed in its movement to wilt. “Unfortunately, you must answer my riddles three if you wish to pass,” she admitted, glancing between Spock and McCoy. “It is the law of this land.”

“Well?” McCoy goaded her. “Go on! What are you waiting for?”

Instantly brightening, she beamed, her tail curling contentedly. “Well you’ll be happy to know that my first riddle is quite easy,” she told them excitedly. “It’s a classic — you should be able to get it right away!”

Spock didn’t voice that if she was addressing McCoy, she should probably not have so much faith in their abilities.

Nevertheless, the sphinx’s expression became wise, blinking down at the two with widened, cunning eyes:

“What goes on four feet in the morning, two feet at noon, and three feet in the evening?”

McCoy balked, opening and closing his mouth without noise like a fish. “I… What in God’s name is that supposed to be?”

On the contrary, Spock perked up, instantly recognizing the words. “The Sphinx’s Riddle: the answer is simple — the answer is man. They crawl as a baby, walk as an adult, and use a cane as an elder throughout their lifespan.”

“Correct!” the sphinx said, clapping her paws together in delight. “I knew you’d get it!”

“Lucky guess,” McCoy huffed, but when Spock glanced over to give him an irritated look, the saint’s expression seemed more akin to pride. Feeling his face heat ever-so-slightly, Spock’s face jolted back to fix his stare on the sphinx instead.

“That is one riddle solved,” Spock addressed the creature. “What is the second riddle involved?”

“Let’s see…” the sphinx hummed, staring up at the sky and tapping her claws against the cliff’s edge (which McCoy was warily eyeing). “Ah, I remember!

“What can run but never walks, has a mouth but never talks, has a head but never weeps, has a bed but never sleeps?”

“Sounds a lot like Spock to me,” McCoy grumbled, and Spock did, in fact, shoot him a glare that time.

McCoy’s comment sparked the sphinx’s attention to which she promptly began to tease him, but their words fell into the background as Spock sat down, legs crossed, on the ground to ponder the riddle. 

Something that runs but never walks… it couldn’t be a creature, could it? Hand against his chin, Spock stared intensely at the grass in thought, miraculously ignoring how the sphinx was now gently patting the top of McCoy’s head as the saint grouched and griped. A thing that was no being but had a head, a mouth, and a bed…

The sphinx’s laughter rang out above the roar of the river at her feet, and McCoy was scolding her for this or that, waving a finger in indignation. Pouting in frustration, Spock looked at the chasm that sat between them and Jim: the sphinx had implied that she knew the way across, but without her help… the drop down to the riverbed was far too high to survive. Spock momentarily wondered if McCoy could make it, being already dead, but that failed to solve the issue about how Spock would bridge the rift and get to the other side.

Surely, the riverhead must have been somewhere from the top of the mountain — perhaps there was a way to go around…

Spock leapt to his feet, almost surging forward with his enthusiasm. “A ri- A river! That’s it!,” he exclaimed, immediately garnering the attention of the other two. “It’s the only answer that fits!”

Ears straightening and almost vibrating with glee, the sphinx beamed, nodding happily. “Oh, you did it! That’s the answer! Congratulations! I’m so glad you got the answer right.”

“A river?” McCoy said. “Well, I’ll say: I’ve never been more glad to have you on my side, Spock.”

Before they could celebrate properly, however, the sphinx’s ears drooped and her face drew out concern. “There is still one last riddle to which you must respond before you can pass, and I’m afraid it’s the hardest of them all.”

Spock and McCoy exchanged an apprehensive glance before McCoy said: “Let’s just get it over with, then.”

Exhaling slowly, the sphinx straightened, stilling her swaying tail and shutting her eyes. And then, her mouth opened, revealing large, pointed teeth, but she began to sing, her voice smooth like warm honey:

“Tan’voh du ek’manek na’etek
Tan’voh du tevakh na’etek”

The melody was lighthearted and spirited, but Spock froze when he heard the words, recognizing the language of his own people. How could it be, that she knew the tongue of the fae? Even so, he couldn’t make sense of the words alone:

Give us safety,
Give us death.

The sphinx had paused and was peering at them expectantly. A contradiction? Was that the answer? There hadn’t even technically been a question. 

Trying not to reveal his confusion, Spock glanced over at his companion and blinked in surprise when he found McCoy equally as befuddled, concentrating hard on recalling something from memory.

There was no way the saint also knew the tongue of the fae… was there?

Suddenly, McCoy perked up, face lit up in revelation. He grinned up at the sphinx and, in response, began to sing:

“Muk’voh du weht naliveh na’etek
Abi’ritevakh-tor nash-veh”

Spock squinted at the saint.

(Pour us more drink
Until I comatose.)

… There was no way the saint knew what he was saying.

But by some miracle, the sphinx was absolutely beaming, brightly repeating her phrase as McCoy sung his part back in a call-and-response. As they exchanged the melody between themselves, they grew increasingly elated, having seemed to realize that McCoy had answered correctly. Nonetheless, the sphinx offered out her paw, and both the saint and the bard climbed aboard so she could carry them across the ravine.

“I did not know you knew the language of my people,” Spock murmured quietly on their airborne journey, staring down at the running river below his dangling feet. From his peripheral vision, he saw McCoy whip around at the realization that Spock failed to rhyme, but then hesitated, thinking better of pointing it out.

“I don’t,” he said simply.

Spock peeked up at him with confusion, asking a silent question.

McCoy sighed. “Back in my day—and by that, I mean centuries upon centuries ago—it was a drinking song we all just knew. Didn’t know it was, uh,” he gestured vaguely at Spock, “fairy language.”

Suddenly recalling the words, Spock bit his lip and turned away to quell his laugh: so many centuries ago, his kind was still making fools of humans. Nonetheless, in some convoluted way, it helped both Spock and McCoy across the river.

