Lady Ve’el led her slave into her bedchamber. Without having to be instructed to do so, he knelt down next to her when she sat at her dressing table and bowed his head, ready to receive his delayed punishment.

“Lahs,” she instructed, placing a hand on his neck. “Look at me.”

The non-gift raised his wide, innocent eyes to hers. They had a pleasing color and soft appearance. She reflected that it was a pleasant thing to have an attractive slave – even when one had to discipline it.

“You behaved inappropriately and spoke insolently to Second Master,” she said. “I would know why.”

“Mistress,” the pretty animal began, “I…”

She pressed her thumb against the big vein in his neck. “I know your thoughts, Lahs. You must not attempt to lie to me.”

Pelori MacEntyre knew that if the two of them were the Romulans they were pretending to be, she could use this grip to break the slave’s neck. The slave knew this too. She felt his pulse pound against her skin. He would never have suspected, however, that the touch enabled her to check the stability of the blocks she’d erected in his mind.

“Second Master does not…” the non-gift began, then reconsidered his phrasing. “At times he seems displeased with you, Mistress. He tries to disobey you. It is not his place to be angry. It is not right for him to disobey.”

The situation inside Lahs’ brain was as she had expected. No dangerous breaches in the blocks. Just a little artifacing of emotions from the base persona. It was reasonable that Lahs would be upset by anomalous behavior from either of her husbands. Overlay from the base persona was strengthening this discomfort into indignation. Nothing, MacEntyre decided, that couldn’t be made right with a little strategic behavior modification.

“Is it your place to correct Second Master, Lahs?” Lady Ve’el asked coldly.

It became difficult for the slave to meet her eyes. “No, Mistress.”

“What are you, Lahs?” she asked, taking her thumb off his throat and using it to push his chin back up.

“A slave, Mistress,” the animal answered, moisture beginning to pool in its pretty eyes.

“And a non-gift,” she added with purposeful cruelty.

“Yes, Mistress,” it whispered.

She forced its head back up. “And what is Second Master?”

“A true Romulan.” Tears began to streak wet trails down the creature’s cheeks. “Truly gifted. A fit and worthy mate for you, Mistress.”

“And you dare to criticize him? To be angry at him?” Sifting through his reactions she found the trace of another out of place emotion that was the product of the slave’s envious longings combining with the base persona’s natural competitiveness. “To be jealous of him?”

The animal squeezed its eyes closed, unable to deny this horrible truth. Ve’el shook its chin. “What are you, Lahs?”

“A slave, Mistress!” The creature’s voice cracked with emotion. “And a worthless non-gift. Dirt beneath the feet of every true Romulan.”

“And what do you owe to every true Romulan?”

“Obedience, devotion, and respect.”

“And what is Second Master?” she pressed.

“A true Romulan.”

“And what do you owe him?”

“Obedience, devotion, and respect.”

She took her hand from the animal’s neck contemptuously. “And what are you compared to him?”

The creature hung its head in shame. “Less than the dirt beneath his feet.”

Ve’el paused a moment to let the truthfulness of the slave’s words sink in on his consciousness.

“You will go to the Second Master’s closet and take out a pair of his boots,” she ordered. “Bring them back to this room. You will then clean and polish them thoroughly nine times.”

“Yes, Mistress,” the creature whispered.

She tilted its face up to hers. “Each time after you clean them,” she continued when the creature’s pretty eyes were focused on hers again. “You will kiss the soles of Second Master’s boots and say aloud that you are a slave and a non-gift and less than the dirt beneath Second Master’s feet.”

“Yes, Mistress.” When she released her grip on his chin, the non-gift pressed his lips against her thigh. “Thank you, Mistress.”

She softened a little at this submissive gesture and let one hand stroke the well-formed nape of the slave’s neck for a few seconds. “Go now, Lahs,” she said, turning the caress into a firm pat. “I have other tasks for you after you’ve completed your punishment.”

“Immediately, my Mistress,” the creature responded, wiping its face and eyes as it rose.

