Magstopia

The Terrible Burden of Grace (HP)

2009-11-05T21:00:46Z

TITLE: The Terrible Burden of Grace
RATING: R
SUMMARY: After receiving devastating news about his son, Harry faces his greatest challenge as a father.
NOTES: This is an older fic, written even before HBP came out. I could have revised it to make it more epilogue-compliant, but I like it as is. Father Myghal remains one of my favorite OCs; I'm sorry I never got around to writing his story.

DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter universe and everything it encompasses. This is a work of fan fiction, and thus derives no profit or material benefit therefrom.

Harry awoke to the familiar sound of ancient pipes groaning in protest as someone turned on the shower in the lavatory adjacent to his bedroom. Judging from the still-warm depression next to him, Ginny was in there; if he moved quickly, he could steal a few moments of precious intimacy before the chaos of their daily lives took control. With that thought in mind to tempt him out of the cozy sanctum of his bed he threw back the covers, sucking in his breath when the blast of crisp late-spring air hit his bare skin, and crossed the room in four long strides.

Ginny had just started to shampoo her hair when he climbed into the bath behind her. As was his custom, he stepped closer and lifted his hands to her head, massaging the soap into her scalp. Ginny said nothing, instead tilting her head up and leaning back against him. Harry loved these moments of quiet closeness with her; what with the demands of his job and the seemingly endless parade of children (and adult Weasleys) trooping through their home, times like these were all he and Ginny had the time and energy to be together as man and wife.

He guided her under the jet of warm water, closing his eyes as it cascaded over his face. His hand trailed down Ginny's arm to her waist and down even further, slipping gently between her legs.

A loud banging on the door startled him so badly he almost lost his footing and fell. Ginny caught him just in time.

"Mum! Dad!" came the muffled voice of their son Owain. "An owl's come!"

Harry groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. Ginny just shook her head and stepped back under the shower spray to rinse the shampoo from her hair. "You could've waited until we came down to breakfast," Harry called.

"But it's from Hogwarts," Owain said. Harry detected a note of urgency in his voice and exchanged a look with Ginny. "And it's in a blue envelope."

It took them only minutes to dry, dress and fly downstairs, nearly tripping over each other in the process. A blue envelope from Hogwarts meant a medical emergency involving one of their children. They'd got two before, the first when Jim, their eldest son, had tried to climb the Whomping Willow on a dare, and the second when a gang of Slytherin bullies had thrown little Alfred into the lake and he'd been nearly drowned by rapacious grindylows. Merlin only knew what new dangers their children had got into now.

Ginny snatched the envelope from Owain without bothering to say good morning to him or the two younger children who stared in wide-eyed silence from the kitchen table. Her face paled as she studied the envelope, then she thrust it at Harry with shaking hands. "You open it," she said. "I'm afraid to."

Harry tore open the envelope and pulled out the letter, unfolding it to reveal Professor McGonagall's neat cursive script. His gaze scanned over the letter's contents as quickly as his brain could absorb the information provided.

Each word drove a dagger through his heart. By the time he reached the end he felt as though all his blood had frozen in place. Dizzy, he dropped into the nearest chair, heedless of the letter as it slipped from his fingers and fluttered to the floor.

"Sweet Merlin," Ginny gasped. Harry looked up to see tears brimming in her eyes. "What is it? Harry, what's happened?"

His voice husky, he said, "Owain, take Dickie and Lucy upstairs, please."

The boy knew better than to question him. "Okay, Dad." He ushered the younger children out of the kitchen in silence.

Harry waited until he knew they were out of earshot, then held out his arms to Ginny. "It's Jim," he croaked, barely able to contain the maelstrom of emotions boiling within him. "He's been attacked by a werewolf."

"What?" Ginny bent down to retrieve the letter from the floor. "'Dear Mr. and Mrs. Potter, Do not be alarmed but your son, James, has sustained several serious injuries, including a --'" Her hand flew up to her mouth. "Oh, Harry," she wailed. "He's been bitten. They found bite marks that penetrated his skin and-and... drew blood."

Harry looked up at her through eyes blurred with unshed tears. "McGonagall wants us to come immediately."

She swiped away her own tears. "I'll Floo Mum at once and see if she can mind the children."

"Good idea. No point in alarming them until we know how seriously he's been hurt." He struggled to concentrate on the immediate danger, and not to think about the long-term implications of what had happened. There'd be time enough to think about that later.

Ginny, however, was -- not surprisingly -- already thinking ahead. "We should also get in touch with Hermione once we know more. We'll be needing her expertise."

"We can worry about that later," Harry said, rising. "For now let's just focus on helping Jim."

She gave him an odd look. "What do you think I'm doing?"

He recognized the tone in her voice only too well. "Now isn't the time," he said quietly. "Just see how soon your mum can get here and get ready to Apparate to Hogsmeade. If she can manage it, I'd like to leave within the hour."

* * * * *

Just over an hour later Harry and Ginny Apparated on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, as close as they could get to Hogwarts without setting off its protective wards. Hand in hand they raced up the hill and past the gates as fast as Ginny's shorter legs allowed them to go. Harry was grateful Ginny had had the foresight not to tell her mother exactly what had happened to Jim, only that he'd been injured. As the mother of six wizards herself -- including the infamous twins -- Molly Weasley understood only too well the dangerous situations boys often found themselves in, and simply wished the best for her grandson as she hustled Harry and Ginny out of the house.

They entered the school and were met in the entrance hall by Professor McGonagall and Professor Longbottom. Poor Neville looked as though he'd seen a ghost, Harry thought grimly as McGonagall swept toward them. Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his old classmate, though he didn't recall Neville having quite so much grey in his beard.

"Mr. Potter, Mrs. Potter, thank you for coming so quickly," McGonagall was saying. Her face looked pinched, as though she, too, had seen a ghost.

"Thank you, Minerva, for letting us know about Jim's injury," Ginny said. Harry and Neville fell into step behind the two women as they led the way to the infirmary. "Is there anything more you can tell us about what happened?"

"Not much, I'm afraid," McGonagall said. "He was still unconscious when he was brought in, and I haven't had the chance to look in on him this morning. From what Hortense Longbottom told me --"

"Hortense Longbottom?" Harry interrupted. He stopped and looked at Neville. "Not your little girl?"

"She's hardly little anymore, Harry," Ginny said, turning around. "She's Jim's age." She reached a hand out to Neville. "Merlin's beard, she wasn't with him when this happened?"

Neville nodded, though it seemed doing so required an extraordinary amount of effort. "They were in the Forbidden Forest together. As I understand it, Jim distracted the werewolf long enough for Hortense to climb a tree to safety. After the attack, she climbed back down and managed to get your son to the infirmary."

"She wasn't hurt, was she?"

"A few scrapes and bruises and she's terribly shaken up, but she --" He swallowed and looked at Harry. "Thanks to Jim's quick thinking, she wasn't bitten."

"Mr. and Mrs. Potter, Professor Longbottom, if you would please?" McGonagall said, motioning for them to resume walking.

Harry hung back for a moment and stared at their retreating backs. His world had been turned violently upside down that morning, and with each passing hour he felt more and more off-balance. He despised nothing more than the loss of control, yet here he was, completely adrift and safe harbor slipping further beyond his reach.

"Harry? You coming?"

Harry blinked rapidly to clear the fog of confusion from his eyes and saw Neville looking at him anxiously. Ginny and McGonagall had already disappeared around the corner.

"Are you okay, Harry? Can I get you a Calming Draught? My office isn't far."

Harry tried his best to smile. "Thanks, mate, but I'm fine. It's been a long day, and it isn't even mid-morning yet." He noticed the circles under Neville's eyes. "I reckon you were up all night."

"Most of it, yes."

"Tell me, what were Hortense and Jim doing in the Forbidden Forest anyway?"

Neville gave him an odd look. "You're joking, right?"

"No. Why would I be joking?"

"You don't know?"

"Know what?" Harry asked, his exasperation mounting. "What am I supposed to know?"

The beard hid most, but not all, of Neville's flush. "Well, it's just that they... er... they've fancied each other for some time now. I thought you knew that."

Harry backed away from Neville until he ran up against the wall. A good thing he did, too, because he was desperately in need of something solid to hold him up. "Jim and-and Hortense?"

"Harry, are you sure you're okay?" Neville peered at him, his brow furrowed in concentration. "You look positively green."

Harry leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. "No, Neville, I'm not okay," he said with a sigh. "Last night my seventeen-year-old son was attacked by a werewolf, and this morning I find out he's got a girlfriend." He sighed again and shook his head. "I don't think I can take any more nasty surprises."

He felt Neville's gentle tug at his arm and stepped reluctantly away from the wall. "C'mon, Harry," Neville said soothingly. "Let's get you to the infirmary. I know Jim's anxious to see you, and Madame Pomfrey keeps a supply of Calming Draught on hand."

Harry allowed Neville to lead him through the corridors to the infirmary as he was far too numb at this point to put up much resistance. For the first time in many, many years he found himself thinking about Remus Lupin. In the six years he'd known Lupin, Harry had never known him to fancy anyone, though there had been speculation amongst his friends of a mutual attraction between Lupin and Tonks; while Ron hadn't cared one way or the other, Ginny and Hermione had been particularly enchanted with the idea.

But nothing had come of it. Had Lupin ever felt optimistic enough to develop feelings for someone, or had he resisted the temptation his entire life, fearful of what he might do in an unguarded moment? Would Jim, in love for what Harry assumed was the first time in his life, now feel obliged to break things off with Hortense Longbottom and spend the rest of his life -- however long that might turn out to be -- a lonely bachelor? What other challenges and sacrifices lay ahead for his son that Harry, never once thinking he'd someday have a werewolf in his own family, had never thought to ask Lupin about?

Harry and Neville ascended a flight of stairs and rounded one last corner, where they spotted a tall girl with dark brown hair pulled back into a tight bun and glasses perched on the end of her freckled nose. "Dad!" she cried as soon as she saw them, then ran forward into Harry's arms. "Oh, Dad, I'm so glad you're here!"

Harry embraced his eldest child tightly, then released her and took a step back to look at her. He didn't miss the deep lines around her mouth, or the Head Girl badge hanging askew beneath her Ravenclaw crest. She was usually the epitome of prim neatness. "Meg, what're you doing here? Shouldn't you be in lessons by now?"

"I've been with Jim," she said, reaching up to brush back a stray hair. "Hortense came and got me as soon as Madame Pomfrey released her from the infirmary."

"Do your brothers know what's happened to Jim yet?"

Meg shook her head. "Professor McGonagall thought it would be best to wait until you and Mum got here and we could get a better idea of Jim's condition."

"Why don't we go inside," Neville said. Harry saw he'd moved away to stand by the doors to the infirmary. "I reckon you have loads of questions for Madame Pomfrey." He opened the doors and ushered Harry and Meg inside.

Jim lay on a bed at the far end of the infirmary, surrounded by Madame Pomfrey, Professor McGonagall, Ginny, and a round-faced girl with long blonde hair Harry presumed must be Hortense Longbottom. Ginny looked up when she heard them come in and hurried over.

"Oh, thank Merlin you found them!" she said to Meg, embracing the girl. Over Meg's shoulder she scowled at Harry and Neville. "Where'd you two wander off to?"

"We didn't wander off," Harry protested petulantly. "We just stopped to chat for a bit."

"Stopped for a chat? After what your son's just been through? This is hardly the time to be catching up on old times, Harry."

"It's my fault, Ginny," Neville said, stepping in before Harry could let his frayed nerves get the best of him. "Harry didn't know about Hortense and Jim. It took him by surprise."

"Hmph," Ginny said, her hands planted on her hips. "I don't see how he couldn't have known. Hortense is just about all Jim talks about in his letters home these days." She took Harry by the hand. "Come on then, he's waiting for you. He's been asking for you ever since we got here."

Harry cautiously followed Ginny over to where Jim lay. He was afraid of what he might see. He’d once witnessed Lupin transform and the sight had been enough to give Harry nightmares for weeks; the thought of it happening to Jim left him feeling completely unprepared. He was even more unprepared, however, for the bland reality that awaited him.

The gashes on his son's face, upper chest and arms stood out starkly against the pallor of his skin, but otherwise he looked as though he had a mild case of the flu. "I-I --" Harry began.

"Hey, Dad," Jim said, giving him a weak grin. "Guess I've made a cock up of things, haven't I?"

"I don't understand." Harry looked at Madame Pomfrey in confusion. "I thought... the letter said he'd been bitten."

"He was bitten, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said. "On his leg."

"Want to see?" Jim asked, raising the sheet a little bit to reveal his heavily bandaged leg. "It's wicked cool." A soft gasp from the end of the bed stilled his hand. "Sorry," he said, blushing.

Harry turned to look at Hortense Longbottom. Except for the shape of her face, she was her mother's spitting image. He couldn't blame Jim for falling for her; once he'd got past her eccentricity, he'd briefly fancied Luna Lovegood himself. "I understand you brought Jim in last night?"

"Yes, sir," she said. "From the Forbidden Forest."

"What were the two of you doing there after dark?" Harry asked. "Surely you knew it was dangerous."

"I'd like to know that myself," McGonagall said tartly.

"It's my fault," Jim said. Harry didn't miss the way he reached out a hand to Hortense, or that she took it. "There's this old car that someone abandoned there years ago, and we went to check it out."
Harry and Ginny exchanged a look. "An old car?" he said. Jim nodded. "A blue Ford?"

Jim tried to push himself into a sitting position. "Yeah. D'you know it?"

"Yeah, I know it. It belonged to your grandfather," Harry said with a short laugh. "Your mother and I used to --" He raised his eyebrows as he realized what must have been taking place last night. "Don't tell me you were --"

"No, Dad!" Jim jerked his head in Neville's direction. "It was nothing like that!"

"Then what was it like?" Ginny asked, her arms crossed over her chest. "D'you think your dad and I are stupid?"

"Mum, please," Jim said through clenched teeth. "Not now?"

"We just went to look at the stars and snog for a bit," Hortense said. "Jim's a nice kisser."

Neville erupted into a fit of coughing. Ginny and Meg both had their hands up against their mouths, the former to stifle a laugh, the latter to cover her shock. Jim looked as though he wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

"Thank you, Miss Longbottom, that will be all," McGonagall said with a sniff. "Why don't you return to your dormitory. You've had quite a night."

"You should go too, Meg," Ginny said. "Find your brothers and have them all gather in one place. I'm not keen on having to tell this story any more often than necessary."

"They can use my office," McGonagall said. "The password is 'Macbeth'."

Harry watched his daughter and Hortense go. It hadn't hit him until Neville told him about Jim and Hortense that his children were growing up right under his nose. Meg, in her final year at Hogwarts, had her heart set on an internship at Gringotts where she would work under the supervision of her uncle Bill. Of her seven younger siblings, only three remained at home, and Owain would begin at Hogwarts in September. How long, Harry wondered, before he became a grandfather?

"Right," he said, shaking himself out of his reverie and turning back to his son, "I want to know exactly what happened last night."

* * * * *

The sun was well past its zenith when Harry and Ginny were finally able to Apparate home. Ginny, her face pale, remained uncharacteristically silent as she took his hand and they walked up the path to their house. Harry felt as though the life had been drained out of him. He thought his brain might explode from all the information that had been packed into it in such a short time. Nothing had been more difficult to bear, however, than the sight of his son lying in that hospital bed listening to everything Madame Pomfrey and Neville had to say about what lay ahead for him, asking thoughtful questions when appropriate, his expression never once showing any sign of real fear or trepidation.

Harry wished he could say the same for himself. He was terrified, and listening to the resident experts go on at length about transformations, blood fever, the side effects of Wolfsbane and so on had only made matters worse. He wouldn't be surprised if his fear were noticeable from five miles away.

"We should tell Mum before she leaves," Ginny said, breaking the silence. "We can tell her and the children at the same time. She'll want to know what happened anyway, and there's no point in delaying the inevitable."

"S'pose so," Harry said. He would let Ginny tell her mother and the younger children, just as he'd let her tell Ned, Guy, and Alfred. He wasn't ready to admit out loud what had happened to his son. The longer he put it off, the longer he could forestall accepting its brutal reality. Taking a deep breath, Harry followed Ginny up the front steps.

They opened the door to find their home in a state of barely controlled chaos. The children were nowhere in sight, but Mrs. Weasley, Ron, and Hermione were in the throes of a blazing row.

"Bloody hell," Harry muttered. The squeeze from Ginny's hand assured him she was in complete agreement. "What the hell is going on here?" he demanded.

"Harry! Ginny!" cried Hermione, rushing over to embrace them each in turn. "Is it true about Jim?"

"Is-is what true?" Harry asked, confused.

"Is it true Jim was bitten by a werewolf last night?"

"Er... er --" Desperate, Harry looked to Ginny for support, an explanation, anything, but she seemed as lost as he. "How d'you know?" he finally blurted.

Mrs. Weasley, who'd been gaping at them in ill-concealed horror, collapsed into a nearby easy chair. "Merlin preserve us," she wailed. "That poor boy!"

Harry was so utterly confused he barely noticed Ron's hand on his shoulder. "Sorry to hear the bad news, mate," he said softly. "You know where to find me if you need me."

"I don't understand," Harry said, looking at the three of them. "How did you find out?"

"It's policy, Harry," Hermione explained. She crossed to the table where a leather briefcase stood upright on one of the chairs and rummaged around in it. "Whenever someone is infected by a werewolf bite, the attending Healer is required to contact my office. The owl was waiting for me when I came in to work this morning."

Harry's knees were trembling so badly he barely made it to a chair. "You-Hogwarts sent you an owl?" He reached out and grabbed Ginny's hand, begging her to anchor him, to keep him from being washed out to sea.

Hermione gave him a smile that was probably meant to be reassuring. "Of course," she said. "As I told you, it's policy. It's what the Department for Creatures' Rights is there for, to provide an advocate for all magical creatures and ensure their rights aren't trampled on by the ill-informed." Her hand emerged from the briefcase with a sheaf of papers. "I've brought all the available literature on werewolves, as well as brochures on support groups, resource centers, that sort of thing. You're in luck: there's a support group in Salisbury. I did some checking, and there are already three werewolves living in Wiltshire. None so young as Jim, but he's such an outgoing lad I can't see him having any trouble making friends." She waved the papers at Harry, urging him to take them. He just stared at her blankly.

"There's also a lunar calendar, so he'll know when the next full moon is coming up. You'll need to fill out some forms to make sure he's properly registered," she said. When Harry showed no inclination to take them, she laid the papers on the end of the table. "The sooner you complete the paperwork and get Jim registered, the sooner my office can start working on his behalf, making sure he has a safe place to undergo transformation, providing him with medical treatment if necessary, a solicitor in case he kills or infects someone, a list of apothecaries who stock Wolfsbane ingredients... it's all right here." She patted the stack of papers for emphasis. "I just want you and Ginny to know that I'm here for you, day or night, if you have any questions or concerns. Being a werewolf doesn't have quite the same stigma it did when Remus Lupin was still alive. We've made loads of progress on creatures' rights since then."

The pressure that had been building inside of Harry exploded as he leaped to his feet. Across the room, a ceramic lamp shattered and sent shards flying. "GET OUT!" he bellowed, grabbing the papers and thrusting them at Hermione. "Take your registration forms and your calendar and your support group brochures and get the bloody hell out of my house now!"

"Harry," Ginny said softly, her hand on his arm. "Harry, she's only trying to help."

"Really, Harry, what's wrong with you?" Hermione said.

"What's wrong with me? I'll tell you what's wrong with me. As of last night, my son is no longer human, that's what's wrong with me!" Ginny gasped, but he wasn't about to stop now. "For the rest of his life he's going to be defined as a monster by every person he meets, and if they're not afraid of him they'll want to kill him. He's an animal now, not a seventeen-year-old boy. You said it yourself," he spat in anguished fury at Hermione, "he's a creature."

No one moved. They all just stared at him in horror. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw a blur of movement a second before he felt the hot, stinging slap of Ginny's hand across his face.

"Don't you EVER let me hear you talk about any child of ours that way again!" she cried, angry tears streaming down her face. "You would never have said such despicable things about Remus. He was your friend, Harry. What the hell gives you the right to speak this way about your own son?"

"Because it's true," Harry croaked, his hand pressed against his smarting cheek. "Merlin help us, but it's true, Ginny. It was true about Remus, and it's true about Jim." Tears flowed from his eyes. "Our son isn't human anymore. He'll be an outcast his entire life."

"Harry, mate," Ron said, "you're going about this the wrong way."

Harry turned on Ron. "Oh really? And what would you, in your infinite experience as a father, suggest is the right way?" He knew he was pouring salt in an open wound, but at this point he didn't care who he hurt.

Ron seemed unfazed, however, but then it had never been easy to rile him. "Look, we're not the enemy. We're your friends. We're here to help. We want to be here for you."

"Uh-huh. And who's going to be there for Jim when he has to transform for the first time next month?"

Ron gave him a baffled look. "Sorry? What d'you mean?"

"What?" Harry said, looking back and forth between Ron and Hermione. "Hasn't your wife the expert told you what happens when someone gets bitten by a werewolf?" Ron shook his head. "Nice. Y'see, when someone gets bitten, they don't transform right away. No. They have to wait until the next full moon. Not only that, but Jim can't take Wolfsbane until after transforming that first time. Wolfsbane has to be mixed specifically for each werewolf, so someone's going to have to strap him down and draw his blood while he's in werewolf form in order to determine the right balance of ingredients."

Mrs. Weasley, sitting forgotten on the other side of the room, made an inarticulate sound. Ron looked as though all the blood had drained out of his face. "Is this true?" he whispered hoarsely to Hermione. She nodded.

"Did you know the agony of undergoing transformation is so great some victims go mad the first time?" Ron shook his head. "Do you know what they have to go through -- twice -- in the space of twenty-four hours? Ron? Hermione? Mrs. Weasley?" The three of them just stared at him in mute shock. "I have to live with the foreknowledge that, in twenty-seven days, that's exactly what's going to happen to my son."

He felt Ginny's hand slip into his and her cheek press against his shoulder. "Harry, please. I need you. You're not the only one who's hurting. I need you to be strong, for Jim, for the other children, and… for me."

He looked down at the blotchy, tear-stained face of the woman who had given him his son and felt a small part of his heart shrivel up and die. "I-I'm sorry, Ginny," he said, pulling away from her. "I can't."

Then, without looking back, he walked out of the house.

* * * * *

It had been several months since he last flew and his broom was sluggish from age and disuse, but soon it carried him high above the treetops where a brisk late afternoon breeze whipped at his face and hair. Even after thirty years, the feeling of exhilaration and freedom on first taking flight had never passed. He'd never felt more at ease with himself than on a broom. Not really aware of where he was going he soared over the fields and meadows that surrounded his home, dipping down at one point to dive into the midst of a flock of sheep, then pulling up as they scattered, bleating, in all directions.

After a while he turned his broom southward to follow a meandering ribbon of water. The megaliths of Stonehenge soon loomed above the countryside and he practiced his turns and stops while weaving in between the massive trilithons and uprights. Growing tired of that -- yet not ready to return home -- he flew further south, until he saw the slender Gothic spire of Salisbury Cathedral rise up in the distance.

Harry angled his broom downward and came to a soft landing in the cloister garth. He understood now what compulsion had brought him this far from home. The one person who might understand what he was feeling, and have some insight on how to come to terms with Jim's... condition, was both dean of the cathedral and the Muggle father of a fourth-year Hufflepuff. Harry had got to know Father Myghal Borland a couple of years before when a case he'd been investigating for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement brought him to the cathedral. He'd been astonished to discover one of its officials not only knew of the existence of the wizarding world, but even had a daughter at Hogwarts.

He dismounted and crossed the garth to the nearest walk, mindful to keep to the lengthening shadows lest a stray tourist or priest happen by. At the sound of footsteps and the rustle of cloth, Harry pulled out his wand and pressed himself into a corner where the cloister walk took a turn. A familiar voice in a Cornish accent called out warily but not unkindly, "Who's there?"

"Father Myghal, is that you?"

"Yes. Who wants to know?"

Harry pocketed his wand and stepped into the light. "It's me, Father. Harry Potter."
"Good heavens, Harry, you gave me quite a shock." A short, portly man with apple cheeks and a tonsure created by premature baldness appeared in the colonnade. "We've had trouble with thieves of late."

Harry saw that the priest was dressed in his clerical robes. "Have I come at a bad time?"

"Oh no," he said, plucking at a thread of loose embroidery on his chasuble. "Evensong just finished. I was enjoying a stroll around the cloister before returning to the deanery. Would you care to join me?"

Harry picked up his broom from the ground and climbed through the colonnade. "I'd like that very much, Father. I need your advice on a sensitive subject."

The little priest smiled up at him and indicated to Harry which way to go. "You're needing my advice then? That's a turn of the tables."

"I suppose so," he said, falling into step beside Father Myghal.

"Well, unless you've come for spiritual counseling, you needn't call me 'Father.' Myghal is fine." When Harry didn't respond he continued in a more casual vein, "I got a letter from Melloney yesterday. She's enrolled in…what d'you call it? Something to do with animals?"

"Care of Magical Creatures." He winced at the memory of the things he'd said earlier. Would Jim be turned into a class research project?

"Ah, yes. She's really enjoying it, it seems. She told me she got to pet a baby unicorn not long ago." He chuckled. "I gather the instructor's quite popular with the girls at school. Is it true he used to tame dragons?"

Harry gave a short laugh of his own. "Charlie Weasley's my brother-in-law, and yes, he worked on a dragon preserve in Romania for many years. He's also always been a ladies' man."

"I can see how that might be a rather alluring occupation," Father Myghal said as he led Harry out of the cloister on to a gravel path that led to a row of houses where the cathedral canons and staff resided. "Dragons in Romania. How fascinating. Sometimes I hear about things like that and wonder why I couldn't have been born a wizard." He gave a wistful sigh.

"It's not all it's cracked up to be sometimes."

The priest turned and gave him a penetrating look. "Indeed?"

Harry said nothing, merely resumed walking. Father Myghal had to trot to catch up to him. They walked in silence up to a trim white Georgian-style building where the priest opened the door with a brass key he retrieved from beneath his chasuble and turned on the light just inside. He directed Harry to a room at the far end of the foyer, brushing past him to turn on several table lamps. Harry recognized it as a study, where Father Myghal probably conducted his business as cathedral dean.

It was a comfortable room, outfitted in leather and walnut. Harry took a seat on a nearby settee while Father Myghal disappeared through a narrow door on the opposite side of the room. When he returned a few minutes later he was clad in a simple black cassock and had a bottle of Glenlivet and two whiskey glasses in his hands.

"I save this for special guests," he said almost apologetically, indicating the bottle. He poured two glasses, cut the Scotch with water, and handed one to Harry before sitting in the chair opposite him. "Cheers," he said, raising his glass. Harry mimicked his action, but still said nothing. After several minutes of studying Harry over his glass, the little priest set it down on the table next to him and leaned forward. "Care to tell me what this is all about?"

Harry drained the rest of his drink in a single swallow and grimaced as it slowly burned its way down his throat. Rather than set aside his glass he rolled it back and forth between his palms as he sought the words he needed.

"Father-Myghal," he began, "how did you feel when you first found out Melloney was a witch?"

Father Myghal coughed. "My," he said. "I hadn't expected that question. I wonder why you're asking me, though. Doesn't one of your close friends come from... people like me?"

"Muggles, you mean? Yeah," Harry said. "But your situation is different."

"How so?"

"You're a priest. You've been taught to look at magical folk as deviants, as-as --" He couldn't quite find the word he wanted and settled on the first one that came to mind. "As demonic."

"We've moved a bit forward in our thinking since the Middle Ages," Father Myghal said gently. "We're not quite as reflexively judgmental as you think. Still," he added, interrupting Harry's rebuttal, "I understand what you're saying."

"My friend's parents weren't religious," Harry explained. "My aunt and uncle thought I was a freak, but they hated anything that didn't fit into their narrow view of what was 'normal'."

"I'm very sorry to hear that," Father Myghal said, and Harry sensed that his sympathy was genuine. "But what about your parents?"

"Well, my mum and dad were magical themselves, but it wouldn't've mattered because they died when I was a baby. My aunt and uncle took me in and raised me until I finished school."

"How awful it must've been for you, to grow up in that sort of environment."

Harry shrugged. "It was all long ago."

"Not long enough if you're here asking me how I reacted when I first learned about Melloney." He leaned back and crossed his legs. "It was a terrible shock at first. I didn't know what to think. The... man who came to explain things to us was very kind and answered all our questions without hesitation, but I could tell he didn't really understand what it meant to discover that our only child was so different from us and would have to spend the rest of her life living outside of the mainstream."

"Us?" Harry asked.

A shadow fell over the priest's face. "My wife. Cordelia tried valiantly, but in the end she couldn't accept it. As you say, she thought Melloney was a deviant and that she in turn was tainted by association. Cordelia left that summer and moved to Plymouth, where she drinks to excess, plays whist every Thursday night, and pretends we don't exist."

"That's terrible," Harry said. "How did that affect Melloney?"

He looked down and smoothed the placket on his cassock. "It was very hard on her at first, but eventually she came to realize there wasn't anything she could do about it but move on with her life and accept that she was extraordinary in ways none of us had ever dreamed of. It helped her to get to know other children at school who'd also come from non-magical families, some of whom were less than accepting of the situation."

"Does anyone else know about your daughter? I can't imagine the Church looking on this too kindly."

Father Myghal nodded. "I felt obliged to tell my bishop, because he had assumed she would continue her schooling here at the cathedral."

"How did he take it?"

"He was as baffled as I was. He was also a bit concerned that if word got out the more narrow-minded people in the community -- and the Church -- might take offense that a ranking official had a witch for a daughter, but he agreed to wait to cross that bridge only if we come to it." He picked up his glass and took a sip before setting it back down. "Lord willing, we won't have to before Melloney finishes school and is on her own."

Then, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, Father Myghal asked, "Now, Harry, do you want to tell me why you're really here?"

Harry studied his fingers and wiggled them. He could feel the alcohol working its way to his extremities like a potent surge of magical energy. If he held his hand just so, he believed he could see it rippling just beneath the surface of his skin. What would Jim see in similar circumstances? Would he look at his skin and see the werewolf's venom coursing through his veins, poisoning all that it touched? Harry fisted his hand and dropped it against the arm of the settee.

"It's Jim," he finally said. "Last night he was --" He stopped. How would a Muggle still so ignorant of the wizarding world respond to such news? Being a witch or a wizard was one thing; being a werewolf, another matter entirely. Harry began to wonder if maybe he'd made a terrible mistake coming here.

"Last night he was what?" the priest prompted him.

Harry took a deep breath and plunged in. "Last night he was bitten by a werewolf."

"Dear God." Father Myghal paused and took a deep breath of his own. "Dear God. Is he all right?"

Harry pinched the creases in his trousers. "Yes and no. He wasn't killed, thank Merlin, but he was infected."

"Infected?" Father Myghal looked horrified. "You mean... he's a werewolf now?"

"Yes." Harry nodded, then clapped his hand to his mouth for a moment to keep the sob that hovered in his chest from escaping. "Yes, yes he is."

"Dear God." He dropped his hands to his lap. "Is there a cure?"

"No."

"I gather werewolves are not accepted among your kind," Father Myghal said. Harry shook his head. "What will happen to him?"

"I don't really know. He'll have to register with our Ministry or else face imprisonment. There are people at the Ministry whose jobs are to protect his rights, but the fact is he'll be an outcast the rest of his life -- and he could live for a very long time, provided someone doesn't kill him first, for sport or out of fear."
"What about... is there anything that can be done to keep him from-from --"

"From turning into a werewolf?"

"Is that the correct way to put it?"

"There's Wolfsbane, but he can't take it until he's transformed at least once, and it'll take several full moons before the dosage can be perfected." Harry gazed beseechingly at Father Myghal. "The pain he'll have to endure will be unbearable. He won't know who he is. He won't even know who I am; he'd kill me, if given the opportunity."

"If he was at school when this happened... my God, he'll be at home when the next full moon comes!" Harry nodded. "What will you do? You can't let him transform at home, can you?"

"No," Harry said. "We'll have to take him to St. Mungo's. They have special cells for werewolf transformations." He dragged his fingers through his hair. "I'm just... I'm lost, Myghal. I don't know what to do, what to think, what to say.... It's too much. Yesterday Jim was --"

"Normal?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah, and today he's --"

"A leper."

Harry stared at him. "Well, I don't know. I hadn't thought of it that way."

Father Myghal took another sip of his Scotch before continuing. "Look, Harry, I don't think my area of expertise will bring you much comfort. Anything I may have to say will just sound like empty platitudes or a weak attempt at evangelism. But Melloney told me something she learned at school that might provide some insight." He folded his hands over his round belly. "Is it true you had to overcome an evil wizard when you were a young man?"

The question stunned Harry. He hadn't though about Voldemort in years. "Er, yes," he finally said, biting back the tremor of hatred in his voice. "Voldemort. Some say he was the most powerful dark wizard ever. I don't know; all I know is that he was the one who killed my parents and many other good people as well. And he gave me this." He lifted his fringe to show Father Myghal the scar that zigzagged across his brow. It had faded with the passing of the years, but those who knew where to look could easily spot it.