Before McCoy could prod about Spock’s reaction, the sphinx lowered her paw onto the other side, and the saint and the bard were able to safely disembark. They turned around to thank her, but neither said a word when they saw her uncertainty.

“My… lover… is trapped in the forest on the mountain,” she admitted, glancing away and crouching low so her head almost rested on her paws.

“I’m sorry to hear about that,” McCoy responded sympathetically. “Why haven’t you been able to find her?”

“We went up the mountain together. I was only able to escape by becoming the guardian of Rajaa, and they were left behind. I cannot escape this ravine, and they cannot leave the forest, so we have been parted ever since.”

Again, Spock and McCoy exchanged looks at their unpromising chances.

“Do take care of yourselves,” the sphinx gushed anxiously, her tail flicking behind her. “And if you see my love, tell them… tell them you saw me, that Uhura sends her love.”

Spock nodded solemnly. “If we ever manage to find our way out, we’ll bring with us both them and Jim, without a doubt.”

“We’ll do everything we can,” McCoy added.

Poignantly grateful, Uhura gave them one last smile and wave, singing sweetly to the mountain as the saint and the bard went on their way.

The slope was not too noticeable at first, but at some point, a few hours into their hike past Uhura, Spock started stopping at more frequent intervals, claiming to be investigating the scenery around them. At first, Leonard was none the wiser, distracted by his own nausea from the effect the iron rapier from earlier had on him, but at some point when Spock took a break once again, Leonard crossed his arms and frowned at the bard.

“We can take a longer break if you need to rest,” he told Spock sternly. Spock had the audacity to look offended and shake his head.

“Not long will we see the rise of the moon; we must trek with haste and find Jim soon.”

“Spock,” Leonard chided, cutting right through his bullshit. “We need you in your prime, too: I’m not losing the both of you.”

The sprite’s eyes widened slightly, taken aback by Leonard’s statement as if it was not an opinion he expected from the saint. Perplexed, Spock turned away, staring at some trees in the distance.

“It’s going to be even darker soon, we must not get lost: already, as it is, I don’t believe we can afford the cost.”

“Even if I’m a bit damn faulty, my halo still works perfectly fine as a light source, thank you very much.”

Spock’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded nonetheless, pushing himself off the tree trunk against which he was leaning and continuing on their path.

There was a strange magic in the air here: it was thicker, like wallowing through oil instead of water, and the energy prickled against his skin— well, soul. Even Spock seemed to notice it, glancing around them every so often and tensing fractionally at the smallest of noises.

A few hours more, and Spock suddenly halted in his step, perking up like a deer in the woods.

“What?” Leonard whispered desperately, looking around for the source of the bard’s concern. “What is it?” It almost looked like Spock’s pointed ears would start swiveling like a cat’s to detect noise, too.

And then, Spock took off running, bolting directly off the overgrown path.

“Spock—! Oh, good lord,” Leonard groaned before following hot on his tail.

After a couple of minutes, Leonard realized that shouting was having no effect and that the bard would tire himself out at some point, which would effectively cease the chase.

That, however, was not entirely the case.

Spock tripped over a root and tumbled forward, rolling off a steep drop that led to more forest below. Leonard’s momentum was what carried him over the edge too, and though he made a valiant effort to stay on his feet, he also found himself rolling down that hill.

Leonard was the last to come to a stop at the very bottom, landing with a thump in a carpet of freshly fallen purple, orange, and brown leaves. Despite the fact he was already dead and not entirely corporeal, he groused about being “too old for this” as he picked dried leaves and twigs from his hair.

Upon realizing where they were, Leonard scrambled to his feet, marching over to Spock with his hands on his hips. “Spock, what in God’s name was that?!”

Spock was lying completely still, not having moved once since they had landed. In his arms, he cradled his lyre, which must have contained some sort of magical properties, because there was not even a scratch on its body.

Exhaling, Leonard crouched down beside him, reaching out to touch his shoulder until his fingers passed through their target. “Spock,” he said, gently. “Are you hurt? I need to know what made you bolt like that.”

Slowly, the sprite’s eyes slid toward him, looking up to his comforting gaze. Spock was an odd sight to behold: his hat was tossed to the side from the fall, and his inky black hair was messy for once, tousled and tangled with colorful leaves and twigs. Leonard longed to reach out and fix it for him, maybe even pass him his hat, but he feared the disappointment he’d force himself to bear if his fingers were to pass through those too.

And then, still slowly, Spock shook his head.

Leonard’s shoulders fell in relief, and he smiled down at the bard, sitting back and folding his legs to the side to accommodate his robes. “Don’t scare me like that again, dammit; I tell you that you worry me, and what do you do? You go and give me a heart attack.”

Spock frowned, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“It’s my job to worry,” Leonard explained. “And quite literally. You do know what I’m the saint for… don’t you?”

Glancing away remorsefully, Spock shook his head.

Leonard put a hand to his own forehead in exasperation. “... You did know it was me you were praying to… didn’t you?”

Spock’s eyes widened and he flushed. Leonard decided to take that as a “no”.

“Really?” he groaned, and then, teasingly: “Is my stained glass window really that bad?”

The sprite shook his head, tilting his head back to stare behind himself in mortification.

Letting him be for once, Leonard moved on. “My village was from far away, long lost to time by now. Some immigrants migrated my chapel over here, but eventually, I became mostly forgotten, and my story mostly lost. Mostly, I just get travelers asking for protection on their journeys, but you…” he sighed, “... you, well… you asked for my patronage of specialty… and not to mention it was for Jim, of all people. Of course I was coming along.”

Spock took a few seconds to simply breathe, processing the information. Then he met Leonard’s gaze and raised a questioning eyebrow, to which Leonard immediately tried to avoid until he forced himself to push through.