Yes, Lady Ve’el thought to herself with some satisfaction as she turned to her dressing table and watched the animal’s attractive backside retreat in her mirror. He’s nothing I can’t handle.

Spock played the lythyr softly, letting its sound sooth his jarred nerves. The instrument was much like his Vulcan lyrette, and though it was held differently, horizontally across one’s lap rather than vertically cradled in one’s arms, the mechanics of playing it were very similar. His logical mind told him that he should, as quickly as possible, obtain some sheet music for the better-known Romulan pieces, then found himself wondering if the truly ancient Vulcan music – that which survived the Great Cataclysm – would have also endured among the clans of the Romulan people. Then he quickly corrected the thought – Romulus was divided into Provinces and Houses, not clans.

There is so much that is familiar, yet not quite, he mused with a distressing melancholy. The rich sauces that had covered the food prepared by the kitchen staff left an impression he recognized, though none of the flavors were ones his palate knew. The language that echoed in his ears was such that, even without the rapid learning devices, he would have been able to understand it, after a fashion – the ancient dialects were still taught to every Vulcan child, and certain words had not altered much over the millennia. And of course, the facial characteristics spoke to him of Vulcan – of home.

He supposed, then, that it explained his sense of loneliness and isolation. He was what Humans would call homesick.

His discomfort was not eased by the knowledge that he and – Joron – would soon be expected to entertain their Lady and any guests she might invite into their domicile with their mastery of the lythyr. Nor was he sanguine about the discipline Ve’el was currently meting out to Lahs. It was not that he did not understand the necessity of the action, it was simply disquieting to his sensibilities, and increased his concern for the young Terran imprisoned within the Romulan servant. He was very glad that the Lady Ve’el had not felt it necessary to use physical discipline. He had tried to steel himself for that eventuality, but if it had happened so soon and for such a trivial matter…

No, it is not, cannot be trivial, he chastised himself. If Lahs were to show such disrespect in public, he could easily be executed for it by any Romulan who was offended at his behavior. Far better to correct him here, now, among those who do actually care about him.

Spock only hoped the base personality would allow stubbornness and determination to work for rather than against him.

As he watched Lahs exit the Lady’s room and head for his junior master’s, Tarvak considered requesting a glass of ale, then realized in rapid succession that this would interrupt the creature in its punishment, which would displease Ve’el, which the animal could not afford to do. But if it ignored or attempted to argue with Tarvak, that would displease its senior master, which also would displease Ve’el, which would result in two more punishments, and the cruel but highly amusing game could continue far into the night. And with the way the beast dared to glance at his Bonded, and the way his Bonded teased the slave, it would provide unnecessary but most interesting heat to their night’s joining…

Aghast, Spock stopped the flow of thoughts. That such a tumultuous chain of emotion had begun in him with the simple thought that he was thirsty was horrific. He hadn’t before considered the idea that Lieutenant MacEntyre’s ‘indoctrination’ could have included personality parameters beyond basic linguistic and cultural knowledge. He hadn’t before wondered whether “Tarvak” was – or had once been – a real person. Now it was all too obvious.

He felt a momentary anger that MacEntyre had kept this information from him. He understood the need Intelligence felt for caution in this assignment, but to keep its own operatives in the dark about key elements of it...

But you are not their operative, he reminded himself as Ve’el stepped from her bedroom and moved to the residence’s computer, apparently needing to take care of some household accounting. You are only one of a team assigned to help their operative carry out this mission, and as such are on a need-to know standing. The fact that you ‘needed-to-know’ more than some others does not erase that status.

He allowed this truth to sink into his mind, calming and reordering himself around it. He had nearly convinced himself that this was, in fact, a good and necessary aspect of the mission when Joron stormed out of his small resting chamber, carrying a pair of boots and dragging the beast by the collar of its shirt.

“No!” his young Bonded snarled as he strode to the desk at which their lady sat, tossing both the boots and the beast down before her. “I do NOT want this – thing – touching my belongings as punishment!” Joron demanded harshly. “Its proper place in cleaning and maintaining them is bad enough! My Lady, I am Dei’lrn, I’ll feel its touch through the soles of my feet every time I wear these boots!”

