The sound of strings came unexpectedly.

Very few people tended to make use of the Enterprise's forward observation lounge; it was a spare space, a curved room not very much wider than one of the main corridors, offering some seating and tables, but no other amenities beyond what someone could bring themselves.  As such, it was often perfect for Spock's purposes; when he wanted a quiet space outside of his own quarters in order to read, or even occasionally meditate, he would be able to reliably go there and make use of it.

The only other person who gravitated to that space consistently aside from him was Lieutenant Scott, who happened to be the source of the unexpected sound this particular time.

Given their habitual use of the lounge, something of a well-ordered dance had developed between them over the past three years and two months that they had served together, depending on who was there first and what they were doing.  While they didn't socialize, and while Spock occasionally found the high-strung engineer baffling, their respect of one another in regards to that shared space predisposed him to think well of the man; when it recently came time for him to weigh in as the ship's second officer on Lieutenant Scott's promotion to the Assistant Chief Engineer's position to replace Moves-With-Burning-Grace, who was being promoted to Chief on another vessel, that same respect was one of several factors that had him agreeing that the assignment was a sound one.

Music was a pursuit which Spock always felt worthy; normally, he would have nodded in greeting and acknowledgment that Scott had claimed the space first and left, but his curiosity got the better of him this time.  "I wasn't aware you played," he said, though he stayed back by the door so that he could leave if Scott took exception to his lingering.

"I don't."  Scott huffed out a laugh that didn't sound particularly mirthful, looking down at the acoustic guitar that Spock recognized as belonging to -- or formerly belonging to -- Yeoman Fiona Langley, who had transferred back to Earth for Command School only six weeks prior.  "I'm just pickin' at it, tryin' to work out the basics.  Enough to see if I can pull a melody outta this sheet music, anyway."

Spock's exceptional hearing afforded him an occasionally undesired look into the lives of his fellow crewmates via the channels of gossip; it had been rumored for quite some time that Langley and Scott were in an illicit relationship -- very illicit, given it could have ended both of their careers if they had been caught -- and the presence of the guitar suggested that there might have been truth to the whispers.

Given his own intense desire for privacy, however, Spock didn't feel it was proof enough; even if it had been, he would have felt it wasn't his right to judge.  Regulations forbade relationships between officers and enlisted for good reasons, and indeed even between officers in the same division provided there was any power imbalance, but reality was rarely so cut and dry.

Even for him.

He thought of T'Pris, and felt the familiar wash of loss, tamed somewhat for time but nonetheless still present.

"May I?" he asked, centering back in the present, gesturing towards the sheet music that Scott had propped up on one of the tables, alongside a PADD that was displaying a diagram of the guitar's fretboard.

Scott reached out and pushed the stand and sheet music across the table, raising his eyebrows. "Aye, by all means."

Spock crossed the space in only a few strides; the music on the stand was a physical copy of someone's handwritten score.  He picked it up and scanned over it, though that offered little insight.  "I don't recognize it," he said, even though he could -- and did -- imagine how he would play the melody line on his own lute. "Why are you attempting to play it?"

Scott went to answer, then stopped himself for a long moment, looking off with eyebrows drawn, hand splayed over the strings of the guitar; when he did speak, it was in a manner that could only be called considered: "I'm not sure how to answer that."

It wasn't the reply Spock was expecting; he looked down at the sheet music again as if perhaps some insight could be found there, but the score remained opaque.  It wasn't very complicated, the tune starting with a basic four-note melody and then a more drawn set of chords as background, before adding a percussion line.  The rhythm reminded him somewhat of a heartbeat.  Even so, it wasn't anything spectacular just on first impression.

Music was never really about the components, though; it was about the sum of its parts.  "I would be interested in hearing any answer," Spock said, by way of an opening, looking back up at the engineer and offering the music back over.

Scott seemed confused by that, but he took the sheet music back and set it on the table, then apparently came to a decision and gestured to the other chair, waiting until Spock was seated to say, "I'm not sure how much logic ye'll find in any answer I can dredge up for ye, Mister Spock."

The words didn't come across as pointed, more a genuine warning, so it was easy to answer, "I'm not looking for a logical answer, Mister Scott."

"No?"  That earned Spock a little smile, then Scott blew a breath out before looking at the music and the PADD again.  "All right.  So, most o' what I listen to is old.  Pre-digitization, since the Digital Disaster wiped out so much and ye've got what, a roughly seventy year gap in Earth's music history?  Minus some outliers, anyway."

Spock was nodding along before he realized he was; it wasn't just music which was lost, but whole generations of human knowledge, when Earth's third world war started.  Vulcan observers had saved what they could, but even they could only preserve so much.