"Intriguing," the priest said. "You know, there are many stories about people who were 'marked' as a sign that they had been chosen for a particular purpose. One of my favorites is about a man who went into the wilderness, where he met a stranger who challenged him. They wrestled all night, neither one gaining any significant advantage over the other, until the stranger broke the man's hip just before dawn. The stranger then told the man he had been wrestling with none other than God, and would be blessed for his perseverance but walk with a limp the rest of his life.

"Many years later, that same man had to face the terrible tragedy of believing his favorite son had been murdered, when in fact the boy had been sold into slavery. In time, despite many challenges, the boy rose to a position of great power and authority and was able to help his family when their lives were threatened."

"And how is this supposed to give me any insight?" Harry asked.

"Simply to show you that grace can seem a terrible burden for those who have been chosen."

"Grace. Right," Harry snorted.

"Believe, don't believe, it makes no difference to me," Father Myghal said evenly, apparently unruffled by Harry's derision. "But I have faith that you and Jim are never alone and that, as terrible as it may seem on the surface, the challenges that you had to face -- and that Jim will have to face -- are not without purpose. I believe the same is true about Melloney: that she is a witch is not, no matter what my wife might think, a random aberration brought on by evil."

"You believe that she's a blessing? From God?" Harry was dumbfounded.

"Absolutely, yes."

"Despite the fact that your wife left you. Despite the fact that you might be hounded out of your job. Despite the fact that there are people all around you who think our kind are freakish monsters."

"Yes."

"You'll understand if I don't quite share your optimism."

The little priest smiled. "Of course. But I hope you can find a way to see that Jim's... affliction is not the end of the world, and that, in time, good may come of it. What he needs most of all now is your unconditional love and support. These next few months will be very trying for him, so any hint of weakness or wavering on your part could set him down the path into darkness and despair. He needs you to be strong for him."

Harry smiled sardonically. "You sound like my wife."

"She sounds like a wise woman. You should listen to her. She needs you too, you know. She's just as afraid and unsure as you are. Don't let her get away the same way my wife did." Father Myghal's normally cheerful expression turned melancholy. "Don't ignore her fears and doubts the same way I did Cordelia's."

* * * * *

The house was dark and quiet when Harry returned nearly an hour after Father Myghal had bid him goodnight. Harry was glad to see that Ginny hadn't waited up for him; he'd been a prat earlier, he knew, and he didn't relish facing her temper when his emotions were still so raw. He put away his broom and let himself inside quietly, removing his shoes just inside the front door so he wouldn't wake the children with his heavy tread on the creaky wooden stairs. In stocking feet he crept upstairs and slipped inside the bedroom he and Ginny had shared for twenty years.

She was turned toward the window when he entered, but rolled over when he shut the door behind him. She was bathed in moonlight, and in its spiteful brilliance he saw tear tracks on her cheeks. "Oh, Harry, I'm so glad you're home," she sniffled, stretching her arms out to him.

He undressed as quickly and quietly as he could and slid into bed beside her, taking her in his arms. For a long time they lay entwined together in silence, each drawing comfort from the other's presence. Harry stared at the moon as it shone through the window, realizing he would never be able to look at it as a distant, neutral object again; henceforth it would always be a harbinger of pain and devastation.

After a while he felt Ginny stir against him. He thought she'd gone to sleep; she'd cried quietly against his chest at first, until the silence overtook them. She slowly raised her head to look at him. She was radiant in the moonlight, with those bright brown eyes adorned with crows’ feet and that tousled mass of red hair liberally streaked with gray. The sight of her overwhelmed him and Harry grasped her arms and pulled her closer to kiss her.

They came together with urgency and desperation, clutching at each other like shipwreck survivors without a lifeboat. There was no time or desire for the familiar and comforting rhythms they'd developed after so many years together, only a yearning to be as close to each other as Nature would permit. With each driving thrust she arched up to meet him, pulling him deeper inside her until he thought he might just crawl inside her skin. Sweat ran in rivulets between his shoulder blades, stinging and burning the gouge marks her nails left in his back as she urged him on wantonly.

He gave one final sobbing surge forward and collapsed, spent, supporting his weight on his forearms. He felt himself slacken and grow soft inside her but didn't withdraw. Slowly the trembling subsided and his senses returned to normal levels.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you," he whispered, bending his neck to press his forehead against hers.

Ginny tilted her chin up to kiss him tenderly. "Just don't ask me to ride a broom for a few days," she said, one corner of her mouth quirking up. "If you let me, I can put some essence of murtlap on those scratches."

"Leave them," he said. "I'll be fine." With a slight wince from both of them he pulled out of her and rolled on to his back. "When did Ron and Hermione and your mum leave?"

"Not long after you did." She rolled on to her side and ran her fingers through the sparse hairs on his chest. "You should apologize to Hermione."

He sighed. "I know. But she-she should've known not to ambush us like that."

"She's Hermione, Harry. Sensitivity has never been her first instinct."

"It's probably why she's such an effective advocate."

"All the more reason why we need to stay in her good graces."

Harry turned his head to look at her. "Y'know, Myghal talked to me about grace tonight."

Ginny propped herself up on an elbow. "Myghal? Father Myghal? You flew all the way to Salisbury Cathedral?"

"I hadn't planned on it. I just sort of ended up there, I reckon. He'd probably tell me God brought me there."

She chuckled before rolling over to prop her chin on Harry's chest. "Did it help to talk to him?"

Harry lay silent for a while as he thought about what Father Myghal had told him. "In a manner of speaking." He reached over with his free arm to run his fingers through her hair. "It's going to take time to get used to this, Ginny."

"It's going to take time for all of us. Especially Jim."

"Especially Jim." He closed his eyes and sighed. "I wish Remus were still alive."

"I know you do. I do as well. But we can find a way through this on our own." She reached up and pinched the tip of his nose. "You can't go tearing off every time something bad happens, y'know. Mum was a bloody nightmare after you left."

He cleared his throat to disguise a laugh. "Sorry."

He felt Ginny's head shake back and forth beneath his hand, then she pushed herself forward to kiss him again. "Harry, I love you, but sometimes I don't know what to do with you."

Harry felt his mouth curve upward in a smile. "Reckon you'll just have to find a way to put up with me."

She smiled back. "Reckon I will."

Their lovemaking this time was more tender, measured, and intimate. When Harry felt Ginny climax around him he remembered the glow of joy on her face when she pulled back a corner of the blanket and he looked upon the face of his newborn son for the first time. They'd decided to name the boy James Arthur, in honor and recognition of the courage and generosity of their own fathers. It was a name he wore well; a name he would continue to wear well, despite the adversity that lay before him. And as he felt his own climax flow through him, Harry understood what Father Myghal had meant about the terrible burden of grace.

Father Frost's Winterfair (Mis)Adventure (Vorkosigan saga)

2009-10-28T15:01:12Z

TITLE: Father Frost's Winterfair (Mis)Adventure
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: Ivan's annual tradition of playing Father Frost for Miles and Ekaterin's twins doesn't go quite as planned this year.
NOTES: Written for jedishampoo for Yuletide 2008. Slightly revised from the version archived there, based on suggestions from katieay.

DISCLAIMER: Lois McMaster Bujold owns the Vorkosigan universe and everything it encompasses. This is a work of fan fiction, and thus derives no profit or material benefit therefrom.

"Father Frost! Father Frost!"

The combined weight of Miles and Ekaterin's twins hurtling at him at full speed nearly forced Ivan back into the sleigh he'd just emerged from. His breath escaped him with an audible grunt as Helen's compact body collided with his stomach - damn, she was turning out to be quite the little bruiser - but he grabbed the sleigh and righted himself in time to return their welcome.

"Oh ho!" he boomed cheerfully, then paused to spit out a tuft of false beard. "What do we have here? Two children hoping that Father Frost has come to bring them Winterfair presents?" Squeals of delight, no doubt enhanced by overindulgence in Ma Kosti's Winterfair treats and God-knows-what wild tales from their grandda Aral, made his ears ring.

Bending down, Ivan asked loud enough for those standing in the doorway of Vorkosigan House to hear, "Have they been good children this year?" He paused, then lowered his voice to a growl for dramatic effect. "Or have they been naughty?"

"We've been good, we've been good!" cried young Aral, tugging at Ivan's fur-trimmed sleeve. His eyes pleaded for generosity. "Please, Father Frost, let us have something from your sack."

"Well, I don't know. Let's see what your ma and da have to say." He called out to the adults waiting nearby, "Have your children earned their Winterfair gifts this year?"

A glint in his eyes, Miles rubbed his chin. "Hm. I seem to recall there was one time--"

"Da!" wailed Helen.

"They've been very well behaved, Father Frost," Ekaterin interjected, hastening to avert the approaching storm. "You may reward them from your sack as you deem appropriate."

Ivan exchanged a quick nod and a smile with her, then turned back to the sleigh. "Would you hand me those two parcels beneath the seat?" he murmured to the sleigh's secret occupant, buried beneath several blankets meant to provide both warmth against the cold night air and concealment from young prying eyes.

"Who are you talking to, Father Frost?" Aral asked, trying to see around Ivan into the sleigh. "Who's in there?"

Helen gasped. "Did you - is it - Ma, Da, come see, come see! Father Frost brought the Snow Maiden with him tonight!" Unprepared for this reaction, Ivan choked. "You've never brought her with you before! Can we see, please, I want to see her!" She tugged at the edge of his robe with such urgence she almost managed to pull him off balance.

Ivan glanced over his shoulder and saw Miles and Ekaterin, followed by the rest of their guests, approaching. Miles seemed torn between curiosity, apprehension, and annoyance. Ivan swore under his breath, then turned back to the sleigh. He hadn’t planned on having to introduce his companion to anyone yet, much less his Vorkosigan relations. At least his mother and Illyan weren’t here as well. "Would you mind?" he sheepishly asked, gesturing at the advancing crowd. "I promise I'll make it up to you later."

"Mind playing the part of the Snow Maiden?" The delight in her voice filled him with warm relief. "I wouldn't pass up an opportunity like this for the world."

"You're a life saver." He held out a hand to help her down from the sleigh, then turned once again to face - well, at this point it seemed to be a firing squad. "Um, let me introduce--"

"She's beautiful," Aral sighed before Ivan could get another word out.

Taken aback, he stared down at the little boy, who was gazing up at the woman standing beside Ivan in enchanted awe. "Thank you, my young lord," she said smoothly, playing the part as if she’d been born to it. She held the two wrapped presents before her. "Now, which one of these do you think is yours?"

"He's Aral, and I'm Helen," was the answer she got as Helen, too impatient to wait for her brother to find his tongue again, shouldered him aside and stepped forward. "Our names ought to be written on the tags."

"Ah yes, I see." She handed each child their present, giving them a pat on the cheek as she did so. His eyes widening, Aral's hand covered the spot she'd touched. "Happy Winterfair!"

Almost unconsciously, Ivan’s hand touched his own cheek as he, too, gazed at her in wonder. Don't let this one get away, a voice said in his head.

Helen seemed less impressed than her brother. Her lips pursed in a frown Ivan recognized all too well, she asked, "Are you really the Snow Maiden?" Her eyes narrowed as she peered at Ivan. He coughed and looked away.

“What do you believe?” was the reply Helen got, accompanied by a gentle tap on the nose.

"Time to go back inside, children," Ekaterin murmured before Helen could work herself up to an argument. "Your grandmother has hot cider waiting to warm you up." She herded Aral and Helen away from the sleigh and into the care of Mark and Kareen, who led them inside. Mark darted a roguish grin over his shoulder before shaking his head and closing the door behind them.

"Ivan, Ivan, Ivan," Miles was saying before they were barely out of earshot. "You--"

"Hey now, Coz," Ivan spluttered indignantly. "I didn't--"

Once again, Ekaterin came to the rescue, holding out her hand to Ivan's companion with a warm and friendly smile. "Thank you so much for helping Ivan tonight. It's such a treat for the children to get a visit from Father Frost on Winterfair's Eve, and you made it all the more special for them." Ekaterin glanced up and down, taking in her attire. "I'd invite you inside, but you're dressed as though you have other plans."

Ivan remembered his manners just in time. "Yeah, we're headed out for dinner as soon as I can change out of this get-up." He indicated the Father Frost robes, boots, hat, and beard he'd donned for the occasion, just as he had every Winterfair since the twins' birth. "I'm really sorry about this, but since I've got the sleigh and horses until midnight, I thought I'd make the most of it, you know?" He ignored the scathing look Miles gave him. "Are we still on for tomorrow?"

"Of course." Ekaterin nodded towards his companion. "Bring your friend, too."

A half-choked laugh escaped him. "Yeah. Right." He leaned down to exchange a kiss on the cheek with Ekaterin, then jerked his chin up at Miles, who was no doubt plotting some sort of diabolical revenge. "Happy Winterfair!"

"Happy Winterfair, Ivan." Ekaterin and Miles stepped back to give Ivan room to help his date into the sleigh, then climb back in himself and take up the reins. "Be sure to wave as you go." Ekaterin gestured towards one of the windows, where two small faces were pressed against the glass, watching every move.

Ivan removed his hat with a flourish and executed a grandiose bow for his audience, then sat down, took up the reins again, and clucked to the horses. "Happy Winterfair to all, and to all a good night!" he called out as the sleigh trundled past the house, its runners crunching over the snow. Beside him, his date raised her arm high to wave to Aral and Helen as she, too called out Winterfair greetings.

As they passed the gatehouse, Ivan slumped back against the cushions. "Damn, that was a near miss." He turned to his companion and gave her an apologetic grin. "Sorry about that. I hope you didn't mind."

By way of response, she snuggled against him, leaning her head against his shoulder and resting her warm hand on top of his thigh, and sighed, her breath causing wisps of hair on his fake beard to flutter. "Don't apologize at all, Ivan. I thought it was wonderful."

"Yeah?" He transferred the reins to one hand so he could drape his other arm around her, bringing her closer to him.

"Mm-hm. Puts you in a completely different light. I hadn't taken you for the sort to dress up and play Father Frost for someone else's children."

Not quite sure what to make of that, Ivan shrugged. "They're my cousin Miles', so it's no great trouble. They're great kids, actually." He didn't allow himself to dwell too long on the thought that they were probably as close as he'd ever get to having children of his own.

"I bet you're their favorite honorary uncle, too."

"I hope so. I've got some pretty stiff competition, though. Not many children get to claim the emperor of Barrayar among their honorary uncles."

"Perhaps, but I doubt that Emperor Gregor dresses up as Father Frost for anyone but his own children."

Ivan laughed. "Not even that! He gets one of his older Armsmen to do it." He guided the sleigh to a spot alongside the front of his building and reined the horses to a stop, then turned to his date. "You can come up if you like, but it should only take me a minute or two to change out of this and into something more appropriate." He gave her a rakish grin. "When I come back, I can warm you up."

Her eyes crinkled in amusement. "Who could refuse an invitation like that?" Before Ivan could climb out of the sleigh, though, she'd grabbed his arm to hold him there, then leaned forward to give him a long, breathtaking kiss.

"What was that for?" he managed to get out when she drew back.

She pressed her palm against his cheek and brushed her lips across the tip of his nose, then said something that thrilled Ivan to his very bones: "If you're still playing Father Frost next Winterfair, I'd love to be your Snow Maiden again."

Morning Breath (HP)

2009-10-25T23:09:56Z

TITLE: Morning Breath
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: A light-hearted scene between Harry and Ginny the morning after his 26th birthday.
NOTES: Written as a birthday gift for arasnaem (it was her 26th birthday and I sent it a day late, hence the references to the same within); I've made some minor changes since first writing it. Thanks to katieay for beta-ing the revised version, even if you couldn't find anything to change. *g*

DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter universe and everything it encompasses. This is a work of fan fiction, and thus derives no profit or material benefit therefrom.

He’s wearing a thoroughly disreputable dressing gown – one of Bill’s old castoffs, she recalls, its nap worn down to a glossy sheen – and a pair of equally tatty slippers and standing before the kitchen sink, looking out the window that faces the front gate. From the faint aroma that wafts past her nostrils she can tell he’s got a mug of coffee in his hands.

The last-but-one stair creaks when she steps on it; he tenses slightly at the sound, but does not turn around or lower his cup. Ginny comes up behind him to wrap her arms around his waist and rest her head against his back. The ancient flannel of the dressing gown is redolent of cloves and rosemary and Floo powder. She presses her nose against his shoulderblade, inhaling deeply, and tightens her hold around his waist.

A hand comes to rest warmly over hers; she hears the clink of the mug being set in the sink and soon his other hand joins its mate. “Sorry if I woke you,” Harry says quietly.

“You didn’t,” she reassures him. “Bad dream?” He no longer dreams of Voldemort, but sometimes buried memories of those dark times sneak up on him when his guard is down.

“No, actually. I slept quite well last night.”

“What made you wake up so early then?”

He shrugs. “Nothing, really. I just... woke up. I lay in bed for a while, but then decided I might as well get a start on my weekend.” Still enclosed by her arms, he turns to face her. “Y’know, I can’t believe I’m twenty-six now. Seems like I was sixteen only yesterday.”

A giggle escapes before she can stop it. “Surely you’re not feeling past your prime already, Harry?”

“Maybe just a little.” A hand reaches up to tug at his forelock. “I found a gray hair while I was brushing my teeth before bed last night.”

“Just one? After the stunt James pulled the other day, I should think you’d have loads more.”

His mouth twists in an abashed grin. “Maybe it’s a delayed response. I bet if I go look in a mirror now, I’ll find more.”

He moves as if to follow up on this, but she tightens her embrace to hold him there. “You’re not going anywhere, Mr. Potter.” She leans up to give him a quick kiss, then scans his face for other signs of aging, invisible to the naked eye. “Oh, dear,” she says, clucking her tongue.

“What?” he says quickly, almost brusquely, though his eyes are crinkled with good humor.

“You’ve got crow’s feet deep enough to plant corn in,” she informs him, her fingertip gently touching the corner of his eye. “Maybe we can stand you beneath the downspout when it rains and then use you to water the garden.”

“Ha ha,” he says before swooping down to plant a deliberately sloppy wet kiss on her neck, where he knows she is especially ticklish.

She squeals and wriggles to escape, though her struggle is half-hearted. “Don’t be rubbing those grizzled old man cheeks on me, giving me beard burn!” He laughs and holds her fast to do just that, pausing by her ear to whisper something that makes her insides perk up and her arms slide around his neck to pull him down for a real kiss.

They are both smiling when they part; their faces are flushed, their lips swollen. Her hands smooth down the worn and frayed lapels of his dressing gown. He has a new one – two new ones, in fact, the most recent a gift on his previous birthday – but he insists on wearing this one, claiming it would take years to break in a new one to the right level of softness and comfort.

“So, Gramps,” she says, “what are your plans for the first day of your dotage? Have a breakfast of watery porridge and prune juice? Read the Prophet and grumble about how the wizarding world’s gone to hell in a handbasket? Sit on a park bench and shake your cane at passersby?”

“I think I’ll work on refurbishing the motorbike today,” he says after considering his options.

“Ah. Recapturing your lost youth. Good plan.”

He straightens up, puffing his chest out slightly. “Not lost. Just – mislaid temporarily. Probably left it in the broom shed or a cupboard somewhere.”

This makes her laugh with delight and squeeze him reflexively. “Speaking of broom sheds,” she continues as she lowers her arms and takes a step back, “don’t forget that Andromeda’s bringing Teddy by at lunchtime.”

His face immediately brightens. “Excellent! I’ll take the lads out for a fly this afternoon.”

“You’ll be sure to strap James in securely this time?”

“I did the last time! It’s not my fault he was able to lift the charm accidentally.”

“It will be your fault if the neighbors report an unidentified flying object to the police again.”

“It’ll be a good opportunity for you to practice your Obliviating skills then,” he says with a grin.

Ginny sticks out her tongue at him. “I’d rather work on my exposé of the match-throwing scandal at the Quidditch World Cup quarterfinals, thanks. I’ve got three hours’ worth of notes on my Recording Quill to sort through before I can even think about writing.”

She turns and heads for the stairs to give the baby his morning feeding before James wakes up. She’s got a whole weekend ahead of her, and despite what she just said about the article she’s working on, she’s thinking she might like to dust off her broom and join her fellows when they go flying after lunch. As she reaches the first riser she calls back over her shoulder, “Happy day after your birthday, you crotchety old geezer.”

Life Cycle (HP)

2009-10-15T19:03:02Z

TITLE: Life Cycle
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: A Floo call from Ron disturbs Harry.
NOTES: Written in response to the October prompt on catchmysnitch, but not submitted as an application. Contains a fleeting reference to breast milk that may squick the squeamish.

DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter universe and everything it encompasses. This is a work of fan fiction, and thus derives no profit or material benefit therefrom.

“He wants to do what?” At the sound of a low moan from the bed, Harry crouched closer to the fireplace and lowered his voice. “What did you say?”

“A Deathday Party,” Ron said, confirming that Harry didn’t need to have his ears checked. “George said that Fred wants to have a Deathday Party this June.”

“Why?” was Harry’s first question, followed immediately by, “Wait – how does George know what Fred wants?”

“Who knows? I think he’s finally cracked. He’s got Mum in a strop, though, and Angelina’s none too happy with him either. Git.”

“I can imagine.”

“Anyway, according to George, Fred thinks Remembrance Day has got too dull and mopey, and has decided it’s up to him to inject a little fun back into things.”

“Er—” Harry was unpleasantly reminded of the only Deathday Party he’d ever attended, back during his second year at Hogwarts. Even with Fred as the guest of honor, he doubted it would be much more cheerful. Certainly no less depressing than the Remembrance Day observances. “I gather George’ll be in charge of all the arrangements?”

“Yeah, though I gather he’s run up against a wall when it comes to food.” He grimaced. “Remember how at Nearly Headless Nick’s party, all the food was putrid?”

“Vividly.”

“Yeah.” Ron’s gaze fell on a spot beyond Harry’s shoulder and his chin jerked up slightly. “How is she?”

No need to ask who “she” was. “Tired. It was hard on her.”

He grunted. “And, er--?”

A smile full of tenderness and pride flashed across Harry’s face as he turned to look at the tiny cot in the corner of the bedroom. “Asleep, for the moment.”

Ron winced in chagrin. “Sorry for disturbing you, mate. I needed to talk to someone, and Hermione’s had about all of me she can take at the moment.”

Harry grinned. “Already? She’s just barely begun to show. You’ve got a long road ahead you if she’s acting this way now.”

“Tell me about it. But, what can you do?” He rolled his eyes and grinned, then grew serious again. “So what d’you think we should do about George?”

“We?” Harry asked pointedly.

“C’mon Harry. If anyone can talk sense into him, it’s you.”

“I dunno, I think it might actually be a good thing. I mean, Fred was his twin. Maybe George needs this too.”

“You think so?”

Harry shrugged. “Dunno. Only one way to find out.” He slowly rose from his squatting position before the fireplace, cringing as his knees creaked loudly. “I’ll stop by the shop and talk to him in the morning, okay?”

“Brilliant, Harry. Thanks.” The flames quickly died back down to embers as Ron withdrew his head from the fireplace.

Before returning to bed, Harry crept as quietly as he could over to the cot and gazed down at the tiny bundle lying there. His son! He could scarcely believe it, even with the proof right before his eyes. There’d been a time when he’d thought he’d never have the chance to experience fatherhood.

Holding his breath, he reached down and carefully tucked a loose corner of the blanket over the baby’s foot. “Sleep,” he crooned, his voice little more than a breath. “Mum needs her rest, after bringing you into the world.”

He slid back into the bed and nestled up behind Ginny, draping his arm over her waist, bending to fit himself against her. He had just closed his eyes when he heard her murmur, “What did my brother want?”

“Shh,” he whispered, biting back a curse. “It’s nothing, go back to sleep. I’ll tell you in the morning.”

“I know that tone, Harry.” She rolled towards him so that she lay on her back and studied him. Her eyes gleamed in the faint glow from the fireplace. “You’re hiding something, I can tell.”

He kissed her lightly. “I’m not hiding anything.” He paused, measuring his words, then said, “George says Fred wants a Deathday Party when Remembrance Day comes around this year.”

She considered this briefly, then pursed her lips in approval. “Good for him. I agree.”

Surprised, Harry pulled back. “You’re okay with this?”

“Sure. Why shouldn’t I be? Fred always did love a good party, and if there’s anyone who could ‘liven up’ a Deathday Party, it’s him.”

She snuggled closer. Harry could feel the dampness where her breasts had leaked milk as she pressed against his chest; unexpectedly, he felt a little turned on by it.

“So you think it’s a good idea?” he asked, coughing and turning slightly away so she wouldn’t notice his state.

“I think it’s an excellent idea.”

“I told Ron I’d talk to George about it in the morning.”

“Good. Find out what he has in mind – wait.” She sat up on her elbows and looked at Harry. “Did you say, ‘George said Fred wants to have a Deathday Party’? Not, ‘George wants to have a Deathday Party for Fred’?” Harry nodded.

Ginny flopped back and pressed her hand against her forehead. “How on earth does George know what Fred wants?” she asked after a moment. Harry thought her eyes were suspiciously bright. “And why are we just hearing about this now?”

Harry had no answer to that, as he'd asked himself the same questions. He hoped George would be able to enlighten him in the morning.

Keep Talking (ST:XI)

2009-06-11T04:26:15Z

TITLE: Keep Talking
RATING: PG
NOTE: Written for yahtzee63's Star Trek Reboot Drabble Challenge #3, combining #77 (Uhura and McCoy, voice) with #42 (Spock/Uhura, every breath you take). Check out the prompts and join in!

DISCLAIMER: Paramount owns the Star Trek universe and everything it encompasses. This is a work of fan fiction, and thus derives no profit or material benefit therefrom.

Uhura's voice is hoarse, strained, cracking with agony and exhaustion, but she refuses to give up, to abandon her station. She's been there for hours, since shortly before what had begun as another routine away mission mutated into another waking nightmare. The team stumbled upon a Cardassian outpost - what are they doing so far from home? - shots were fired, and the cave they sought shelter in turned out to be highly unstable. The first collapse crushed Lieutenant Özer's leg; the second trapped the rest of the team in an impenetrable cul-de-sac of stone.

McCoy's been on the bridge for the past hour, waiting for the word from the surface that will guide his next step. Jim's down there now, along with a hand-picked security team, "negotiating" for his people's rescue before their air runs out. You don't screw around with Cardassians under any circumstances.

Uhura'd asked to be included, but Jim had ordered her to stay at her post. "Talk to them, Lieutenant," he'd told her, his voice like steel encased in silk. "Let them hear your voice. Give them a lifeline, something to hold on to." She hasn't left her post since he beamed down to the surface, her voice a constant stream of encouragement and comfort to the people trapped in the cave, their air supply dwindling with each inhaled breath.

McCoy paces the perimeter of the bridge, listening to her, monitoring her mental and physical state even as he keeps an eye on the readouts at Chekov's station. Two are already unconscious from hypoxia and Özer's been sedated, leaving only Spock as Uhura's audience, but McCoy suspects it's Spock she's been talking to all the time anyway. McCoy knows that, as a half-Vulcan, Spock can withstand oxygen deprivation longer than most humans, but no one's ever tested the limits of his endurance. He wonders how much longer Spock can hold out. How much longer Uhura can continue talking to him without breaking down.

He wonders if Jim can "negotiate" his way through the Cardassian blockade in time.

At a Window (ST:XI)

2009-06-01T02:33:14Z

TITLE: At a Window
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: Set after the destruction of the Narada but before Enterprise makes it back to Earth. When she is finally released from her station, the events of the past two days catch up to Uhura with a vengeance.
NOTES: The title and accompanying verse come from Carl Sandburg's poem, "At a Window." In writing this fic, I've borrowed from a variety of sources, among them Alan Dean Foster's novelization of the movie, Memory Alpha, and some details I pulled out of thin air (which probably means they're either wrong or don't make sense). I own any mistakes I've made, and hope they do not distract from your overall enjoyment of the fic. If someone had told me a month ago that I'd be returning to the fandom where I got my start, I'd have laughed in their face. Now the laugh's on me. :-)

DISCLAIMER: Paramount owns the Star Trek universe and everything it encompasses. This story is not intended to infringe on any copyrights, and the only profit I gain by it is emotional satisfaction.

But leave me a little love,
A voice to speak to me in the day end,
A hand to touch me in the dark room
Breaking the long loneliness.

"You're off duty, Lieutenant."

Uhura removed the listening device from her ear and turned to look blearily at Kirk. He looked just as ragged as she felt. After all he'd been through, he probably felt ten times worse.

"Captain, I--"

He jerked a thumb at Dr. McCoy, hovering just behind his left shoulder. "Don't make me sic Bones on you, Uhura. I'm giving you a direct order. Get some sleep."

Kirk's whispered conference with McCoy hadn't been quite sotto voce enough for her keen hearing, so she knew he meant business. She could see McCoy's fingers twitch against the handle of the medical case he carried whenever on the bridge, and nodded in acquiescence, making room at her station for the officer waiting to relieve her. As she exited the bridge she glanced around, looking for Spock, but he wasn't around. No doubt he was with his father and the other surviving members of Vulcan's High Council. Her posture already beginning to slump, she hit the button to activate the 'lift. Perhaps Kirk had a point.

All told, Uhura had been at her post for nearly thirty hours straight. That wasn't counting the first two hours she'd spent in the communications pool on Deck D, until Kirk, McCoy hot on his heels and cursing a blue streak, had come dashing up to her babbling incoherently about the attack on the Klingon fleet, initiating a chain of events that would turn all of their lives inside out and upside down; or the three hours between the time Admiral Bennett had dismissed the corps of cadets from Kirk's hearing and her arrival on board Enterprise, whereupon a harried Ops specialist issued Uhura her new uniform and duty assignment; or the five hours since she'd arisen that first morning until news of trouble on Vulcan arrived. In all, she calculated she'd been awake and active for over forty hours with nothing more that a few bathroom breaks and a hastily-eaten meal on the shuttle trip from Earth to spacedock. And in that span of time she'd gone from being a fourth-year cadet only weeks from graduating to a lieutenant with a plum posting on the bridge of Starfleet's newest flagship, with all the associated perks and responsibilities that position entailed.

It didn't really hit Uhura how the events of the past two days would affect her directly until a yeoman had contacted her with the news of her cabin re-assignment. When she'd first boarded, she'd been assigned, like most of the cadets, to a cramped, utilitarian cabin on Deck E with four bunks and unisex facilities down the corridor. As a bridge officer, however, she had private quarters with en suite bathroom and replicator on Deck B. The message was a courtesy, to inform her that the duffle containing her belongings had already been transferred, and to provide a temporary entry code that she could reprogram after she'd used it the first time.

Then Vulcan had been destroyed by Nero's black hole and Enterprise became, among other things, a refugee camp for the scant few thousand survivors of the cataclysm. Within moments of the first shuttle unloading its traumatized passengers in Enterprise's bay, the intra-ship net was buzzing with requests for and offers of lodging space, clothing, food, supplies, anything the heartbroken crew could possibly provide to ease the Vulcans' grief and pain. Uhura hadn't had to think twice before offering up her new quarters for anyone who might need them. She passed along the entry code and added she had a PADD loaded with music audiofiles with her things that anyone could use if they wished. Then, on a whim, she donated her first month's salary to the relief fund someone in the ship's bursary had set up. Even with her higher pay grade it was not enough, not nearly enough, but she knew if she didn't do something the shame would haunt her the rest of her days.

Uhura had raised her hand to enter the entry code for her cabin before she remembered she'd given it up. With a groan she turned back and took the 'lift down to the cargo bay, where she found Ensign Halvorson, with whom she'd taken several classes in warp field dynamics, keeping watch over a room full of boxes, duffel bags, and the like, the detritus of Enterprise's generous and giving crew. His tricorder located her bag in a matter of minutes, and soon she was trudging, somewhat drunkenly, her exhaustion getting the best of her, towards the cabin she'd originally been assigned to.

Fortunately, only one of the bunks was presently occupied. Unfortunately, the occupant was a snoring Bolian. Make that a snoring, flatulent Bolian. Uhura wrinkled her nose, then dug into the recesses of her bag to retrieve her bathrobe and slippers. She was desperate for a shower, and maybe by the time she returned her cabinmate's intestinal distress would have passed.

The bathroom was blissfully empty, though showed signs of recent occupation. Uhura claimed a towel from the cabinet just inside the door, entered the cleanest cubicle, and undressed. Then, propping herself up against the tiled wall, she blinked at the two buttons before her, trying to summon enough energy to decide whether she wanted a sonic shower or the more traditional wet one.

After thirty hours on duty, thirty hours of constant, concentrated attention to communications from, to, and on Enterprise, the last thing she needed was more sound. The humidity of a wet shower would wreak havoc on her hair, but it was a small price to pay for the much-needed chance to clear her head of the pounding she'd only just begun to notice.

Fifteen minutes later, feeling slightly more human and significantly more somnolent, Uhura trod wearily back to the cabin. This time, in addition to the still-snoring Bolian, she found the remaining three bunks also occupied. Her bag had been dumped from the bunk where she'd left it in the middle of the floor.

"What the hell?" she snarled, suddenly alert.

"Lieutenant, what are you doing here?" came a reply from one of the upper bunks. "Didn't you get moved up to B Deck?"