Tarvak was filled with a surge of both pride and hunger. There was no good translation for the word which described the exquisite combination of telepathy and empathy that made up his Bonded’s gifts. He was Dei’lrn – the following son, one whose mind could ‘follow’ the emanations not only of thought, but of emotion….

Abruptly Spock shuddered, realizing that the word in Romulan was the male equivalent of the endearment he used for Ruth. When – Joron’s – head suddenly snapped to face him, he knew that the man had overheard the thought. Spock tensed, expecting some vicious, insightful comment.

“There is another?!” Joron blazed at him. “Some former lover you think of with the tenderness and affection that belongs to me?!”

Tarvak stood, setting the lythyr aside. “Calm yourself, my Bonded,” he said. “The day’s journey has left you raw and ragged.” His Bonded’s dark eyes continued to glare for a moment, then they abruptly softened as the young man gave a short, conciliatory nod. He turned back to Ve’el.

“Forgive me, my Lady, my Bonded is correct. I am raw and ragged. But truly, I can’t bear the thought of this creature associating my things with discipline…” He shuddered.

Tarvak moved next to him, placing a comforting, strengthening hand on his shoulder. “I am not empathic, my Lady,” he said, “and as Joron and I are as one, will it not suit the beast’s discipline just as well to have it clean my boots?”

Ve’el was frowning. “I do not appreciate having my instructions countermanded like this, Tarvak,” she stated.

“I understand, my Lady, but might I gently remind you that you have been in Triad with us for a relatively short period of time. You are not yet used to the requirements of our Bond, nor of Joron’s status as Dei’lrn. There are times when allowances need to be made for his comfort.” He smiled at his Bonded and was rewarded with a sigh as the only-centimeters-shorter man placed his head against Tarvak’s chest.

“Very well,” Ve’el said. “Lahs, return Master Joron’s boots, then retrieve two pairs of Master Tarvak’s and clean them both as you were instructed.”

“Yes, my Mistress,” Lahs whispered and scurried past Joron – whose lip curled in disdain as it passed.

“I hope you realize that your little charade only increased his discipline,” Ve’el nearly drawled.

“Charade, my Lady?” Tarvak questioned, his eyebrow arching. Beside him, Joron seemed to shake himself, then quickly moved away.

“That wasn’t my intent, my Lady,” the young man said, but his voice sounded guarded.

My Bonded, is there something amiss?

No, my Bonded, came a deeply sarcastic response. Of course not, my Bonded. Just stay the hell away from me, my Bonded!

How dare you…! began in Tarvak’s brain, and Spock focused all his will on stopping the bleeding of the Romulan personality into his own.

Mr. DelMonde, forgive me, he said. If you will examine your reactions, I think you will find that there is, indeed, a “Joron” within you. These past moments have been their interactions.

There was a pause, and DelMonde glanced briefly at him. Yeah, he said, then his thoughts were turned on MacEntyre. Why you not tell me, girlie? he demanded, and Spock found himself very relieved by the return of the engineer’s normal speech pattern.

To prevent you from attempting to suppress it, MacEntyre explained. Which you’re now both going to have to do consciously. It would be much easier on you, and much better for the mission, if you would simply allow your Romulan personalities to carry through.

Why you not lock us up the way you lock up T-Paul then? DelMonde countered.

You’re telepaths, it wouldn’t have worked. Your real selves would have been constantly struggling to break through. This way, you can decide when and where to allow Tarvak and Joron to guide your actions. And if you will do so, our mission will proceed much more smoothly.

An’ you not t’ink this somet’ing we need to know from the get-go, huh?

I had hoped you would be more professional.

What’s done is done, Mr. DelMonde, Spock put in. We must adjust.

Not if I use her li’l ‘aspirins’ to burn this shit right outta our heads! The engineer’s mind-voice seethed with ferocity.

Do and you’ll get us all killed, MacEntyre warned.