That loss -- of culture, knowledge, lives -- had traumatized humankind in ways that were still evident even two centuries later, both great and small.

"Right," Scott said, to Spock's nodding. "And by the time we start havin' consistent music saved again, it's not the same as it was before the war.  Ye've got some good bands -- in fact, my favorite band comes right outta the post-atomic horror -- but it's not too long after before it all-- softens, I guess ye could say."

"Softens?  In what manner?" Spock asked, more fascinated to find out the answer than he expected to be.

"I think," Scott answered, carefully, "that people stopped havin' so many things to be angry over.  And then so did their -- our -- music."

Spock didn't fail to note that Scott had qualified the bands before as good; that would imply that the loss of anger in the music made the ones following less so in his opinion.  "Do you feel it lacks for being-- softer, as you say?"

"I don't know if I'd say it lacks, just-- that it says less, maybe.  Mind, that's takin' into account personal taste."

"Such as the difference between the protest music of the 1960s versus the pop genre of the 1990s?" Spock asked, and was privately gratified when Scott looked at him wide-eyed in surprise and then grinned broadly, clearly caught off guard.

"Aye," he said, still smiling. "The difference between-- I dunno, Phil Ochs or Sinead O'Connor or Rage Against the Machine, and-- and--"  Scott gestured there. "I don't have any names o’ the pop stuff, really, I generally can't stand listenin' to that type o' nonsense, else I'd be listenin' to the modern charts.  Though I suppose The Killers straddle the line some."  Then he shook his head and added, “That’s not to say that it all has to have somethin’ to say; I mean, sometimes ye just want a good beat to nod along to or sing with.  But-- most o’ what I go back to over and over does have somethin’ it’s at least tryin’ to say.�

"Indeed," Spock agreed, though he did find some modern music, despite being less 'angry', enjoyable from a peripheral standpoint.  However, he thought he understood what Scott meant.  "Much of what humanity was angry about before, and leading into the Third World War, was scarcity, inequality and injustice.  Once Earth entered the galactic stage and resource allocation was decoupled from arbitrary and unjust measures, there was less cause for anger."

"Aye."  Scott lifted the strap of the guitar over his head and set the instrument aside before picking up the sheet music and looking down at it thoughtfully.  "Thing is-- there aren't a whole lot o' Scottish bands that survived.  Or, I wouldn't necessarily say that, but-- the ones that did were incidentally from Scotland, but the music was universal.  Simple Minds, for example; ye wouldna know they're Scottish just listenin' to 'em, though I do like their stuff.  The Proclaimers, at least ye'll hear some o' the nationality there, but--"

It was probably the most Spock had ever heard Scott speak on any subject that wasn't engineering; he cocked his head and asked, "But--?"

"But I don't--" Scott started, then stopped, before shaking his head in apparent frustration. "I'm not sure how to say it, even."

Rather than offer another prompt, Spock waited, watching as the engineer thought about it; the conversation was enjoyable, though, even for the pauses.

"I don't know how to feel about where I'm from," Scott finally said, not looking up from the music in hand, speaking with clear care.  He gestured with the sheet music. "I'm-- lookin', I guess, for voices I recognize.  But so little survived that I finally hit on the idea o' maybe, instead o' tryin' to find recordings, if I could see if any of it was written down instead.  And a friend o' mine in Edinburgh found this in the Writer's Museum.  Comes from the early twenty-first century, before Scotland voted to break free o' Great Britain.  The Transitional Period."  He paused for a long beat, then said, “I don’t know.  I suppose I’m wonderin’ if I’m more or less incidentally Scottish myself.�

The explanation immediately resonated.  

I don't know how to feel about where I'm from.

After a long moment while he absorbed that, Spock said quietly, "I understand."

That had Scott looking over at him, eyebrows drawn up. "Aye?"

Spock nodded slowly; he didn't feel any pressure to explain, but he did ask, "Do you have the lyrics?"

"I do.  But-- I wanted to work out the music so I could hear it how it's supposed to sound." Scott waved one-handedly. "I mean-- a song's not just one part or the other."

It was admirable, someone wanting to learn to play an instrument just to give music to words and a voice to people long dead; Spock hummed an agreement to that sentiment, then offered, “If you would be willing to scan me a copy of the sheet music, I would be very interested in helping you with this project.�

Scott huffed another laugh, this time with more notable humor. “Callin’ it a project is probably a bit lofty, but if ye want I can.�

“Yes.  Please.�  Spock stood up then, figuring to forfeit the space. “In the meantime, I’ll leave you to your practice.�

“No, I’m pretty much done,� Scott said, standing up and picking up his PADD and the sheet music, and then getting the strap of the guitar back over his shoulder. “It’s all yers.  Thanks, though.�

“You’re welcome,� Spock answered, stepping aside; even after Scott had gone, though, he stood considering the music and then turned to leave himself.