"Yeah, but I gave it up to some of the refugees. I was going to crash here until we got back to Earth." A journey of nearly a week, or until Scotty and his engineering crew could get the replacement warp core, already en route aboard one of Enterprise's sister ships, installed and operational.

"Shit, sorry. We told Yeoman Choudhury she could kip with us after her mates all voted to give up their cabin too. If we'd known--"

Where the hell am I supposed to sleep? was Uhura's thought, but instead she sighed and hoisted her bag. "Don't worry about it. I'll find someplace else to stay." She turned for the door.

"Try Deck F. Word in the mess earlier was that Ensigns Chang and Dershowitz were setting people up on the floor of their cabin."

Uhura considered this, then nodded. "Thanks."

"N'prob'm," was the mumbled, sleepy reply.

Now fully awake, if still as exhausted as ever, Uhura considered her options. The thought of spending her first night's rest in over a day and a half, her first night on Enterprise, on the floor of someone else's cabin, surrounded by other bodies, didn't appeal to her. Sickbay was out; she'd heard that they'd had to set up temporary bedding to deal with the overflow of injured personnel and refugees. She supposed she could try sleeping in one of the shuttles, but that meant going all the way down to the lowermost decks, and who's to say someone else hadn't already had the same idea?

The observation deck, however, was accessible only to those ranked lieutenant or higher. Someone might be there, but it likely wouldn't be as crowded as anywhere else on the ship. She hoped. Thus resolved, she ducked back into the cabin she'd just been evicted from to grab a spare blanket and pillow from the storage shelf, then went in search of the turbolift that provided access to the observation deck.

~ * ~

The observation deck was blissfully empty when Uhura emerged from the 'lift. No, wait, it wasn't; someone was sound asleep on the starboard-side sofa. She prudently claimed a seat facing out the viewscreens on the port side.

The starfield in a ship moving at impulse speed looks stationary, but Uhura knew from her astrophysics lectures that such was an optical illusion. Tonight, she was willing to indulge herself in a little illusion. So much had changed in the past two days, temporarily believing in a little imagined stability might give her a chance to catch her breath, to bring order to her chaotic thoughts.

She could not have dreamed, not even in her wildest flights of fancy, all that had come to pass in the past forty-odd hours. Her first mission as a Starfleet officer had been nothing less than a baptism by fire.

At least she'd come through it all alive. So many others hadn't. Engineer Olsen. Dr. Puri. Farragut. Truman. Walcott. Antares. Hood. Centaurus. Defiant. Reduced to debris, all hands lost. Thousands of brave men and women sent on a mission of mercy and rescue, cut down in the prime of their lives.

Gaila.

Vulcan, and the nearly six billion souls who went with it. Among them, Spock's mother.

The tears that Uhura had managed through sheer force of will to hold back for so many hours now streamed, unchecked, from her eyes. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. This wasn't the dream that Starfleet promised. Starfleet was about reaching out, about discovering new worlds and civilizations, about forging bonds of diplomacy and friendship, about learning new ways to say, "I love you" or "What do you need?" It was not about having to cope with the incomprehensible enormity of genocide, or the senseless deaths of thousands of people who only wanted to make the galaxy a better place to live. About finding the right way to say, "I'm so sorry." Fearful of waking the observation deck's other occupant, Uhura buried her face in her hands and howled her grief and rage in silence.

"Lieutenant?"

With a watery, choked gasp, Uhura sat up. Spock stood a few feet away, hands clasped behind his back, studying her. She sucked in her breath and, hand shaking, wiped the tears from her cheeks. "Commander."

"You were weeping."

A damp laugh escaped through her nose, and she reached up to wipe the sleeve of her robe beneath it. "Yes, I was."

"You lost many friends today."

She knew, from the many hours spent in his company, that he was attempting to express sympathy. Sympathy for her grief, despite having endured losses that she knew would have incapacitated her. It was yet another example of the many ways the oft-derided cold indifference of Vulcans was a lie, a gross misunderstanding. Or, perhaps, yet another example of the influence Spock's human mother had had on him. Uhura chose to believe it was a little bit of both.

Rather than reply to his comment, Uhura instead said, "What brings you here, Spock?"

He took a step towards her. "The computer said that you were here."

"Oh." The realization that he'd purposely come looking for her made her feel strangely calm. "I would have thought you'd prefer to be with your father and--" And the few remaining Vulcans in existence. "--the rest of the High Council."

He inclined his head slightly. "I have donated my living quarters to them for the duration of the journey back to Earth. I presume they are either meditating or discussing the appropriate measures to take in light of recent events. As I am not a member of the High Council, my presence is neither needed nor permitted."

Cautiously, it seemed to her, he sat beside her, though his posture remained erect, palms resting lightly on his thighs, face turned towards the viewscreen. "After the captain released me from duty, I had intended to seek serenity in solitary meditation. Surak teaches that such is the logical course of action in the face of - of extreme emotional distress." He turned to face Uhura. "Tonight, however, I find I am reluctant to be alone. It is illogical to seek out the company of others at times like this, and yet...." His voice trailed off.

Uhura remembered, from her seminar on first contact protocol and procedure, that it was considered both inappropriate and impolite to touch Vulcans. Protocol can stuff itself in a waste disposal chute, she thought, as she reached for Spock's hand. It wasn't as if she'd already violated that particular guideline several times in the past two days anyway.

"Spock," she said, lacing her fingers with his, "nothing about what you've been through today is logical. I doubt even Surak would fault you for seeking out companionship after what happened to Vulcan." She scooted closer, drawing her lower legs up beside her. "Surely your people value friendship?"

He looked down at their linked hands, then up at her face, his dark eyes fathomless. She wondered what infernos raged within him, what internal battles he fought to maintain the dignity of control. "Humans are such a tactile species," he murmured, raising his other hand to stroke the side of a finger alongside her temple. "My mother is--" He paused, swallowed. "--was always physically affectionate with me. At times I resented it, because of the way it made me feel. It is illogical to seek comfort in the touch of another."

"And yet you are here."

The finger had trailed down the side of her face to crook beneath her jaw, its mates curving lightly around her neck. "And yet I am here."

She brought her free hand up to rest on his. "I would never presume to encourage you to be less Vulcan, Spock, but don't think of your human heritage as anything to be ashamed of. Humans need touch. It may not be logical, but it is essential for our mental health. Don't deprive yourself of something that accomplishes what meditation can't, that gives you the serenity and strength you need to keep going, simply because it's not the Vulcan way. That would be illogical."

"I cannot fault your reasoning." He glanced down at their joined hands, then back up. "My mother would have said the same thing, I think."

She smiled then, and reached out to cup his cheek. "Your mother sounds like a wise and kind woman." His eyes fluttered shut as he nodded. "Her son is a reflection of all that is good in her."

The hand that held hers tightened, just as the muscles in his cheek beneath her other hand grew tense. Recognizing how fragile Spock's control still was, Uhura held herself still but relaxed, allowing him the chance to find his equilibrium again.

This, she realized, was a microcosm of what had drawn her to Starfleet in the first place--the chance to forge close and enduring bonds of friendship and love with people from all across the galaxy. Her grandmother had often remarked that Uhura's acute hearing and her talent for learning languages was a gift. Her grandmother also always said that gifts were meant to be given, not hoarded. Joining Starfleet had been Uhura's declaration of her desire to share her gifts, by using them to facilitate and strengthen bonds between disparate peoples.

The destruction of Vulcan would continue to reverberate throughout the Federation for decades to come. Would the High Council vote to withdraw its membership, to focus its attention, energy, and resources on attending to the needs of its diaspora? This was the question on everyone's lips. Deep in her gut, Uhura knew that the answer would depend on the strength of the bonds that existed between the Vulcans and those around them. They must not be allowed to isolate themselves, to segregate themselves, to look only inward for strength and serenity. Rather, they should be encouraged to look outward, to accept the hands of friendship and support held out to them. To accept the gifts that are offered. It fell to Uhura and those like her, those who had survived the Battle of Vulcan, to offer everything they had to give, that no Vulcan should ever feel adrift in a vast desert of solitude.

Withdrawing her hand from his and shifting closer, Uhura cradled Spock's face in both her hands and whispered his name. His eyes remained closed but she knew she had his attention, so she asked, in his native tongue, the dialect of his childhood, "Tell me what you need."

Indulgence (HP)

2009-05-03T00:01:20Z

TITLE: Indulgence
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: A girl, a boy, and an enchanted boat.
NOTES: This is a PWP in the Plot? What Plot? sense of the acronym, set near the end of Ginny's 7th year at Hogwarts. I felt like writing a scene that emphasized description and mood more than anything else. I also had a craving to write Harry/Ginny, though this shouldn't be taken to mean that I plan on making it a habit again. Call it an itch that needed scratching. :-)

DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter universe and everything it encompasses. This is a work of fan fiction, and thus derives no profit or material benefit therefrom.

A small boat floats on the glossy surface of the black lake, a scale miniature in comparison to the ancient castle that looms on the hillside above it. Billowy white clouds lounge across the blue sky overhead, a testament to the lazy torpor that governs this warm June day.

No tiller nor oars are visible in the boat, for none are needed. In this place, magic is the steersman and propeller. An observer marks the bare leg, female in its curvature, hooked over the side of the boat, toes trailing in the cool water. The observer takes flight, launching itself from a nearby tree to soar high above the lake on a rising thermal, then banks, wheeling and circling lower for a closer view.

A girl and a boy lie stretched out nearly the length of the boat's keel, basking in the sunlight. The boy is asleep, his head pillowed on the girl's stomach, mouth slightly agape, hands folded across his chest. His glasses sit askew on his nose. The girl is awake, reading, one hand holding her book at an angle to block the sun's glare, the other idly tracing a zigzag mark on her companion's brow. They look relaxed, untroubled, peaceful. Enchanted.

With a slight jerk the girl retracts her foot from the water. A rivulet trails down her ankle to drop from the muscle of her calf. "Shoo," she says firmly to the tentacle that has emerged from the water where her foot had just been to crook over the side of the boat, dripping water over the pair. "Get back in the water." Its sigh imagined rather than heard, the tentacle slips back down to disappear beneath the surface.

The sudden movement causes the boat to rock gently, which stirs the boy from his snooze with a mumbled, "Hm?" He reaches up to re-position his glasses, but his eyes remain closed, though a contented smile twitches at the edges of his mouth. He reaches out to caress the girl's leg.

"Nice nap?"

"Mm." With a grunt he turns over on his side to glide his hand further up the girl's leg, beyond the hem of her skirt.

Her breath catches. Her movements careful, she retrieves her bookmark and sets down the volume she'd been reading. With a slight tug--using both hands, now--she coaxes the boy closer. "You might as well have not come at all, you've spent so much time sleeping." A smile curves her cheeks as she leans forward to kiss him.

Ending the kiss, he pulls back to rest his head on her breast. "Sorry," he murmurs, his hand now stroking upwards along her rib cage to cup her other breast, his thumb skimming across the rounded surface. "Kingsley's had me on night shift the past two weeks. Privilege of being a novice, he says."

Arching slightly into his touch, the girl slides her hand down the boy's back, her fingers slipping adroitly beneath the edge of his shirt to fan out across the warm skin of his lower back, teasing at his waistband. "When do you have to be back on duty?" she murmurs into his mouth.

His teeth tug gently at her lower lip, then release it. "I should leave after supper."

Her laugh emerges as a low vibrato hum. She shifts her weight, cradling the boy's hips between her thighs, and pushes her hand down the back of his trousers. "Plenty of time, then."

Perils of Fame (HP)

2009-04-29T21:14:33Z

Title: Perils of Fame
Rating: PG
Summary: It's not easy being married to the most famous wizard in Britain.
Note: Written for the 2005 femgenficathon, for this prompt: Women are at last becoming persons first and wives second, and that is as it should be. -- May Sarton

DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter universe and everything it encompasses. This is a work of fan fiction, and thus derives no profit or material benefit therefrom.

Witch Weekly (Spring 2005 Issue): Behind Every Great Wizard...
By Mendacity Fibbulus, Reporter-at-Large

The door opens and Ginny Potter enters the restaurant, wearing shimmering bronze and café au lait robes from, as I learn later, Gabrielle Delacour's exclusive fall collection. She spots me right away and threads her way gracefully between the occupied tables. Heads turn and voices murmur as she passes, and she stops once or twice to pat a familiar witch or wizard on the shoulder or to respond to a greeting called from across the room. Clearly, she is as well-known here as she is all across Britain.

She arrives at our table and extends her hand to me. "Madam Fibbulus, it's a pleasure to meet you," she says. Her voice is low and husky, like that of a femme fatale in an old Muggle cinema. The warmth in her bright brown eyes convinces me she is genuinely pleased to meet me, and I start to see how she managed to charm The Boy Who Lived.

She is surprisingly pretty up close, despite the red hair and freckles. I can see now that the long-range lenses that usually capture her in private moments, or the staged studio portraits of the famous couple, are not all smoke and mirrors.

"Today's my wedding anniversary," she says as she takes the seat across from mine, "so I'm afraid I can't stay long."

"Congratulations," I tell her. "How many years -- three? Four?"

"Two," she says. The laugh lines at the corners of her mouth deepen slightly, as though she has just remembered a naughty joke.

"I won't keep you any longer than necessary, then." While she confers with the waiter I set up my Deluxe Quick Quotes Quill.

So you were married to Harry Potter two years ago today?

Yes.

Tell me about your wedding.

There's not really much to tell.

Come now, it was the most talked-about social event of the year!

No, really. Just a few close friends and family in the Marriage Registry Office. My brother Percy officiated.

And then?

Sorry? And then what?

Where did your new husband take you on your honeymoon?

We didn't go on honeymoon. There was still so much that needed to be done to rebuild after the war that we decided to postpone it.

The Potters' home in Somerset encompasses several hundred acres with an impressively large manor house, recently remodeled and refurbished by the design firm of Patil, Brown and Spinnett. The main house is seated atop a hill that gives visitors a panoramic view of the lush, rolling countryside. Nestled in a grove of trees at the northwest corner of the estate lie the ruins of Harry Potter's childhood home, the site of his first and final confrontation with He-Whose-Name-We-Still-Refuse-To-Speak-Aloud. A hundred yards away sits the Potter family cemetery; confidential sources tell Witch Weekly that Potter leaves a bouquet of calla lilies on his mother's grave every Halloween.

Those in the know say that inside the home, the furnishings are elegant but welcoming, a testimony to Potter's reportedly warm and generous personality. Yet, apart from a modest trophy case set in a dark corner of the sitting room, there is little to suggest that a wizard of such fame and notoriety lives there. Upon examination, the trophy case reveals only Potter's medal received for Special Services to Hogwarts, the Triwizard Cup, his Quidditch Captain's badge and the medal he received from a grateful wizarding Britain upon his final victory over You-Know-Who.

So tell me what it's like being married to The Boy Who Lived.

I don't think I quite get your meaning.

Well, I mean... he's so famous... and powerful... and the rumors --

Perhaps you should have asked him for an interview instead of me.

He turned us down.

I really should be going --

No, please, sit down. Tell me about the post-war rebuilding efforts. Is your husband involved?

Well, as you may know, my father has been spearheading the confiscation of property belonging to known Death Eaters. That property is then being liquidated and the proceeds redistributed amongst the survivors of Voldemort's victims. With the help of Hermione Granger --

That would be your brother's fiancée?

Er, yes. She and Luna Lovegood and I have been responsible for locating those survivors. We've also been drafting a measure to take before the Wizengamot that would guarantee all magical creatures equal status with witches and wizards. Remus Lupin, as you may know --

Is it true your husband personally arrested Severus Snape?

Er... I'm not quite sure what that has to do --

Did he really put Snape's eyes out with his own thumbs?

What rubbish. Where do you get these ridiculous stories?

Well... If he would just agree to an interview we could clear up a lot of mysteries about him.

Draco Malfoy will walk out of Azkaban a free man before that ever happens.

No one knows exactly what happened the day Harry Potter defeated You-Know-Who once and for all. Or, rather, those who know aren't telling. It is safe to presume that Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger were present, but some have hypothesized that Ginny Potter, then Ginny Weasley, may have been there as well. Stories have abounded for years that she fell under You-Know-Who's sway while a student at Hogwarts, and some believe she may have had a hand in his 'rebirth' at the climax of the Triwizard Tournament. Unfortunately, none of the reliable sources we contacted in pursuit of information were willing to go on record to confirm or deny the rumors.

What is a known fact, however, is that Severus Snape, whose loyalties during the Second War remain unclear even today, sits in Azkaban a blind man, his eyes having been gouged out at some time late in the war.

Look, do you want to hear about the rebuilding or not?

Of course, that's why you --

As I was trying to explain earlier, Luna, Hermione and I have been responsible for locating survivors. It hasn't been easy. Many of them went deep into hiding after initially being attacked. Some went overseas, to Europe or the Americas and even as far as Australia. Many have been passing as Muggles.

Your husband was raised by Muggles, wasn't he? I imagine his expertise is dead useful in tracking down people.

Not at all. Hermione is Muggle-born, so she is our best resource in that regard.

But surely you call on him for help at times. After all, he is the head of the Auror Division and the most powerful --

The most powerful wizard alive, yes, so I've heard.

Is it true?

Is what true?

That he's the most powerful wizard alive? Is it true he can perform advanced magic without a wand? That he can disembowel his enemies with a thought?

(Indistinct)

I'm sorry, I didn't catch that.

I said he puts his trousers on one leg at a time, just like any other wizard.

Boxers or briefs?

I beg your pardon?

Which does he prefer: boxers or briefs?

I...

We conducted a poll of our readers, and that was the number two question they most wanted an answer to.

I know I'm going to regret this: what was the number one question?

The hippogriff tattoo on his chest: fact or salacious rumor?

Are you familiar with the Bat-Bogey Hex?

No. Is that a spell your husband invented?

Vespertiliones mucorum!

* * * * *

Harry set down the magazine and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, chuckling. "I can't believe she actually left that bit in."

"I can't believe any of that twaddle," Ginny said, her eyes still trained on the pile of parchment spread out before her. "The insinuations about Voldemort were particularly offensive. I have half a mind to sue her for libel. And where does that hideous old cow get off calling me 'surprisingly pretty'?" She pointed a finger at the magazine, as though accusing it, and not those who contributed to it, of committing the offense. "To hear her lot tell it, you'd think my only purpose in life was to be 'The Girl Who Managed To Snag The Boy Who Lived'."

"You mean you have other ambitions?" he asked, his tone gently teasing her. "I mean, besides traveling all over the world to find traumatized survivors, or helping raise Galleons to build a home for war orphans, or designing and testing new products for Fred and George's business, or petitioning the Ministry on behalf of werewolf rights, or volunteering at St. Mungo's, or.... Did I forget anything?"

She turned her head to look at him, her eyebrow raised. "Another owl from the recruitment office for the Falmouth Falcons came today."

Harry sighed and picked up the magazine to finish reading the article. "Again? How many times do I have to tell them I'm not interested in playing professional Quidditch?"

"You're not listening, Harry," Ginny said. "The owl wasn't for you. They want me to play."

He looked up from the magazine. "Really?"

"Yes, really. Why, is that so unbelievable?"

He had the grace to blush. "No, not at all. I just -- I wasn't expecting it, is all. You've never really indicated any interest in playing at that level."

"I can do more than hunt down missing wizards and harass the Wizengamot and parade in front of cameras, you know."

"I never had any reason to doubt that you can do anything you set your mind to. After all, I could never have defeated Voldemort if you hadn't insisted on being there right beside me." This time, she was the one to blush and look away. "What are you going to tell them?" he asked.

She turned over the parchment she'd been reading earlier and scribbled a few notes on the back. "That I'd have to think about it. I am very busy, as you well know. I also told them I was concerned that if the team did well with me as a Chaser, my husband might have trouble coping with the attention that comes with having a wife who's as famous as he is."

A grin of wonder crept across his face. "You didn't."

"Did too." A corner of her mouth quirked. "You realize that if I do join the team, Witch Weekly will be hounding you for interviews?"

He made a face. "And how is that any different from the way things are now?"

"This time, though it'll probably still be your face on the cover, they'll actually be asking questions about me."

Pièce de Résistance (HP)

2009-04-26T11:29:08Z

TITLE: Pièce de Résistance
RATING: R/NC-17
SUMMARY: It's taken a long time to wear down Hermione's resistance, but Ron is a very patient man.
NOTE: Written prior to the release of Deathly Hallows.

DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter universe and everything it encompasses. This is a work of fan fiction, and thus derives no profit or material benefit therefrom.

Ron lay atop his rumpled, damp bedcovers, his heart beating rapidly, uncertain what had awakened him and frustrated that it had done so. It had been unrelentingly hot the past few nights, and, unable to cast a Cooling Charm that lasted longer than half an hour, he'd got little more than snatches of sleep here and there.

The woman lying next to him shifted and murmured in her sleep -- she didn't seem to suffer as much as he did -- and he caught a glimpse of her bare shoulder in the glow of a streetlamp. Ron grinned and rolled on his side, the better to see the way her skin glistened in the light. He'd finally managed to dismantle yet another layer of Hermione's resistance tonight. It had taken him years, but it was well worth the wait.

At first she'd balked about sex. The subject was one they'd argued about often, though never when Harry was in earshot. The three of them had been crisscrossing Britain for months in search of You-Know-Who's Horcruxes, danger snapping at their heels all the while. Ron didn't see the point in waiting; after so many years of dancing around his feelings for Hermione, and seeing the naked want in her eyes when she looked at him, to his mind the very idea of "resisting temptation" (as she put it) was pure bollocks. It damn near drove him mad, to have her just within reach, and yet be unable to touch her, but she held fast.

Then Harry had been gravely injured. You-Know-Who, knowing that Harry was up to something, risked restoring the connection between their minds to find out what. While he couldn't avoid revealing some of his own plans, he also found out that Harry knew what he'd done to his soul and was methodically destroying each fragment, one by one. You-Know-Who's fury was so great it drove Harry to his knees in agony, but once the connection had been severed he recovered with almost inhuman speed, invigorated by the knowledge that his greatest, most hated enemy knew he was now closer to death than he had ever been before.

Having successfully cheated death for so long, however, You-Know-Who wasn't about to give up without a fight. He sent Nagini to track and kill Harry. She nearly succeeded.

She was lying in wait when they came to the hiding place for Ravenclaw's candlestick, the last Horcrux but one, and struck at Harry as he pointed his wand to perform the spell that would destroy the fragment of soul it harbored. Ron shuddered at the memory: blood everywhere, Harry screaming in pain, Hermione screaming in horror, Nagini lunging again and again as Harry scrambled to elude her, his strength draining with each beat of his heart. Ron had stood there, frozen, thinking, "This is it. He's won. Harry's going to die, and he's the only chance we had." Then, as though possessed by a higher power, Ron had raised his wand and cast a Severing Charm on Nagini, separating her head from her body with one clean sweep of his arm.

Ron scooted closer to Hermione to kiss her shoulder, then ran his palm along the curve of her neck and down her arm. Her skin was warm and moist to the touch. He kissed her shoulder again and draped his arm over her waist to rest his hand against her bare stomach.

Nagini may have been dead, but there was still the Horcrux to destroy. Harry summoned the last reserves of his strength to cast the spell before collapsing into unconsciousness. Ron and Hermione then took him to Grimmauld Place, terrified that the strain of Side-Along Apparating would finish him off, but equally unwilling to risk any slower means of transport. Fortunately, both Lupin and Tonks were in residence, and between them, with Hermione's mind-boggling stockpile of knowledge, they were able to treat Harry's wounds well enough that his body could begin the healing process.

Exhausted and yet too keyed up to relax, Ron had stumbled into the first bedroom he came to, heedless of the dust and spiderwebs, and fell across the bed to stare up at the cracks in the ceiling plaster and wonder, not for the first time, if the nightmare would ever end. The creak of a floorboard and the slow squeak of a door being nudged open roused him from his thoughts and he raised his head to see Hermione standing in the doorway, the streaks of blood and grime and tears on her cheeks illuminated in the light of her wandtip. "Ron?" she'd said, her voice quavering.

"Hermione." And for the next hour or two, no other intelligible words passed between them.

His hand pressed reflexively against her stomach as the memory of that first coupling brought fresh life to his nether regions. He couldn't help nudging at her backside, but stayed the urge to let his hand trail southward.

After that night, even after Harry had recovered and rejoined them in the search for the final Horcrux, Hermione acknowledged that maybe Ron had been right all along, though she was always careful to keep Harry in the dark as much as possible. Harry wasn't fooled in the slightest, Ron knew, but he had the decency to let Hermione believe he had no idea what Ron and Hermione got up to when they were alone.

It took them another five months to locate and eliminate the final Horcrux. Ron should have known the quest would bring them full circle: You-Know-Who had secreted the sixth fraction of his soul in the award for special services to the school he'd been given years before, kept preserved in the Hogwarts trophy room. He remembered how he'd laughed bitterly when they realized it, thinking of the hours he'd spent polishing it during his second year.

There was a roll of thunder in the distance, and Ron thought the air smelled sharper, cleaner. He brushed Hermione's hair away from her ear to press a kiss against the tender skin there, breathing in the faint residue of the perfume she wore.

They had not had to wait long to complete the task they'd initially set out on, for You-Know-Who and his army were waiting when Harry, Ron, and Hermione emerged from the trophy room. Thus began a fierce battle that raged for hours, shaking Hogwarts to its very foundations. Ron tried not to think too much of the lives lost that day, including those of two of his brothers, Professor McGonagall, and Hagrid. What mattered most was that Harry had triumphed in the end.

Ron was so grateful to have made it through alive that he turned to Hermione, who had fought by his side the whole time, and said without thinking, "Marry me."

In true Hermione fashion she'd looked up at him with those limpid brown eyes and said, "No."

Of course, he'd known she hadn't really meant it, and was undeterred by her refusal, despite the logic and reasoning she threw in his path. After all, he had logic on his side too, namely the irrefutable argument that they were meant for each other, and had been ever since that day on the train when she informed him he had dirt on his nose. And while it may seem to the casual observer that she had won this battle -- three years after his proposal, they still remained unmarried -- Ron had every confidence that, in the end, he would prevail.

He was equally certain that she would eventually agree to live with him as well, though that might have to wait until they were married. He thought it was daft for both of them to continue paying rent on separate flats when she hardly used hers for more than as a place to store her books and clothes, but Hermione insisted.

What she had also insisted on at first, and he found equally mad, was not spending the night with him. She'd long ago given up any hesitation about sex, but after he first leased a bedsit above Quality Quidditch Supplies, then moved to a slightly larger walk-up around the corner from the Ministry of Magic after he'd been promoted, she adamantly refused to stay overnight. "It's improper, Ron," she said. "People will talk."

"So what? The only people who would talk about it already know we shag on a regular basis, so who cares if they see you leaving here in the morning instead of after dark?"

"I care. I don't want people thinking of me as a slag."

"Bloody hell, Hermione, no one's going to think you're a slag."

"Please don't swear, Ron."

They went back and forth over this for a year, until the first anniversary of You-Who-Know's defeat. There'd been a huge celebration with parades and speeches and banquets and more speeches and the unveiling of monuments in Godric's Hollow and Diagon Alley and yet more speeches, and by the time Ron and Hermione stumbled through the door to his flat long after midnight they were both too exhausted to remove their clothes, much less make love.

When he awoke, the late morning sun was streaming through the window beside Ron's bed. He reveled in the giddiness he felt at the realization he'd finally been able to spend an entire night with Hermione lying beside him in bed. The feeling didn't last long, however, because his bladder was full and his stomach empty, and his hope of bringing Hermione breakfast in bed (after a quick piss, of course, and maybe a swipe of the toothbrush) was dashed when her eyes flew open as he attempted to ease himself out of bed without waking her.

"Bugger," he said as she turned to look at him with sleep-dazed eyes.

"Ron?" she murmured, licking her lips. "Mm."

Ron watched her yawn and stretch, ignoring the pressing need to use the loo as he waited tensely for realization to hit. "What --" Her eyes widened. "Ron!" She sat up straight. "Bloody hell!"

The shock of hearing her curse almost made him lose control of his bladder. He recovered in time to barely avoid being knocked down as she hurtled out of bed, the elegant knot her hair had been done up in last night in disarray and her dress robes rumpled in such a way it would be obvious to anyone who saw her that she'd slept in them, and began a frenzied search for her shoes. "Bloody, bloody hell!" she wailed as Ron stood there in stupefied awe.

As she pushed past him to look under his bed for the third time, he grabbed her arm, spun her around, and kissed her. When he released her, he had to grab her arm again to keep her from toppling over; apparently she'd managed to find one of her shoes.

"What was that for?" she asked, bringing her fingers up to her swollen lips.

He grinned. "You can swear all you want, but you can't undo the fact that you spent the night here." She began to splutter, but he silenced her by pressing his fingers over her mouth. "Stop it, Hermione. It's after ten o'clock in the morning, it's a beautiful day, neither one of us has to go to work, and there's nothing I want more than to spend the whole day with you.

"Now --" He removed his hand from her mouth, paused long enough to see if she was going to attempt to argue, then pointed towards the loo. "Now, I'm going to take a piss before I burst, brush my teeth to get the taste of day-old Firewhisky out of my mouth, and shower. I won't be gone longer than ten minutes. When I come out, you'd best still be here."

"But --" she started. He tried to silence her again, but she side-stepped him. "Can't I at least go home to freshen up and change my clothes?" She looked ruefully at her bedraggled dress robes.

"No," Ron said with determination. "We'll go after I've showered and dressed. We'll go together, so all our nosy neighbors can see that Hermione Granger spent the night with Ron Weasley."

"If we went by Floo --"

"No, Hermione. We'll walk down to the street and Apparate." He bent forward to kiss her cheek. "I'm not letting you wiggle out of this. What's done is done, and I'm not about to let you act like it's something to be ashamed of."

He could tell she wanted to argue. If she had done, years of experience enabled him to guess in advance what she would say. Amazingly, though, she gave in, lowering herself to sit on the edge of his bed. "All right, I'll wait."

"That's my girl." He smiled at her. "I won't be long, promise."

Years of experience should have taught Ron that she wouldn't give in quite so easily, that Hermione always had an ace up her sleeve. Consequently, he was caught completely off guard -- though nonetheless delighted beyond words -- when, five minutes later, she joined him in the shower.

Lighting streaked the sky and thunder rumbled again, closer this time. Hermione sighed in her sleep and rolled on to her back. The bedsheet that had been partially covering her slipped down to reveal her breasts in the streetlamp's incandescence. Ron groaned at the sight. Hermione's breasts were nothing new to him, but to have her lying in his bed, sound asleep, without a stitch of clothing on? That was a novelty.

It was the final chink in her armor, so to speak. She'd given in on everything else -- their still-pending cohabitation and marriage notwithstanding -- but nothing he said or did could convince her not to dress again after they'd had sex. He'd even tried making love to her multiple times in the course of a night, grumbling all the while about the time wasted in removing her clothes yet again, but she was stubborn and put them back on each time they finished.

Most of the time it was nothing more than knickers and a T-shirt. She was as likely to wear one of his shirts as hers, which he rather liked, and after one bout of vigorous sex she couldn't find her panties and so nicked a pair of his shorts from the dresser, which he thought was so damn sexy he had to peel them right off and make love to her again, but to him it was the principle of the thing. He slept starkers all the time, even on the rare nights when Hermione didn't stay over, and couldn't for the life of him understand why any decent, reasonable person wouldn't want to do likewise. But then, this was Hermione, who put a fresh spin on indecency.

A breeze that carried the scent of rain wafted through the open window, raising goosepimples on Hermione's torso. Ron groaned again and smoothed his hand up her stomach to cup the underside of a breast, feeling the slight dampness that had gathered there.

In the end, it was the heat that broke her resolve. Britain had been caught in the grip of an intense heat wave all summer, and in the heart of the city, with all the tall buildings and people and motorcars, the temperature was as much as fifteen degrees higher than in the countryside. Even the best Cooling Charms were woefully inadequate. Unnecessary physical exertion of any sort was unthinkable, though Ron and Hermione agreed that there was one general type of exertion they weren't prepared to completely give up. They just tried to do it with as little movement as possible, which nonetheless made for some interesting and intense sensations that left Ron drenched with perspiration and feeling as though he'd just been molested by a succubus.

Easing himself up on his arm, Ron leaned over Hermione to trace his tongue around the pale pink areola closest to him, simultaneously sliding his hand down past her navel and in between her thighs, where the humidity, unlike the air outside, was deliciously inviting.

He smiled when she moaned and shifted in her sleep, unconsciously spreading her legs. He couldn't have done this half so easily if she'd decided, as she had done all those other nights, to get dressed before allowing herself to drift off to sleep. But after several nights in a row of oppressive, unbroken heat and humidity, tonight she'd finally given in to reason. "I feel like I'm in a sauna," she'd complained as she'd climbed off of him to collapse, tired, sweaty, and yet sated, beside him. "I don't know how much more of this I can take."

She had rolled over then to reach for her knickers, where they'd been flung on the floor. When she turned back, she was winded. Ron watched in amusement and barely concealed hope as she'd studied the knot of cotton held before her, her lower lip protruding the way it tended to when she was coming to a difficult decision. Finally she sighed, wadded them up, and threw them across the room. "I don't care; it's just too damn hot to wear clothes," she said.