“Patron saint of martyrs… You know my story, too. Hell, you sang it.”

Spock only looked more perplexed. Leonard fiddled with the bony ridges of his fingers, urging himself to continue on, to expose his story as Spock had his own.

“I loved them, you know — I loved them more than I loved life. Jocelyn was beautiful and clever, and she had a way with words that charmed everyone around her. And Joanna… Jo was such a bright young girl, growing up to be just like her Momma: she picked up knowledge like a sponge and would make up songs while we worked. And my father… my father: he told me everything he knew, gave me everything he had. 

“It was hard, you know. Not because they took my skin from me,” Leonard chuckled, glancing down at his bony fingers, “but because of what it did to my family. I saved them, I saved the village, but… they still had to watch me suffer. They still had to be the ones to bury me in my grave long after the song was over.”

Spock looked… somber, if anything. Not quite like he could cry, but rather like there was a great weight on his chest, like he could barely look Leonard in the eye.

“So you see,” Leonard finished quietly, “I am made to protect those I love. You prayed to me, to protect Jim, and with Jim lost, I’ve already failed once — I’d do anything to not fail again.”

With that, Spock was silent for a while, drinking in Leonard’s words. He laid there, strangely reverent with his appearance scuffed up and a mess, his fingers laced and resting over his instrument.

“I heard Jim’s voice,” Spock finally said, staring up at the thick canopy above their heads.

Leonard stared down at Spock, breathtakingly beautiful in the autumnal foliage.

“So you were led here, not by choice,” he finished for the bard. 

Surprised, mouth gaped, Spock turned to face Leonard, and upon being greeted with the saint’s warm smile, he melted into an expression of tender appreciation.

A woman’s voice echoed from afar, calling out in question. Spock sat up, and they both turned to where the voice was coming from, trying in vain to discern its cause. 

“You can hear it too?” Leonard asked. Spock nodded. 

Both got to their feet, Spock reaching for his hat and doing his best to smooth down his hair as he went.

“Let’s make sure we stick together,” Leonard muttered as they took off, following the mysterious voice. “This entire damn place feels like it’ll be riddled with illusions.”

They weaved around trees and boulders, attempting to follow a voice that never seemed to get louder and never seemed to get softer. Eventually, they were led to the entrance of an abandoned mineshaft, opening to what looked like an endless abyss. 

“Hello~?” Leonard called out into the mineshaft. Both he and Spock were stopped dead at the entrance, hesitant to venture within.

The voice stopped. And then, after a few seconds, it called out in question again, presumably addressing Leonard. 

“Are you sure there is nothing better than venturing forth with very little plan?” Spock said, glancing at the completely obscured path.

Leonard gulped. “You’ve said it before: we’ve already got a lantern with us,” he reminded the bard, pointing up at his halo. “Maybe this is where we’re supposed to go — this is supposed to be the part of the journey where we get lost forever.”

Glaring at the saint for bringing up the point, Spock stepped inside first, barely pacing his step to ensure he could see his hand in front of himself with the help of Leonard’s light.

The mineshaft was eerie, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. Every few minutes, Leonard would call out again, startling Spock in his stride and listening to his voice echo down the rocky halls. And then, in response, the woman’s voice would return, leading them deeper into the maze of caves.

Just as the paths were beginning to look the same and the duo grew suspicious of traveling in circles, they came across a figure facing the wall ahead of them, holding a lantern out beside them. Spock’ and Leonard’s footsteps came to a halt, and the figure turned around, letting light spill across her features.

A woman with thick blonde hair stood in a tattered and weather-beaten blue cloak, holding a miner’s lantern up in the air to lead her way. She gasped softly as she took in the image of the two strangers and lowered the hood from her head.

“You’re not part of this place, are you?” she asked sweetly, peering at them with curiosity. 

“Do you live down here?” Leonard asked in return.

She shook her head and laughed brightly. “Well, perhaps I do now, but it is not my home. I’ve been lost here for many, many years.”

“Why did you call?” Spock said, glancing over her figure. “Are you hurt? Did you fall?”

“No, no, not at all,” she said. Smiling, her posture eased, seeing her new acquaintances’ presence as welcome. “Sometimes I speak to the caves so it doesn’t feel as empty in here, and when I heard it respond for the first time in all the time I’ve spent here, I was compelled to find the source.”

Leonard froze, finally processing some of her words. “... You said you’ve been stuck down here for how long? What about the forest?”

The woman pursed her lips, pondering for a moment. “Oh yes… the forest: I haven’t seen it in a very long time.” She failed to notice the dread drain into Spock’ and Leonard’s expressions. “The mines weave a labyrinth that becomes impossible to escape, and ancient magic is embedded in the very rock of the mountain.”

Groaning in frustration, Leonard crossed his arms, rocking on his feet as he contemplated. “What if we retraced our steps? Spock and I only entered this place very recently.”

“Yes, that is definitely something we can try,” the woman hummed thoughtfully. 

Retracing their steps with the combined energy of both Leonard’ and Spock’s memory only brought a few arguments at a handful of junctions, and finally, an acceptance that they didn’t end up where they thought they were going to.

“Okay, so,” Leonard said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “how do we get out?”

“Good question!” the woman—Chapel—replied.

“If I were to make a selection,” Spock piped up, “I believe we arrived from that direction.”

“Yes, Spock, but we’ve already been there before,” Leonard sighed.

“I don’t think it would hurt to try again,” Chapel pointed out.

“But we don’t have all day! We’re looking for someone, and we need to find them as soon as possible!”

“Don’t fret, Leonard: Chapel might be right,” Spock told him gently. “To escape, we must endure, we must fight.”

Leonard peered at him suspiciously. “Alright, but if we get even more lost, I’m blaming it on you.”