A few hours with his lute sounded like time well-spent.

 

 

 

There were several people aboard the Enterprise who were musically inclined; Spock made it a point to know every one of them, if only so that he might have people to play alongside of.  Of the twenty-one other instrumental musicians aboard, he had managed to arrange duets or ensembles with sixteen so far.  The rest were either too out of practice or disinclined to play around others, though he left the invitation open nonetheless.

Therefore, it was actually quite easy to begin to build an accompanying track for Lieutenant Scott's discovered sheet music; after practicing the initial melody on his lute, Spock turned to the others who could contribute, eliciting their opinions and then their help.

It was easy, though not exactly quick; aside from the necessities of duty, there needed to be time set aside to practice both individually and as an ensemble in order to turn handwritten sheet music from centuries before into something that could be brought back to life.

Spock was very curious about what the lyrics might be; he hadn’t asked for a copy of those and Scott hadn't offered one, but he was not without anticipation at the possibility he would find out what they said.

In the interim, shipboard life continued apace; Scott was promoted in position, if not yet in rank, and acquitted himself well as Chief Barry's new right hand, as well as one of the ship's junior command staff.  He and Spock continued to essentially 'trade custody' of the lounge, though given their current adjacent duty shifts, they didn't end up talking at any length.

It was, all told, a couple of months before Spock had finished the project -- lofty or not though the term may be -- and while he supposed he could have waited to deliver it, his interest in the reaction was enough to have him chiming Scott’s door at half past midnight.

The engineer answered quickly; he was dressed for bed, but still seemed wide awake as he looked up at Spock in confusion. “Aye?  What can I do for ye, Mister Spock?�

Spock held up the datatape that the music had been compiled and edited on. “The project is finished; I wanted to bring it to you and see if it was acceptable.�

“The--� Scott blinked, then looked at the tape, eyes going wide and realization dawning on his face. “ Oh.  I-- d’ye want to come in?  I, uh--� he said, turning back and looking around for a moment before going to pick his boots up from the middle of the floor and set them aside.

It seemed to be permission to enter; Spock took it, stepping in and looking around once the door slid closed behind him. The configuration of the rooms was essentially the same as his own quarters; Scott kept his similarly neat, as well, absent his boots.  Spock looked around, taking in the space and the decorations, before alighting on a set of bagpipes hung on the wall.  “Do you play those pipes?� he asked, holding the tape out again.

Scott took the tape and plugged it into the tricorder he set on his table, shaking his head as he did. “My granda did, he was said to be a fine piper; I inherited them, but never really thought o’ playin’ ‘em myself.�

“Should you ever desire to learn, I would be gratified to arrange a duet with you,� Spock offered, looking back at the man as he pulled on an outdated headset that was apparently bridged to the tricorder.  “And should you have any critiques or suggestions about that arrangement,� he said, gesturing to the tape in the tricorder, “please feel free to share them.�

It became clear very quickly, however, that no such critique would be coming.

Spock couldn’t listen along, given the headset, but he thought perhaps he could read the score on Scott’s face, instead; the progression of emotion there.  At first, the man’s expression was a thoughtful and intent interest, but it wasn’t long before he was resting on his elbows, one hand over his mouth, eyebrows pinched.  And from there, he closed his eyes, occasionally turning his head a little, as if somehow he could lean into the music physically.

By the time nearly six minutes had passed, and the song had ended, Scott had his head in both hands; it was another minute past that before he took off his headset and then rested it on the table, breathing out in a shaky manner.  “It’s, uh-- it’s beautiful.�  He shook his head. “Perfect.�

“I would not venture perfect,� Spock said, hands clasped behind his back; when Scott looked up at him incredulously, he added, “It still needs a voice.�

Scott nodded back, after a moment. "It does, doesn't it?" he asked, reaching out to touch the top of the tape lightly.

"And I will admit to being invested in hearing it, in its final form," Spock went on, though it wasn’t with any intention of making the music somehow transactional. "If you wished to share it."

“That’s-- more than a fair thing to ask, I think.�  Scott nodded, seemingly to himself; when he looked back up at Spock again, he only said, “Thank you.�

There was no other word for the tone of that offered gratitude but earnestness , and Spock nodded back, returning it in kind. “You’re welcome.�

 

 

 

The song came back to him in more-than-complete form two weeks later.