Ron had been so overjoyed, if he hadn't been in need of a few more minutes to recover, he would have tackled her right then. Instead he'd pulled her to him -- ignoring the way the perspiration made their skin stick together -- and kissed her until they were both panting for air.

She'd smiled at him when she lay back down beside him, her hand resting lightly on his chest. "You're hopeless, do you realize?"

He laughed. "Hermione," he said, "when it comes to you, I am only ever hopeful."

There was a loud crack of thunder outside, and suddenly the heavens opened, releasing much-needed rain in a downpour. Hermione's eyes had opened at the sound, and the first thing she saw was Ron's face as he leaned in for a kiss.

Her lips curved in a languid, sultry smile when he drew back so he could lift himself over her and cradle his hips between her thighs. "Hi," she said, bringing up her arms to clasp her hands behind his neck.

"Hi," he replied, and began to move as the drumbeat of rain on hot roofs and pavement drowned out the sounds of increasingly exuberant lovemaking.

The Serpent and the Hawk 6/6 (DS9)

2009-04-10T22:03:45Z

TITLE: The Serpent and the Hawk
RATING: R
SUMMARY: Ziyal's brutal death unites Gul Dukat and Major Kira in ways neither of them expected.

DISCLAIMER: Paramount owns the Star Trek universe and everything it encompasses. This story is not intended to infringe on any copyrights, and the only profit I gain by it is emotional satisfaction.

PART FIVE

His heart was breaking.

He had given so much of himself to this woman; why did she refuse to see that? He was a sentimental old fool to think that she could ever truly love him as he loved her. She had probably only danced for him because she knew he was familiar with the tradition. Her heart had not been in it. He had only imagined her forgiveness. It was settled, then; now matter what he did or said, they would always remain enemies, because that was what she wanted.

It was not what he wanted. He wanted to take her back with him to Cardassia. He wanted to recruit her expertise in a plan he was formulating to incite civil war and overthrow the Dominion yoke. He wanted her fighting at his side as he reclaimed Cardassia for Cardassians. He wanted to make love to her every night for the rest of his life.

Disappointment was a bitter pill to swallow.

He stretched beneath her, releasing her hand as it lay against his chest, and yawned. "The sun will be up soon, Major," he said as nonchalantly as possible. "I'd better get dressed and leave before any of our hosts find me here." He extracted himself from her embrace and swung his legs down to the floor. Their clothes were jumbled beside the bed, and it took him several minutes to separate his clothing from hers.

As he eased one arm into his shirt, noting the large rip where it had caught on one of his ridges, he felt Kira move behind him. He closed his eyes when a bare arm slipped around his neck and her sweet breath warmed his cheek. "Don't go," she pleaded. "Stay here...with me...just a little while longer."

If she had begged him to forgive her for doubting his love, if she had proclaimed her own love and forgiveness, he might have acquiesced. But she did not, and instead he said, "No. We shouldn't be seen like this. It's not...right."

Her voice betrayed controlled fury. "Denying what happened between us isn't going to make it go away."

He clenched his fists. "I'm not denying it, Major, you are!" His head swiveled so he could stare into her dark eyes. "I would climb to the top of the highest mountain and tell all of Bajor that I spent the entire night making love to the most...amazing...woman in the Alpha Quadrant, and when I came down I would sweep you up in my arms and make love to you all over again. You, on the other hand, will find a way to pass this off as a momentary weakness or as proof that I care only about controlling you and Bajor!" He turned his attention back to his clothes.

She was silent for a moment, but Dukat did not dare to look at her. When her response finally came, it was so cold he shivered at the sound of her voice. "So that's how it's going to be. I didn't say all the right things, I didn't tell you how wonderful you were in bed, or how much you made me forget the past, or how much I love you, so then it obviously must not be true. Since I didn't dedicate myself to soothing your fragile ego, then what passed between us last night must have been nothing more than two people satisfying their craven lusts!" She climbed off the bed and stalked to her closet to grab a robe from the hook. Her voice softened a bit as she turned to address him. "I'm sorry for what I said earlier. It didn't come out quite the way I meant it to. But if you can be so quick to judge me, then maybe you're right. Maybe this could never work. Maybe, no matter how hard we both try, we just can't let go of the past."

Dukat stood and held out his arms. "Nerys --" he pleaded.

She wavered, but held firm. "No, Dukat." She looked as though she were about to say something else, but her mouth remained firmly shut as she stalked out of the room.

~ * ~

Kira stormed into the kitchen and rummaged through the cupboards, oblivious to the noise she made as she searched for a canister of ginger tea. At last she found it, hidden at the back of a high shelf. As she stood on her toes to reach as far as she could to grab the canister, she accidentally knocked a stack of dishes onto the floor.

"Damn!" she muttered as she bent down to gather the shards as they lay scattered across the floor. She was still so wrapped up in her own anger and pain that she did not hear Regnold enter the kitchen, nor was she aware of his first quiet attempts to catch her attention.

"Nerys!" Kira jumped, dropping several pieces back to the floor.

She looked at Regnold sheepishly. "I'm making a lot of noise, aren't I? I'm sorry, I --"

"Come with me." He turned on his heel and strode toward his office. Kira obediently followed. "Close the door," he ordered when she entered his office. She did as he said and stood before his desk.

Regnold activated his communications monitor and swiveled it on its stand so Kira could view the display. Her hand went immediately to her mouth, stifling the cry of outrage that issued from her throat, and she sunk heavily into a seat.

The images scrolling past were of the capital city in ruins. Mutilated bodies littered the streets. Buildings burned. Sirens wailed. Ground transports lay scattered about. The only signs of life evident were of the Jem'Hadar looting and plundering. Not even the Cardassians at the height of the Occupation had wreaked such havoc.

When she finally found her voice, she asked, "When --? How --?"

"The 'message' was here when I activated the terminal this morning. It had been sent on a secured channel."

Kira immediately knew who had sent the images. "Shakaar. He probably needs me to come in and help protect the Council of Ministers, or coordinate an evacuation to Deep Space Nine." She looked up at Regnold. "What will you do while I'm gone?"

"We still have the bunker stocked with supplies. If necessary, we'll go there."

"What about Dukat? Do you feel safe with him here?"

"No, but as long as the Dominion doesn't find out he's here, we should be out of harm's way. I don't recommend you take him with you."

Kira shook her head in agreement. "The Jem'Hadar will kill him on sight. He'll have to stay here until I can arrange safe transport for him off of Bajor. And, if the Dominion comes here, you'll need his help protecting yourselves."

"If he provides it."

"He will. He always rewards those who help him."

She stood to leave, but Regnold stopped her with a hand on her wrist. "Be careful, Nerys. Without the white to keep them under control, those Jem'Hadar will kill anything that moves. May the Prophets keep you safe."

~ * ~

Kira was finalizing her arrangements to travel to the capital city when there was a knock at her door. "Come in," she said. She looked up to find Dukat standing next to her, a serious expression on his face. She sighed with exasperation. "Save your speech, Dukat, I don't have time for it."

"Major, I wasn't going to give you any speech. I only wanted to ask you to reconsider your decision to go into that war zone."

She grabbed a spare change of clothes from her closet and stuffed it into her backpack. "That 'war zone' is my capital city, and I have an obligation to protect the few people still alive there." She added a few packets of field rations, a canteen and a portable light before zipping the pack closed.

"You'll never make it past the Jem'Hadar," Dukat said, resting a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged him away, and his voice rose slightly in response. "They've probably already found and executed the Council of Ministers as well as any vedeks that haven't fled for the monasteries."

Furious and afraid, Kira turned on her heel to face Dukat. "The Jem'Hadar wouldn't even be there if it weren't for you."

She retrieved her phaser from its case on a closet shelf, but Dukat took it from her, inspecting it as he spoke. "Then take me with you. Let me help."

Kira's arms were a blur as she gesticulated while pacing back and forth. "Why don't I just wear a sign that says, 'Shoot me'? You'll never make it past the first sentry, and I'll be shot just for being seen with you." She stopped pacing when she saw Dukat remove the power cell from her phaser and pocket it. "What are you doing?" she asked, trying to take it from him.

He twisted away from her, holding the phaser just out of her reach. "Your power cell is low; it needs to be replaced." He reached into the drawer and pulled out a fresh cell, inserting it in the compartment before he handed the weapon back to her. He lifted his eyes to her face and she returned his gaze; this time she let his hands remain on her shoulders as he stepped closer to her. "Don't leave me here with nothing to do, Kira. I can't sit by and watch Bajor be destroyed without doing whatever I can to prevent it."

She sighed as her gaze dropped to the floor. "I need you here, to help Regnold protect Jormal and the children. Potr can show you where they keep their weapons stored; they'll need to be inspected and charged. Make sure there are enough supplies in the bunker." She lifted her eyes to Dukat's face again and let her own hand rest lightly against his chest. "Please...keep them safe...for me."

"Kira, I belong --"

"Just do it, Dukat." Kira stepped back. "These people are the closest I have to a family. If you want to fight with me, then fight for me. Help me by helping them."

Dukat closed his eyes and nodded slowly. "All right, Major. Just...one more thing before you leave."

"What is it, Dukat?"

He reached out a hand and gently stroked her cheek, then lifted her chin to look deeply into her eyes. The depth of the passion she saw in his pale eyes reminded her of the joy his touch had brought her just a few hours ago. If she were not still hurt and angered by their earlier argument, she might have wrapped her arms around his ridged torso and kissed him until they were both breathless. But she did not, and instead he said "Come back to me. Preferably in one piece."

~ * ~

"Potr, have you ever fired a disrupter before?" Dukat asked the boy as he replaced the newly-charged power cell in the weapon he had just inspected.

Potr lifted another disrupter rifle from the storage locker, staggering under its weight, and handed it to Dukat. "Yes, sir. Aunt Nerys taught me and Panat how to handle disrupters last time she was here."

Dukat swore under his breath. "You're just a child," he muttered.

Regnold responded from the other side of the room, "So was Nerys when she joined the Resistance. So was Ziyal when she was with you on that freighter. As a father, you should understand that we have to do whatever is necessary to protect our children, even if it means teaching them to protect themselves."

"I understand the importance of teaching self-defense to a child," Dukat retorted, "but is it necessary they learn how to fire a disrupter? A phaser will suffice under most circumstances. No child should have to experience the total vaporization of an enemy."

"No child should have to experience the invasion of his homeworld by an alien species, and the Jem'Hadar are a far more formidable invasion force than the Cardassians ever were."

Dukat's jaw muscles clenched, but he said nothing. He was not about to debate history or politics with Chivas Regnold, at least not in the presence of the children. He finished inspecting the remaining weapons in silence, laying each one on the table in turn. When he was done, he slung the strap of one rifle over his head and balanced the remaining rifles in his arms. Potr followed Dukat's lead and collected the few phasers that lay on the table, leaving one behind for his father. They then left the house and walked the several meters to the bunker's entrance.

"Don't mind Father," Potr said as he trotted to keep pace with Dukat's long-legged stride. "He's always like that."

"Like what? Concerned about your safety? I should hope so." At the bunker door he shifted the rifles in his arms to free his hand so he could knock. Sounds of locks being opened manually filtered through the reinforced material of the door. "If I were in his shoes, I would have done exactly the same thing, and I would have reacted just as he did if anyone questioned my precaution. I just don't like the idea of you and your sister handling weapons as destructive as disrupters. Although, your father is right: a typical phaser would be ineffective against the Jem'Hadar, and if anything happens to him or me you need to be able to protect your mother and siblings as best as you can." Dukat looked down at the boy, whose serious expression belied his youth. He may not have suffered much during the waning years of the Occupation, Dukat thought, but he has aged far beyond his years.

The door creaked open to reveal Jormal's worried face, and she hurriedly waved Dukat and Potr inside. "Where's your father?" she asked the boy.

"He's finishing up securing the house. Where are the others?"

"Panat is putting them to bed, in the back room." She pushed the door shut behind them and secured several of the locks. "Go put the weapons on the table. I just heard from the ground transport station," she said to Dukat. "There's a band of Jem'Hadar on their way here."

Dukat handed one of the rifles to Jormal, observing that she handled it as deftly as she did one of her children; she obviously knew her way around a disrupter. "How long before they get here?" he asked.

"According to the station manager, they were spotted about an hour ago in a hijacked transport vehicle approximately seventy kilometers from the provincial border. With power out in most of Dahkur, they should be here in less than an hour."

Dukat offered up a silent plea to the Prophets to keep Kira safe. "I'm sure the major made it safely to the capital city," he said, hoping he sounded more convincing than he felt. Kira was probably the only person on the entire planet to have needed a transport vehicle today.

The look Jormal gave him suggested she was shocked at his implication that Kira might not have succeeded in her mission. "Of course she did. Nerys can do anything she sets her mind to."

Dukat chuckled. "You'll get no argument from me. I just hope that she'll stay with the Council of Ministers once she finds them, and doesn't try to --"

His words were cut off by a loud explosion just outside the bunker, quickly echoed by shouts and cries coming from the occupants within. Instinctively, Dukat threw his arms over Jormal, shielding her from the debris that rained down on them from the ceiling, and pulled her under the table. Behind him he heard Potr's frantic shout, "What happened?"

"I don't know yet!" he yelled. "Get back there with the others! Turn the cots over on their sides and hide yourselves between them and the walls of the bunker."

When Potr did not immediately reply, Dukat turned to glare at him as he stood, frozen with fear, in the doorway. He felt a momentary pang as he remembered the boy's youth and innocence, but he needed Potr's help; he could not protect all of the children alone. He crept over to the boy and grabbed his arm roughly, shaking Potr out of his frightened reverie. "Potr - you need to take care of your brothers and sisters," Dukat said. "Your father...may already be dead. You have to be the man of the house now."

Jormal appeared beside him and wrapped her arms around her son. "Come on, Potr," she said gently. "I'll stay with you until your father gets here." She turned and gave Dukat a baleful stare. "He will get here."

Dukat nodded and patted Potr on the shoulder to reassure him. "You'll be all right," he said. "Your mother and I will protect you." He closed the inner door behind Jormal and Potr and barricaded it with a heavy chest, smiling in grim satisfaction when he heard the tell-tale sounds of a similar action being taken on the other side. He then set about shifting the rest of the furniture - a table, several chairs, and another chest - and numerous boxes and crates around the room, to give him places to hide and keep an eye on the door should the Jem'Hadar attempt to enter. He wanted to look outside and see if anything remained of the house, but there were no windows in the bunker, and he did not dare open the door.

He wedged himself behind a stack of crates with one disrupter held at the ready and another on the floor beside him and waited. He did not have to wait long. Another explosion shook the bunker. The emergency lights dimmed, bathing the room in an eerie blue glow, and two support beams came crashing to the floor - one of them less than a meter from Dukat's head. He could hear the muffled sounds of Jem'Hadar troops searching the area around the bunker, probably looking for the well-hidden entrance, and another, lesser, explosion.

Then from the relative safety of his position he heard shouts - not from the children, but from outside the bunker, and not from the Jem'Hadar either. His hearing was too poor to be certain, but he thought at least one of the voices sounded...human.

In fact, it sounded like Captain Sisko.

There was a barrage of weapons fire, and he knew for sure that whoever had engaged the Jem'Hadar was using Federation ordnance. Then he heard several more shouts, another round of weapons being fired, and then silence.

Someone banged on the door and shouted, "Kira! It's safe! You can come out now!"

That, Dukat thought, sounded like Odo.

He rose to his feet and walked to the door, keeping his rifle ready just in case. It took him several minutes to disengage the locks, even though Jormal had only been able to engage half of them before the attack. At last he got the door open, and found himself looking into the puzzled and astonished faces of Captain Sisko, Commanders Dax and Worf, and Odo.

* ~ *

Kira had little difficulty finding space on a transport to the edge of the capital city's home province, but she almost had to empty her pockets and draw her weapon to convince the operator to take her that far. No one was going into the city now that the Jem'Hadar had made good on their threat to invade Bajor, and even the transports leaving the city held only those stalwart few who had refused to evacuate until the last minute. No amount of currency or threats would persuade the transport operator to take her beyond the provincial border, however, and Kira was forced to finish her journey on foot. It was nearly dusk when she finally arrived at the outskirts of the capital city, and she was tired, filthy and hungry.

The streets were dark and deserted, although the distant sounds of weapons discharges and rampaging Jem'Hadar echoed hollowly through the still night air. It was eerie to see the city so empty; when the Cardassians had invaded Bajor, the people were ignorant of the threat until it was too late, and the Cardassians were too efficient and organized to destroy everything in sight. They were interested in exploiting Bajor, not demolishing it; that very fact had played a significant role in Bajor's recovery after the withdrawal.

Kira's senses were on full alert as she crept through the shadows, her fully-charged phaser nestled comfortably in her hand. One of the first lessons she had learned in the Shakaar was that physical exhaustion dulled the mind but sharpened the senses, and her autonomous nervous system instinctively catalogued the various sensory stimuli that filtered into her brain, saving the information for when it might be needed.

She heard a crunch of heavy boots on broken glass and ducked into an alley, the muzzle of her weapon held beside her nose as her watchful eyes waited for the danger to pass. Fortunately for her, the Jem'Hadar have no sense of smell, or else the three white-deficient soldiers that stumbled past less than two meters from her hiding place would have detected her aroma of fear. Once their inarticulate voices were beyond her range of hearing, she peered out of the alley and resumed her course.

One of Shakaar's first actions as First Minister had been to establish an underground bunker for the Council to retreat to should the Cardassians attempt to invade Bajor again. Kira, with Sisko's blessing and the use of Deep Space Nine's engineering staff, had helped him design and equip the six-room complex to keep the Council alive and safe for at least three years. Neither Kira nor Shakaar had thought at the time that the bunker would first be used during an undisciplined Dominion attack on the capital city. On her last visit to the city, nevertheless, she had escorted several ministers and a few of Kai Winn's loyal vedeks to the bunker during the night. Shakaar had insisted that he remain above ground as long as possible, to assist Bajorans evacuating the city and to maintain a communications link with Deep Space Nine. Once Shakaar retreated to the bunker, she knew, the Council would be unable to communicate with the station; the forcefield enhancers Chief O'Brien had installed around the complex would shield the complex's inhabitants from all outside interference. Once the danger had passed, Shakaar, working from the inside, and someone on the outside with the necessary command codes, would be able to bring down the field. Kira, Sisko and a vedek whose identity was known only to Shakaar were the only people outside the bunker who knew the codes.

Kira made her way cautiously to the above-ground entrance to the bunker, taking care to follow an indirect route in the event she was being followed. It was probably an unnecessary precaution, as the Jem'Hadar who had landed on Bajor were attacking at random, without their usual systematic methods, but she had been a Resistance fighter far too long to set aside her own habits. She stole down several side streets, trying not to look upon the ruined husks of buildings, vehicles and bodies that surrounded her, backtracking several times and skirting any groups of Jem'Hadar she saw or heard careening through the streets.

She reached an intersection and pressed her back against a high wall, collecting her thoughts and judging the remaining distance to the bunker. For just a moment her guard slipped as her thoughts turned to the Chivas estate and its inhabitants, and particularly their Cardassian guest. Would she come to regret trusting him? Would he help protect them if the Jem'Hadar attacked, as she had promised Regnold, or would his own safety be his only concern? She shook her head to clear her mind of such distracting thoughts. This was not the time to be worrying about Dukat. One false move, and she would be another Dominion casualty.

Unfortunately, she was too late.

A hand slipped forth from the shadows surrounding her and clapped over her mouth, pulling her backward into the abyss. Kira tried to scream, but the hand's owner apparently possessed greater brute strength than she could overcome, and who would come to her rescue if she could scream? Instead she fought to throw off her attacker, but a second arm quickly disarmed her and twisted her hands behind her back. She kicked back with one leg, seeking an instep, but her assailant was light on his feet and dodged her attempt, throwing her off-balance. In a final desperate attempt to break free she bit down on his hand as hard as she could, taking vicious pleasure in the grunt of pain that came from her attacker.

"Kira! Stop!" a familiar voice whispered.

Kira blinked her eyes rapidly to clear her battle-fogged vision. The voice had come from her left, not behind her, and she turned in that direction. From beneath the brown cowl of a vedek's robe Dax' bright eyes looked back at her. Kira's eyes widened in confusion as the strong hands that held her fast loosened their grip. She turned to face the pained scowl of Commander Worf, similarly disguised and now clenching his fist to stem the trickle of blood from his wounded finger. Emerging from the shadows behind him were Odo and Captain Sisko, both of them glowering at her from beneath their hoods. Kira gaped in surprise, but she had enough common sense remaining to keep her voice lowered.

"What are you doing here? How did you find me?"

"Shakaar sent us a distress call just as the Jem'Hadar landed on Bajor, and we were able to use the Defiant to evacuate the Council to the station," Dax said. "Then we went looking for you."

Kira's mind raced furiously. "How did you know I'd be here?"

A fifth robed figure, which she had not seen before, stepped into her range of vision, and the hood was pulled back to reveal Dukat's craggy gray features. "They came to the estate looking for you, but they found me instead," he said with a trace of sly humor. "I was the one who told them where you'd gone."

Kira swallowed and looked nervously at Sisko. She knew that look on his face. There would be hell to pay once she got back to the station, but first she had to be sure of one thing. "How are --?"

Dukat anticipated her question. "They're safe, Major, although the house has been destroyed. I was able to get them into the bunker before the Jem'Hadar arrived. Regnold was wounded in the leg, but he will recover. Thanks to my effort and quick thinking, none of the children were harmed."

Sisko interrupted him. "We can discuss this back on the station. For now, we need to get out of here before any of those soldiers find us." He took Kira by the elbow and half-led, half-dragged her away.

~ * ~

Dukat did not think he had ever seen Captain Sisko so angry in all the years he had known him - and he had certainly seen many facets to the complex human. If fury like that could be harnessed, he thought, there would be enough energy to supply Terok Nor's power needs for a full month. Sisko stood behind his desk - their desk - and banged his fist on it so hard he sent his prized baseball flying from its perch. It bounced off the desk and rolled across the office floor until it came to a stop between Odo's feet as he stood in a corner just to Dukat's right. The shapeshifter ignored the object, choosing instead to bestow his disapproving glare on Kira, Dukat and Doctor Bashir.

"Dammit, Major, what the hell did you think you were doing?" Sisko thundered. "And you, Doctor, you are a Starfleet officer with enough sense to know not to harbor a known enemy of the Federation in the middle of a war!"

Dukat was amused that Bashir at least had enough common sense left not to try to respond to Sisko, but that Kira did not. Her replies were quickly and thoroughly quelled.

"QUIET!"

Sisko came around to the front of his desk to stand nose-to-nose with Kira. To her credit, she did not flinch, nor did she look away in shame. Her courage and defiance never failed to amaze Dukat.

When he spoke again, Sisko's voice was back to its normal register, but the anger remained. "Major, I am deeply disappointed in you. Not only did you disobey my orders, but you lied to me, put the lives of everyone on this station and on Bajor at great risk, convinced Doctor Bashir to go along with your scheme, and left the potential fate of the entire Alpha Quadrant in your own hands. I have half a mind to send you to Earth to stand trial for the same charges as Dukat. Then you'll really get to spend time getting to know each other."

Dukat recognized the set in Kira's jaw and began to grow concerned that Sisko was taking this too far. He thought the captain knew him well enough to trust him not to go back on his word - and the information he had provided Starfleet while still on Starbase 375 had, after all, enabled them to retake the station - but it was becoming increasingly apparent that Sisko intended to exact a harsh penalty for Kira's betrayal, no matter how well-meaning her actions might have been. He did not want to risk the repercussions Kira's resentment and anger would have on his relationship with her, whatever that relationship might be.

"Captain Sisko," Dukat said, "I wonder if I might have a word with you in private?"

Sisko's eyes never left Kira's face as he responded, "You'll get your chance to defend yourself, Dukat." He stepped away from Kira, walked behind his desk and sat down. Odo went to stand behind him. "Doctor Bashir, I'm placing you on report for one year. Another incident like this, and you'll be demoted to ensign. Understood?" Bashir nodded. "Dismissed." Sisko then turned his attention back to Kira. "Major, I am filing a complete report of your actions with the Council of Ministers. What they decide to do about it is their concern. In the meantime, you are confined to quarters except when on duty, and you are not to have any contact with Gul Dukat before he leaves Deep Space Nine. Have I made myself clear?"

Kira opened her mouth, about to retort, but Dukat watched in amazement as she reined in her fury and nodded meekly. "Yes, Captain."

"Good. Dismissed."

Dukat turned to watch Kira go, giving her a little smile as she glanced briefly at him, then admiring her figure before the doors to Sisko's office closed between them. When he turned back to face Sisko, he could not help but notice the hurt look that flashed across Odo's face, only to be replaced with his usual stoic scowl. You had your chance, shapeshifter, but you chose to waste it on that Founder, Dukat thought.

"So, Captain, here we are again," Dukat said nonchalantly.

Sisko ignored him as he addressed Odo. "Constable, show Dukat the transmission we intercepted two nights ago."

Sisko's cryptic response intrigued Dukat, and he watched with rapt fascination as Odo activated the vidscreen beside the desk. As the fuzzy images came into focus however, Dukat's easy humor was quickly replaced with horror.

The scenes were of Cardassia Prime in chaos - on the brink of civil war even. Dukat knew with absolute certainty that they were a deliberate message, not an accidentally intercepted transmission, and who the messenger was. He knew because, interspersed with scenes of rioting, looting, and general mayhem, the most prominent image was of Damar and Mekor hanging from a scaffold in the center of the Imperial Plaza. His former adjutant and his own son, executed. Whether they died at the hands of the angry mob that surrounded the scaffold or of Jem'Hadar acting on the orders of a superior, Dukat knew without question who had arranged to send this message to the station.

Weyoun.

Dukat's blood was boiling, and it took far more strength than he knew he possessed to keep from exploding in uncontrollable fury. He had his fists clenched so tightly blood streamed from his palms, but he was unaware of any pain.

A hand came to rest on his shoulder, and he jumped in surprise, nearly lashing out with his fists. Sisko took a step back, raising his hands in supplication. "I didn't mean to startle you," he said gently. "I --" he glanced at Odo, who nodded in reply "-- Starfleet doesn't know you're back in our custody, and they're not going to find out. Against my better judgment, I'm setting you free."

Dukat turned on his heel to confront Sisko. "Setting me free? To do what? To go where?"

Sisko straightened his shoulders. "I know that you care more about Cardassia than anything else, and that you will do whatever you can to save her. I'll never forgive you for the treaty you signed with the Dominion, but I am giving you another chance. Go home, to Cardassia. Help your people fight off the Dominion. Right now, without the hope of any new troops coming through that wormhole, the Dominion has its hands full trying to hold power on Cardassia. If you go back there and lead a full-fledged rebellion --"

"I'll be dead in less than a week --"

"-- I'll see to it that you get supplies and...information...to help you eliminate the Dominion presence."

"And Cardassia."

Sisko sighed, and Odo said, "You should have thought of that before you welcomed the Dominion with open arms."

"I've discussed the matter with Garak and Quark," Sisko said, "and they've agreed to help you - provided that you use the supplies and information they provide to overthrow the Dominion. If you use it for your own ambition...."

"Why, Captain? What do you hope to gain from...helping Cardassia - helping me - like this?"

"I want the Dominion out of the Alpha Quadrant for good. As long as they maintain a presence here, they're still a threat."

Dukat's eyes narrowed. "Why do you need my help? Why not just...invade Cardassia?"

A fleeting smile crossed Sisko's face. "Because someday, I hope, Cardassia will join the Federation of its own accord, and not as a...territory...of Bajor. An unstable Cardassia will be an invitation to anyone who wants a foothold in the Alpha Quadrant - the Dominion, the Borg, perhaps even a world we've never even encountered. A strong Cardassia, on the other hand, will benefit your people, as well as mine, as well as the Bajorans. Give Cardassia the chance she deserves. Take back your world for your people. Don't make the same mistake twice: do it for Cardassia, not yourself." He took a step toward Dukat. "Do it for Ziyal."

Dukat threw back his head, about to laugh, but nothing came out. Then he looked back at Sisko and said, "You know, Captain, you'd make a very good dictator." He turned to leave the office, but the doors did not open for him, and he twisted around in irritation. "Am I dismissed, Captain? I do have a revolution to plan, you know. Mercenaries to hire, arms merchants to swindle, strategies to plan..." His eyes widened in understanding as Odo approached him. "Ah, I see. You still don't trust me when I'm on this station."

"Dukat, I would be a fool to trust you anywhere within Federation or Bajoran territory. Odo will escort you to your quarters, where you are to remain until you're ready to leave. I'll send Quark your way in a few hours."

Dukat bowed slightly. "Very good, Captain. And thank you...I think."

~ * ~

Dukat and Odo strode through the corridors of Terok Nor - Deep Space Nine, Dukat reminded himself - in silence. Dukat was mentally tabulating a list of items he would need to purchase through Quark, and trying to determine what he had to offer in exchange. Then he happened to glance sideways at Odo, and something occurred to him with startling clarity.

"He doesn't know, does he?" Dukat asked.

Odo stopped. "Who doesn't know what?" Something in his tone told Dukat all he needed to know.

"Captain Sisko. He doesn't know about you and that Founder. Quark wouldn't have told him unless he could make a profit from it, and Major Kira has been...otherwise occupied. That's why he still trusts you; he doesn't know about your little...affair."

Odo's eyes shifted back and forth. Dukat was enjoying his discomfort immensely. "There's no reason why he should need to know. Starfleet was able to retake Deep Space Nine, with or without my help."

"Ah, yes, but your change of heart did endanger his own son. And...what Kira and Doctor Bashir did on my behalf had no effect on Starfleet's success in retaking this station." He resumed walking, and smiled to himself when he heard Odo's steady pace behind him.

"Just what are you getting at, Dukat?"

"Imagine how...disappointed...Captain Sisko would be if he learned his trusted security chief possessed such wavering loyalty."

Odo was quiet for a moment, then said "Go on."

Dukat stopped and turned on his heel to face Odo. "Major Kira. I want to see her before I leave. Alone."

"What if she doesn't want to see you?"

Dukat smiled and leaned close as he whispered conspiratorially, "She will. I'm sure of it." He could have sworn the shapeshifter wilted a little as the insinuation hit home.

* ~ *

Kira was glad to be back on the station, surrounded by people she considered friends - and not the Cardassians and Jem'Hadar that had occupied Deep Space Nine for the past four months - but something in her had changed in the interim, and she was unable to make herself relax even in the privacy of her own quarters. She could not sit still for more than a few minutes at a time, and had in fact spent the last hour pacing from one end of her quarters to the other. When she was not pacing, she occupied her off-duty time by staring listlessly out the window, her thoughts turning often toward Bajor and the continued threat posed by the now-weakening Jem'Hadar blockade. When she was on duty, she found her duties as the station's First Officer tedious and aggravating, her uniform ill-fitting, her co-workers too slow to respond to her commands, and the Starfleet officers too given to idle chatter while on duty. And her nose itched. She thought she was going to lose her mind, waiting for the Council of Ministers to determine her fate.

Her door chimed, and Kira automatically acknowledged the summons. "Come in."

Dax stepped cautiously over the door frame. "Have I come at a bad time?" she asked politely.

Kira gave her a rather unenthusiastic smile. "No, not at all, please come in." Dax walked over to the sofa and sat down, but Kira turned her attention back to the window.

After several minutes of silence, Dax said, "It must have been quite a challenge for you, to spend so much time on Bajor alone with Gul Dukat."

Kira sighed heavily as she turned around. "Jadzia, I'd really rather not talk about Bajor, or Dukat, right now."

"I didn't realize there was anything to talk about."

"What do you mean? What are you talking about?"

Dax rose and went to stand beside Kira. "It's just that you have been on edge ever since you returned to the station. You didn't say a single word to Dukat on the trip here, and in fact you made such an obvious effort to avoid even looking at him that no one could miss what you were doing. And as for Odo - you haven't said a kind word to him all day. Something must have happened between you and Dukat when you were on Bajor."

Kira stiffened. "Nothing happened. He had been injured, and I helped take care of him. That's all."

"Sometimes that's all it has to be."

"Are you suggesting that Dukat and I - that we - that there was some sort of relationship between us on Bajor?"

"You and Dukat have always had a rather unusual bond between you that went beyond your mutual love for Ziyal." Kira rolled her eyes and snorted, but Dax pressed on. "Did you develop a relationship with him?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Kira huffed.

Dax withdrew. "If you insist. But I think you should at least go and talk to Dukat before he leaves Deep Space Nine."

"Leaves? He's still here? I thought he had already been sent to Earth."

Dax shook her head. "Ben decided to let Dukat go, on the condition that he return to Cardassia and work to overthrow the Dominion. He's scheduled to leave tomorrow."

Kira's shoulders sagged as she turned back to the window. "I couldn't go see him even if I wanted to. Captain Sisko has me confined to quarters except when I'm on duty, and he expressly forbade me to have any contact with Dukat."

Dax smiled gently as she walked towards the door. "You'll think of something, Nerys. You always have." Before she had a chance to leave, the door slid open to reveal Odo. "Constable," she said, then turned back to Kira. "We can talk more about this later."

Odo waited for the doors to close behind him. "What did she want?"

Kira shrugged. "She was just keeping me company. What can I do for you, Constable?"