Oh, li’l Mac, you not seen what I can do on xenoneurophene, DelMonde promised. I can walk up to one o’ the damned Telanate an’ pick the information we need right outta his allegedly guarded brain. I can walk into the trainin’ base an’ shut it down wit’ one, maybe two breaths. I could fuckin’ blow this whole fuckin’ planet straight to fuckin’ hell…

No, you can’t, the Intelligence agent interrupted smoothly. There are safeguards. There is a kill switch.

DelMonde stopped, his mental eyes going wide. Spock quickly stepped in.

What precisely do you mean by ‘kill switch’? he asked.

Just as it sounds. If Joron were to do anything unacceptable to the command of this mission which she deemed as potentially life or mission-threatening, she – meaning me – has the ability to shut off the flow of xenoneurophene to his brain. Instantly. It would result in a coma, but most likely not his death.

You goddamned motherfuckin’… DelMonde began.

It is, as you can see, a necessary precaution. So I suggest, gentlemen, that you accept the situation for what it is. We will complete our mission here, by any means at our disposal. She glanced back and forth between them, ignoring both DelMonde’s bitter rage and Spock’s disconcerted shock. Lahs, who had returned Joron’s boots to his room and was just slipping through the common area, trying to be an insignificant as possible, bowed with a murmured, “my Mistress,” as he moved past her toward Tarvak’s room.

“I think it might be pleasant for us to visit the club the Praefect mentioned,” she began.

“Not tonight, my Lady, if you please,” Joron returned, his eyes coals of resentment.

“My Bonded is really quite exhausted from the strains of the day,” Tarvak confirmed. “Perhaps it would be best to get a good night’s rest and begin fresh in the morning.” Plus, it will give Lahs a chance to complete his punishment and get some rest himself. And while Ve’el may not care about such things as the health of such a subordinate, I am certain someone does, he added privately to her.

Her gaze flickered, but she nodded brusquely “Very well. You are correct in that I am not used to dealing with a Dei’lrn. I thank you for your patience.” Her eyes moved once toward DelMonde. “Rest well, then, my husbands.”

“Joron, I will allow you the time you need to settle your empathy,” Spock said. “You need not attend me this night.”

“You are most understanding, my Bonded,” Joron replied, but his voice was tight.

Ve’el went to her bedchamber, to oversee Lahs in his task. Joron returned to his small resting chamber. Tarvak went to the bedroom he would normally share with Joron and lay down on the bed and prayed sleep would find him – and refused the sense of keening loss that his Bonded would not be beside him.

“Lahs.” Lady Ve’el sat down in front of her dressing table. “Take down my hair and brush it.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

The slave had finished his punishment some time ago. Despite the fact that she’d had him wash thoroughly afterwards, he still smelled faintly of the polish he’d used. It wasn’t a bad odor, though. It had a clean, leathery, masculine aroma to it.

The feel of the creature’s long, skilled fingers against her scalp was pleasant as he carefully removed the constricting pins that held her curls in place. Pelori sighed and closed her eyes. At last she could have a moment of peace. Spock was either asleep or in deep meditation. Her other companion was at last sealed within the protective blue shell of his “aspirin.” If she did not speak, she was sure the non-gift could not tell she was not wearing the Lady Ve’el mask.

In a way that her companions could probably never understand, being punished had calmed and steadied Lahs. Good Romulan that he was, he felt more secure now that what he saw as the proper hierarchical order had been forcefully re-established for him and he had been put in what he knew to be his proper place. MacEntyre could feel his small quiet mind-voice thinking that all in all, he’d come out well. He hadn’t been beaten. He wasn’t going to be sent away. The punishment was over and his mistress was no longer angry with him. Because of Second Master’s tantrum, he hadn’t even been forced to kiss the soles of the junior husband’s boots. Although the task his mistress had set was a fitting humiliation for his insolence, better a thousand times to clean a hundred pairs of First Master’s boots and press his lips against the dirty bottoms of First Master’s feet after a day of walking in mud rather than just once to have to touch anything of Second Master’s…

Before Pelori had to drag out Lady Ve’el for an encore performance, Lahs caught his own wrong thinking.

I am a slave and a non-gift, he reminded himself as if it were a catechism. Second Master is a true Romulan, truly gifted. I am less than the dirt beneath his feet. I owe him obedience, respect, and devotion.