This time, as they weaved their snaking path, Spock took his lyre from his back and played a song about a bear and a blackbird to keep their spirits up. Leonard was soothed by the bard’s enchanting voice, eased by the strumming of his instrument and the mellow tones of his melody. The ease in Spock’s lilt and the reverence in his disposition put a soft smile on Leonard’s face, which was almost enough to allow him to forget about their situation, but that careful peace fragmented when the saint’s attention was drawn to their other companion: Chapel had a similar gaze upon her face, watching Spock with such tenderness that it made Leonard want to turn away.

Leonard was saved from too much distress, however, when the bard came to a dead stop in his pace, having reached the end of his song. Both Leonard’ and Chapel’s demeanour abruptly shifted to one of surprise until they caught sight of what forced their party to a halt in the first place.

Softly glowing in the light of Leonard’s halo and Chapel’s lantern stood a small fae boy: his ears were pointed, his black hair neatly trimmed and styled, and his robes lush and luxurious. His eyes bored into Spock’s, who looked roughened and wild in comparison.

“Oh dear,” Chapel murmured.

“... Spock?” Leonard cautioned, stepping forward to let his hand hover above the bard’s arm. When Spock didn’t say anything, Leonard turned to Chapel. “What? Do you know who that is?”

“It’s him,” she said simply, looking rather sad. “Or at least a younger version of him.”

As if in a trance, Spock drifted forward, reaching out to touch the mirage; Chapel and Leonard both followed in suit, calling out to stop him, but as the sprite’s hand came down onto the mirage, the boy evaporated, disappearing into the caliginosity. 

“Spock…” Chapel breathed.

Blinking back to his senses, Spock turned to look at his companions with some clarity returning to him. “Where are we?”

“This,” she said, holding up her lantern to brighten the area around them, “is the Hall of the Mirrors.”

As the lantern rose and the light spread around them, they were greeted with the faces of their reflections, copied dozens of times over, staring back at them.

“Good God,” Leonard murmured, swiveling around in his spot to see if they were truly surrounded. (They were). His own reflection was somewhat faded in comparison to both Spock’ and Chapel’s.

“How are we meant to deceive these doppelgangers enough to leave?” 

Chapel shrugged. “I’ve always just wandered until I simply wandered right out.”

“But not enough to brave your way out of the cave?”

“Well… I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Leonard had a comment on the tip of his tongue when he caught an unfamiliar figure out of the corner of his eye. “Jim…!” At the name, Spock whipped around to try and find what Leonard was seeing.

There, in the distance with one of the farther replicas of their group, stood Jim, blending in as if he were standing right beside them, too. He seemed equally as confused as their counterparts, glancing around at the other reflections of the group as if he saw himself there.

“No!” Chapel called out in response, reaching out to stop them. “No, he’s… he’s just a mirage.”

Leonard frowned. “But how do you know—?”

“Call out to him,” she said in return. “Call out to him, and if he doesn’t run out to you, then he cannot be real.”

Hesitating, Leonard glanced between her and the sprite, seeking their reassurance. Then, he called out, beckoning the image of Jim.

The image of Jim failed to respond, clueless to their antics as if he were part of an entirely separate dimension.

“If these are reflections,” Spock suddenly mused, “then I’ve just had a thought: what if we follow where our reflections are not?”

Slowly but surely, the understanding dawned on Leonard, too. “Oh! Where there is no reflection, there should be no mirror!”

“But how are we supposed to tell which way we are to go?” Chapel asked.

Back-to-back, the three perused the area around them, searching for the hole in the illusion that would keep them from being surrounded. Everywhere they looked, they saw themselves, over and over again so much that they began to forget what they were looking for, and then—

“There!” Spock announced, pointing at a gap in the pattern a few reflections away. “That is where!’

They huddled together, making sure that neither of them would get lost or separated, and Chapel, with her lantern held out before her, led the way. After a few paces, however, their reflections materialized out of thin air, and they were forced to a halt.

“A dead end!” Leonard cried.

“Do not fret, dear saint, do not turn blue,” Spock reassured him. “We simply must find the path anew.”

“A turn!” Chapel realized, straightening in her elation. “Oh, you really are quite the clever one, aren’t you?”

Thus, they searched once again for the gap in the reflections, following that sign until they’d find yet another wall of the mysterious labyrinth. As they progressed, the reflections morphed, adding the young Spock, Leonard’s family, and even Uhura to the mix — Jim, of course, was present most often.

And then, with one final turn, they were greeted with a long passageway upward, climbing to a lofty source of light and the scent of fresh air. Chapel ran ahead of the other two with her eyes wide, and when they caught up to her at the entrance of the mineshaft, they found her crouched to the ground, feeling the grass between her fingers.

“It’s been so long,” she whispered in awe. When she glanced up to the bard and the saint, side by side, she was absolutely glowing. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“No need to thank us yet,” Leonard pointed out, pouting at the trees around them. “We still have this place to get out of.”

“For now, it is enough that I am outside, that I may feel the breeze upon my cheeks and smell the leaves that rot beneath our feet,” she said. Standing up, she started to wander away, staring around herself in wonder as Spock and Leonard followed in her trail.

“That woman, in the maze,” Spock said after a while, as they tread down a winding path, “was that Uhura under your gaze?”

Chapel paused for a moment, looking back at Spock in surprise. “Yes… it was, in fact. How do you know her?”

Leonard almost wanted to facepalm: in his desperation to escape, he had completely forgotten about Uhura. “We met her on our way here,” he explained. “She now guards the ravine at the foot of this mountain.”

“She’s still here?” Chapel’s expression grew so tender that she seemed to ache, clutching at her chest as she beamed. “Oh, my Uhura…”

“To her beloved up above, Uhura told us to send her love,” Spock added, and Chapel melted at the admission.