Odo looked down at the floor. "I'm here to escort you to meet...someone. I can't give you the details right now, Major, you'll just have to trust me," he added gruffly when she looked at him with puzzlement.

"What about Sisko's orders?"

"You let me worry about that."

Kira gave Odo a strange look, but obediently followed him into the corridor.

~ * ~

Odo led Kira deep into the innermost corridors of the habitat ring, to the area of the station where they usually housed guests requiring extra security. At last he stopped before a door guarded by two of his security officers and keyed in the security override command. The door opened and Kira followed Odo inside. At first, his bulk blocked her view of who they had come to see. Then he stepped aside and her eyes fell on Quark, Garak...and Dukat, looking as imposing as usual in a new uniform. Kira was so confused she did not know who to turn to first.

Quark was the only one to respond to her intrusion, by sidling up to her and leering at her. "Major, so good to see you back on the station," he purred. "I hope that you'll make use of my holosuites once Captain Sisko lifts your restriction."

Kira nodded in reply, but she was too busy looking back and forth between Garak and Dukat, bent over a star chart, their heads almost touching as they discussed various systems, to answer Quark. "What are you doing here, Garak?" she asked once she had found her voice.

Garak and Dukat were apparently unaware of her presence, because their heads shot up and both looked at her with startled eyes. Garak said, "Major. I might ask the same of you. I, on the other hand, am helping Dukat plan his little rebellion." Kira glanced at Dukat, who was studying her intently, his expression inscrutable. "War does make for strange bedfellows, wouldn't you agree, Major?" She sensed Odo stiffen beside her, but ignored its implication. "The Obsidian Order may have been abolished, but I still have several contacts in Cardassia who would be useful to this venture. Dukat knows that, and he would be a fool not to make use of them."

Garak, Dukat and Quark returned their attention to the star chart as Kira turned to Odo in confusion. "I don't understand," she said. "Why did you bring me here?"

"I owed someone a favor," he said, looking over her shoulder. "Be careful, Nerys. Don't do anything you might regret later. Contact me when you're ready to return to your quarters." He did not give her a chance to answer as he turned his back on her and left.

Behind her, Kira heard the sounds of equipment being shut down and put away as the three conspirators concluded their discussion. Garak brushed past her as he left, then Quark tapped her on the shoulder. "Here, Major," he said, handing her a holosuite program cylinder. "On the house, to use when you have the chance."

Then he was gone, and Kira was alone with Dukat.

Dukat's eyes were shining as he walked over to Kira and took both her hands in his. "Please, Major, sit down," he said. Kira was too numb to resist and she obediently sank down on the sofa beside him. "Kira, are you unwell? You look pale."

She shook herself out of her reverie, pulling her hands free of his and folding them in her lap. "Dukat, what is the meaning of all...this?" she asked, sweeping her arm toward the piles of equipment that lay scattered about the room.

"This is the ticket to Cardassia's freedom...and, perhaps, my redemption," he said, trying and failing to reclaim Kira's hands.

She jumped to her feet to put some distance between them. "Don't be a fool. This is your suicide you're planning, not some half-baked rebellion against the Dominion. You know nothing about organizing a rebellion; if you did, then you'd know you can't organize one!"

Dukat nodded, a slow grin spreading across his face as he sprawled back against the sofa. "You're right as always, Major; I don't know anything about organizing a rebellion, about working with the underground to overthrow an occupying force, about thinking on my feet. You, on the other hand, do."

Kira crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. "Don't even think about it, Dukat. We've had this discussion before."

"This isn't like it was two years ago, Kira. I'm not asking you to join me in my own 'private little war' with the Dominion," he said, rising to stand before her. "This is a completely different situation. Cardassia is now in much the same position Bajor was sixty years ago - you of all people should see the similarities. And I know you don't want Cardassia to suffer the same miseries Bajor did, no matter how much you may claim to still hate Cardassia...or me."

Kira glanced at him briefly, then her eyes darted away. "I don't hate you," she whispered, turning away from him. "I hate what you did to Bajor - I may even hate that part of you that imprisoned and murdered my people - but I don't hate you."

Dukat grasped Kira's arms and turned her around to face him. "Then help me, Nerys, please," he pleaded. "Help Cardassia. For Ziyal's sake, if not for mine." He forced her to look at him, searching her face for any sign of acquiescence. She knew he would be disappointed, but not surprised, by her answer.

"I - I can't," she finally said. "I can't live that kind of life again. I can't leave behind this station, and Bajor, to fight a fight that isn't mine." She rested her palms against Dukat's armored chest, and he took a deep breath. "Overthrowing the Dominion is your responsibility, Dukat. I'll do what I can to get tactical information to you through Garak, but I can't bring myself to join you in a fight that is sure to be doomed from the start."

Dukat inclined his head. "Ah. So you say you don't hate me, but you're more than willing to send me off to my certain death."

Her temper flared. "That's not fair!" she cried, thumping a clenched fist against his chest. "I don't want you to go - but I know you have to, and we both know you can't stay he --"

Any further protests were silenced by his lips against hers. At first, she tried to resist, and squirmed in vain against the confines of his tightening embrace. But despite her anger, despite her pain, despite her fear, she needed this - she needed him. How had she managed to resist him for so many years?

When he broke away from her to regain his breath, she realized, much to her astonishment, that she was fumbling with the buckles holding his armor together. He removed his arms from around her waist and assisted her, years of practice - and present urgency - giving speed to his movements. Soon his armor fell to the floor and he reclaimed Kira, pressing her against him as she wrapped her arms around his neck and returned his kiss with passion and fervor, oblivious to the tears that streamed down her face. She would regret this in a few hours, she knew, but for the moment she was going to make the most of what would certainly be the last time she could feel his arms around her, his scaled skin rubbing against hers, his cool breath filling her
lungs.

~ * ~

Dukat draped his arm over Kira's waist, leaning in to her so his chest rubbed against her back, and nuzzled the nape of her neck. She had been asleep, but the contact interrupted the rhythmic pattern of her breathing and she sighed and stretched against him before reaching one arm back to caress his thigh. He groaned in response and nipped at her ear as his fingers traced idly up her abdomen to her breasts. When she rolled on to her back to look up at him with sleepy delight, he bent his neck to kiss her, his hand now sliding back down her waist to stroke her hip as hers caressed his dorsal ridge.

He growled in frustration when she pulled away from him, and was tempted to push her back down on the bed to finish what they started, but he reluctantly restrained himself. "Is something wrong, Kira?" he asked.

She pulled herself to a sitting position against the pillows and wrapped her arms around her knees, resting her chin on top. "No, nothing's wrong. At least, nothing that either of us can fix." Dukat sighed and rested his hand across her foot. "I should be going soon. Odo's probably about to explode, and if Captain Sisko finds out about this --"

"Your secret's safe with me," Dukat joked. He sat on the edge of the bed and began pulling his bodysuit back on. "I need to get back to work myself. Garak and I still have a few last-minute details to go over before I leave." At the sound of Kira's chuckle, he turned. "What's so funny?"

She shook her head. "I just never thought I'd live to see the day when you and Garak would cooperate with each other."

His laugh echoed hers. "Neither did I, but this doesn't exactly mean that we've become friends. We just happen to have one very important thing in common, and right now, that's all that counts."

"Cardassia?"

"Exactly. And Garak is as eager to take revenge for Ziyal's death as I am." He felt Kira's breath against the back of his neck, and bent his head to expose more of his scales to her. Instead, she wrapped her arms around him and rested her cheek against his neck ridge as he entwined his hands with hers.

"Don't go into this thinking only of revenge," she said softly. "Revenge is all about hate, and hate clouds your judgment. If you start this war thinking of Ziyal, then do it because you loved her and she loved you."

Dukat turned his head so he could see Kira. "And what about you, Nerys? How shall I think of you when I go into battle?" He knew what he wanted to hear her say; he wondered if she had yet found the courage to say it. He watched her eyes flutter closed and felt her take a deep, ragged breath as she leaned against him, but she said nothing. He should have suspected as much, and released her hands so he could bend down to put on his boots.

When her answer came, although it was not exactly what he had been hoping to hear, it shook him more profoundly than he would have imagined possible. "Remember me," she whispered, "as the woman who tried to fill the void left when you lost Naprem and Bajor." He gulped with astonishment. "Remember me as a lover and as a...home. Remember me as someone who loved Ziyal as much as you did."

Dukat thought he wanted to hear Kira say that she loved him; what she did say meant so much more, and all he could do for several moments was to stare at her in shock and incredulity - and, perhaps, adoration. When he at last recovered his wits, he bent down and said, "Kira, I could never, ever, forget you, or what you did for me. Thank you." He kissed her gently, exulting one last time in the feel of her soft lips against his own, then straightened to his full height, gave her a brief nod, and left.

He was aware of her departure several minutes later as he and Garak finalized the plans for his mission, but he forced himself to remain focused and did not look up to see her go.

~ * ~

Kira watched through one of the large windows lining the Promenade as Dukat's ship - a Jem'Hadar battle cruiser 'acquired' from an Orionese black marketeer at a rigged Dabo table - departed the station. Just as it went into warp, her commbadge beeped.

"Sisko to Major Kira."

She tapped it to reply. "Kira here."

"May I see you in my office please?"

"I'll be right there, Captain. Kira out."

As Kira strode through the Promenade to the turbolift that would take her to Ops, her hand strayed up to rub at the ridges across her nose. Her head had felt clogged all day, and now whatever it was that had dulled her wits seemed to be gathering strength in a spot just above the bridge of her nose, right between her eyes. She would go see Doctor Bashir when the captain was finished with her, she thought as she entered the turbolift.

Would she ever see Dukat again? She was no longer sure what to hope for, so much had changed between them in the past few weeks. Would there come a time when she and Dukat could resume what they had started on Bajor - and if so, did she want to? If Dukat succeeded in overthrowing the Dominion, what would that mean for Bajor? For her? Was there some way she could get news of his progress without arousing suspicion? Garak would surely keep her apprised of events in Cardassia, if she asked - but at what price?

Had her dance been in vain?

Kira took a deep breath and stepped off the turbolift as it arrived at Ops and walked directly to Sisko's office. It felt good to be thinking of it as Sisko's office again, just as it felt good to see Bajoran and Starfleet engineers manning the various Ops stations.

Her head was so congested she could barely see beyond the milky haze before her eyes, and she stopped a moment to try to clear her head. The wave passed, and she signaled her arrival to Sisko.

"Come in," he said.

She stood before his desk, hands clasped behind her back. "You wished to see me, Captain?"

"Yes, Major. Thank you for coming so promptly. "I've heard from First Minister Shakaar regarding your actions concerning Gul Dukat."

"And what did he have to say? Has the Council decided my punishment?"

Sisko leaned back in his chair, rolling his baseball around in his hands. "No. He decided that it was not necessary to put the matter before the Council, and as long as the Jem'Hadar continue to conduct raids on Bajor, we can't afford an administrative shakeup. After a lengthy discussion, the First Minister and I agreed that no further action should be taken against you at this time."

Kira was overjoyed, but restrained herself. If she knew Sisko, there was a "but" on the horizon.

"However, Major," he continued, rising to his feet, "you will remain on report for one year, like Doctor Bashir. And, like Doctor Bashir, if there is another incident like this --"

"-- I'll be sent back to Bajor for good."

"Exactly."

The throbbing had started again, and Kira closed her eyes and pressed her fingers against the spot, praying to the Prophets to take it away. She heard Sisko come around his desk and felt his hand against her shoulder. "Major, are you all right?"

She shook her head slightly, afraid it might explode. "I'm fine. It's just a - a --" The pressure had increased to an unbearable level, and something had to give. With a deep intake of breath and a mighty, shuddering heave, she expelled the irritant through her nose and mouth with violent force, splattering moisture on her hands as she reflexively cupped them over her face.

When she recovered enough to open her eyes, Sisko was staring at her with a mixture of concern, curiosity and amusement. "Gesundheit, Major," he said.

The Serpent and the Hawk 5/6 (DS9)

2009-04-10T22:01:25Z

The Serpent and the Hawk 4/6 (DS9)

2009-04-10T21:58:33Z

TITLE: The Serpent and the Hawk
RATING: R
SUMMARY: Ziyal's brutal death unites Gul Dukat and Major Kira in ways neither of them expected.

DISCLAIMER: Paramount owns the Star Trek universe and everything it encompasses. This story is not intended to infringe on any copyrights, and the only profit I gain by it is emotional satisfaction.

PART THREE

giggle

i must be dreaming

Hush, you'll wake him.

yes thats it ...im back home on bajor and naprem has sent ziyal in to wake me up...i love it when she does that...it usually means she's making sem'hal stew and yamok sauce for breakfast He felt his stomach growl in response.

Look at his skin, Gerish.

what the?...that was a boys voice...i must be on prime then...which means ive already slept through breakfast...just as well...i have work to do

He's a Cardassian, you twit.

of course im a cardassian...what else would i be?

giggle Can I touch him?

somethings not right here...these are not my children...who are they?...where am i?

Mina, don't! Or else I'll tell.

Dukat slowly opened his eyes, to a chorus of startled gasps surrounding him. Through the milky haze of his blurred vision he found himself looking into a row of simultaneously curious and terrified faces. Bajoran faces.

Potr! He's opened his eyes!

He lifted one arm, only vaguely aware that it was bare from wrist to shoulder, and reached out a finger to touch the nose ridges on a little girl standing next to him. Her eyes grew wide, then her mouth opened and she let loose the most hideous screech he had ever heard in his life. His hand jerked back as though burned.

"Auntie Nerys!" one of the older children, a boy, called.

auntie nerys?...this makes no sense...maybe im trapped in one of garaks enigma tales...maybe im still asleep and dreaming im awake...ill have to share this one with the major

Then the object of his dreams walked into the room. "Shoo now," Kira said to the children. "Go outside and play." They reluctantly obeyed.

His vision was still blurry, but he could see her pour a glass of water from the pitcher on the table next to his bed. She sat down on the bed, right next to his hip, and lifted his head so he could drink, supporting his neck with her free hand. The water felt so cool and refreshing as it gurgled down his throat; he had not noticed his extreme thirst until then.

"Major?" he managed to croak after draining the glass of its contents. "What are you doing here? Or perhaps I should ask, what am I doing here?"

There was a smile that lit up her entire face and sent a rush of heat to his groin as she returned the glass to the table. "You're on Bajor."

Dukat had to suppress a smile. This was an unexpected but not unwelcome development. "So, Major, am I then your prisoner?" he asked.

"In your dreams, Dukat."

He wrapped his fingers around her wrist, pulling her back to the bed as she attempted to rise. She looked at his hand, but made no attempt to free herself. Dukat took that as a promising sign. "In my dreams, Major, I've been your prisoner for a very long time. But this is no dream, is it?"

She gently tugged her hand free of his grip and leaned it against the mattress, on the other side of his waist. "No, it isn't. Do you remember anything about the crash?"

"Of course I do."

"Captain Sisko sent Doctor Bashir and me to find whatever we could after you failed to arrive on Terra. We found the ship that attacked you, as well as the remains of your shuttle. You were --" she paused, biting her lip to block out the memory of that horrible vision. "-- it was a miracle you survived."

"It seems that your Prophets have been looking out for both of us recently."

She laughed humorlessly. "Anyway, once we were able to get you to the runabout, I - Doctor Bashir and I, that is - decided it would be best to keep you in hiding until you had completely recovered."

"So you brought me here."

"It seemed like the best thing to do, at the time. Chivas Jormal and Regnold are old friends of mine. This is where Ziyal stayed when she was on Bajor."

The milky film covering Dukat's eyes obscured the flash of pain at the mention of Ziyal's name, but there was a faint tremor in his voice as he spoke. "How were you able to get past the Dominion blockade?"

The triumphant note in her voice was unmistakable. "Starfleet has retaken Deep Space Nine, and the Dominion lost many ships in the fight. The blockade is still in place, but it's full of holes."

"Ah. The war is almost over, then?"

"No. Weyoun and Damar and their forces retreated to Cardassian space. Most of the war is being fought there. It doesn't look good for them. All those Dominion ships waiting on the other side of the wormhole were destroyed, even after the minefield came down."

"I see. And soon Cardassia will be nothing but ruins." Dukat tried to turn away from Kira, but she stopped him with a hand to his shoulder. Only then, when he felt the warmth of her skin radiating through his flesh, did he realize that his omnipresent armor was missing, and he soon realized that his bodysuit was gone as well. In fact, there was nothing more substantial protecting him from her prying eyes than a thin sheet covering him from torso to foot. Even through the haze he could discern his chest ridges beneath the sheet; he could only imagine what she must be able to see with her undamaged vision. He hissed in embarrassment.

What surprised him even more was that Kira seemed remarkably unperturbed, either by the rough texture of his scales as her hand remained on his shoulder, or by his unclothed state. Part of his subconscious mind was screaming at him to take advantage of this wonderful opportunity and exploit that strange, far-off look on her face. His rational mind, in contrast, was demanding that he back away immediately because he was dangerously vulnerable to an unforgiving foe, because he had to quickly regain control of this situation before it was too late.

He exhaled in relief when she lifted her hand and turned away. Had her skin remained in contact with his much longer, his more primitive instincts would have surely taken control, and then he would have been in imminent danger of embarrassing himself. As it was, he had to struggle to prevent his body from releasing too many pheromones into the air, and the lingering moistness in his groin could be felt in every aching limb.

Kira turned back to him, an open jar filled with a blue creamy substance in her hand. She scooped out a dollop of the cream with her fingers, then lifted his bare arm and began methodically rubbing the cream into his skin.

Dukat nearly fainted.

The torture was exquisite, beyond anything even his passion-addled mind could imagine. She had to be enjoying tormenting him this way; he could see the creases on either side of her mouth deepening in a barely-perceptible smile as she massaged the lotion in between his scales, her fingers brushing the smooth, sensitive skin on the inside of his elbow, then trailing lightly up his arm to the tip of his neck ridge. Right there, at that moment, he would have confessed to anything she accused, answered any question she asked, acquiesced to any demand she made, just to make her stop. And he would have walked across a glacier just to get her to continue. The damp heat radiating from his groin was now a torrent, flooding his body from head to toe until he thought he would actually break out in a sweat. Unable to control himself, he moaned.

She stopped.

He moaned again, this time in frustrated agony, and clenched his fists. She had to know what this was doing to him! She had to see his scales darkening just in anticipation of her touch. She had to recognize his overpowering scent. She had to see the lust glazing over his eyes, the tremble in his lower lip as he fought to keep from moaning again.

Her eyes crinkled slightly, then she scooped out another dollop of lotion and went to work on the other arm. "This is an emollient Doctor Bashir prescribed, to help your skin heal," she said. "You lost about thirty percent of the outer layer of scales in the fire and heat, as well as a significant amount of fluid."

How can she be so clinical and detached, was all he could think. He was beyond articulating a response. If he managed to survive this torture, he would make her pay.

"I apologize if this makes you uncomfortable," she continued, "but it's the first time I've had to do it while you were conscious." She finished with his arm and moved down toward the end of the bed.

Just as she began to lift the sheet from his legs, Dukat decided he had endured enough torment. Taking care to trap the sheet between his arms and torso, he managed to rise to a semi-sitting position and put an immediate halt to her progress. "That's enough, Major," he growled. "I can take over from here." He could not control what she had done while he was unconscious, and he resolved not to dwell on events out of his control. He could, however, control what she did to him while he was conscious, and he had reached the limit of his self-restraint. A little bit further, and he could not be held responsible for his actions.

Kira would be made to pay, but not like that.

"I'm sorry," she said, handing him the jar, but he could tell by the twitching of the muscles at the corners of her mouth that she was not in the least bit sorry. She did know the effects of her ministrations, damn her!

"Major," he warned, "you are treading in very dangerous waters. Take care that you don't get in over your head."

Her reply was flippant, contradicting the look on her face. "What's the matter, Dukat? Don't you trust me?"

He knew she was baiting him, testing his resolve. It was the Kira he knew and admired, but with a confident edge he had not seen before. He loved it.

"No. And I trust myself even less."

She pursed her lips and gave him another one of those heart-rending smiles. When did she start smiling like that? "Good. Just wanted to make sure we agreed on that one point."

Dukat reclined against the pillows. "Dear Major --"

"Kira."

He chuckled. He was enjoying this game she was playing with him. "All right, Kira, trust, or the lack thereof, has never been an issue between us. Yet it seems that lately we keep finding ourselves in a position where we each have to trust the other. Am I correct?" She dipped her head in agreement. "Before, you trusted me not to take advantage of your weakened state, and I honored that trust, did I not?"

She looked at him askance. "You made me squirm a few times - and enjoyed every minute of it."

"You didn't seem to be complaining too much."

"Complaining would have gotten me nowhere. Knowing you, it would have only made the situation worse."

His eyes widened in amusement and mock anger. "Kira! I am offended. I would never push you any farther than you could go." She did not reply, but he could tell from the look on her face that it was a struggle to refrain from speaking. "My question, Kira, is this: did you take advantage of me when I was unable to resist?"

Kira opened and closed her mouth, unable to formulate a suitably tart reply, and Dukat used her momentary distraction to prop himself up on his elbow, taking care to keep his chest covered. At last she said, "You're delusional, as always."

"Hm. I wonder. You did give me the impression that you've been rubbing that lotion into my skin for several days, while I was unable to do it for myself." His fingers idly traced designs on the sheet as he studied her expression.

"Would you have preferred I didn't?"

"Not at all, Kira, not at all. But I have to ask...did you enjoy yourself? Did you enjoy making me squirm?"

She was quiet for a moment, and Dukat thought he caught a glimpse of uncertainty, but it was quickly replaced with an almost feral smirk that thrilled him to his core. Whatever transformation Kira had undergone since he last spoke with her on the starbase, he was definitely going to make the most of it, and he suspected that she would as well. She leaned very close to him, closer than she had ever willingly come, so close he could feel her warm breath tickling his eye ridges. "If you think I made you squirm before, Dukat," she purred, "then you have no idea what's in store."

Oh, yes. This was the Kira he had lusted after for so long. She was so close he could almost taste her. But he was not yet prepared to surrender. There was no question he could match her every maneuver. He leaned fractionally closer, tilting his head so she could detect the pheromones being released from his neck glands.

"I'll hold you to that, Major."

~ * ~

Kira was in the kitchen, nursing a raktajino and enjoying a new holovideo, when she heard a low moan coming from Dukat's bedroom. It was the middle of the night and everyone else was fast asleep, so she tiptoed to the door and carefully pushed it open to check on him.

Judging from the disarray of the sheets, he was dreaming. It was not the first time she had seen him like this, and as she had done before, she slipped into his room and pulled the sheet back over him. As she did so, she noticed that his chest scales were dry and flaking. He obviously had not been applying the emollient, despite his assurances that he would. She sighed with exasperation and retrieved the jar.

The last moon had set several hours ago, and the only light in the room came from the Duranya lamp hanging from the ceiling. The small clay lamp Kira had given Dukat was destroyed in the shuttle crash, so once they were settled on Bajor she procured a proper lamp as a replacement. The soft golden light of the flame cast shadows on the walls and across Dukat's body, enhancing the contours formed by the ridges on his face, neck and chest. The few scales visible above the edge of the sheet glittered with cool iridescence.

Kira's eyes hungrily absorbed these details as her hands, rebelling against her tenuous self-control, began to slowly pull the sheet back, revealing more and more of Dukat's chest in torturous increments. For the past five nights she had undergone the ritual of soothing his raw, tender flesh with the emollient, her mind determinedly focused on the task at hand as her curious gaze remained distant and unseeing. She would not violate his modesty when he was incapable of defending himself.

Tonight, however, was different. Tonight he was asleep, not unconscious. Tonight he could respond, if he so desired.

When Potr called Kira into the room that morning, she had not known whether to laugh or cry, she was so overjoyed to see Dukat awake. He had looked so funny lying in the bed with a delightfully befuddled expression while the six Chivas children stared at him as if he were the latest exhibit at the zoo. And dear little Mina with that ear-splitting screech! If she were not already inclined to shriek at every strange new thing, Kira would have thought Dukat had tried to harm the poor girl. Her older brothers and sisters had teased her all day, poking at her nose ridges and crying "Boo!" at every available opportunity. They spent most of the day outside, leaving Dukat alone in peace, but after supper they all trooped back in to his room, some of them even daring to clamber up on his bed. Ziyal had been a favorite of theirs, and they were eager to hear stories about her childhood. Kira could see that at first Dukat was reluctant to talk about Ziyal, the memory of her death was still so fresh in his mind, but when Mina stared up at him with her soulful eyes and batted her lashes, his resistance broke and he was soon filling their heads with fanciful Cardassian legends.

It was a strange sight to behold, Jormal had remarked as she and Kira put the children to bed, one of the most reviled men in Bajoran history surrounded by a captive audience, all of them too young to remember the Occupation. The healing touch of innocence, Kira had replied. That evening, as she brought his supper to him, he looked as if an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and there was a gentleness in his features she had not seen before. His broken spirit and body were beginning to heal.

But just as she needed his assistance in her healing process, his healing would also not be complete without her there to help him. They had each been brought to the brink of death and despair, and each sacrificed everything in the name of survival. They were at last on an equal footing, bereft of home, family and hope. All they had was each other.

Dukat had saved Kira's life. She had done the same for him.

Their lives had been pulled back from the precipice. Now it was time to reclaim their paghs. This, Kira knew, was the path ordained by the Prophets: to reach out and embrace the enemy.

The healing must begin.

As her mind wandered, her traitorous fingers had pulled the sheet down to his waist, revealing his bare chest to her. She willed her fingers to release the edge of the sheet; she would go no further without his permission. Like a beggar enjoying his first meal in days, her eyes devoured the elaborate contours decorating his torso. She sucked in her breath, biting her lip in the process.

Who would have imagined Cardassians could be so breathtakingly beautiful?

Ridges curved down either side of Dukat's sternum like an elaborate filigree, defining what would have been the pectoral muscles on a Bajoran and uniting just above his groin in the Cardassian equivalent of a navel. Enclosed within the ridges was a complex network of scales, increasing in size closer to his waist. His long sternum was slightly more prominent than usual, because of the ravages of his recent ordeal, but the smooth expanse of his ribcage promoted an even pattern of scale growth across his entire torso.

Without her even realizing it, Kira's fingers had strayed up and were now resting on the ridge at the lower end of his abdomen. Her breathing was uneven as she fought to control the racing of her heart, but the incessant roaring of blood in her ears drove her to even greater distraction. A sudden popping of the flame in the lamp made her start, but her fingers quickly returned to their original location.

Her rational mind sought refuge in the momentary hesitance. Was this a step she was prepared to take? What would she do if Dukat caught her crouching over his body like a hungry predator? Was this the moment the past six years had been leading up to? Was this the course the Prophets had chosen for her? She knew that once she took the first step down this path, there would be no turning back. Was it what she wanted?

Dukat had once remarked to her that she had a tendency to hide behind a constant stream of denials whenever in his presence. "Somewhere in you there's a yes," he had said, his voice filled with urgent pleading. "You need to listen to that yes."

Did she want this? Did she want him?

Her response was an unequivocal yes. A yes filled with passion and longing, a yes promising hope and forgiveness.

"Yes," she whispered, leaning over him to breathe it across his flesh. "Yes, yes, yes."

Up until this point, only the tips of her fingers had been in contact with his skin, lightly brushing across the ridges as she debated her future. In the instant she chose her path, however, they began pressing down with excruciating slowness, spreading out across the large scales of his lower abdomen, until all of her fingers were splayed across his flesh. Only then did she allow her palms to come to rest against him as her fingers curled and straightened in a gentle kneading motion, her nails lightly scraping the dry scales. She exerted just enough pressure to direct her fingers up toward his chest and out toward the ridges.

The sensation of his irregular skin beneath her fingers sent jolts of electricity sizzling to her belly, and she felt a moist rush of responding heat that closed her eyes in pleasurable delight. His skin radiated a refreshing coolness that heightened her own rapidly soaring temperature, and she longed to wrap herself in that exotic alien coolness, to ward off the aching warmth that left her shaking with need. Gritting her teeth in determination, Kira willed her eyes open again.

The time for denial was past. Now was the time for affirmation.

She was rapidly losing control, but she was not afraid. She reluctantly lifted her left hand from his chest and pressed it against the mattress next to his shoulder, leaning her weight on it as her right hand began tracing his neck ridges. Unlike the rest of him, they were warm, the pulsing arteries they protected so close to the surface she could almost see the blood flowing through them.

Throwing caution to the wind, Kira bent close to his neck, so that her nose was mere centimeters from the deep hollow at the base of his throat, and inhaled deeply. His scent was strange and enticing, almost like the rich, musty aroma of a swamp after a thunderstorm. She had noticed before that his pheromones produced a tangy, salty odor that now, when he was asleep, was just barely discernible. She was tempted to taste his skin, to see if it too was salty, but refrained for the moment.

She pulled away from him and let her fingers brush down the length of his neck ridge, tracing the edges of each large scale, then back across his collarbone until they reached the hollow. She absent-mindedly circled the rim of the hollow with the tip of her index finger, closing her eyes as she imagined his irregular features in her mind.

She was so engrossed in her exploration that she never noticed the subtle shift in his breathing, or the gradual movement of his hand toward her thigh. By the time she realized he was watching her through narrowed eyes, it was too late.

The forgotten jar of emollient rolled off her lap and onto the floor, spilling its contents as Dukat seized her wrist and pulled her towards him.

* ~ *

Dukat was dreaming of Paradise.

In his mind's eye, it was summer on Bajor, and he was with Naprem and Ziyal at the villa in the Eastern Province. Ziyal had gone outside to play while he and Naprem returned to bed for another round of lovemaking. Even as his memory resurrected the tantalizing feel of Naprem's skin against his, he imagined he could hear Ziyal's high, clear voice laughing with delight. Then her voice was joined with another, a familiar and despised tenor whispering intimacies and promises, yet Naprem continued to massage his flesh, her breath sending chills throughout his receptive body. But he was concerned about Ziyal, he feared for her safety, and he urged Naprem to stop, but she was no longer Naprem, her form had been replaced with Kira's, and then it was no longer Garak seducing Ziyal but Damar who threatened her, who threatened them all, yet Kira was unmindful of the danger as she stroked his neck ridges and then a chilling wind blew across him and Ziyal was gone, taking Paradise with her.

The dream was shattered.

Yet beyond the dark veil of grief and broken dreams joy persisted, and Dukat turned toward it. He was not alone. Somewhere, beyond the darkness, someone was waiting for him, calling to him, filling him with need and longing and desire and hope. His only choice was to respond.

His eyelids fluttered open, and he was rewarded with the unforgettable sight and touch of Kira Nerys running her hand across his collarbone and down to the base of his throat, tickling at the small hollow where his chest ridges diverged to outline his abdomen. The expression on her face, her eyes closed, her nostrils flaring and her mouth slightly parted, was a joy to behold, and he felt a slight gasp escape his lungs. She was seemingly unaware of his observation, so he indulged himself in a brief moment of pleasure at the sight of her unguarded state. Her other arm was pressed into the mattress next to his head, and the desire-laden aroma emanating from the glands beneath her arm was intoxicating. She was sitting next to his hip, leaning into him just enough for him to feel the friction between her nightdress and the sheet covering his lower extremities. Then she shifted her weight, and the dress shifted with her, revealing an expanse of bare thigh that left his mind reeling with desire. The shadows cast by the lamp against her pale brown skin called to him, urging him to explore her smooth, curvy flesh just as she was exploring him. As much as his rational mind demanded control over his primitive impulses, he could not refuse the temptation, and his hand slowly moved toward her.

Then she shifted again and bent low over him, alternately blowing warm breath against his sensitive scales and inhaling his growing scent.

Dukat had had enough.

Like striking cobras, his hands seized her wrists and held her in place. Startled, she yelped in alarm and her eyes flew open. His hands traveled up to just below her shoulders, his fingers digging into her skin, as he forced her to look him in the face.

"I warned you, Kira," he rumbled, his voice slurred by passion and frustration, "don't tempt me unless you're prepared to accept the consequences. I won't - I can't - be held responsible for what happens if you continue."

For a split second, as fear and anger sparked in her eyes, he regretted his action. Then fear and anger were replaced with something else, a reaction far more primitive, and her large eyes grew ever more so as she came closer and closer.

It was agony for him, to have her so close but just out of reach.

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes."

He could not bear this fusion of heat and cold, this tantalizing mixture of agony and ecstasy.

He tried to turn his face away, but this time she held him fast, her hands reaching out to stroke his eye ridges. Her mouth brushed across his once, twice...then she was kissing him, her soft lips caressing his with such tender urgency he had to stifle a cry of bliss. His eyes remained open as fear, apprehension, dread washed over him, followed by need...longing...desire....

Passion, that most exquisite torment, filled his veins with turbulent fury.

His eyelids drifted shut, and instinct took control. He shifted beneath her and slid his hands down her arms to wrap around her waist and pull her against him. She sighed against his mouth, her breath filling his lungs as his lips parted in response. He matched her kiss.

"Yes," he responded.

~ * ~

The moment Dukat seized her wrists, Kira flashed back to a time many years ago, a time she had fought hard to forget, when she had been arrested and taken to a detention center. As his strong fingers prevented her escape, she remembered a time when a Cardassian soldier had held her the same way, cruelly bending her backward over a table as he forced himself upon her, trapping her cries of pain with his hard mouth as he thrust into her again and again, grinding his hips against her mercilessly.