MacEntyre relaxed once more and let her hands drop from the tabletop to a more comfortable position in her lap. Punishing her slave had taken a toll on her. To Lady Ve’el, the session had been a mere trifle, not worth half the time she wasted on it. To Pelori, though, who had to be in physical contact with the poor wretch and feel his tia ache as he was questioned and trapped into debasing himself, it was agony. If the creature hadn’t been a psi-null… If she hadn’t had Lady Ve’el to carry her through… If she’d actually had to resort to corporal punishment…

MacEntyre mentally shook herself. If being cruel for a few moments accomplished the goal of making the subject properly docile and controllable, it was worth it. If it furthered the mission, it was worth it…. Or so she hoped.

Besides, the slave continued to think as he reverently unrolled a shining gold and bronze-streaked red lock. Mistress and First Master are wise. If Second Master continues to displease them, he will be the one who is sent away….

Oh, if it were only that simple, Pelori found herself wishing. Now that her “husbands” were aware they were hosting Romulan personas…. She couldn’t even think about what the next day was going to be like.

She was surprised at how protective her husbands were of their little pet. MacEntyre stopped and disentangled the thought. Lahs was Lady Ve’el’s pet. The base subject was her companions’ friend. The slave was nothing to her Romulan husbands.

She wished the whole thing could be straightened and made smooth like the way her servant was combing out her twisted locks. Maybe her chosen method of disciplining the slave was too elaborate. It might have been better just to have sent Lahs down to the kitchens and had one of the cooks beat him and leave her nerves intact and her husbands none the wiser – as had been Ve’el’s first thought. Maybe she shouldn’t have let her anger convince her to design a punishment that would also wound Second Master. Pushing a high-strung sensitive like DelMonde into an emotional breaking point while pumping him full of xenoneurophene…

MacEntyre stopped and automatically re-edited the name of the drug out of her thoughts. She tried to do the same for the name of her junior husband, but couldn’t. Lady Ve’el could convince herself that DelMonde was Joron, but she couldn’t. Her problem was with DelMonde. He was confusingly both stronger and more fragile than she could have ever imagined he would be. Why had the mission planners had to send him? Wasn’t there another tele/empath in the whole Federation who would have suited their purpose? Preferably one who she found less exasperating… less challenging… less exciting… less attractive…

Pelori once again stopped and edited the last thought out of her mind. She needed to rest. She needed to be strong for tomorrow… for the mission…. Strong like Lady Ve’el. With an exhausted sigh, she let herself relax into the Romulan persona.

Ve’el let her head drop back as her slave brushed her now completely unbound tresses back from her face with long, soothing strokes. She permitted herself to smile at the pretty creature. Even-handed discipline was good for slaves. And this one did please her… his appearance… his obedience… his desire for her…

Pelori MacEntyre woke herself back up. Ve’el was right. Lahs did desire his mistress. It was more artifacing from base persona. The slave would take a more pragmatic, professional view of intercourse. The man who owned this body though, had a deep fondness for strong women and a robust appetite for sex. The combination held a perverse fascination for Ve’el. The idea of an attractive animal with a man’s desires and a bedslave’s skills was titillating… at least in the privacy of her bedroom.

He isn’t really a trained bedslave, MacEntyre reminded her guest mind. He hasn’t actually acquired those skills.

Lady Ve’el was not convinced. She yawned and stretched. Her hand landed casually on her slave’s. She brought it down to her breast almost as if by accident. The Romulan nearly purred aloud with satisfaction as her pet delicately massaged her nipple with the flat of his palm and the heel of his hand. Instead of the look of concentration that normally claimed the features of slave put to a task, Ve’el could see in the mirror that Lahs was absently running his tongue over his well-shaped lips as he looked on her – almost as if he were man about to make love to a woman whose body he wanted more than food or drink.

Her old slave was becoming something new as she watched -- a delightfully controlled wild beast, a half-man who skirted the edge of taboo in a way that made her shiver with arousal.