“I need to return to her side!” she fretted, starting to pace. “I need to go back…”

Chapel trailed off as the path came to a dead end, stopping short of a cliff that dropped down to an endless rocky cavern. On the other side was a landing with a far sparser forest, and winding up the rocky side was a clear path to the very top of the pass.

“This is where we should part ways,” Chapel admitted. “If what you say is true and my dear love awaits, I should return to her side as soon as I can.”

“But how will you get back?” Leonard wondered; the journey to where they had come had already been difficult enough.

Chapel smiled. “The journey back home is always easier than the one to the top of the mountain. Farewell, my friends, and good luck.”

Bidding her goodbye and waving at her retreating figure, Spock and Leonard stood there in their newfound silence, growing distinctly aware of how little time they had of their own.

“At least we know where we’re supposed to be going,” Leonard said at last, staring grimly at the other side of the canyon. 

“Let us try going around,” Spock suggested, “and then, perhaps, a way will be found.”

So, following the edge, walking on the brink of their destiny, they followed the perimeter of the expansive canyon, searching for the junction at where the forest floor met the peak wall. Instead, after having only been trekking for a few minutes, they approached the path once again.

“... This can’t be the path, could it?” Leonard asked, bewildered. 

Spock shrugged. “Even if this is not from the direction we came, everything here still looks the same.”

They continued walking.

And then, after another set of minutes, they stumbled upon the path again.

“Okay,” Leonard huffed, crossing his arms. “We haven’t gotten any closer to the peak, and yet here is this damn path again.”

“There’s nothing out of the ordinary that I can see… I cannot understand how this can be.”

“Let’s do an experiment,” the saint decided. “You will stay here, and I’ll go to the next path. If you’re not there, then I’ll come back and we’ll figure it out from there.”

Lo and behold, a few minutes later, Leonard stopped dead in his stride, seeing Spock standing exactly where he had left him.

“How queer,” the bard said. “I have not moved once from here.”

Groaning, Leonard ran his hands through his hair, pacing the area between the path and the canyon’s edge.

“The sun’s pretty much down from this side of the mountain!” he rambled, walking in circles. “How long has it even been since we’ve last seen Jim? How do we know if he’s even still—?”

“It has been said that it takes more than just faith to escape,” Spock recited. He was staring out distantly at the other side, taking a few seconds to notice how Leonard had stopped and had been staring at him. “What? It’s what the woman from the village said; don’t gape.”

“No, I—Spock! Spock!” Leonard exclaimed, bouncing on his toes. “Don’t you get it?”

Spock pondered for a moment, trying to connect the dots before giving up and shaking his head.

“More. Than. Faith,” Leonard punctuated, grinning from ear to ear, his halo shining brightly. “We have to take a leap of faith, Spock!”

Frowning, Spock stepped past Leonard to the edge of the cliff. “But from where? There’s no indication there.”

Leonard’s smile fell slightly, and his posture drooped. Spock was right: they couldn’t just be jumping off cliffs from just about anywhere, as, even if Leonard could survive the fall, they’d be even farther away from Jim.

“Faith,” Spock murmured. He had his hand over his mouth, staring hard at the ground in deep thought. “Faith, faith, faith…”

“Gotta have a lot of it,” Leonard joked weakly.

For a second, Leonard thought his lightheartedness landed when Spock turned to look at him, but then he noticed how he was being scrutinized and quickly dismissed the notion.

“... What?” he grumbled, growing squeamish under the sprite’s stare.

Spock’s head tilted, brow furrowing in concentration. “Turn down your light that is so brilliant in the night.”

“Turn down— Are you asking me to dampen my halo?!”

“That is correct.”

“I— Spock, I can’t do that!”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I have seen it myself change — I’m sure there is quite a range.”

“You— You— How dare you presume my holiness—”

“Excellent. Keep brewing whatever you’re thinking of doing.”

“I— What?” Leonard blanched. “That worked?”

“Continue your unholy thoughts, and perhaps you’ll temporarily decrease your heavenly watts.”

Grimacing, Leonard asked his mind to provide him with whatever constituted “unholy thoughts”. In return, with the subject standing placidly before him, his mind provided him with images and visions that would not be appropriate to describe in detail in a story of this rating.

“I believe that is enough,” Spock finally said when Leonard was sure his face would overheat. “I can see its outline, even if rough.”

Blinking his eyes open and turning around, Leonard was able to see what Spock had been insinuating: a soft glow radiated from just beneath the cliff’s edge, perhaps coming from some enchanted mineral hewn into the mountain, but the light was blocked for about the width of a meter along the edge.

“A guiding light,” Leonard gasped. “A guiding light.” Laughing in delight, his halo immediately glowed brighter, diminishing the effect that revealed the path. 

“Jim…” Spock breathed, hope gleaming in his eyes.

Grinning and shining like the sun, Leonard waited on the precipice, not even thinking to look down. “C’mon, Spock: let’s go bring Jim back home.”

Together, they took their leap of faith, and walked across the sky safely to the other side.

The last trek to the very top was the easiest hike Spock had ever made: both he and Leonard had lost their footing on a scramble near the top, and Spock’s legs felt like lead as he climbed over the pass, but when they reached the top plateau where a glacier had once slept, the breath of fresh air was divine.

Down below—only a short shuffle down the gravel hill—was a sprawling field, permeated with the scent of mountain flowers and the sound of small creeks criss-crossing across the plain. On the other side of the meadow was a tall, stone tower, cracked and mossy and rather out of place. There, too, was something magical about that place, how the placement of the sun on the horizon kept the plateau at a late afternoon as opposed to the darkened evening on the other side; the very breeze whispered chilling secrets to the long grasses and reeds, which rustled and tittered in return.

The doctor—unburdened with the pains of a material body—ran down the slope, heading directly toward the tower. Though Spock followed close behind, he gradually became filled with trepidation, wary of how little trouble they had encountered so near to their destination.