Kira was determined not to wallow in the memories of her miserable past, however, and she willed her eyes to look upon the cherished face before her, his damaged eyes staring at her with profound need. This was Dukat, who infuriated and teased and challenged and respected and desired and needed her, not some faceless, nameless soldier fulfilling a random desire to hurt and humiliate her. This was where she wanted to be, this was the man she wanted, this was as it should be.
There was no looking back. The future, her future, was now.

"Yes," she whispered. Did he hear her? He did not acknowledge her affirmation of this moment, this event. She looked directly into his eyes, the strength of her desire willing him to see her, and repeated her promise. "Yes."

He tried to turn away, to refuse her, but she would have none of it. The Prophets were watching; they were not to be contradicted. Kira grasped his head between her hands, running her thumbs along the outer rims of his eye ridges, and moved closer. With infinite gentleness she brushed her lips across his. Again. The third time, her mouth remained in place.

Cardassian lips were generally not designed for kissing, being somewhat thin and hard. Dukat's lips were no exception, but it made no difference to Kira as her mouth continued to move against his. All that mattered to her was the man who lay whimpering beneath her, his hands now slowly relaxing their grip to encircle her waist and pull her even closer until the friction of her nightdress rubbing against her breasts drove her into a near-frenzy.

Then he opened his mouth against hers, and the gush of cool air exhaled from his lungs seared her from head to toe.

It was the end and the beginning. Birth and death, united in a single moment of eternity. It was a moment that would remain with her forever.

Even as her passion drove her inexorably toward an inevitable union, her rational mind was urging her to slow down, to back away. This was not right, he was still injured, he needed more time to heal. His body needed to be made whole before she could regenerate his spirit. This moment could not be complete unless he could enjoy it with the fullness of his flesh. It was too soon. The spirit was willing, but the flesh was not ready.

Desire quickly silenced reason, banishing it to a dark corner of her mind, as Kira felt Dukat's hands moving against her back. One slipped softly down, cradling the gentle swelling of her bottom, and the other trailed up to tangle its fingers in her hair. She acknowledged the cue and moved under his hands, shifting her body until she was draped across his chest, the weight of her upper body now supported on her elbows as they rested on either side of his head, her right hip bone pressing between the bottom tip of his chest ridges and his groin.

Then Dukat rolled slightly to the right, taking her with him, until her pubic bone was pressed squarely against his groin. Even through the dual layers of cloth between them, she could feel the heat and moisture radiating from him. There was no stopping the shiver that racked her body as he groaned into her open mouth.

~ * ~

All Dukat could think was how wonderful Kira's body felt against his. Her sweet mouth kissing him, her warm soft hands caressing him with an expertise that could only come from instinct, her smooth flesh inside the nightdress rubbing against him...and the small throaty gasps he elicited as his hands massaged her neck and bottom, coupled with that intoxicating sweet aroma of Bajoran pheromones. It was enough to drive him insane.

What had he done to deserve such joy? Dukat was not a religious man by inclination, but he had to wonder if perhaps the Bajoran Prophets had specifically chosen him, of all people, to be here, at this moment, with this woman, making her writhe and sigh against him like this. And if the Prophets had chosen him, then who was he to deny their divine command?

She had said yes.

She had given him the affirmation he needed, the promise he had longed to hear for years. She had given herself - voluntarily, with no restrictions - to him.

It was time to claim what was his.

He tightened his grip against her and, using his greater body weight and strength as leverage, rolled to his left, pulling her bottom until her pubic bone rested against his groin.

Unfortunately, it was the wrong thing to do.

Doctor Bashir had done an excellent job knitting Dukat's broken bones, but Cardassians had evolved a highly dense skeletal structure that required time and patience to heal properly. Thus, when Dukat and Kira rolled, their combined weight placed an agonizing pressure against his left thigh. The pain was so great all thoughts of pleasure were instantly eradicated from Dukat's mind, and he grunted in discomfort.

Unfortunately, Kira mistook his grunt for a groan of pleasure, and ground her hips against him.

As unbearable as the passion had been a few moments before, the pain was even more so.

"Aargh," he ground out through clenched teeth. "No...don't...stop."

Unfortunately, Kira misunderstood his halting pleas, and pressed even closer.

He had no choice but to push her away from him, to roll on to his back and relieve the weight pressing on his leg. She fell to the floor with a thump and a cry of alarm.

"What the hell did you do that for?" she snapped. Her face was flushed with anger and residual passion and her chest was heaving.

Dukat threw his arms over his eyes, afraid to look, afraid even to respond. "I - I'm sorry, Major," he said softly, his voice ragged. "It's not you. I want to, but I can't. My leg. It hurts." He chewed his lower lip, disgusted with himself and his miserable timing. He would surely never get another opportunity like this again.

There was silence for a few minutes, but he did not dare to look; he could imagine the glare she must be giving him, the curses she was formulating in her mind. Then he felt her hand gently touch his leg where the splintered bone had broken through his skin. The sheet was still covering him from the waist down, but he felt the soft pressure of her lips through the cloth. Then her hands smoothed along his hips, up the sides of his torso and along his arms until they clasped his wrists and tugged his arms away from his face. There was nothing but compassion and concern in her eyes as she studied him.

"I'm the one who should be sorry, Dukat," she said. "I shouldn't have pushed you like I did."

He could not resist the opening she had just given him. "I tend to have that effect on women." Judging from the look on her face, she did not know whether to be amused or offended. He smiled tentatively at her and wrapped his arms around her waist. "I'm not complaining about the rest of it. And I'd like to pick up where we left off as soon as I'm able."

She leaned forward and kissed him lightly, lingering just long enough for him to return the kiss, then pulled away and stood.

"I'll hold you to that, Dukat."

~ * ~

When Dukat awoke the next morning, the sun was near its zenith and warm light was streaming in through the window next to his bed. He allowed himself a few minutes to bask in the warmth, wondering how long it had been since he had last been able to do so. Too long, he realized. The sounds of children at play outside filtered through the glass and his stomach growled a noisy reply, reminding him that it had been several hours since his last meal. He was still rather weak and his leg hurt from the previous night's adventure, but he was determined to leave the bed today. As enjoyable as it was to lounge around all day, he was a man of action, and after spending nearly a week on his back he was eager to be on the move again.

Someone - Kira, probably - had had the foresight to acquire a suitable outfit for him to wear, and with minimal difficulty he got dressed. The trousers were a bit long in the leg, but whoever had selected the outfit had chosen well; the cut was modest without being restrictive and the coloring was appropriate to Cardassian tastes. By some miracle his boots had survived the shuttle crash, but he decided to forego footwear for the present, hoping no one would be shocked or offended.

He was just completing his morning toilette when there was a knock at the bedroom door. "Come in," he said, expecting to see Kira enter.

Potr, the oldest Chivas child, peered in at him. "Sir? Mother and Aunt Nerys asked me to find out if you will be joining us for lunch."

Dukat could not help smiling at the boy's serious, earnest expression. He reminded him of Mekor in many ways. "Yes, I'll be right there. Wait a minute --" he added as Potr turned to go. "I could use your assistance," he said, lightly slapping his still-sore leg. "I can't put all my weight on it just yet."

The boy nodded and came forward, offering his shoulders for Dukat to lean on. "Of course, sir. Aunt Nerys said Cardassians don't heal as quickly from broken bones as Bajorans do."

"She should know. She's dealt with Cardassians all her life," Dukat said as they made their way to the other end of the house. Something occurred to him, and he stopped. Potr looked up at him expectantly. "Did the major tell you all about me? About who I used to be?"

The boy looked confused for a minute, but then he must have realized what Dukat meant. "Are you talking about the Occupation? Yes, sir, I know you were the last Prefect."

Dukat felt a mixture of surprise and amusement at Potr's simple, non-judgmental statement. "And you don't...despise me? You're not afraid of me?"

"I was only six when Bajor was liberated. I don't remember what it was like during the Occupation. But I have studied it in school, and Aunt Nerys told me what it was like serving with my grandmother in the Shakaar."

"But I...your people believe I did many terrible things during the Occupation. They claim I tried to destroy your world. Your...aunt...has hated me for a very long time."

"As I said, sir, I'm too young to remember what it was like when Cardassia ruled Bajor, and my parents have taught me to put the past behind me and look to the future. And Aunt Nerys doesn't seem to hate you too much now. She did bring you here to take care of you."

Dukat had no response, and they continued toward the kitchen.

When they arrived, the remaining children were gathered around the table as Jormal and Kira covered it with huge platters overflowing with traditional Bajoran dishes. Dukat recognized most of them - there were at least three varieties of hasperat, a bowl of moba fruit, ratamba stew and an enormous Tuwalli pie. Next to each place setting was a bundle of Jumja sticks tied with a brightly colored ribbon.

Little Mina bounced in her seat as Dukat entered. "Sit next to me, please," she lisped, rattling the empty chair next to her.

Dukat bowed to her. "How can I possibly refuse such a gracious hostess?" he said. Potr guided him to the chair and he carefully eased himself down. "And what sort of mischief have you been up to today?" he asked, chucking his finger under her chin.

She giggled. "Gerish took me fishing, and I fell in."

"Oh, my. I hope you didn't scare away all the fish." He glanced up as Kira placed a steaming cup of red leaf tea in front of him. She gave him a teasing smile, and he felt himself respond. Apparently the previous night's near-disaster had not turned her against him again. Today would be a good day.

Gerish interrupted their silent communion. "Mina couldn't scare away a water bug if she tried, but she sure did kill the fish with her stinky feet."

"I did not! Mama!"

"Not at the table, Mina," Jormal replied. "Gerish, apologize to your sister."

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry, Mina." Then he muttered under his breath, "Stinky feet, stinky feet, Mina has stinky feet."

Kira smacked him on the top of his head. "Behave yourself." She sat down, across the table from Dukat. "Is Regnold joining us?" she asked Jormal.

"He's received a communique' from the capital city. He'll be here when he's finished his business."

Dukat leaned forward, about to grab the closest platter, when he realized the room had become suddenly silent. He looked around the table. Everyone else had their eyes closed, their hands held up with the palms facing out. With some embarrassment he leaned back. He had forgotten about the ritual prayer before meals. He was not inclined to join them, so he took the opportunity to let his gaze wander around the table. It felt so strange, to be seated at a dining table on Bajor, surrounded by traditional Bajoran dishes and young Bajoran faces. If he imagined those faces to be gray and covered with ridges and scales, it was almost like being back on Cardassia, with several generations of his family seated at the long heirloom table, his mother in all her stately grandeur at one end and himself at the other. That had been many years ago, however, and there had never been the level of informality and intimacy he felt in the midst of the Chivas household, his beloved Kira seated just a few feet away, watching him through one half-opened eye. He felt a momentary pang at the thought of the family life he had left behind on Cardassia, and lowered his head to shield his sudden melancholy from her sharp eyes.

The prayer complete, the family dove in. Dukat helped himself to two hasperat wraps from the platter in front of him, rolling them on to his plate with his fork, then served one to Mina before passing the platter over her head to Potr.

"Gul Dukat," Jormal said, "have you ever had Nerys' hasperat?" She indicated the two cylinders on his plate.

"I don't believe so," he said, taking a piece of moba fruit. "Have I, Major?" Kira shook her head.

Jormal pointed her finger at Panat, the oldest girl. "Go get a pitcher of water and a glass for our guest," she ordered. Dukat was puzzled. "Nerys likes her hasperat a little...spicy."

"Ah, I see." Panat placed the glass next to his plate and filled it to the brim with water, then placed the pitcher next to it. "Well, we Cardassians are a sturdy lot," he said, spearing one of the wraps with his fork and taking a large bite from the end.

Hot.

Very hot. Hot, hot, hot.

His mouth was on fire, his tongue scorched. Water streamed from his eyes and nose as he opened his mouth and frantically fanned his hand in front of it, trying to put out the flames searing his throat. He lunged for the water glass and emptied it in a single gulp. He could feel the hasperat burning all the way down to his stomach. With shaking hands, he refilled the glass and swallowed its contents. After two more glasses of water he felt composed enough to choke and sputter in surprise. Except for Gerish's hysterical laughter, everyone at the table was staring at him with a mixture of horrified and amused silence. Kira's hand was over her mouth and she appeared to be fighting a losing battle to control her mirth.

There was laughter in Jormal's eyes as she addressed him. "Are you all right?" she asked.

Dukat rubbed his throat self-consciously. "I think I've just destroyed all the nerve endings in my mouth, but I'll survive," he croaked. In the interim, Panat had refilled the pitcher, and Dukat drained yet another glass of water. He then gave Kira a half-menacing glare and said, "If you ever need a good way to kill me, Major, that's it." He laughed to take the sting out of his comment, and Mina giggled next to him.

Jormal smiled. "Nerys has nearly killed several unsuspecting Bajorans and humans with her hasperat, so you're in good company." She bent down and looked under the table, where Gerish had collapsed in helpless laughter. "Get back in your seat," she ordered.

Chivas Regnold entered the room. It was the first time Dukat had seen him, but he could tell from the look on his face that his business with the capital city had involved some very disturbing news. The residual smiles on Jormal's and Kira's faces faded quickly as they looked up at him. "Nerys," he said to Kira, "the First Minister wishes to speak with you."

Kira rose quickly and left the room. "What is it?" Jormal asked her husband as he took Kira's place at the table.

He shook his head sadly. "The Dominion have tightened their blockade around Bajor. They're threatening an invasion unless the Emissary opens the wormhole to shipments of Ketracel white."

The jovial mood of just a few minutes before was completely broken. Even little Mina, who had no understanding of war or death, grew very still, and Dukat wanted to wrap his arms around her and tell her everything would be all right. Unfortunately, he could not; unfortunately, the threat of Jem'Hadar invading Bajor was a direct result of his arrogant and foolhardy treaty with the Dominion. These people, who had welcomed him into their home despite his past, could die for their hospitality because of his blind ambition. Was it not enough that he was responsible for Ziyal's death and the probable collapse of Cardassian society? Apparently not; apparently his full penance had not yet been exacted.

"Excuse me," he said, rising to his feet and limping from the room.

* ~ *

It was very late when Kira returned to the house the next night, and she was bone-tired. Edon had been adamant that she come to the capital city, to join with him and the Council of Ministers to try to talk sense into Sisko. She knew their arguments were pointless, that Sisko was gambling on the shortage of white killing the Jem'Hadar, or at least rendering them incapable of fighting, before the Dominion could make good on its threat to invade Bajor. It was good to see Sisko again and assure him that she was well, albeit trapped on Bajor, but the sight of the abandoned streets and apartments in the capital city had been heartbreaking. People were leaving the city in droves, and she had found it necessary to pull rank just to get a seat on a transport back to Dahkur. Prophets willing, they would be safe in the country; the Dominion had little interest in anything other than industry and technology, and the Jem'Hadar had no need for food.

A light was on in Dukat's room, and she wondered if he had waited up for her; she had contacted Regnold to inform him of her return that night. As she entered the house and headed down the corridor toward her room, she saw that the door to Dukat's room was ajar, and poked her head inside to check on him. He was sitting up in bed, reading.

He lifted his head when she stepped into the room. "Ah, Kira, I see you made it back," he said, putting down the padd. His gentle smile faded as he took in her expression, and he patted the mattress beside him, scooting over to make room for her. She sat down next to him with a weary sigh and folded her hands in her lap. "And how is the First Minister these days?" he asked.

Kira knew what Dukat was doing, but she was too tired to humor his efforts to ease her concern. "The capital city is a virtual ghost town," she said, not venturing to look at him. "Just about the only people left are the vedeks and the Council of Ministers and a few security units." It suddenly struck her as odd to be discussing matters of Bajoran national security with this man. She wondered if the day would come when she would regret her momentary lapse of distrust. The Dukat she had known for years would not hesitate to take advantage of her report. But was the man who sat next to her, listening to her fears, nodding his head in agreement with her, comforting her by wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her to his chest the same Gul Dukat?

Was she the same Kira Nerys, to accept what he offered without hesitation?

She moved a little bit closer to him, angling her neck just enough to allow her cheek to rest against a smooth area of his chest, and draped her arm over his waist. His other hand came up and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She noticed that, sometime during her absence, he had procured a pair of pajamas, and she smiled to herself at his persistent modesty.

When he spoke, his voice was soft, and she closed her eyes to let the low, soothing drone envelop her. "I wish...there was something I could do," he said. "I can't stop reminding myself that if it weren't for me you wouldn't be in this mess."

"You're Gul Dukat," she mumbled in reply. She was so tired, and it felt so good to be lying in his arms like this. She could not deny the irony of her situation; outside, massive armies stood at bay, ready to engage in a furious and bloody battle, but here, in the arms of perhaps the single most dangerous man in the Alpha Quadrant, she felt perfectly safe. "You wouldn't have done what you did any differently."

"Well, I would have done one thing differently. I wouldn't have allied Cardassia with the Dominion."

"But you still would have taken the station from Sisko?" She turned her head to look up at him.

"If I could have done it without losing too many men or ships, yes."

"And then you would have retaken Bajor."

"Hm, perhaps. But I much prefer having you." He bent his long neck forward to kiss her.

Kira lost herself in the touch of his lips against hers, but fatigue quickly regained control and she broke off the kiss to lay her head back against his chest and close her eyes. "I'm so tired," she said, to herself as much as to him.

Dukat stirred, disturbing her enough to irritate her, but she soon realized that he was moving his body so he could lie next to her. He pulled the sheet out from beneath her legs and draped it over her, ignoring the fact that she still had her boots on. Once he was settled, he pulled her head back to his chest. "Stay with me tonight, Kira. Just sleep."

She was asleep before he finished speaking.

~ * ~

Kira awoke a couple of hours later to discover that she was alone in the bed. Dukat had apparently not been gone long; she could still see the depression in the pillow where his head had rested. Yet she had no recollection of his departure having disturbed her sleep, and there was no light coming from beneath the bathroom door. The sun was just beginning to peek above the horizon, which meant Regnold was probably already up and working in his office. He would want to hear the news from the capital city. Since she was awake and fairly rested, she decided to get up.

Twenty minutes, a hot shower and a change of clothes later, Kira fixed herself a double-strength raktajino and went into Regnold's office. His desk was covered with padds, most of them pertaining to the administration of the vast Chivas farm. Kira helped herself to the cold remains of a forgotten hasperat omelet and flopped down in an empty chair. Regnold gave her a cursory glance and returned to his work, but she knew she had his full attention.

"So what did the First Minister have to say to the Emissary?" he asked.

"Shakaar wants the Federation to lay siege to Cardassia. Since the Dominion violated their own non-aggression treaty with Bajor, he thinks retaliation is in order."

"But the Dominion hasn't taken any overtly aggressive steps against Bajor yet."

"That's just what Captain Sisko said. Sisko thinks we'd be better off coordinating a blockade-running tactic, trading grain shipments for armaments."

Regnold shook his head. "We can't afford to export any food staples. If this turns out to be a lengthy blockade, we'll need every kerripate we can harvest."

"But we need weapons to protect ourselves."

"We improvised before. We can improvise again. From what I hear, weapons won't do much good against the Jem'Hadar anyway." He leaned back in his seat and folded his hands under his chin. "What about Dukat?"

"What about him?" She had known this was coming.

"Do you think it's a risk, keeping him here?"

"Where else can he go? The Federation couldn't even keep him safe."

"You know he's been tried and condemned in absentia on Cardassia Prime? You may have convinced Sisko he's dead, but the Dominion isn't buying it. If they find out he's on Bajor --" The implied threat hung low and ominous in the air. "And who's to say he won't find his way back to power if there's another change in regime? He's done it before. Then what happens to Bajor? What happens to you?"

"I'll just have to cross that bridge when I come to it."

Regnold snapped forward. "Nerys, don't be stupid. You of all people should know just how dangerous and unpredictable Dukat is. He's a snake, and like any snake he'll turn on you in an instant." Regnold jabbed a finger at her. "The only reason I agreed to let you bring him here is because he was Ziyal's father. But let me tell you now, if his presence here jeopardizes my family in any way, if he harms even a hair on any of my children's heads, he has to go. I'll kill him myself, if it comes to that. Understood?"

Chastened, Kira nodded. Regnold had invested an enormous amount of faith in her, to allow her to bring Dukat here. She only hoped he would not come to regret it. "Where is Dukat this morning? He wasn't in his...room...when I got up."

Regnold jerked his head toward the window. "He's down by the footbridge across the creek. Mina took him there yesterday, to show him the tree house Ziyal helped the children build last summer."

Kira knew the spot he meant; she remembered Ziyal telling her about the tree house just a few days before her death. "Thanks, Regnold. For everything."

He returned his attention to his work. "Only for you, Nerys."

~ * ~

Kira found Dukat sitting at the base of the tree supporting the tree house. A few meters away a crudely built footbridge crossed the creek at a wide bend that formed a swimming hole during the spring and a mud flat in late summer. A long rope, frayed from use, dangled from a branch stretching out over the pool. Kira sat down next to Dukat and balanced her raktajino on her knee.

"Regnold told me I'd find you here," she said when Dukat did not acknowledge her presence.

His head jerked up at the sound of her voice. "Hm? Oh, yes, one of the children brought me here yesterday while you were gone. The little girl, I think. She said Ziyal liked to come here and practice sketching."

Kira remembered something Ziyal had told her once, and scrambled to her feet. Boards nailed to the tree trunk enabled her to climb to the shanty precariously balanced on three large limbs that spread out from the main trunk. If Kira remembered correctly, Ziyal had left a sketchbook tucked into a niche between the rear wall and the uneven roof. She sighed in triumph when her fingers brushed against the edge of the pad and, with a slight tug, she managed to pull it free. She then dusted it off and tossed it to the ground next to Dukat before climbing back down.

Dukat was brushing his fingers across the metallic cover as Kira jumped the last two meters and collapsed next to him with a grunt. "She told me she kept a sketchbook hidden in many of her favorite places, in case she ever got inspired," Kira said.

He just nodded in reply and absent-mindedly flipped the book open. Kira leaned close to see what Ziyal had thought to capture in pencil.

They gasped in unison as the book fell open to an unusual portrait of the two of them. Although Kira had seen many of Ziyal's portraits, she could tell that Ziyal had put a lot of time and thought into this particular rendering. She had somehow envisioned their two faces as one image, overlapping their disparate features so that it was difficult to tell where Dukat ended and Kira began. Yet even in the blending of his Cardassian ridges with her Bajoran ones, Kira knew instinctively who the models had been.

Dukat traced his finger around the hollow in the center of the amalgam's forehead and across the nose ridges. "It almost looks like her," he said sadly. "Only the features are sharper." He turned the page as Kira nodded in silent agreement.

The next drawing was of one of the Chivas children - Gerish, Kira thought - at the exact moment when he released the rope swing and launched himself into orbit, before gravity yanked him into the cool clear depths of the pool. The expression on his face was a treasure: eyes squeezed shut in delicious anticipation, mouth wide open, arms and legs akimbo, wild hair flying. Ziyal had captured the essence of his exuberant nature so well Kira could almost hear the primal yell erupting from his throat as he soared through the air.

There were several nature sketches - trees, wildlife, flowers that grew along the banks of the creek - and two charming portraits of Mina. One of them was a cameo profile, and Kira could imagine Ziyal urging the girl to sit still "just a little longer" as she tried to align her nose with her forehead. The other was of Mina and Potr, her little arms wrapped snugly around his neck from behind, her lips planted against his cheek, as he gazed serenely at the artist.

The last sketch was a portrait of a Bajoran woman Kira had never seen before, but judging from Dukat's reaction she knew who it must be.

Tora Naprem.

At first, Kira thought Dukat was choking; he had his hand over his mouth, his eyes were shut tight, his shoulders were shaking, and he kept taking deep, shuddering breaths through his nose. Then she saw the tears streaming down his darkened face and realized he was sobbing.

"Oh Naprem," he moaned. "You were right, you were so right. Look what I've done to our beautiful daughter. You were right, you always said my ambition would get us all killed, you were right, I killed her, I killed you and I killed Ziyal, you were right --" he gasped, unable to continue. He ripped the drawing from the book and crumpled it in his fist as his head bent over his knees and he began rocking back and forth, his anguished cries of grief racking his body.

Kira was at a loss for words. She understood his grief - she had been in his place often enough in her life - but she doubted there was anything she could - or should - do to comfort him. He needed to confront his demons on his own, to accept responsibility for his actions, to admit that at last the years of pain and suffering he had inflicted on Bajor had come to bear on his pagh. Until he acknowledged that he had been broken, he could not be made whole again.

Dukat needed to be allowed - to be given the opportunity - to grieve.

Kira took the sketchbook, opened it to a small self-portrait of the artist, and placed it on the ground in front of her. She then assumed the traditional position and began to recite the ancient healing words of the death chant: "Ahkay ah, aya vah suu, koh vanha, eh kayha."

Over and over she repeated the mantra, opening her pagh to the power of the Prophets, beseeching them to take pity on Ziyal, to take pity on Dukat, to take pity on Kira.

"Ahkay ah..."

Over and over she called upon the company of paghs to accept the stranger into their midst, to shelter the half-breed girl who could find no peace in corporeal existence.

"...aya vah suu..."

Over and over she cried out to Bajor, to fill her with life-giving strength and renewal, to show her the path to forgiveness.

"...koh vanha..."

Over and over she prayed to the Prophets to heal Dukat, to cleanse his pagh of the blood of ten million Bajorans, to restore his fractured soul.

"...eh kayha."

Over and over.

And then there was another voice united with hers, a familiar baritone still ragged with sorrow, his Cardassian larynx struggling to mimic the strange syllables as Kira felt her own hot tears of anger and sadness and loss and, finally, joy, joining with his. With one voice, they honored the dead; with one voice, they embraced the living; with one voice, they acknowledged the past; with one voice, they looked to the future.

Two hearts, one voice, united in grief.

~ * ~

Dukat spent the rest of the day alone, most of it walking around the Chivas estate and strengthening his atrophied muscles. He was not intentionally avoiding Kira, but after the naked intimacy they had shared that morning, he needed time and distance to recover his equilibrium. He suspected Kira needed the same; she had neither objected nor followed him when he walked away from her upon the completion of the death chant.

He had concealed his sorrow at Ziyal's death for nearly two weeks. Cardassians were generally not inclined to grieve publicly, but he had cherished Ziyal, and she deserved more than he had been able to give. Unfortunately, circumstances had prevented him from giving her the mourning she deserved, until he saw the portrait of her mother in that sketchbook. The sight of Naprem's lovely face rendered almost flawlessly had opened the floodgates, and his grief had poured out of him in a torrent. He was not embarrassed by his emotional outburst, but he needed to bring his emotions back into check before he could face Kira again.

He knew she would understand. He knew, because it was she who enabled him to give voice to his grief. He knew, because she had grieved with him.

It was time to start over. Time for renewal.

He turned up the path that led back to the house, shielding his sensitive eyes against the glare of the setting sun. There were no children outside to greet him, which probably meant they had already eaten and were dressed for bed. If he knew Kira, she had admonished the children to stay away from him until he returned. He was grateful for the solitude, but now he was ready to rejoin the fold, to embrace them as they had embraced him.

They were all gathered in the family room listening to Jormal read a story when he entered, but the clomp of his boots against the kitchen floor sent them scurrying toward him. Little Mina led the pack, throwing her arms around his knees and squeezing so hard he thought he might lose his balance. Potr and Panat looked up at him in anxious silence, expressing their concern for him with their eyes, while Gerish did a jig on the sofa until Kira urged him to sit. The twins - whose names he could never remember - returned to stand behind their mother's chair when they realized who the newcomer was. He bent and picked up Mina.

"And how is my little water sprite today?" he asked, tickling her nose ridges.

Mina giggled and nestled her head against his neck ridge. "I missed you," she sighed.

He closed his eyes as he imagined the same words spoken with his daughter's voice many years ago. Kira must have seen his reaction, because he heard her approach and try to take Mina out of his arms. "Come on, Mina," she said gently. "It's time for bed."

"No! Wait!" the girl cried. Then she leaned forward and gave Dukat a sloppy kiss on the cheek. "'Night," she said as she turned to Kira, who then handed her into her mother's arms.

"Good night, Mina," Dukat said, as Jormal led the children back to their rooms. He turned and looked at Kira, who was studying him expectantly. "Major?" he prompted.

Her arms were crossed over her chest, but her smile was genuine, if not a bit melancholy. "Are you all right?" she asked. "Have you eaten at all today?"

He patted his stomach. "I found a grove of moba trees a couple of hours ago and stuffed myself. As for the rest --" his gaze faltered "-- time will tell."

She unfolded her arms and took one of his hands in hers. "I was worried about you."

He rested his other hand against her cheek, and she leaned into it, closing her eyes. "Thank you for...letting me have some time to myself." He took a step closer. Her eyes opened and widened. "But now, the last thing I want to be is alone." Another step. He could feel her hands trembling. Or was that his hand? "Now, Major...Kira...we have --" he bent his neck until her face filled his vision "-- some unfinished business --"

PART FIVE

The Serpent and the Hawk 3/6 (DS9)

2009-04-10T21:54:25Z

The Serpent and the Hawk 2/6 (DS9)

2009-04-10T21:48:28Z

TITLE: The Serpent and the Hawk
RATING: R
SUMMARY: Ziyal's brutal death unites Gul Dukat and Major Kira in ways neither of them expected.

DISCLAIMER: Paramount owns the Star Trek universe and everything it encompasses. This story is not intended to infringe on any copyrights, and the only profit I gain by it is emotional satisfaction.

PART ONE

Kira was flustered and annoyed. Doctor Bashir had been working with her on her rehabilitation, but he was abruptly called away by an emergency in the engineering department just as he walked through the door. The timing was too perfect for it to be anything but a coincidence, and she was furious with Bashir for allowing Dukat to simply pick up where he had left off. The security contingent that followed Dukat everywhere he went was nowhere to be seen. Now here she was, trapped, alone in Sickbay with that man - that Cardassian man - and unable to escape. His long arm was wrapped securely around her waist, his unmistakable aroma filling her nostrils, his cool touch against her hand sending chills down her spine, his overwhelming presence making her lightheaded.

The worst part about it was not that she was uncomfortable with Dukat's proximity.

The worst part was that she was enjoying it.

She struggled to focus her thoughts on the here and now, to ignore the temptation to lean into him, to inhale his scent too deeply. Unfortunately, his nearness was making her tongue-tied, and she could think of nothing intelligent to say.

Dukat broke the silence for her. "Your rehabilitation seems to be progressing very well, Major," he said.

At least it was a comment she could answer, and she nodded vigorously. "Julian says he'll be able to release me to my quarters in three days," she replied. "He said you did something that kept my nerve endings from destabilizing and stopping my heart. He was very impressed."

"I just used common triage procedure for treating point-blank disrupter wounds. Every Cardassian soldier is trained in basic battlefield triage."

She wondered what his life had been like before he was posted to Bajor. She knew all about his career during the Occupation, but except for the few tidbits of information he volunteered in casual conversation, Dukat's early life was a cipher. She hesitated to ask him about it, for fear of seeming too interested, so she chose to veer the conversation in another direction.

"Dax tells me you barely made it off that Jem'Hadar ship. Were you able to bring Ziyal as well?" she asked.

Dukat stopped and loosened his grip around her waist. "No," he said, looking away from her, "there wasn't time."

Kira gently placed her hand on his arm, surprising herself as much as him by the gesture. "Do you - I mean, should I - that is, would you like me to perform the death chant for her?"
He turned to face her, breaking off all contact with her body. Kira exhaled softly at the loss, but then he placed a finger under her chin and lifted it so that she was looking directly into his eyes.

"You would do that for me?" he whispered.

His tone was sincere, but Kira reminded herself who she was addressing as his pale eyes bored through her with uncanny precision. "I would do it for her," she said, knowing it for the lie it was.
Death rituals were performed for the survivors, not the dead.

His thumb was caressing her jawline, and she had to repress the unexpected desire to lean into his hand and comfort him in his grief. "Shouldn't you have an actual --" he paused and took a deep, ragged breath "-- body to perform the chant over?"

Kira reluctantly pulled away from his touch. This subject was too close to both of them for it not to have her undivided attention. "Not really. Don't you remember quoting Kai Moressa to me? 'What remains after death is but a shell' --"

"-- 'a sign that the pagh has begun its final journey to the Prophets,' yes, I remember. What does that have to do with Ziyal?"

"She meant that the body need not be present for the ritual to be effective."

"Well, that may work for you, but Ziyal was half-Cardassian, and we Cardassians need our dead to be present during death rituals, even Bajoran ones."

"If it's that important to you, I could always perform it over a substitute."

"What kind of a substitute?"

She could tell he was intrigued, and gave him a soft smile. "It depends. An empty grave, or perhaps a mound of sanctified earth. The chant can even be performed over a personal object of the deceased's."

He shook his head. "None of which can be found here on the starbase."

"No, it would have to wait until I can get to Bajor."

Dukat sighed heavily as he looked down at the floor. "I don't think I'll ever be able to set foot on Bajor again." His voice choked as he added, "I would like very much to be present when you performed the chant."

That surprised her, and she instinctively took a step back, having forgotten her instability. Her motor functions were still operating several seconds behind her brain commands, however, and even though her brain commanded her legs to regain their balance, they revolted and collapsed beneath her.