Folded inside of the protective sleeve for the datatape was a single sheet of paper; down one side, the lyrics to the song Spock had helped arrange the music for stood in the handwriting of the person who had originally put them there--

The city sleeps but we're awake,
We spirit home before the break
Of dawn upon the streets
In which we live and love and breathe,
And half the high-rises have turned to dust,
The Fairfields now are scrap and rust,
The sirens sing, the west wind howls,
What once was here was holy ground,
Not now

And I confess that I've lately been a mess,
So I wonder where you'll sleep tonight,
And decide it would be best,
To stay out late and not come home,
To wander Kelvingrove alone,
I'm young enough to still believe
Some faded glory might just shelter me.

--and down the other side, Scott had included his own handwritten notes on the margins.

Spock found the penmanship of a man who still wrote on blueprints oddly pleasing to the eye, neat and straight-forward, and the notes themselves were both context and explanation for the song itself.  He read those with interest, even as he put the tape in to play it back.

The lyrics were written by a man named Nick McManus for the band he was the lead singer of, There Will Be Fireworks.  Apparently this song, called Here Is Where, was the eighth out of twelve on an album titled The Dark, Dark Bright, but I haven’t been able to find anything more than the names of the other songs that had originally been on it, let alone the whole album intact.

Still, the engineer wrote, the band and this specific song both are out of Glasgow and seem to speak to a specific time in that city’s history, which had been hit brutally hard by deindustrialisation.

Scott had an excellent singing voice; even though the song itself didn’t call for much vocal range, having a rhythm almost more akin to spoken word, every note was precisely in tune with the music Spock had compiled.  Interestingly enough, Scott sang with more weight to his accent than he normally spoke with; perhaps, Spock thought, because the subject of the song seemed to demand it.

The Fairfields mentioned refer to the Fairfield Shipbuilding and Engineering Company, which was located on the River Clyde.  It was a major shipbuilder for both the first and second world wars, as well as for the passenger service, but also fell victim to the deindustrialisation that laid the rest of the city low, passing through a number of hands both nationalised and not.  And after the third world war, no shipbuilding remained in Glasgow.

Kelvingrove is the name of both a neighborhood and a park in the city even today.  I’m not sure which is being referred to here, but they border one another.  I’ve never been there, but I think I might go next time we’re back in light of Sol.

The song itself was-- layered.  Complicated, both in word and emotion.  It appeared to be an homage to the city of Glasgow, but also a cry out for the same, and then beyond that, spoke to how the lyricist seemed to feel that dichotomy between belonging to a place and yet lamenting it.

And here is where my whole world turns,
And here is where my heart returns,
And here is where I've sworn and cursed,
And here is where I kissed you first
In amber light shot through with rain,
I swear I don't intend to waste a syllable,
Each word is blessed,
The truth must blaze through every single breath

Unbending, stark,
A lit steeple against unending dark,
And someone sprayed this on the wall:
"I love it here"
I don't at all.

Needless to say, that resonated with Spock, who both loved the soft dawn light upon ShiKahr and who felt its sharp, unforgiving edges just the same; who could see its beauty, yet also the negative spaces with only memory to trace the outlines of what was.

Do you live for the love you've found?
Some sad slow song to lay you down,
And still your weary worried heart,
Throw light upon your darkest dark,
That unsung psalm burst into flame,
That wild black night that calls your name,
O river, take my bloodied bones,
The toll can have my heart to hold.

Do you live for the loves you've lost?
Do they linger in your thoughts?
And ever in your fitful sleeps
(In your wild and dark imaginings)
Do you ever really dream of me?
And if you did, what would that mean?
O river, take my bloodied bones,
The toll can have my heart to hold

Unbending, stark,
A lit steeple against unending dark,
O river, take my bloodied bones,
The toll can have my heart to hold.

Beyond those notations, there was only two more things that Scott had written at the bottom of the paper, to go with the words he’d given a heartfelt voice back to:

Anyway, I put in an order for some future mail call for a practice chanter.  No promises on my ability to learn how to play those pipes I have hanging, but if I do, then you’ll have your duet.

Then Scott had added, seemingly almost as an afterthought, something which Spock took as being a quiet piece of rare, offered vulnerability:

I think my favorite part of that song is, “I’m young enough to still believe some faded glory might just shelter me.�

Not so coincidentally, that same line had also been Spock’s favorite, not only for the words themselves, evocative in so many ways, but for the achingly honest way that Scott had sang them.

Now, both the words and the singer would be forever entwined in Spock’s memory.

He found that this realization pleased him.