“Tiberius, Tiberius: let down your long hair!” McCoy called from the foot of the tower, head tilted to be almost parallel to the sky as he stared at the bleak window at the top.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit deserted for what we had earlier asserted?” Spock wondered, careful to quell his concern. 

McCoy glanced back at him half-heartedly and shrugged. “Maybe he went out for a walk. Or is taking a nap.”

“No, I—”

There was a puff of air onto Spock’s hat, and he froze, not daring to move a muscle.

“Or maybe he’s just…” McCoy turned around, catching sight of whatever was standing directly behind the bard judging by how his face slackened, “... dragon.”

“It’s behind me,” Spock stated, half of a question.

“Yeah,” the saint agreed, “it sure is.”

Spock and McCoy stared at each other, too shocked to move as something huffed and puffed air against Spock’s hat.

And then they did what any perfectly logical person would do in that type of a situation: they ran.

Spock, with his exhaustion from the hike to the top catching up with him, was quick to race from hiding spot to hiding spot, holding onto his hat so that it couldn’t blow away. McCoy, on the other hand, ran using a more exotic tactic: shouting and cursing in panic as he waved a large stick at the creature as if it would actually help fend it off. The dragon found itself rather entertained, loping between those two, strange and excitable small creatures.

“Drop the stick and hide!” Spock commanded, dodging the dragon’s large and thumping tail to sprint to the next boulder. “Your commotion is acting as its guide!”

After running around a bit more, McCoy finally relented and threw the stick away, temporarily distracting the starry dragon as he dove into the bushes to join Spock.

“Doing my part in being reflective,” Spock commented lightly, watching as the saint righted himself and crouched down, “I do not believe your method was very effective.”

McCoy glared at him. “Got any more of that useful advice of yours, smarty-pants?” 

Ignoring the new nickname, Spock diverted back to the main issue at hand. “Before the start of all that din, the tower, did you ever find a way in?”

Frowning, McCoy shook his head. “Circled the entire damn tower, and there was nothing that I could find: it’s probably hidden somewhere in the stone.”

Sighing, Spock glanced back out into the field, watching how the dragon dawdled around the tower like some odd sort of guard dog. 

“We must do something, anything we can. I think…” Spock said slowly, chewing out his words as his head whirred with thought, “I may have a plan.”

Moments later, Spock was thrust from the bush, lyre in hand. Now that he was faced with the attentive dragon, his resolve faltered, being a creature of music and tale rather than one of battles and bravery, but the fae gulped and reminded himself of Jim’s position and exhaled.

Wandering forth, keeping a cautious eye on the dragon, Spock began to play on his instrument, strumming the slow and soothing notes of an intro to a lullaby; the dragon snorted with curiosity, shuffling closer to listen to Spock’s song. With one last glance at the creature’s powerful wingspan and razor-sharp claws, the bard opened his mouth and sang his enchanting melody:

“Estrellita, ¿dónde estás?
Me pregunto quién serás.
En el cielo o en el mar,
Un diamante de verdad:
Estrellita, ¿dónde estás?
Me pregunto quién serás.”

As Spock built confidence as he sang, McCoy crept out from their hiding spot and around the dragon. Though making sure to not make his intentions obvious, Spock kept an eye on the saint as he did one last lap around the tower before stepping through the wall in a very phantasmic-like fashion; while Spock’s concentration remained on lulling the dragon to sleep after that, he constantly checked the tower for his companion’s reappearance. 

The truly magnificent dragon rested its head on its grand paws, huffing out a grand and long-lived sigh. Its sprawling wings rested across the grass like a piece of the night sky had laid a blanket over its body, and the dragon’s great, big, yellow eyes fluttered shut. Just to play it safe, Spock hummed through one last verse, making sure the creature’s breathing was entirely even as he backed away.

McCoy was already waiting by the rounded tower wall, smiling softly as Spock approached.

“You found it?” Spock whispered, instinctually worried he’d wake the dragon.

Nodding, McCoy turned around and pointed to a smaller, jutted-out stone in the structure. “Push that in, and it should open the door.” Noticing Spock still staring back at him, he smiled reassuringly.

Spock’s touch was light at first, fingers merely brushing over the weather-beaten rock, but as soon as he put any pressure on it, the stone gave easily, pulling a doorway-shaped opening directly before his eyes. Glancing once more at the saint, Spock ascended the spiral stone staircase with the light of McCoy’s halo from behind.

After countless steps, Spock’s head bumped against the ceiling, and with the approach of McCoy’s light, the bard was able to feel around and open the latch to an old wooden trapdoor. Natural light immediately saturated the stairwell, flooding in from an airy window on one side of the room.

The tower was nothing grandiose from the outside, but even inside, there was little to be acknowledged: old, moth-eaten drapes fluttered by the window and tangled in the escaping drafts, old bookshelves with rotting books lined the walls almost as if merely to furnish the place, and, most importantly, a figure lay silent in a luscious and lavish canopy bed.

“Is…” McCoy gulped. “Is he still alive?”

The question was certainly a valid one: Jim was lying so still, so peaceful in his sleep, that it was near impossible to tell if he was still breathing.

Approaching with apprehension, heart hammering in his chest and every footstep creaking against the wooden floorboards, Spock brushed aside the shimmering canopy and gazed upon the face for which he had yearned for so long.

The knight was still in his garments from when they had last seen him, lying delicately above the blankets with his head cushioned in the soft but plump pillow. His crown of wildflowers still sat atop his head, still bright and still fragrant from Spock’s blessing, and a golden lock of hair escaped the petals, curled and resting on his forehead like his long eyelashes on his cheeks. Jim’s fingers were laced, gently resting on his stomach, and the mere hint of a smile graced every line on his face.