With a speed and grace that threw her even more off-balance, Dukat leaped forward and captured her in his arms, pressing her against his armored chest as she attempted to align her traitorous legs beneath her torso. When she had at last regained her footing, Kira became suddenly, painfully, blissfully aware that she was completely enveloped in Dukat's embrace, and that her hands were dangerously close to his neck ridges, her fingers just out of reach of pressing on the rapidly beating pulse points. Her own heart was pounding so loud she was certain he could feel it through his armor. Her eyes became transfixed on the diamond-shaped marking in his armor just below his long, elegant throat, a spot she had stared at long and often back on the station as he rambled on in one of his many interminable speeches.
Before, it had just been a place to look other than his eyes, but now it held an unexpected fascination for her. All she would have to do was lift her chin to place a soft kiss right there...

"Major?" Dukat's voice was husky as it rumbled through her slight frame, and she shivered in response to his arms tightening around her waist. Although she did not dare lift her eyes to his face, she could sense that it was looming ever larger in her peripheral vision as the world around her became increasingly gray, his scent igniting a simmering fire deep within her belly, his thin Cardassian lips beckoning her to submit to her unquenchable yearning...

"No!" she cried, pushing herself away from him. This time, he let her fall to the floor. They were both breathing heavily from the near-miss, each adamantly refusing to look at the other.

Kira was the first to recover. "Are you going to help me up, or am I going to have to crawl back to my bed?" she said, failing to inject her words with the venom that filled her mind as she mentally cursed her weakness and stupidity.

Dukat's skin was dark gray with arousal, and he leered at her as she lay sprawled at his feet. "I don't know, Major, I think I'd like to see you crawl."

There was no mistaking the contempt in her expression as she twisted away from him and began pulling herself along the floor. She cowered involuntarily when she heard the steady clomp of his boots approach her from behind, and tried to wrench free of his grasp as he took hold of her upper arms and pulled her to her feet. "Let go of me, Dukat," she growled, trying to twist away from him, but his grip tightened and he half-pushed, half-dragged her to her bed.

"What's the matter, Major? Don't you trust me?"

"No." He released her just as she reached the edge of her bed and she collapsed, face-first, across it. He made no move to help her, and she had no intention of asking for his assistance as she pulled herself far enough along the bed to be able to roll onto her back and then maneuver herself into a sitting position.

"To be honest, Major, I think you don't trust yourself," Dukat said as she glared at him - not at his face, but at his midriff, where she knew his penetrating gaze could not return her flustered one.

"To be honest, Dukat, I don't give a damn what you think. If you think I have any desire for you, then you're more deluded than I thought." She groaned inwardly at his lecherous grin, realizing too late that she had fallen into yet another of his verbal traps.

"I never said I thought you desired me," he said, sitting at the foot of her bed, leaning one arm over her crossed ankles with just a sliver of light between his skin and hers. "Do you?"

"Out," Kira whispered through clenched teeth. "Just...please leave."

She trembled as his fingers grazed her bare calf. "You haven't answered my question, Major." He inched his way up the bed, resting his hand on her knee. "Do you desire me?"

Kira took a deep breath and summoned every ounce of resolve she could muster. She lifted her chin, looked Dukat straight in the eye, and said, "No."

There was a flash of hurt in his eyes, then the usual gleam returned as he stood. "Very well, Major," he said, bowing slightly. "I will take my leave of you."

It was only when the Sickbay doors closed behind him that Kira remembered to exhale.

~ * ~

Dukat was profoundly disturbed by his confrontation with Kira in Sickbay, and his mind dwelled heavily upon what was said, and done - and almost done - as he prowled about his holding cell. He had never expected to see her so vulnerable, so...receptive to his own desires, and though the vision of her dark eyes filled with passion and longing exhilarated him to the core, it also terrified him. He had almost lost control, almost swept her up in his arms and ravished her on the spot, almost succumbed to his desire.

He could not afford to lose control; if he ever did, then her victory over him would be complete. If he could not have Kira of her own volition, then he would not have her at all.

Kira's offer to perform the traditional Bajoran death chant for Ziyal had caught him unawares. His many years spent on Bajor, Naprem at his side for nearly twenty of them, had instilled in him a grudging understanding and appreciation for Bajoran spirituality, even though it was superstitious and primitive by modern Cardassian standards. He had always been intrigued by the concept of the pagh, and the ancient folk tales about pagh-wraiths haunting caves and dark woods fascinated him. He fondly recalled one summer many years ago when Ziyal had been convinced a pagh-wraith had taken up residence under her bed, and begged her parents to let her sleep with them. After several sleepless nights of being kicked and punched by his daughter's dream-induced thrashes, he had thrown up his hands in disgust and decamped to Ziyal's room until she outgrew her fear. Even now, he had to chuckle at the memory of his long frame stretched across Ziyal's child-sized bed, his legs overshooting the mattress by half a meter, her collection of toys competing with him for space.

And now Ziyal was herself a pagh-wraith, her spirit doomed to roam the vacuum of space until someone laid her to rest. Kira understood his loss only too well.

On a whim, Dukat dropped to his knees and looked under his bunk. If Ziyal was there, he could not see her.

"Did you lose something, Dukat?" an unpleasantly familiar voice asked from behind him. "I don't think you'll find Cardassia hidden under there."

Garak.

Dukat's head shot up, banging on the hard frame of the bunk. He cursed, rubbing the swelling knot as he turned to glare at his longtime adversary. "Come to gloat?" he snapped.

Garak just smiled that ingratiating smile of his, the one that made Dukat want to slap his silly mouth right off his ugly face. "Oh, I have an entire lifetime to do that," he simpered. "Actually, I've come with news." His smirk deepened.

Dukat rose to his feet and approached the forcefield. "What kind of news?" he asked, almost afraid to find out. Garak would never give him good news.

"News about your family back on Prime."

Dukat froze. "Has something ha --"

"Oh, no, no, nothing like that."

"Then what, you arrogant little bastard!"

Garak tsked at him. "Temper, temper. If you're going to behave like that then maybe I won't tell you."

"I don't believe that for an instant. If you weren't already eager to tell me, you wouldn't even be here."

Garak sighed melodramatically. "Well, if you insist. It seems that a certain Mekor Dukat has publicly denounced his recently-deposed father as a traitor and a coward." His smirk was now a full-fledged grin.

Dukat was devastated, although he would be damned if he would let Garak see it. "Indeed," he ground out through his teeth.

"Yes, I heard that the youngest son of ex-Supreme Dictator Dukat has allied himself with Dukat's former first officer. I hear he's even changed his name - to Mekor Damar."

Dukat raised his arm, threatening to backhand Garak. It was an empty threat, he knew, but it felt so good to see the little opportunist flinch involuntarily. "If I ever get my hands around your leathery throat, Elimshu," he hissed, using the feminine diminutive of Garak's given name, "I'll pull out your chest scales one by one."

Garak seemed unperturbed by the insult to his manhood. "Is that a promise?" Dukat bit back his reply. It was not worth it to let Garak goad him like this. "I also hear that you're being shipped to Terra within the week."

Dukat nodded; one of the security officers guarding him had said the same thing this morning.

"What a pity, to be spending the rest of your natural life in a Terran prison so far away from Bajor." Garak slithered closer. "So far away from Terok Nor. So far away from...Major Kira."

Dukat turned his back, willing his ears not to listen.

"I suppose it's all for the best, though," Garak continued. "You're a walking target, and your foolish obsession with Bajor and Bajoran women has confused your mind. Don't you realize that every Bajoran woman who's gotten close to you has died rather violently and unnecessarily? First Naprem, and now Ziyal --" his voice caught, but he quickly recovered. "It would be such a shame for her to suffer the same fate."

Garak danced away as Dukat turned with a roar and charged the forcefield, oblivious to the plasma charges sizzling through his body until a phaser set on heavy stun rendered him unconscious.

* ~ *

Kira was exceedingly grateful that Dukat did not return to Sickbay for several days. The distance gave her time to think and to study her behavior during their last meeting, and she had come to the conclusion that her weakened state, exacerbated by the guilt she felt over Ziyal's death and the debt she owed to Dukat for saving her life, was what had prompted her to succumb to his charm. There was no danger of that happening again, she was quite certain.

At least, that was what she told herself.

That was what she told herself when Dax gave her the news from Cardassia Prime, about Damar adopting Dukat's son as his own.

That was what she told herself when Doctor Bashir said he had treated Dukat for plasma burns and a phaser injury incurred in a confrontation with Garak.

That was what she told herself when she heard from Sisko that Dukat was to be imprisoned on Terra for the rest of his natural life.

That was what she told herself when, three days after her last visit from Dukat, as she picked her uniform jacket off the bed and prepared to leave for her new quarters, he strode through the Sickbay doors.

"Major!" Dukat chortled, holding his arms wide as though he expected her to rush into them. "So good to see you up and about!"

Kira shrugged the jacket over her shoulders, leaving it unzipped for the moment. "Yes, Julian's just released me, and the captain already has work for me to do," she said. "What are you doing here?"

"Why, Major, I've come to escort you to your new home," he said, holding out his arm for her to hold. At her glare, he lowered his arm and added, "You needn't worry, Major, my bodyguards are waiting just outside to chaperone us. I can assure you that I will be the perfect gentleman."

"No, thank you, Dukat, but I can find my own way. I don't need your help."

Dukat's charming demeanor instantly evaporated, and he took a small step closer to her. "Major, I - I was hoping you would do me the honor of allowing me to accompany you. I know you don't need my help, but I had hoped you would at least accept my company."

His voice was unusually hesitant, but Kira was still wary of his motives. "What do you want, Dukat?" she sighed with exasperation.

He came even closer, and Kira ignored the instinct to step back. "You know I'm being transferred to Terra tomorrow?" She nodded, wondering where he was going with this conversation.

"I'll probably never see my homeworld or Bajor again. There are only a few Cardassians in Federation prisons, but I'll still have to be heavily protected from those who are there. As a result, I don't think I'll have many opportunities for stimulating conversation or pleasant company. With your permission, I'd like to make the most of this opportunity, with you, while I still have the chance." He bowed deeply.

Kira felt a pang of sympathy for him, but quickly repressed it. "Dukat, in case you forgot, there's a war going on right now. A war that you started. Shooing away your fear of loneliness is not high on my list of priorities at the moment. So if you will excuse me, I have work to do." She zipped up her jacket and turned to retrieve a small clay lamp from the table beside her bed.

He pointed at the lamp as she carefully cradled it in her hand to avoid extinguishing the flame. "What is that?" he asked.

She studied the flame as she spoke. "It's an old Bajoran custom. Those who are in mourning for a lost loved one light a special lamp and say a prayer in their memory."

"The Duranya ritual," he said, sinking to the bed. "For Ziyal?"

She nodded, not entirely surprised that he was familiar with it. "Generally, we don't perform the Duranya until after the death chant has been completed, but I didn't know when I would able to perform the death chant, and I needed to do something for her. This is the least I could do." She did not mention that the typical Duranya lamp was much larger, and hung from the ceiling with several chains; the starbase's replicators were not equipped to produce Bajoran ritual artifacts, and she knew the meaning of the gesture was more important than its canonicity.

Dukat cupped his hands and reached them out. "May I?" he asked. Kira gently placed the lamp in his hands, thrilling at the exotic coolness of his skin as her fingers came into contact with his. For a brief moment, the flame seemed to grow brighter as they cradled the lamp together, her small brown hands resting in his large gray ones. Then she pulled her hands away, and the moment was gone. Dukat sat in melancholy silence as he stared at the flame, and Kira felt the need to say something to break the silence.

"You can have the lamp," she finally said. It was the only neutral thing she could think of to say. "You're her father, you should keep it."

He lifted his head to look at her, and Kira nearly gasped at the profound sadness in his eyes. "Thank you, Major," he said, and his voice was raspy, like wind blowing through leaves on an autumn day.

She sat down on the bed next to him, and noticed as she did so that, although her feet missed the floor by several centimeters, Dukat's long legs were stretched out before him. It occurred to her that he did not seem to be quite so tall when they were both standing.

"I heard about Mekor," she said apropos of nothing. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be." His gaze had returned to the flame as it flickered and sputtered before his breath. "He's right; I am a traitor and a coward."

"Can't say that I disagree with the traitor part, but I wouldn't call you a coward."

"Then you're the only one."

"You could have left me behind on the station. That's not the act of a coward, what you did for me."

"I should have gone to Cardassia Prime to face up to my crimes."

"You mean face an execution squad? Dukat, you gave the Federation information that could be vital in turning the tide of this war. If you'd gone back to Prime, the Federation probably would have lost the war in a few months. If the Federation loses this war, then...Bajor will never survive another invasion."

"You said it yourself, Major, I started this war. I handed my people on a platter to the Dominion, and now I've handed them to the Federation. No matter who wins this war, Cardassia will be the loser. And I'm a coward for not accepting that responsibility on my head."

"You said it yourself, Dukat, you're going to spend the rest of your life in a Terran prison under heavy guard with few or no visitors. I don't call that shirking responsibility."

"Will you come visit me, Major?"

The question took her by surprise, and she stammered, before she even realized what she was saying, "Yes, of course I'll come visit you." There would be ample opportunity for banging her head into the wall later.

She knew he saw right through her, as usual. "You don't have to lie on my account, Major. And I won't hold you to it. That you cared enough to lie is enough to make me happy."

Kira did not know how to respond, so she stood and lightly rested her hand on his broad shoulder until he looked up at her. "How about that walk to my quarters?"

His face brightened, although his eyes remained dark with sadness. "I'd like that very much, Major." He stood, balancing the lamp in one hand while he kept his arm bent at the elbow and held it out for her grasp. Kira linked her hand through the crook, being careful not to jostle his hand. "Ready?" he asked.

"Let's go."

Arm-in-arm they walked through the Sickbay doors and turned down the corridor. Dukat's guards fell in behind them, and Kira had the strange feeling they really were acting as chaperones. Together they strolled through the corridor in companionable silence. It reminded Kira of stories she had heard as a child, of Bajoran lords and ladies walking the Promenade in the capital city on sunny days, their family wealth and finery on brilliant display, before the Occupation put an end to such frivolities. Then the Promenade was filled with Cardassian infantry units conducting parade drills. She tried to put those images out of her mind, to focus on what Bajor had once been and would someday be again.

They reached her quarters all too quickly, Kira thought, and she stifled a sigh as she keyed the door open. Instead of returning to his holding cell, however, Dukat followed her in, as the guards took up position right outside. He wasted no time in making himself at home as he placed the lamp on a table and walked up to the replicator.

"One red leaf tea and one raktajino," he said. Kira placed her hands on her hips and frowned at him.

"Voiceprint not authorized," the computer replied, and Kira nearly guffawed at Dukat's expression of shock and astonishment.

"Surely you didn't think Captain Sisko would grant you access to a replicator?" she asked.

Dukat shook his head. "Just trying to catch him in an oversight," he said. "Major, would you do the honors?"

Kira repeated the order, and two cups shimmered into existence. She handed the tea to Dukat and took her raktajino to the sofa, where she sat down. The short walk from Sickbay to her quarters had tired her more than she expected, and she was suddenly grateful for Dukat's support.

Not that she would ever admit it.

She wrapped her fingers around the cup, feeling the heat suffuse her fingers, and inhaled the pungent steam as she studied a symmetrical pattern of bubbles on the surface of the liquid. Several minutes elapsed before she realized that Dukat was being uncharacteristically quiet. She shifted in her seat so she could watch him as he leaned against the porthole sipping his tea, his thoughts light-years away. He must have either sensed her movement or her gaze, because he glanced at her and gave her a sad smile.

"I was just thinking about Ziyal," he said, answering her unspoken question. "When I took her to Prime, Mekor was the only one of my other children who would have anything to do with her. Of course, he was just a child, and obviously didn't know any better until his mother straightened him out."

"Do you think he knows what Damar did?"

Dukat shrugged. "Does it matter?"

"I don't know. Does it?"

There was no immediate answer forthcoming. After several more minutes of silence, Dukat said, "I can't quite figure out what Damar hopes to accomplish by adopting Mekor. Cardassia is a meritocracy, so it's not as though my son could inherit the dictatorship. He's too young even to be an effective Dominion puppet." He grew silent again. "He'll be fif...no, fourteen, this winter. I had arranged an internship with the Cultural Attache' to begin as soon as the school season was complete, and his mother had just enrolled him in a dance class."

Kira was flabbergasted. "A dance class?"

Dukat laughed. "Bajorans aren't the only people with a taste for the expressive arts, dear Major. Every Cardassian of high standing is expected to possess at least a functional familiarity with the basic steps of the courtly dances. They come in very handy at diplomatic functions." He straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin with pride. "I'll have you know, I was quite the dancer in my youth. Many a fine young lady was eager to have me escort her onto the floor. I even took home a few awards."

Kira's eyebrow went up as her voice took on a teasing tone. "I can just imagine."

His face registered mock offense. "It's true. You can ask Garak, if you don't believe me."

"I'll take your word for it."

He placed his teacup on the windowsill and came toward her, holding out his hands. "I'll show you."

Kira's eyes grew wide. "You're asking me to dance with you? I don't know any Cardassian 'courtly dances'!"

Dukat waved one hand dismissively. "I'll teach you. They're so easy even a Klingon could learn one in a few minutes. Come."

Kira shook her head. "I don't think so, Dukat. I'm not quite up to the challenge right now." The challenge she hoped to avoid was not that of trying to dance Cardassian-style; she wanted to avoid all physical contact with him, lest it lead to other types of contact. His serpentine charm was beginning to affect her again.

His easy humor deflated somewhat as he sat down heavily next to her. "I don't think you'll get another opportunity to learn the Cardassian Imperial Waltz from someone as skilled and graceful as me," he sighed.

"Maybe you can teach me when I come visit you on Terra," she said, teasing him, but at the same time trying not to sound too mocking.

His eyes gleamed, and Kira held her breath. She knew that look; it meant trouble. "Yes, maybe so. Then...perhaps --" his voice grew very low and he took hold of her hand in both of his "-- you could teach me the Dance of Eternal Longing?"

Kira yanked her hand back as she moved as far away from him as quickly as possible, spilling her drink in the process. She was shaking with fear and rage as she cried, "Do you have to spoil everything, Dukat? Can't we have a decent conversation without you turning it into a...a...seduction? Do you have any idea what the Dance of Eternal Longing is about?"

Dukat approached her carefully as she inched along the wall opposite him. "What have I said that upsets you so much, Major?"

She shook her head, refusing to speak, refusing to inhale his encroaching scent.

"Does it bother you that I know enough about the dance to know what it means? Or...does it bother you that I suggested you perform it for me?" His voice was as smooth as Jumja sap as he pressed one hand against the wall over her head and leaned close to her ear. "You did promise to come visit me in prison."

She ground her teeth in fury. "I lied."

Dukat inhaled deeply, and Kira closed her eyes against the reality of her situation. As usual, her pheromones were betraying her more rational wishes. "Major, you are in quite a state."

She pushed herself away from the wall and walked, shaky from exhaustion and...other feelings...to the other side of the room. She was not the only person in the room producing pheromones, and Dukat's heady aroma was beginning to make her eyes water. With more control than she knew she had, she said, "I think it's best that you leave. I'm...not up to full strength, and Sisko is expecting me to report for duty in less than an hour. I - I need to rest for a few minutes before heading to his office." How stupid could she be, admitting her weakness to him? Dukat would be a fool not to exploit it.

The predatory gleam in Dukat's eyes vanished as concern knitted his eye ridges, surprising her with his unexpected reaction. "Major, I am terribly sorry. I've obviously overstayed my welcome." He retrieved his teacup from the windowsill and placed it in the recycler. Kira remained frozen in place, afraid to move lest she collapse in his presence. Kira noticed that he was taking care not to pass too closely to her, and wondered at his uncharacteristic caution.

He had almost reached the door, when she would finally be able to breathe freely, but he turned at the last moment. "I'm not one for long goodbyes, Major, so I'll just say that it has been an honor and a privilege to know you these past few years. I hope that someday we may renew our acquaintance."

His farewell statement was so simple, so guileless, so unlike the irascible Gul Dukat Kira thought she knew, that she could only swallow noisily and nod in reply. Apparently it was sufficient, because he turned and strode through the door.

* ~ *

Kira collapsed on the sofa. Quite a state, indeed! What in the Name of the Prophets had possessed him to mention the Dance of Eternal Longing? Did he know its importance in Bajoran folklore? Did he understand the role it played in adolescent girls' fantasies? Knowing Dukat, he probably knew more about it than she did; there was little about Bajoran culture and tradition with which he was not familiar.

The Dance of Eternal Longing, Kira had learned from her older friends in the Shakaar, was an ancient fertility ritual so old as to almost be an old wives' tale. According to the legend that accompanied the ritual, it commemorated the plight of a young girl sacrificed to save her village from a plague that was killing all the young men, leaving childless widows behind. An oracle had told the village vedek that only a girl pure in spirit and unblemished by love could seduce the pagh-wraith that had inflicted the plague, so the vedek searched high and low for the proper sacrifice, only to discover that it was his own daughter. He was heartbroken, but the villagers were desperate and the girl insisted that she be allowed to go to the pagh-wraith. The next morning she walked into the woods with nothing but courage as her guide.

She walked for several hours, until the trees grew so thickly together no sunlight could break through the leaves. Exhausted and hungry, she fell asleep at the foot of a massive Jumja tree. She awoke to find the pagh-wraith, a hideous, smelly, loathsome creature, staring at her as though he were about to devour her. She was terrified, but remained calm.

"What do you want?" he growled at her.

"I've come to ask you to lift the curse from my village so our women may have husbands and children."

"What about you? Do you want a husband and children?"

The girl said, "All I want is to help my village and make my father happy."

"You are a very selfless creature," the pagh-wraith said, "so I will reward you by becoming your husband and filling you with children." The girl could think of many other ways by which she would rather be rewarded, but said nothing as the pagh-wraith threw her over his shoulder and carried her to his cave.

When they reached the cave, the girl noticed that it was filled with the paghs of all the children the pagh-wraith's curse had prevented from being born, held captive by chains of pure gold. "These will be our children," the wraith said, "but if you want me to set them free you must first dance for me." The girl was puzzled by his request, but obediently complied.

First she danced the story of her village, then the story of the founding of the Celestial Temple, then the story of the first man and the first woman in the Garden of Exquisite Splendor. And when she had danced every dance she knew, she danced her own dance, a dance formed from within her pagh, expressing all her sorrow for the imprisoned paghs and her longing to set her village free of the curse. As he watched her twirl and leap with a divinely-inspired grace, the pagh-wraith felt himself begin to transform from within, his stone heart filling with an eternal longing for light and beauty as his hideous mask fell away, revealing his true self.

Her dance at last complete, the girl collapsed to the floor. When she looked up to see the wraith's reaction, she was astonished to see a handsome young prince standing before her, the dark cave that had held the paghs captive transformed into a magnificent palace filled with beautiful, happy children. The dark woods surrounding the cave had also changed into a fertile garden, filled with every kind of plant and animal known to Bajor.

Her dance had broken the curse, and she remained with the prince as they raised the children to love light and beauty and respect the teachings of the Prophets, until the time came for the happy pair to pass from this life, when the Prophets, in their infinite wisdom, set their paghs permanently in the heavens for all to see as a sign of their true love.

Kira remembered the cold winter nights the women in the Shakaar would gather around a blazing fire and warm each other with bawdy tales about virgins ravished by pagh-wraiths and the legendary effect the Dance of Eternal Longing was supposed to have on Bajoran men. Those nights, she fondly recalled, embodied her earliest experiences with Bajoran sexuality, and the stories she heard about the Dance of Eternal Longing were a central part of those memories. The women would bundle themselves in enormous blankets, and the elders would talk about the days, centuries past, when the dance was believed to possess mystical powers that could induce fertility in a man. The girls - Kira among them - would giggle to each other as the older women described in lascivious detail its effects on the male anatomy, and the many astounding and pleasurable uses for that particular appendage. As the night wore on the tales grew more and more raunchy, and sounds of shuffling and moans could be heard emanating from beneath some of the blankets, and some of the women crept away to join their male comrades, but still Kira's curiosity about the Dance of Eternal Longing was unsatisfied.

One night, as the remains of a once-roaring fire lay smoldering, Kira screwed up the courage to ask Chivas Panat, the oldest woman in the cell, what the dance entailed. Chivas slid down the log they were perched on and wrapped one end of her blanket around Kira, tightening her embrace until Kira's head rested against her shoulder.

"The basic steps are quite simple," she began, taking a stick and sketching lines in the ashes as she described the movements. "Anyone can do them, but they signify nothing if not done in the proper context or the right frame of mind. What makes the Dance of Eternal Longing such a powerful tool is what you put into it. The gestures remain the same, but the spirit and the style are unique to each woman. Unfortunately, women of the younger generations don't understand that; to them, it's just an easy and traditional way to seduce men." She jerked her head in the direction where some of the women had gone to lie with the men. "I'll wager Shakaar has seen it done at least a dozen times. These young women think it means they can decorate themselves with jewels and bells and fine silks and with a few wiggles of their hips and a shake of their breasts they'll have a man grunting and squealing like a vole in heat." Chivas took a long, deep breath as she stared into the embers. "If she performs the Dance of Eternal Longing properly, a woman will only perform it once in her life, for only one man."

"Have you ever danced?" Kira asked.

Chivas smiled, and there was a softness to her features Kira had not seen before. "Yes," she said. "I danced for the man I married, the first night we made love."

"Is it true, what they say about it making men fertile?"

"I had thirteen children. What does that tell you?"

Kira gasped in shock and envy. "He - your husband - must have been very pleasing to you."

"Very pleasing," Chivas said, chuckling as Kira gasped again. She patted the girl on the head as they rocked back and forth on the log. "Don't worry, my child, when your time comes you will understand. Just promise me one thing: if you ever dance the Dance of Eternal Longing for any man, be sure in your heart that he is the man for you. If there is love in your heart, he will see it in your movements, and he will be yours forever. Do you promise?" She stared fiercely at Kira, and the young girl who had not yet experienced her first kiss made a solemn oath, calling upon the Prophets to witness her pledge, to do as Chivas said.

Chivas Panat was killed less than a month later, but Kira never forgot the promise she made that night before the dying embers, the old woman looking back on many years of love and passion and the young girl looking for guidance in the fine art of love. She never forgot her promise when she fell in love with Bareil, nor later when she thought she was in love with Shakaar. Neither of them had even thought to mention it, and she wondered if what Chivas had said, if some of Shakaar's former lovers had danced for him, was true.

She did not, and after they had gone their separate ways she wondered if she would ever dance the Dance of Eternal Longing.

Her thoughts returning to Starbase 375 and the latest crisis of the Dominion War, Kira leaned her head back against the sofa cushions and cursed her fate. Why, oh why, did Dukat have to even mention it?

~ * ~

Kira was startled from her reverie by the doorchime. "Come in," she called, hoping it was not Dukat, back for more of whatever it was Dukat wanted from her.

It was not Dukat. The doors slid open to reveal the other Cardassian currently in residence. "Ah, Major Kira, I hope I'm not disturbing you?" Garak asked.

She pulled her feet off the table but made no effort to rise and greet him. "No, Garak. Is there something you need?" she prompted as he stood in the doorway.

He pointed to the chair opposite her. "May I?"

"Have a seat."

Garak settled into the chair, all the while assessing her with that calculating stare that never failed to send a chill down her spine. "Have you, ah, recovered from your injuries, Major?"

"Pretty much."

"Doctor Bashir informs me that you suffered a point-blank disrupter wound."

"Yes, that's right."

"Serious stuff, all this. It must have been quite an ordeal for you on the station."

"I survived." She was beginning to get irritated. "Is there a reason for your visit, or are we going to talk at cross-purposes until you get bored and leave?"

"Major! I could never get bored by your company." Kira snorted. "You are just too fascinating to a simple man like myself."

"All right, Garak, out with it."

"Out with what, Major?"

"I'm not in the mood for one of your mind games, so just tell me why you're here and let's get it over with."

It was not until Garak placed his hand on her knee that Kira realized he had been stealthily moving closer to her throughout the entire conversation. Cardassians may not be the most subtle race in the galaxy, but they were certainly the sneakiest.

"Major, why do you think you're here?"

"Excuse me?"

"Here on this starbase. Why are you here?"

"Why?"

"Yes."

"Because Gul Dukat brought me here?" She did not know what else to say. Any conversation with Garak was a puzzle, and she often found it best to choose the most direct response to anything he said. Yet even her simple statements were often thrown back at her, twisted into a mockery of what she had been thinking when she spoke. Trying to outwit Garak was like trying to outdrink Morn: fruitless, and she usually ended up with a terrible headache afterwards.

"Yes, yes, of course. Gul Dukat brought you here. He rescued you. He took personal responsibility for saving your life."

"Yes, he did. And for that I'm grateful."

"Of course you are!"

"Are you suggesting I shouldn't be?"

"Well...if you think about it, if it hadn't been for his pact with the Dominion, you would have never been put in a position where you might get shot by a disrupter at close range."

"Garak, that is so utterly ludicrous I can't believe I'm hearing it from you. You're saying that Dukat allied himself with the Dominion, took control of Cardassia, took back the station, all so he could save my life? I'm not buying it."

"I said nothing of the kind, Major. You did."

"Oh, I see. This is one of your let's-see-what-Kira-is-really-thinking games. No thanks, Garak; I'm in no mood for riddles right now. Least of all yours."

"Major, let's be honest with each other --"

"Honest? You?" Kira laughed humorlessly.

"Humor me. You and I both know about Dukat's, ah, interest in you." Kira crossed her arms over her chest in an self-conscious protective gesture. "Does his attraction disturb you? Does it make you nervous?"

Kira had to think about it. There had been one exchange in Dukat's office on the station, about three months after Sisko left, when she had been afraid. Dukat, however, had been more insinuating than threatening; she had feared the repercussions of her vehement response, rather than anything he had actually said. She certainly did not like the idea that Dukat had this...obsession...with her, but she did not especially care for Odo's crush on her, either. She hated being placed on anybody's pedestal.

"Not...especially, no. It doesn't make sense, but it's never gone beyond innuendo."

"'Never gone beyond innuendo'," he quoted. "Would you like it to?"

"What kind of a question is that?"

"You do know how Cardassians court each other, don't you, Major?"

She sighed. "Yes, Garak, I know Cardassians flirt by insulting each other."

"Has Dukat ever insulted you?"

She had to think again. "I don't...think so. Nothing specific comes to mind. Just his usual self-glorification."

"Aha!"

Kira was beyond confusion. "Aha?"

"Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps he's courting you Bajoran-style? That perhaps he's trying to earn your affection, rather than intimidate it out of you?"

"Why would he want to do that? It's against his nature."

"Exactly." Garak leaned forward and looked her straight in the eye. She refused to blink. "Look, Major, Dukat can't change who he is, or what he was. He's in love with you, whether either of you wants to admit it or not. But something in him is telling him not to attempt to win your heart the Cardassian way, because it will dredge up too many memories of the past. If he starts insulting you, all you will recognize is racial prejudice and the horrors of the Occupation. If, on the other hand, he shows you that there is a warm heart beating underneath all that armor and flesh, he just might have a chance. If he can convince you to see that he is capable of just that slight change, that he can be compassionate and tender and generous, then how much more would it take for you to love him in return?"

"Garak, why are you telling me all this? The enmity between you and Dukat is well-known."

His reply was filled with melancholy. "Ah, my dear Major, I'm not doing this for Dukat. I'm doing it for Ziyal. She often told me how much she wished you and her father could put the past behind you and admit to what you both feel."

"Dukat's feelings for me are not reciprocated."

"Aren't they? Are you so sure, Major?"

"Of course I'm sure. I may recognize that there's more to him - that he's more complex - than what I knew of him during the Occupation, but --"

"Ah, but you see, Major, that's just the first step. And you've already admitted to feeling gratitude, which means that he has a hold on you he didn't have before."

"That's nonsense, Garak."

"He's a handsome man, isn't he? And not just by Cardassian standards."

Kira felt the heat rise in her cheeks, which only served to heighten her discomfort. "He - He - He's not unpleasant to look at."

"Give yourself some credit, Major. I've seen you watching him when you thought nobody else was looking."

"Spying on me, Garak?" She could not bring herself to feel as violated as she knew she should.

He gave her a mysterious, but not unfriendly, smile. "You know me. I like to watch people interact. It entertains me."

"I'm thrilled I was able to provide you with a few minutes' diversion."

"You are too modest, my dear. I've been watching your interactions with Dukat for many years. Even before there was anything worth watching, I had my eye on you two. Ziyal saw it, too."

Kira felt a pang at the mention of Ziyal as she remembered a conversation, not too long ago, when Ziyal had confided in Kira her suspicions that Dukat carried a torch for Kira. "You remind me of my mother," she had said at the time. Kira pushed the memory to the back of her mind. "Garak," she sighed, "Dukat may have feelings for me. He may even believe he's in love with me. But it's all one-sided. I don't return his feelings."

Garak stood. "Perhaps not now, dear Major. But you've already come too far to go back to the way things once were. You may not believe you can ever love him, but neither can you hate him like you used to." He approached the doors, and they slid open in anticipation of his departure. "Think about what I said."

