Author's Note: This is sort of a sequel to "The Unraveling of Mr Spock," simply because he's still unraveling. You by no means need to read the aforementioned fic to get this one, but please do so anyway! And review it, too. This fic is kind of sad, as I was listening to some of the saddest songs I have to get myself into the mood. Please let me know what you think. Cheers!

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The Edge of Logic and Emotion

What a difference a few feet can make. If only he had placed his mother behind him, to protect her, she would not have fallen. If only he had reached out to her and brought her to his side. The action would have been a simple one, so easy to do, and yet...he stood frozen and watched as his mother fell to her death. He keeps seeing the empty receiving pad next to him every time he closes his eyes. It would only have taken a second, only taken one firm jerk to pull her away from the edge.

He sits in his quarters, cross-legged, and stares at the flame in front of him. His world is gone, his mother dead, but this terribly long day is finally at a close. This is both a good and a bad thing, he supposes. Good because tomorrow he will resume his place as Science Officer on the bridge of the Enterprise and a modicum of normality will follow until they reach Earth a few weeks later. It is bad because now he has almost two weeks to go over the events of this day in his mind and, also, because once the Enterprise and her crew reach Earth, he and his father will be attending the funeral for his mother. The arrangements have already been made and they will meet up with the Human side of their family upon their return.

It angers him to realize that there would have been no one on Vulcan who would have mourned his mother's death. It also angers him that he was not kinder, or more tender toward his mother while she was alive. She was Human, after all, and he is half Human. It would not have meant the end of all his Vulcan training to utter those three tiny words to her. He had that ability in him, to please her with a kind word or comforting gesture, but he chose to forsake that part of himself. And now she is gone and he will never again be able to look into her warm brown eyes and see her love for him reflected back. He will never again hear her laughter, or feel the comforting warmth of her hand on his cheek. She is gone and he is partially to blame.

It is illogical, he knows, to let himself feel like this. It is illogical to dwell on the notion that, while Nero pulled the trigger, he is responsible for the death of his mother, of his planet. He does not know why he thinks this way, but he does. He sits in front of the flickering candle. The flame is a reminder of what he has lost, and he lets himself feel that loss. He told his father he feels a rage which he cannot control. His father tells him not to try to control it, as his mother would have said. If only she was here. She could help him through this feeling of powerlessness; this feeling that he has failed as miserably as he ever could. The rage bubbles to the surface and he is not sure he knows how to fight it down or even if he wants to fight it down. He is alone, at least. Perhaps if he lets this rage take hold of him, lets it consume him even for a moment, he will feel better.

He stands up suddenly and grabs the first thing his hand falls upon. He hurls the object at the opposite wall and is rewarded with a satisfying crash as the plate he has just thrown shatters into a million little pieces. He stands there, staring at the little bits of porcelain, his chest heaving. A Vulcan artifact, as it would have been known, is now gone. Obliterated, just like his planet. Despite this realization his fingers itch to pick up something else, but the only object at hand is a photo of himself and his mother taken when he was a child. Suddenly his face crumbles and his knees give out. He sits down hard on the floor and takes the photo into his hands. His mother is smiling in the photo. She always smiled when her picture was being taken. He gently runs the tips of his fingers over her face, the glass of the photo frame cool and flawless under his touch. He only wishes he could have told her how proud he was to be her son. He thinks she knew, even without him saying as much. He has to believe it is true, or he will never heal. He feels himself balancing precariously on the edge between logic and emotion. One side is salvation, the other oblivion, but which side is which?

Spock takes a deep breath and steps off the edge.

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