Tentatively, with his fingers resting delicately upon the mattress, Spock removed his hat and leaned forward, twisting his head so he could rest it down on the knight’s chest. With that many layers, it was impossible to hear the faint beating of Jim’s heart, but soon enough, with enough time, Spock could feel the slight rise and fall of every breath.

“He’s… He’s alive,” Spock inhaled, hardly daring to believe. “That’s— There’s another: that’s five.”

McCoy, who had crept up behind him as Spock worked, peered over his shoulder. “Can you wake him?”

Pushing himself back up, Spock shifted his hands to Jim’s shoulders, shaking him lightly. “Jim. Jim!” He glanced over to the doctor pleadingly. “Help me wake him.”

Holding Spock’s gaze for a moment, McCoy then turned to Jim and reached out, meaning to touch the knight’s cheek until his fingers passed through his skin. “I…” McCoy whispered with a shaky voice, clearing his throat and trying again. “Jim! Wake up, dammit!”

Spock shook Jim’s shoulders with slightly more force. “Jim! Please, Jim.”

“—Spock—”

“Jim…”

“Spock.” The bard dropped Jim’s shoulders but didn’t tear his gaze away. “I don’t think he’s going to wake up,” the doctor continued, and the words pained Spock more than anything a million knives could ever dream.

“We can’t… we can’t give up on him now,” Spock insisted, swallowing down his fear. “We’ve long made our vow.”

“Spock,” McCoy repeated sadly, like it hurt with every ounce of his being. “How? What else can we possibly do?”

The bard stood there silently for a moment, looking upon Jim’s peacefully sleeping figure with all the pain of a goodbye. He wracked his memory for any legends, any lore that could shine even the barest glimpse of hope over their situation.

And then, he landed on one, and the feeling in his gut shifted to something not so different from the pain he’d been feeling before.

“What?” McCoy asked desperately, having evidently noticed the blood drain from Spock’s face. “What? Tell me: what is it?”

“There’s…” Spock began, fighting the sensation that his chest was about to cave in, “a saying. A proverb known throughout the land.”

The saint searched Spock’s expression for some semblance of understanding, sifting through his own memory for an idea about what— and then he connected the dots, gulping anxiously and jaw slackening.

“True Love’s Kiss.”

Though the words brought to reality in being said aloud pierced through Spock like an arrow, he nodded. 

They stood there in silence for far too long, digesting the new piece of information and waiting for the other to act.

“You should be the one,” Spock rushed out suddenly, “to get the deed done.”

McCoy looked absolutely dumbfounded. “Me? Have you gone crazy?”

“It is obvious—”

“Obvious my ass: more like oblivious! Did you really think—?”

“We have to be sure—”

“If you want sure, then do it yourself!”

Spock paused at that, mouth gaped. “... Do you really… I thought…”

McCoy threw his arms up in the air in frustration. “No, that’s not what I—!” Sighing, he dropped his arms, keeping them down by playing with his fingers. “I— I do, more than you can imagine, but… it’s nothing like what he has with you.” 

The admission only breaks Spock’s heart; he was dizzy with the flurry of emotion, his head hurt with the confusion of trying to understand the unknown.

“If… If we are to be sure,” Spock gradually proposed, “then we should do it together.”

For a fraction of a second, the saint seemed to brighten, and then his shoulders slumped again as he stared down at his skeletal hands. “N-No, I can’t.”

“But you—”

“No, Spock, I don’t mean—” McCoy huffed, going to touch Spock’s arm instead. “I meant that I can’t.” His hand, as always, fell through without the slightest feeling of contact. “Whatever that swordsman did, he did it well.”

With everything that he was—with his very soul, if he could—Spock wanted to lunge forward and catch McCoy’s wrist, tell him that they could do it together and that everything would turn out fine, but it was more than obvious that all his efforts would be in vain.

“You’re a spirit, are you not?” Spock said as a thought occurred to him, a stroke of inspiration. Half of him itched to suggest it, longed to bring the saint closer by any means possible, but another half feared, shied away from opening the floodgates and letting the spirit in. 

“Could it get any more obvious?” McCoy bit out, more bitter at his own situation than at his counterpart.

“... Does that not mean you can possess?”

McCoy stopped moving entirely, going completely and utterly still. In slow motion, he looked Spock in the eye and held his stare, expression devoid of any indication.

“Possess?”

“Merely a suggestion—”

“Do you understand any of the implications associated with possession?” the saint asked, and Spock realized he recognized the emotion reflected back at him: fear. “Not once in all my state of being have I possessed.”

Spock found he was growing to dislike his idea more and more. “And for Jim?” he added weakly.

At that, McCoy hesitated. His resolve chipped away, and soon, his gaze was back on Spock’s, piercing through him in a way it never had before.

“If I do this,” he warned, stepping closer nonetheless, “then we will be joined by all that we are, our very essence of life. Your soul will be bared to me as mine will to you, and we will become one being, codependent for as long as you let me in. Do you understand?”

“I do,” Spock said, clear as a bell. And then, he hesitated: “... For Jim?”

The question also made the saint pause in his motion, searching for something in the sprite’s eyes before nodding. “For Jim.”

Both bony hands, worn but gentle, lifted to caress the side of Spock’s face, dusting over each of the fae’s temples. With a breath, the saint closed his eyes, and in a final leap of faith, Spock closed his too.

At first, there was nothing.

Then, it was like a supernova bursting behind his eyelids, and it was then, he knew, their souls collided.

Leonard was… brilliant; nothing penned to words could possibly describe the sheer being of his soul, but it was warm and kind and shimmering to the touch, like a long embrace after a day so long you’d almost collapse. It was sunny, so bright and brilliant that all you’d want to do was bask in the sweet happiness it radiated. 

Spock was hardly ever aware of himself right up until then, and when he saw a piece of himself in the other, he loved it, he cherished and adored that fragment as much as he did the rest.