He has sufficient skills, the Lady informed her host with a smile. Sufficient skills to make us relax and sleep well with no thought of our troublesome husbands or your other strange obsessions.

The thought of her “other strange obsessions” brought MacEntyre back into control of her body. “That will be all, Lahs,” she said, gently brushing his hand aside as she rose. “Go to your chamber.”

“Yes, Mistress.” The slave’s voice was husky with passion as he took a few slow steps backwards. “Mistress?”

“Yes?” She paused next to her bed.

“Allow me?” he begged.

She opened her mouth to refuse, but Ve’el informed her that the slave was only offering to turn back the covers for her. Glad that the dim light would hide how flushed she was, MacEntyre nodded her assent.

“I could sleep on the rug beside your bed, Mistress.” Lahs’ touch was entirely professional as he adjusted the blankets, but she could feel his tia burn for her when his hands not-so-accidentally brushed her arms. “…If you feel you might have need of me during the night.”

“Your cot will be sufficiently nearby, Lahs,” Pelori replied, but could not stop Lady Ve’el from reaching out to caress her pretty pet’s face. “…If I have need of you during the night.”

The next morning’s breakfast was a decidedly uncomfortable affair. Ve’el insisted that Tarvak wear one of the pairs of boots Lahs had polished, and Spock was acutely aware of both how humiliating that was for Lahs, and of the stirrings of disdainful pleasure it evoked in the Tarvak-personality within him. He was also aware of how Joron/DelMonde struggled with similar emotions.

“I trust your empathic shielding is recovered, Joron,” Tarvak said, simply to make conversation.

I think it best if we avoid that subject, Joron returned silently.

And our breakfast conversation should be held in a more usual fashion, Ve’el put in. It will be less confusing for Lahs.

Spock permitted himself a rueful sigh. Very well. Shall we acquaint ourselves with the city before attempting to infiltrate the Senator’s Parlour? He felt Ve’el’s frown at the use of the word ‘infiltrate’ and sent mild if disingenuous apologies. I believe the more contact we have with the important people in this Province, the better our chances will be of obtaining the kind of opportunities we desire.

Agreed, Ve’el replied. Joron, you are able to control your empathic reactions?

I have little choice, my Lady, Joron returned with just a hint of petulance.

A ‘tsking’ sound came from the female. I must take some time to begin to understand this empathy, she said. While I am aware of how precious it is, I must confess it baffles me.

I would be happy to explain it to you, in as much detail as you wish, Joron said, and Spock was certain he detected DelMonde’s cool sarcasm beneath the polite words.

It is a gift to be treasured, Tarvak added, with a nod of both appreciation and warning to his Bonded.

All Dei’lrn should be so fortunate in their Bondeds, Joron replied, and Spock flinched at the obvious reference, though it was the Romulan and not the Vulcan term being used. Then the younger man spoke aloud. “Lahs, more j’lat.” J’lat was the Romulan form of thick, Turkish-style coffee.

“At once, Master,” Lahs responded, hurrying to his side with the ornate carafe.

Spock felt something shift as Joron stared down at the kneeling servant.

“Aren’t Master Tarvak’s boots exceptionally attractive this morning?” he asked the creature.

“Yes, Master,” Lahs said in a barely audible voice.

“Someone – or should I say something - did a commendable job of polishing them.”

Lahs blinked uncertainly.

"Thank your master for the compliment, Lahs,” Ve’el said nonchalantly as she scanned the morning’s news on the viewscreen that dominated the side wall of the common rooms.

“Th – thank you, kind Master,” Lahs stammered.

“It’s fortunate for my Bonded that he can’t sense your lips on their soles,” Joron was continuing. He bent down, “But I can, Lahs.”

“For- forgive me, kind Master,” Lahs said, trembling. “I did as my Mistress commanded. I meant no disrespect and apologize most humbly for causing you distress.”

There was a sudden pause, and for one terrible moment, Spock was certain Joron was going to strike the slave. Instead, the Dei’lrn – and Spock shivered at Tarvak’s automatic appellation – reached down and patted the creature’s cheek. “It makes me think of what those lips might feel like elsewhere,” he whispered, running his thumb along Lahs’ lower lip, then laughed at the look of trepidation that came into the dull, brown eyes.

