Author: sandsofvulcan

Email: sandsofvulcan@yahoo.com

Series: TOS

Rating: G

Character Code: Sarek, Skon

Summary: Young Sarek undertakes a Ritual Crossing with his Father, Skon.

Disclaimer: Star Trek is copyrighted by Paramount/Viacom. I do not own any of their characters.

Archive: Fine, but let me know where.

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"There is a storm coming up," Skon said with a light frown, looking into the distant desert. He glanced behind him to the small figure reclining on the rock. Sarek dragged his tired, little body up and stood beside his father.

"There?" Sarek pointed across the Sas-a-shar.

"Yes," acknowledged Skon. "Where should we go for shelter, my son?"

Sarek scanned the horizon for anyplace that seemed likely. He was about to answer that he saw nothing, until he glanced at Skon who rolled his eyes downward. "Ah," responded Sarek, "we should stay here." Skon nodded.

"How long will it last, Father? Will it make us late?" asked Sarek with concern. This was his First Crossing, begun yesterday on the sixth anniversary of his naming day.

"No amount of worry can stop the wind, Sarek. If it makes us late then, Kaiidth." Sarek swallowed his disappointment and nodded. Skon watched his son retreat back to the other side of the rock where there was a small shelter from the setting sun.

Were it not for the approaching storm, they would have begun to travel in the direction of ShiKahr, their home city; however the completion time of the First Crossing was not nearly as important as that of the Kahswan for which Sarek was beginning his training. No, it was more important that he learn to make the reasoned, logical decisions that might save his life when the time came, and logic dictated that they wait here until the storm passed.

However illogical, Skon was not disappointed. During his service in the Vulcan Diplomatic Corps, he had missed much of his young son's life. Tonight the desert would grant an extra bit of that precious time.

Skon followed his son down into the shelter the rock outcropping provided. He was pleased to find that Sarek had not fallen back asleep as Skon had expected, but was instead inventorying their foodstuffs.

"Is it possible that this storm may last for more than a day, Father?" asked Sarek without looking up.

"It is, though these storms rarely last more than three days. Why do you ask?"

"We will need more food. We only gathered enough for breakfast. I will go." Skon eyed his son carefully. Only a short time ago he had seemed weary.

"Do you remember where we found the d'mallu plant yesterday, Sarek?" Sarek nodded. "That will be the most expedient source of nourishment. Retrace our steps and gather more, then come directly back. I estimate 0.423 hours roundtrip for your journey. The storm looks to be several hours away, but do not waste time. Things can change quickly in the desert." Skon bent down and placed his own desert knife in Sarek's boot. Sarek turned quickly and ran in the direction of the storm. Skon watched him for a short time and then settled into the rock outcropping. He reminded himself to check for his son in 0.420 hours, as he was quite sure he was about to fall asleep.

Sarek ran for the sheer joy of running. His legs propelled him through the desert sands, the fading light of day behind him, the massive red wall of dust, that was the storm, ahead of him. *I have Father's knife in my boot!* he thought exultantly.

By tradition, Sarek would receive his own desert knife from his Father at the end of his First Crossing. That his Father had allowed Sarek to carry this knife was a great honor. Skon had received this very knife from Solkar, Sarek's grandfather. Sarek ran for 15 minutes before looking up. The sun had finally faded and darkness had descended upon the Sas-a-shar. Sarek had hardly noticed the change as his eyes gradually adjusted to the dark. Ahead the storm no longer appeared red, just dark and ominous. Sarek was intimidated. He was alone in the desert for the first time in his life. He slowed to a walk and looked back in the direction of the rock. He could still make it out vaguely. *Father is there. He will know if I am in trouble. Cast out fear,* he reminded himself.

Sarek smiled broadly when he first caught sight of the d'mallu plants ahead. *I found it, and I found it alone,* he considered his smile and realizing that this might be pride, he allowed the smile to fade. Sarek approached the root slowly, allowing himself to be just within its reach as Skon had taught him yesterday. He quickly discovered his mistake, when a d'mallu reached out with its tendril and grabbed his ankle before Sarek had withdrawn the knife from his boot. He struggled to reach the knife as the plant dragged him toward its center.

He had heard the other children tell horrible tales of what d'mallu did to their victims. Sarek fought down panic as a sudden wave of pain overcame him. The plant was squeezing tightly to suffocate its prey so that it would die before reaching the vulnerable center, where it would digest its victim. Sarek made a desperate grab at his boot and withdrew the knife. He actually had to saw at the tendril until his ankle was free. Sarek grabbed at the severed tendril and ran. He jumped clear of the plant, and gasped for air.

In his hand he held a piece of d'mallu large enough to sustain several full-grown Vulcans for at least a week. *Father will not be pleased,* thought Sarek. *I have wasted the desert's bounty.* Sarek stood and looked in complete horror at the scene in front of him. There not five feet from the center of the plant Skon's knife lay in the sand. Sarek chided himself severely. He had panicked and dropped the knife even as he grabbed the tendril and jumped clear. Sarek plopped dejectedly in the sand. 0.30 minutes had passed. He should have been on his way back, but he could not return without the knife.

*Your ancestors fought and died over the resources in this very desert, Sarek,* came his Father's voice from yesterday. *It was not until we began to use logic as our guide that the fighting stopped. Now we all have enough. Logic tames the desert, my son.* Sarek calmed himself and examined the problem before him. He quickly divined a plan.

Again he approached the plant, though this time he held the severed tendril in front of him. As he had anticipated, a neighboring tendril reached for the offered bit. Sarek resisted as best he could as he was pulled toward the center. Finally Skon's knife was within reach. He grabbed it, and cut a bit of the tendril that he held in his hand, then he ran free of the plant once again, knife in one hand, tendril in the other.

Sarek breathed a sigh of relief as he slipped the knife back into his boot, tucked the root into his robe, and turned back toward the rock outcropping. 0.34 minutes had passed. He did the calculations and realized that he would certainly be late no matter how fast he ran. Knowing that he would be questioned in regards to his delay, he resolutely headed at a steady pace back towards his father.

It was dark in the desert now as Skon's timesense awoke him. It should not be so dark, but when Skon rounded the side of the outcropping the reason was obvious. The storm's pace had quickened. Skon pulled his hood tightly around his wind battered face to look into the distance for his son. The sand was blinding him. Visibility was no more that 20 meters, but he would stay and wait. Sarek was now late. Skon closed his eyes and concentrated on the mental bond with his son.

*He is well.*

*He is getting closer.*

He is... Skon opened his eyes to see a small figure emerging from the storm front. He ran towards Sarek and helped him into the shelter of the rocks. Sarek sputtered and coughed the dust out of his mouth, at the same time Skon brushed the sand from his hair, his ears... the child was full of sand.

"Sarek...," began his father, "I am...quite frankly... impressed."

Sarek knew to suppress the smile he felt about to appear on his face. He turned to look at his father. Seeing that his father was about to ask something of him, Sarek steeled himself to tell the truth of his delay.

"Your time through that storm was good. How did you manage it?"

Sarek relaxed, his father would not ask about the delay. "I ran," answered Sarek.

Skon looked at him closely, eyebrow raised. Sarek bowed his head. "I left your knife," he confessed. Skon regarded him quizzically.

"It is in your boot, my son."

"Yes," replied Sarek glad that his Father would not discover his initial failure, "It is."