Till Morning Comes

K/S Fanfiction
Title:	Till Morning Comes
Author(s):	Susan K. James
Date(s):	1985
Length:
Genre:	slash
Fandom:	Star Trek: The Original Series
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Till Morning Comes is a Kirk/Spock story by Susan K. James.

It was originally published in Progressions.

Reactions and Reviews

Every now and then remnants of a story I've read in my past rise up and tempt me. Seldom do I remember the zine or the title, though, so a nagging memory is usually all there is. One such story that enters my subconscious from time to time begins with a single word: cut. I remember enough that a shiver runs up my spine, but I have no idea where the story is or what it's called. Yesterday while reading the pleasant 1985 anthology called Progressions, I turned a page to find a story called "Til Morning Comes". And there it was. That word. Cut. In no way is this a typical story of Kirk and Spock, or even TOS. There is in reality but one character, Kirk. There is little explanation as to how Kirk came to be a prisoner on an alien planet, no description of his captors or their intent. There is a blade, coming closer and closer to Kirk as he lays helpless, pinned to the ground. Reminiscent of Edgar Allen Poe's The Pit and the Pendulum, it swings relentlessly back and forth. Cut. Ever deeper it slices into the tender flesh and unresisting bone. Cut. If you want to hear no more, I understand. This is the chill feeling one has while reading the story, and yet some perverse need drives you to read more. The natives leave him, their unknown purpose finished. What follows is a grotesque and frighteningly realistic accounting of Kirk's suffering: the physical agony, the knowledge that he is severely injured and completely helpless, and the ever gnawing hope that someone will save him. He thinks of Spock, recalling him as friend, and mate, and silently asks that Spock come and hold him—hold him away from the reality of his injuries and the fear of what lies ahead.

Shall I tell you the end? Scavenger birds begin to hover in a nearby tree. The sun sets, rises and sets, rises again. Kirk, who now feels nothing from his waist down, drags himself laboriously off the ground with the help of a rough-barked tree, heedless of the blood he leaves behind as a grim reminder of his efforts. It is night. He wishes to stand one more time. To see the stars once more. He looks up at their beauty, but the weight of his useless body drags him in a crumpled heap back to the ground. The birds move silently to a lower branch. I'm sorry, friends, but this is the end. Despite the fact that I have read it before, I clawed past the next page of poetry, hoping against hope that there was more. There was not. The only reason I would recommend reading this is the sheer power it has over the reader. It could only be exquisitely well written, because there could be no other excuse for putting oneself through these torturous paragraphs more than once.

Mentally I write another ending, possibly a sequel, because my senses are raw and reeling, my heart aching for a respite, for resolution. Incredible.