“Enough, Joron!” Ve’el spat. “Your jests go too far.”

“And I will not permit such base behavior in my Bonded,” Tarvak added darkly.

Joron glanced up, apparently unconcerned. “Ah, but that’s the delicious part,” he said. “I can taunt this little beast all I want – and you know there will never be any danger of actual impropriety.”

Tarvak, control your Bondmate! Ve’el snapped.

Lieutenant Commander! Spock shouted.

He felt it when the personality of the cruel young Romulan faded and DelMonde regained hold of his reactions. There was a moment of sickened horror, one in which Spock wasn’t altogether certain the Human would not lose his breakfast. Then the core strength reasserted itself, and DelMonde glanced down at Lahs, with a smile that while still condescending, was no longer heartless.

“A trifle, Lahs,” he said. “It seems I can’t resist such a pretty target.”

“It is my pleasure to afford you such amusement,” Lahs said humbly, and Spock had to turn away at the honest selflessness of the tone.

After Lahs had cleared away most of the breakfast table – Joron had wanted to keep the pot of j’lat – and had refashioned his mistress’ hair into its pile of curls, and had straightened the apartments and made the beds, it was decided that they would investigate their new surroundings. Tarvak had insisted that he and Joron spend a few moments in private, and Ve’el graciously conceded, though Pelori shuddered to think of the two men alone together.

Once the door to their shared bedroom was closed, Tarvak turned to his Bonded. I wish to make a request of you, he said, deliberately not using either the Romulan nor the Human name.

One you think our Lady will find – inappropriate? The younger man returned with both wariness and teasing familiarity.

Possibly, although I wished this to be private for more reason than that. He took a deep breath. Now that we know we are hosting – others – and we have seen that these personas can easily overtake our own, I wished there to be an agreement between us. Specifically, that neither of us use what may transpire between these personas as opportunities to bait or otherwise discomfort the other.

You can’t take a little teasing – my Bonded? The darkness that emanated from Joron/DelMonde’s mind was unnerving.

No, and neither can Tarvak. He would likely respond with an – aggression, you would find – unpleasant.

Is that a threat, my Bonded?

It is not intended as such. If we both can keep such distractions to a minimum, our purpose here will be all the more quickly accomplished. And that is something, I think, we both desire above all else.

Joron studied him for a moment. I t’ink, and it was definitely Noel DelMonde’s voice, that might be a li’l bitty bit difficult. Joron seem to enjoy livin’ dangerously.

He has lived a somewhat catered-to existence, judging from Tarvak’s knowledge of him, Spock agreed.

Not rich or famous, DelMonde supplied, but spoiled ‘cause o’ his gifts.

Precisely. And Tarvak is a jealous man.

Like you, oh my Bonded.

Spock frowned. Most unlike me, or you would not now be here for us to be discussing the matter.

Now that was a threat.

I can see this conversation was futile, Spock began.

No, it’s just that… The other sighed. With his personality traits, it’s too easy to… He stopped talking and Spock was uncertain whether this was Joron referring to DelMonde’s traits, or DelMonde referring to Joron’s. I can see the logic – you’ll pardon the expression – but I’m not certain I have the control you’re asking for.

Even with the isti’li?

Especially with the isti’li. It opens me, Tarvak, in ways that I’m unused to – and it frightens me.

Tarvak responded to his Bondmate’s clear need, pushing Spock aside with careless authority.

We live again, my Dei’lrn, he soothed, taking the other half of his soul into his arms. The gods have seen fit to allow our spirits to be together in these strange bodies. We must do nothing which will cause them to reject us.

Kah-lir, I need you, and this – Human – refuses to…

We touch here, Tarvak reminded, gently pressing his fingers to the other’s temples.

It's not enough!

But better than nothing.

I don't want 'better than nothing'! I want you - real, solid, to hold and to hold me!