And it was only then that he realized that he was loved, too.

Just like that, everything fell into place: the stars aligned, the Bear touched the Blackbird, and once more, the universe was in harmony.

That was, except for one thing.

Turning, they moved together to the bed, returning to the slumbering knight in his peaceful rest. They gazed down at him in one last moment of adoration, brushing their thumb along the top of his cheek, and leaned down, meeting soft lips with their own. 

Like the very breath of life, they parted with a sigh, their eyes fluttering open anew. For a moment, there was nothing, and even the earth was still.

And then, Jim woke with a soft gasp, blinking open his bleary eyes the color of the forest, staring back up at Spock and Leonard in a daze. The fog cleared from his sight, and he lay back in contentment, beholding his two knights in one piece of shining armor.

“Am I still dreaming?” Jim murmured, voice roughened with sleep. “I think I’m seeing double.”

Leonard’s spirit lingered in the touch, relishing the warmth of skin against skin and marveling at how Jim leaned back into their hand, pressing his lips against their palm. Their heart pounded in their chest at the warm gaze that was being returned, the happy smile that danced across Jim’s lips.

“We were worried,” Leonard spoke with Spock’s tongue. They tucked a loose strand of hair away from the knight’s face.

“I know,” Jim admitted. His hand crept up to cup the one against his cheek, gently stroking their knuckles. “But I’m brave because I know you’ll both find me in the end.”

Smiling once more, the two stepped back, and with a breath, they were two once again. Spock felt the loss like an open wound, and with a glance to his companion, he knew he felt it too.

“I’m surprised you’re not at each other’s throats,” Jim teased, now sitting up in his bed. “Don’t feel obligated to play nice for my sake.”

Spock and Leonard exchanged another glance, an incredulous eyebrow raised on each.

“Well, we don’t know how much longer the dragon will sleep,” Leonard said, “so we should try and escape—”

“Escape?” Jim asked, blinking dumbly. “Oh, Stella is nothing but a big sweetheart; she’s nothing to worry about.”

Both sprite and spirit shared a mutual sense of exhaustion.

“... Stella?” Leonard repeated weakly. “You… You mean the dragon that kidnapped—”

Jim waved away the accusation. “Sure, she brought me over here, but it was nothing more than to show me around, show me her side of things: she’s come back down to the village to protect them from the bad omens, not terrorize them.”

Bewildered, Spock floundered for the entire explanation. “... And your eternal sleep?”

The knight shrugged, nonchalant. “I got hungry, so I looked around this place and drank that.” He pointed to an empty glass bottle set atop a nightstand with its stopper cork placed aside. “After I finished the bottle, I started to get sleepy, so I laid down for a while to take a nap.” Scratching the back of his head sheepishly, Jim laughed. “I guess it was a little longer than I thought.”

Leonard looked like he’d rather like to strangle the knight, and Spock wondered if it had even been worth it chasing after that idiotic knight after all.

And then, a thought occurred to the bard, and while it pained him to not know, he also dreaded the answer.

“We have but one question we cannot dismiss,” Spock said, and by the look on Leonard’s face, he already knew what was coming next. “Which of us woke you with True Love’s Kiss?”

While the bard and the saint drowned in the tense silence, each pretending to be ready for what they were about to hear, Jim merely looked confused, blinking at the two of them as if the answer were obvious.

“Wasn’t it both of you?” Jim said so simply that it startled Spock and Leonard from their suspense. “I couldn’t tell who it was in front of my face, so I just assumed you both did.”

Spock and Leonard gaped at each other, glancing between themselves and the bafflingly unconcerned knight.

“But… You and… Didn’t you…?” Leonard stammered, voicing their mutual perplexion. 

Jim shrugged. “What does it matter? We may have known each other differently, been through different predicaments together, but my love for each of you is no greater than my love for the other. I love you both unconditionally, whether or not you return the sentiment, so is there really a difference who woke me?”

Leaving the pair in stunned silence, Jim bounded over to the wooden trapdoor, flipping it back open and almost tripping down the stairs in his excitement. “C’mon!” he enticed them, beaming brighter than the very sun. “I’ll introduce you both to Stella.”

Exchanging one last look, Spock and Leonard understood that at long last, their journey was finally over. Each knew there was nothing about it that they’d ever want to change, as the process of falling in love was a poignant little thing, but it was only then, with the sight and sound of Jim all around them, that they felt complete once again.

And so, side by side, they followed the jubilant sound of Jim’s voice that echoed from the stone-hewn stairwell, like at last, their eyes had been opened, and together they were reunited with their guiding light.

The late-afternoon autumn sun provided some warmth in the thin, mountain-top air, but it was the soft body of a sleeping dragon that truly wrapped the triumvirate in a warm embrace. Its pudgy figure and canvas-like wings also spared the trio from the brunt of any winds, but the occasional draft that slipped through was what made the conditions perfect for napping. 

All three of the travelers had dozed off where they lay, shaded in the wildflower grasses underneath Stella’s wing. Spock lay in the center, holding his lyre as if poised for another song, Jim lay to his one side, having long fallen asleep as he listened peacefully, and Leonard was curled at Spock’s other side, holding on as if his regained energy would slip away yet again alongside his feeling of touch.

Somewhere along the side of the mountain, a great big cat leapt from landing to landing, reunited with her long-lost lover that clung on to her neck at last. With them, sitting behind the sphinx’s lover, were two unruly bandits and a kindhearted blacksmith, having been brought along to visit the dragon’s nest.

Against the brilliant expanse of the starry night sky, the Bear, the Blackbird, and the Mountain all laid together, reunited, and watched as time ticked on by. At last, as they were always meant to be, they were together and bound to a bond like no other, weaved through their very souls and strengthened with a love most profound.