With sudden, horrific realization, Spock wrenched control of his mind away from the Romulan. The conversation was an echo of the one he had had with Ruth before her departure for the Shipyards. And the endearment Joron had used was an ancient term, one no longer used in Vulcan society, for it meant "one who masters." As he stared at the dark eyes before him, he heard DelMonde reading the comprehension from his mind, and Joron was flung to the back of the engineer’s head as if the consciousness were a deadly plague.

You son of a bitch! DelMonde snarled. You talk ‘bout not usin’ what goes on ‘tween those two charonges an’ then you turn ‘roun’ an’ throw this at me?

Mr. DelMonde, you must understand… Spock began.

The hell I do! I tol’ you, keep away from me!

I was only trying to make this experience less unpleasant…

You touch me again an’ I swear I tear your fuckin’ brain apart an’ enjoy the coma afterwards! the engineer spat.

Joron, Tarvak! came Ve’el’s commanding voice. This will cease, now!

Tarvak!

Joron, my Bonded!

DelMonde turned and spat – literally – and stalked from the room.

Spock tightly clenched his shaking hands, and shuddered.

DelMonde stormed through the common area, heedless of Lahs’ cringing gasp or Ve’el’s stern command that he stop immediately. Once inside his ‘resting room’ – and the thought of why it was a household necessity made bile rise in his throat – he paced the length of it again and again, rubbing his hands over his face and up through his hair, hating the feel of how short it was. He hated the smell of the Romulan air, the taste of the j’lat on his tongue, the wordless whispers of millions of Romulan minds, shielded but amplified by the xenoneurophene. He hated the grieving feel of Joron in the back of his mind. And the worst thing, the absolute worst, was how close he had come to giving Joron exactly what he wanted. The presence in his mind was filling his head with pictures, tastes, sounds; warmer-than-Human skin against his, long, elegant fingers exploring his body with practiced sensuality, the feel of union completing his heart, his mind, his soul…

I hate you! he screamed at the Vulcan, ignoring the fact that Spock had had very little to do with it.

Don’t hate Tarvak, don’t hate Tarvak! cried to him in Joron’s voice.

Shut the fuck up or I fry you jus’ as quick, he told the Romulan.

He tried sitting down on the small bed, but was up again in seconds, unable to bear the trembling that threatened to overtake his limbs if he was still for too long.

I can’t go through wit’ this, he moaned silently. Li’l Mac gotta see that. She gotta pull us outta here.

Why is this so horrible! Joron demanded. Are you Humans so weak that you cannot recognize true strength and beauty when you see it?

Not not’ing strong nor beautiful ‘bout that fuckin’ Vulcan! Del returned, forgetting that he’d told the ghost to shut the fuck up.

Why? Because he was able to take from you that which you wanted? Doesn’t that only prove he is worthy to be called a Warrior?

Del scowled, shaking his head as if he could dislodge the disembodied voice. The alien reasoning made him feel confused, disoriented – and vulnerable.

Doesn’t that prove he is worthy of a Dei’lrn such as yourself?

I not a damned…

And if he were to accept you as Warrior as well, then this golden-haired female would belong to both of you, would she not?

The breath caught in Del’s lungs, pain and loss making it impossible to take in enough air.

Let me go to my Bonded, Joron pleaded. He will ease me, and that will, I promise you, ease you as well. Let us take all the sorrow and ugliness between you and the Vulcan, let us cleanse it and heal these frightful wounds…

“No…” Del moaned aloud, and even to his own ears, it sounded weak.

We are strong, and we have been purified through the trials of mortal and immortal life. Our Bond has been forged by the hands of the gods themselves, and it will not falter even in the face of adversity as great as yours…

I not want… the engineer tried again

I can see you are no stranger to the skill of males, Joron’s voice coaxed. My Bonded’s touch is both stronger and sweeter than any you have known… there was a pause, as if the Romulan was searching Del’s memory. …better even that this divine wind you think of now…

NO!!!

With a wrenching cry, Del closed the barrier between his mind and that of the Romulan persona. He was sweating, his stomach spasming, thunder screaming through his veins and into his head. He clutched at his temples, then fell to his knees before the bed, pounding his head into the mattress, over and over.