PART THREE

The Serpent and the Hawk 1/6 (DS9)

2009-04-10T21:46:27Z

TITLE: The Serpent and the Hawk
RATING: R
SUMMARY: Ziyal's brutal death unites Gul Dukat and Major Kira in ways neither of them expected.
NOTES: This fic represents several sentimental firsts for me. It was my first DS9 fic, my first time writing Kira/Dukat, and my first time writing beyond a PG-13 rating. Despite cringing at some of my writing in here, I have not made any changes other than formatting.

For any readers familiar with DS9 canon, this fic was written during the summer prior to the 6th season, and was inspired in part by the rumor that Dukat's daughter would be killed as part of what came to be known as the War Argh. Consequently, the events in this fic are entirely AU (and Dukat is still in possession of those parts of his personality that made him such a compelling character and great foil for Kira and Sisko, before the downward spiral of the last 2 seasons. Yes, I am still bitter about that.).

DISCLAIMER: Paramount owns the Star Trek universe and everything it encompasses. This story is not intended to infringe on any copyrights, and the only profit I gain by it is emotional satisfaction.

It was over before she even knew it had begun.

Kira and Ziyal had been standing at one of the Ops stations with Gul Dukat, discussing what appeared to be an illicit monitoring device discovered in Ziyal's quarters, when suddenly Kira realized that Dukat had stopped speaking and was instead staring at the Jem'Hadar soldiers that now silently surrounded them, their weapons trained on Dukat's body.

"What is the meaning of this?" he hissed.

Kira gasped in alarm as Damar pushed through the phalanx to confront his commanding officer. She tried to edge Ziyal away from them, but Damar grabbed the girl and held a disrupter to her temple. Kira seethed with fury and frustration, mentally cursing Dukat for refusing to let her keep a sidearm on her at all times. Dukat's eye ridges furrowed in anger and apprehension at Damar's implied threat as he reached for his own sidearm.

"Your days as Supreme Dictator are over, Dukat," Damar spat. "You have failed Cardassia for the last time."

"Damar --" Dukat warned, taking a step toward his first officer.

"Don't move," Damar said, "or I'll kill your precious daughter."

"What is the meaning of this, Damar?"

"For years I've watched you struggle and connive to get back your rank and status, which you lost because of this girl. And now that you've won your rightful place as Cardassia's leader, you're willing to throw it all away because you've blinded yourself to her treachery. She's a threat to you, and she's a threat to Cardassia."

Kira saw that Dukat's eyes never left Ziyal's face during Damar's speech. When he finished, however, Dukat glanced briefly at Kira and said, "Damar, Ziyal is just a child. She can't hurt me, and she certainly isn't --" He moved just a fraction of a centimeter towards them.

Damar fired.

The last noise Kira heard before the roaring in her ears drowned out all other sounds was the anguished groan wrenched from Dukat's diaphragm as he caught his daughter's lifeless body and cradled her against his chest. Weapons charges whizzed a hair's breadth from Dukat's prostrate form, but he was oblivious to the danger as he rocked back and forth on his knees, trying to stem the flow of blood from Ziyal's shattered skull. The Jem'Hadar, acting on Damar's information and Weyoun's orders, systematically eliminated every Cardassian likely to remain loyal to Dukat. Damar towered in arrogant triumph over Dukat, his weapon nestled loosely in his hand, until a stray bolt struck his shoulder, knocking him to the ground, stunned but unharmed.

If Dukat was aware of any of this, he gave no indication Kira could recognize.

Kira had instantly gone into full battle mode as the stimuli of the bloody revolt assaulted her senses. It was as if she were in the Resistance again, her most primitive instinct - the determination to survive - at the forefront of her consciousness. She crouched low, hiding behind the station, her heightened olfactory senses supplying her rational mind with the necessary details.

The scent of blood was everywhere: Ziyal's innocent blood, splattering Dukat's uniform and pooling on the floor around his knees; the briny smell of Cardassian blood as Dukat's remaining supporters found themselves grossly outnumbered; and the sticky-sweet aroma of fallen Jem'Hadar too stupid or too drug-addicted to heed the survival instinct.

There was also the bitter tang of fried circuitry exploding in a shower of sparks, the smoky aroma of phaser-scorched flesh, and Kira's own scent of fear, generated by primitive instincts filling the void left vacant even after centuries of civilization. She absorbed these scents, and deduced from them that the battle had been won before it even began, that the station would remain in Cardassian hands, but that its commander would no longer be Gul Dukat. The tide had turned, and she would turn with it.

She shifted her weight to the balls of her feet, prepared to spring for safety, when she happened to glance at Dukat.

Her movement had distracted him from his grief, and for one split-second, they looked into each other's eyes. What Dukat saw in her, she did not know, but his pale eyes revealed a flash of...desolation. His eyes were haunted by a loss so profound even Kira, who had herself lost everything in the Occupation, pitied him. With Ziyal's murder, Dukat had just lost his last link to a time when he, who knew no joy, might have been happy.

In that split-second, Kira knew that he finally understood why she continued to fight Cardassia, even after the Occupation had been over for six years.

In that split-second, she had to decide where she stood, and to broadcast her alliance. Bajor had signed a non-aggression pact with the Dominion, but she had not. Dukat wanted to reclaim Bajor - perhaps, she often wondered, as a gift for her - but he was no longer a threat to Bajor. If Damar managed to take Dukat back to Cardassia Prime, he would be summarily tried and executed, and Bajor would be confronted with a new, unfamiliar enemy. If she managed to get Dukat to Sisko, he might turn on the Dominion and provide the Federation with information it needed to turn the tide of this war. Dukat was the devil she knew.

In that split-second, instinct guiding her every decision, she made her choice.

In the same instant she made her choice, she saw Dukat raise his phaser and fire.

At her.

~ * ~

Dukat was lost. Utterly, hopelessly, horribly lost. Oh, he knew where he was and where he was going, but for the first time in his long life he had no place to go, no place that would welcome him, no sanctuary to rest his battle-scarred soul. He was completely and totally alone, his last link to joy shattered by the betrayal of a trusted officer who had stood by him during his ignominy and disgrace, when the product of a love once shared with a Bajoran woman was more important to him than the approval of Cardassian society. Materially, he lost more when he introduced Ziyal to Cardassia Prime, but the loss of Ziyal herself far outweighed the loss of his rank, social standing, and family. He could recover material losses; he could not regain his soul.

Everything that he had regained, he had lost.

He was alone, in a galaxy in which his only ally might be a woman who had been raised and trained to hate him with every fiber of her being. The scourge of the Alpha Quadrant, the Prefect of Bajor, the commander of Terok Nor, the Supreme Dictator of Cardassia, reduced to tenuous dependency on a petite, barely-literate, fierce-tempered, unforgiving, former Resistance fighter who made it clear in no uncertain terms that his amorous advances were most unwelcome. If the whole situation had not been so painfully ridiculous as to be impossible, he might have actually laughed at it.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen!

Dukat was no stranger to Death. One could not ascend the ranks of the Cardassian meritocracy without having more than a passing acquaintance with Death, and he had personally killed enough enemies and survived enough attempts on his own life to call Death an intimate companion. Where he went, Death was sure to follow. Yet the memory of Ziyal's shattered body fluttering to the ground, graceful even in death, was more unsettling than any murder perpetrated by his own hands.

He remembered the day Ziyal was born as if it had happened yesterday. Cardassian births were held strictly within the purview of the expectant mother and her mother-in-law. According to custom, all male members of the household were banished from the first labor pang until the census taker had completed the official birth record and the most recent contribution to Cardassia's glory was declared a deserving citizen. As a result, Dukat had found sufficient cause to be away on campaign when each of his seven Cardassian children were born, and, in several cases, never saw them until they were nearly a year old.

With Ziyal it had been different. Naprem had insisted - had demanded, as only she could - that he be present at their daughter's birth. He was at first repulsed by the very idea of witnessing childbirth - he, a Cardassian male, the Prefect of Bajor, no less! - but from the moment the first tremor shook Naprem's belly, he was entranced, and not even an implosion of the Bajoran sun could have torn his eyes from her beautiful, serene face as the midwife guided her through the painless labor. Then when the time came, the midwife took him by the hand and led him to Naprem's birth canal, and with his own hands he caught his wet, wriggling, gray, newborn daughter as she slipped free of her mother's body. Ziyal announced her glorious arrival to everyone present with a lusty cry that surprised him so much he almost dropped her. But the midwife helped him wrap Ziyal in a soft blanket and as he gently placed her at her mother's breast, Naprem reached up and wiped the tears from his eyes.

He who had called Death 'friend' was suddenly captivated by life. Unfortunately, it was to be a short imprisonment. And now his old friend had claimed Ziyal, tearing his beautiful child from his grasp right before his eyes.

He knew, with the certainty of a man driven by passion, that Kira understood the depth of his grief, and it was there he sought succor and reprieve. She had loved Ziyal, and some small part of him clung to the hope that in loving his child she had come to love him as well. A futile hope, he reminded himself bitterly, but a hope renewed by that brief glance they shared over Ziyal's broken body, their faces illuminated by the eerie flashes of weapons fire. He had seen something in Kira's eyes - understanding, perhaps, or maybe even forgiveness - and in that instant he had known that she would not turn on him, that she would not abandon him.

Of all people in the galaxy, Major Kira Nerys was his only ally.

Then Death once again reared its ugly head, in the form of a Jem'Hadar soldier aiming a disrupter at Kira, and Dukat suddenly came to full awareness of the dire situation threatening them. Summoning all of his carefully-honed speed and precision, he unholstered his phaser and aimed, striking the soldier in the midriff just as a single disrupter blast sizzled through Kira's torso and scorched the floor between them.

Like Dukat, Kira was an experienced warrior, and she knew, unlike Ziyal, the pointlessness in a graceful death. The force of the blast hurled her forward until she fell, sprawling, across Dukat's lap. In any other situation, he might have teased her about a clumsy attempt to seduce him, but instead he wrapped one long arm around her chest, the other around Ziyal's, and cautiously worked his way around the fallen bodies and shattered consoles littering Ops.

As he reached the door to the corridor, Odo came rushing in, Jake Sisko hot on his heels. The boy nearly lost his lunch at the sight of the gaping wounds in Ziyal and Kira, but Odo remained unperturbed as usual.

"Just where do you think you're going?" he rasped.

"I've got to get them to the Infirmary," Dukat insisted, mentally challenging Odo to check for life signs. He knew Ziyal was dead; he was determined to believe that Kira still lived. He looked at Jake. "Help me," he ordered.

Jake blanched but obeyed, lifting Ziyal in his arms. Dukat did the same with Kira, and was gratified to hear air escape through her nose as she settled in the crook of his elbows. Dukat took off at a brisk walk down the corridor, not bothering to look behind him to see if Odo followed. He did not give a damn what Odo did.

"Gul Dukat," Jake asked breathlessly, "what happened in there?"

"Fate, my boy. History repeating itself."

"Excuse me?"

Dukat ignored him as he hurried past the turbolift and headed straight for the nearest airlock, hoping that Damar had not yet thought to alter the command codes.

"Gul Dukat, I thought we were taking them to the Infirmary," Jake said, his long legs nearly breaking into a run as he struggled to match Dukat's furious pace.

Turning into the airlock, Dukat gently placed Kira on the ground and keyed in the command to open the gate. As he did so, he addressed Jake. "Right now, Damar is regaining consciousness and realizing that I have escaped. It won't take him long to dispatch a squadron of Jem'Hadar to hunt me down and kill me. He's already killed my daughter and may be responsible for Major Kira's death. I can promise you that, if I leave their bodies behind for him as trophies, you will be sorry you ever set eyes on a Cardassian." Dukat heard Jake's strangled cough of fear and grinned at him. "Don't worry. Damar won't kill you, although he may interrogate you. You're too valuable to him alive." The airlock gate opened and Dukat pulled Kira's body inside, then reached to take Ziyal in his arms. "Remember me to your father," he said to Jake as the gate closed between them.

~ * ~

Kira awoke to a myriad of contradictory sensations. She was in utter agony, but as she struggled to rise, she discovered that she had no sensation in her legs, although the movement sent fresh paroxysms of pain pulsing through her body. Beneath her she felt a hard, flat surface, but she was covered with a warm, soft blanket. She could not tell if her eyes were open or not; all she could see were occasional flashes of light penetrating the darkness surrounding her. The oddest sensation, however, came from a cool, damp object pressed against her forehead.

She opened her mouth and croaked.

The object moved, and she felt a similar object gently slide under her neck, lifting just enough to allow her lips to come into contact with a container of water. As the refreshing liquid dribbled over her parched mouth and down her chin, her head was just as gently lowered to the floor and her face wiped dry.

A familiar baritone voice broke through her haze of pain. "I'm glad to see that you're awake, Major. I thought I had lost you, too."

Damn, damn, a thousand times damn.

She was being held prisoner by Gul Dukat.

He had her exactly where her wanted her: beyond rescue and unable to resist him. She was utterly helpless, at the mercy of the man she feared more than any other.

She had intended to help him escape, and he repaid her by shooting her at point-blank range and taking her captive.

Only the Prophets knew what sort of sick and sadistic plans he had in store for her. Whatever they might be, she wished he would just get started; the waiting was much worse than the torture itself. She knew first-hand of typical Cardassian interrogation procedures, including the cruel tendency to allow subjects to almost fully recover before resuming torture. She also knew what it was like to be raped by a Cardassian, but quickly clamped her mind shut on those memories before visions of her body entwined with Dukat's in a passionate embrace filtered into her pain-weakened conscious mind from unwelcome dreams.

She could endure rape. Brutal sex was one thing; making love was something completely different.

Kira did not want to make love with Gul Dukat.

For the first time in many, many years, she was sorry that she was not dead. At least, if she were, she would not be in so much pain. She could not even take a deep breath, and her lower back felt as though it was on fire, raging white-hot flames tearing away at her insides with excruciating slowness. She carefully lifted her hand from where it pressed against her abdomen. A wave of heat seared her body as the unmistakable aroma of fecal matter enveloped her. She sensed movement from beyond the haze, and a gentle pressure returned her hand to its previous location, stemming the tide of pain and internal organs threatening to erupt from the gaping hole in her belly.

The cool, damp object returned to her forehead, gently stroking the sweat and hair from her brow. She realized it was Dukat's hand, and tried to move away from his clammy touch.

"Lie still, Major," he ordered. "You've been severely injured." He adjusted her blanket, pulling it up to cover her throat and tucking it under her shoulders. "Not many people survive a disrupter blast at such close range."

"I'll remember to step back next time," she whispered. "Better yet, why don't you just finish me off now and get it over with?"

"Major?"

"I don't know anything about the revolt. Interrogating me won't get you anywhere, and you'll kill me anyway, so why don't you go ahead and get it out of the way?" She paused to regain her breath. "Or do you have something else in mind for me?"

Then something occurred to her with startling clarity, and she opened her eyes just enough to see Dukat's elaborately contoured face leaning close - much too close - to hers. She swallowed her apprehension and disgust. "Disrupter blast? But you pulled a phaser on me. I saw it."

Amusement twisted his mouth. "Major, it was the Jem'Hadar behind you who shot you. Not me." He lowered his head, and Kira realized that he was kneeling on the floor beside her, that she was lying on the floor in an unfamiliar room. "I may have plans for you, but shooting you isn't one of them. The galaxy is a much more interesting place with you in it."

His voice was gentle, and soft, so unlike the crude, harsh Dukat she knew only too well, and his demeanor confused her. "I--What happened?"

"Your Prophets must have been looking out for both of us. When Damar was stunned, all hell broke loose. Those stupid Jem'Hadar have no battle discipline! They had no idea who they were shooting at, or why, and in the frenzy they seemed to forget all about me. I was able to get you to a ship and away from Terok Nor. I tried to land on Bajor, but it's blockaded and there was no way I could get past without being boarded, not even in one of their ships."

Kira studied his weathered face, her eyes taking in the weariness and grief etched in his gray features like striations in a cliff. As realization of his effort dawned on her, Dukat seemed less repulsive to her, more...sympathetic. More Bajoran. He could not be wholly evil, she thought, if dear Ziyal embodied even a fraction of his true nature. Perhaps Kira had misjudged him after all; it would not be the first time she was wrong about somebody, or even about him. "You saved my life," she said.

Dukat shook his head. "Neither of us is out of the woods yet. That disrupter blast went clean through you, severing your spinal cord in the process. I've done what I can for your injuries, but the Jem'Hadar are more than a little backward in shipboard medical technology. If I don't get you to a doctor soon, none of this will matter."

Her eyes left his face and wandered about the room, which she now recognized as the bridge of a Jem'Hadar ship. All of his loyalists must have been killed or too severely injured to flee with him, she thought, or else he would not have put her here, where he could monitor her condition while piloting the ship in search of a safe haven. Or, it occurred to her, maybe he abandoned his surviving loyalists to help her. She tried not to let her thoughts wander down that path; to admit to that possibility would mean that the tenuous balance of power that had always existed between them had shifted even more in his favor than she was willing to accept.

Out of the corner of her eye she spotted a shrouded form, and knew instantly who it must be.

Ziyal.

She wondered at the effort and risk Dukat took to bring both her and his daughter off the station and onto a stolen ship. She would never understand what motivated him, but she was grateful enough not to dwell, for the moment, upon the ramifications of such a debt to him.

His voice interrupted her reverie, and she realized his eyes had followed hers to rest on Ziyal's body. "I would have liked to bury her on Bajor," he said. "She - we - were happy there, once."

Kira's gaze returned to his face, wondering if her own expression betrayed as much anguish as was evident in his eyes. "Perhaps you will get the chance someday," she murmured as her eyes closed, the exertion of the past few minutes beginning to pull her back into unconsciousness. "We'll find a way to get her there."

* ~ *

Dukat paced the bridge, his disciplined mind working through different strategies with the precision and attention to detail that made his species so ruthlessly efficient. No matter how many options he considered, he inevitably reached the conclusion that he had but one choice: to find Captain Sisko, and ask for asylum. Cardassia was lost to him forever; he had lost her the minute he signed that damned treaty with the Dominion. Bajor was also out of the question, and he certainly could not hide in the Gamma Quadrant, even with the minefield disabled. No other world in the Alpha and Beta quadrants would welcome him.

There was only one choice.

Sisko was his only hope.

Convincing Sisko of his sincerity, Dukat knew, would not be easy. He was, after all, responsible for the war that placed him in this untenable position. If Sisko did accept his application, he would undoubtedly spend the rest of his days on a Federation penal colony. That was much better than the alternative if he dared to return to Cardassia Prime under the current conditions. At least he would still be alive, and, if he were still alive, perhaps Kira would come visit him. Even if she came only to gloat over his disgrace, it would be worth the humiliation just to know he could see her again, to know that she continued to live because of him.

If Sisko refused him, however...

Sisko would not refuse him. Sisko could not refuse him, because Dukat had an ace up his sleeve.

He had Kira.

Sisko would never refuse to shelter Kira, especially if he knew that she had been injured. And if he knew that she had been injured trying to help Dukat, then perhaps he would accept Dukat's application for sanctuary.

Dukat hoped it would not come to that, however; although he would willingly use any other means to manipulate Sisko, he was reluctant to use Kira to purchase his life. She was more to him than a passport to safety. If he had to use Kira to manipulate Sisko, and if she ever found out, he knew what she would think, and her good opinion of him was almost as precious as life itself. If she thought he had used her to obtain sanctuary with the Federation, she would think that he had kidnapped her for his own selfish purposes, that he had rescued her from the station only because she was useful to him. As usual, she would misinterpret his motives and misunderstand his actions. He did not want to take that risk, after having finally earned her gratitude and sympathy.

He had already lost too much to lose Kira as well.

The hard part would be finding Sisko before any of the countless ships hunting for him found him. Dukat knew from intelligence reports that the Defiant was stationed at Federation Starbase 375, and hoped that she had not been given a new crew, or that Sisko had not been assigned elsewhere. Once he had turned away from Bajor in frustration, he set the ship on an indirect course for the base, the engines kept at the minimum output to maintain shrouding without leaving too heavy a spatial displacement to be easily tracked. Even so, Dukat knew he was on a suicide mission; if Federation ships patrolling the sector failed to locate the ship on their sensors, the cadre of assassins he knew Weyoun and Damar had sent after him once they discovered his escape would undoubtedly locate him. In all probability, he would die within sight of his destination.

Sighing, Dukat adjusted the navigational eyepiece and resumed his desperate search for Sisko.

~ * ~

"Captain, I'm picking up traces of a Jem'Hadar ship in this sector," Nog reported.

Dax rose from the command chair to study his console. "Just one? Are you sure, Ensign?" she asked. "We're pretty far inside Federation space to be finding a single Jem'Hadar ship."

Nog nodded. "Aye, Captain, there's no doubt it's Jem'Hadar. It's traveling just above warp two - it seems to be headed for the starbase, but it's not on a direct course for...anywhere."

"Set an intercept course for that ship, Ensign. Maximum warp."

"Aye, Captain."

Dax returned to the command chair as the Defiant's engines thrummed with the increase in speed. "Are we within communications range?"

"Aye, Captain," O'Brien reported.

"All stop. Keep phasers locked on that ship." She knew with quiet certainty that her crew - Sisko's crew - obeyed her orders with alacrity and accuracy. "Open a channel."

"Captain, the Jem'Hadar are hailing us."

"Onscreen."

Dax' eyes widened with surprise as Gul Dukat's familiar features filled the viewscreen. "Commander Dax," he said, greeting her affably as though he were not the Federation's most hated adversary, as though they were not at war. "I was expecting Captain Sisko. I trust he has not been made a casualty of this great unpleasantness?"

Dax ignored O'Brien's snort of derision as she rose to address Dukat. "The captain is quite well, I assure you," she said smoothly. "I'll be sure to pass along your greeting. In the meantime, perhaps you can explain what you're doing in the middle of Federation space in a Jem'Hadar ship?"

Dukat spread his arms. "I presume you've heard there's been a change in regime on Terok Nor?"

Dax looked startled, which in turn disturbed Dukat. Perhaps something had happened in his absence to once again change the situation. Perhaps Federation intelligence sources were not as good as he thought. Or perhaps something unfortunate had happened to young Jake Sisko. It would be a pity if the boy had been harmed, not least because the possibility might hinder his chance for asylum.

Dax quickly regained her composure. "So you're a fugitive."

"In so many words."

"And you've come to us for protection."

"I've come to you with information."

"You sold out your people to the Dominion, and now you're going to sell them out to us?" O'Brien charged.

"Chief, I can handle this," Dax replied calmly, her eyes never leaving Dukat's image. "It's not like you to turn on Cardassia without some ulterior motive, Dukat. Why should we trust your motives?"

"You shouldn't. But I know you're losing this war. I know you know that we've almost completed dismantling the minefield. And I know that Damar has every intention of invading Bajor once reinforcements arrive at Terok Nor. Is the Federation willing to risk losing Bajor forever just because you don't want to trust me?"

"We could just hand him over to the Dominion in exchange for a truce," Nog interrupted.

Dax ignored him, and was just about to speak when a bolt of phaser fire rocked the Defiant.

"Captain, six Jem'Hadar ships have just deshrouded off our port bow!" O'Brien yelped.

Dax sprung into action. "Take evasive action, Ensign," she ordered Nog. "Chief, fire at will."

Dukat's voice, strained with irritation, crackled over the channel. "Commander, before you leave me to my no doubt deserving fate, I have a passenger you may want to take on board."

"Dukat, this is not the time for your games!"

"This is no game. Major Kira was injured in the coup on Terok Nor. She's with me now."

"Nerys?" Dax whispered, hesitant to believe him.

"She needs immediate medical attention, Commander. I've done all for her that I can." His face grew larger in the viewscreen as he silently tried to communicate his sincere desperation to Dax.

Dax recognized that look in his eyes and turned to O'Brien. "Chief, are sensors picking up Bajoran lifesigns on that ship?"

"Aye, Captain, but they're very faint."

"Beam Major Kira directly to Sickbay," Dax ordered. "Bridge to Doctor Bashir. Prepare for incoming wounded."

Dukat breathed a sigh of relief as he sensed the tingle of a transporter beam take Kira to a place where she might have a chance of survival. He bowed to Dax. "You have my thanks, Commander," he said, and closed the link.

"Captain," O'Brien said, "Dukat's ship is showing a massive buildup in the engines. It looks like he's initiating a warp core breach."

Dax watched as the ship darted among the others like it, its weapons array targeting their weak points with deadly precision, and it occurred to her that Dukat could provide a definite tactical advantage. The Defiant continued its own assault, eliminating two of the Jem'Hadar ships in a heavy barrage of firepower as Nog plowed through their ranks. She came to a decision, and hoped it was the right one. "Chief, can you lock on to Dukat?"

"There's heavy interference, but I think I can do it." He manipulated the transporter controls, to allow the sensors to break through the interference caused by the imminent breach and the constant onslaught of phaser fire. "Got him!" he shouted triumphantly, just as Dukat's ship exploded in a brilliant display of light, vaporizing the remaining Jem'Hadar ships. "Uhh --"

"Bridge to Security. Did Gul Dukat make it on board?"

"Aye, Captain. We've got him in a holding cell right now."

"Good work, Chief," she said to O'Brien. "Ensign, take us back to Starbase 375."

"Aye, Captain."

~ * ~

Sisko glowered at Dukat through the faint haze generated by the forcefield in the base's brig. Dukat's expression was as insouciant as usual, and Sisko had to fight the urge to turn off the forcefield and belt the arrogant Cardassian with a good right cross.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you right now," he rumbled in his deepest basso profundo.

"Because it goes against your precious Federation principles? Or perhaps because I'm more useful to you alive?"

"I've heard from your former...colleagues. Damar has offered an exchange. If I deliver you to them, alive, they'll release my son."

"You know that won't happen. You know, and I know, that they expect you to glean every ounce of tactical information from me before releasing me to their death squads. Releasing young Jake isn't worth the strategic disadvantage. If it's any consolation to you, I can assure you that they won't kill him."

Sisko clenched his fists in barely-contained fury. "Then what do you propose I do with you?"

"I am at your mercy. I will tell you everything I know, and then you will deal with me as you choose."

"How can I be sure your information will be reliable or accurate? How can I be sure that trusting you won't somehow come back to haunt me? What makes you think I believe you really want to betray Cardassia in a war that you started?"

Dukat lowered his head and pressed the heel of his hand against the doorframe, clenching and releasing his fingers. "Ziyal is dead, and Cardassia is lost. I've destroyed her," he whispered. Then he looked up at Sisko and the spark returned to his eyes as he began pacing back and forth. "I may be devious, Captain, but I'm no liar. And we both know Cardassia will suffer less at your hands than she has under the Dominion's yoke. That's what the Federation is known for, isn't it - humanitarian aid, to help societies rebuild? That's what you've done for Bajor, so maybe it's time you did the same for Cardassia. Cardassia's lost to me forever, but the least I can for her is try to save her from my own foolishness. Neither of us can afford to pass up this opportunity." He stopped pacing and approached the forcefield. "I have one request, though."

Sisko crossed his arms over his chest, but his expression was neutral. "And what is that?"

"How is Major Kira?"

Sisko stared at Dukat in astonishment. "She's under heavy sedation until her nervous system regenerates, but she will survive." Dukat did attempt not hide his heavy sigh of relief. Sisko tugged at his beard. "Do you wish to see her when she regains consciousness?"

"If it can be arranged, Captain, and if the major agrees. I do not wish to abuse your...hospitality."

Sisko nodded. "I'll see what I can do. An interrogation team is en route from Vulcan, and will arrive in the morning. I suggest you rest until then." Then he turned on his heel and stalked out.

~ * ~

By Cardassian standards, the interrogation was quick and painless. Dukat was almost disappointed the Vulcan interrogators did not use torture to extract information from him, unless their endless repetitive questions, posed in that typically dry Vulcan monotone, qualified as torture. He did not think boring a prisoner to death was proscribed under the Federation charter, although it certainly should be. The interrogators had not even tried to mind-meld with him, which he had been especially anticipating. Vulcans were about as insufferable as humans sometimes, and no fun whatsoever.

His interrogation now complete, Dukat was en route to Sickbay, a heavily armed contingent of Starfleet security officers shadowing him. Because Dukat had saved Kira, and because of his cooperation with the interrogators, Sisko had granted Dukat almost unrestricted visitation rights with the major. It was the only concession he made.

As Dukat neared Sickbay, the doors opened and he heard voices inside. Dax stepped out and nearly bumped into him as she turned.

"Gul Dukat," she said politely. "Please excuse me."

"Commander." He bowed slightly. "How is the major?"

Her eyes twinkled with amusement. "Her usual cranky self. Julian's putting her through her paces right now." She moved around him, but he stopped her, ignoring the guards as they reached for their weapons.

"Commander, I wish to thank you for rescuing me."

Dax studied him. "You saved Kira. It was the least I could do." Stepping around him, she continued down the corridor.

The Sickbay doors had remained open as he conversed with Dax, and now he stood in the doorway, silently watching the occupants as they moved about inside. Doctor Bashir was supporting Kira as she slowly made her way from one end of the room to the other, her slippered feet shuffling along the floor as her nervous system re-learned what muscles to control in order to enable her to walk. Her face was flushed with exertion, but her eyes glittered with determination and pride. The sight of her, alive and whole, swelled Dukat's wounded heart with joy, and he longed to be at her side, filling her thoughts with his presence just as she was never far from his thoughts.

Bashir's left arm was about her waist, his right hand gripped in hers, and he kept his head bent as he watched her rehabilitating muscles flex and relax with each cautious step. Suddenly, exhaustion overcame Kira and she collapsed, pulling Bashir down with her before he could extricate himself. Dukat strode across the room and lifted Kira in his arms, chuckling to himself at her squawk of alarm.

"Gul - Gul Dukat," Bashir stammered as he pulled himself to his feet, "I didn't hear you come in."

"My apologies if I startled you, Doctor. I only just arrived. Where do you want her?" he asked, turning around as Bashir pointed him to a bed in the far corner. Dukat quickly deposited Kira on the bed, then pulled up a chair and made himself comfortable as Kira fussed about the blankets. Bashir had apparently disappeared into his office.

At last Kira became still and Dukat was able to examine her closely. He had rarely seen her without her uniform - or her self-imposed armor - and he indulged himself in this opportunity to study her while her guard was down. He could see that she was wearing a dark blue robe, cinched about her small waist, and underneath that a nightdress of some sort, the pale color remarkably similar to his natural skin tone. Her normal complexion, which through his eyes appeared to be a light brown, was pale and drawn, making her large brown eyes seem even more so. Her short chestnut hair was unstyled, and one side appeared disheveled as though she had recently been sleeping on that side. The effect was charming, and Dukat wondered if he would have to sit on his hands to keep his fingers from straying up to comb through the tangles.

"What are you doing here, Dukat?" she snapped at him, and he realized that he had been staring at her in silence for several minutes. Not that staring at her was anything new; he watched her every chance he got.

He smiled with feigned innocence. "Am I unwelcome, Major? Captain Sisko assured me that my presence would not disturb you." He knew that was a bold lie, and wondered if she would call his bluff.

As usual, she did not disappoint him. "Your presence always disturbs me, Dukat," she said.

"You could have refused my request to see you," he responded mildly, aware of the faint flush that suffused her cheeks.

"I would have, but...but..."

"But, Major?"

"But I owe you my life!" Her fingers knotted the blanket about her waist.

He could not help himself. "There, Major, now that wasn't so hard to admit, was it?"

Her eyes grew wide with fear and revulsion. "If you think I'm going to let you hold this over my head, then you --" She left the threat hanging.

"I what, Major? I'm a fool? I'm mistaken? I'm wasting my time? I assure you, Major, no time spent in your pleasant company is wasted."

"Get out, Dukat!" she snarled, thrusting her finger toward the door. "Visiting hours are over!"

"As you wish, Major," he said, rising to take her outstretched hand in his. He was tempted to bend over and brush his mouth across it, but instead caressed her knuckles with his thumb, happily aware that she did not immediately jerk her hand away from his touch. He decided to take advantage of her hesitance. "But there's still the matter of a score to settle between us."

That caught her attention, and she yanked her hand free of his. "You have my gratitude, Dukat, and that's all you'll ever have from me! Now get out!"

Dukat bowed slightly and left, his mind filled with the memory of the sensations of her small, warm, soft hand in his large, cool, rough one as her luminous eyes looked up into his face. He had seen the spark of passion ignite, however briefly, in her gaze, and that wondrous sight would occupy his dreams for many nights to come.

PART TWO

2008 Year in Fic

2009-01-04T17:34:03Z

Harry Potter - 34,885 words total

One-shots (25,764 words)
(A couple of these were revised after the initial posting, so I've linked to the most recent version, and provided word counts for same.)

Idyll. (Rated NC-17, 8,336 words, Harry/Ginny) A simple descriptive work in poetry or prose that deals with rustic life or pastoral scenes or suggests a mood of peace and contentment; a romantic interlude. Written for reallycorking's birthday. DH-epilogue compliant and incorporates as much post-DH interview canon as possible.

Harry Potter: Hotheaded Hooligan, or Heroic Husband?. (Rated PG-13/R, 2,240 words, Harry/Ginny). Ginny's first professional Quidditch match doesn't turn out quite the way Harry had hoped. Written for r_becca's birthday.

From Headline to Deadline. (Rated PG-13, 8,939 words, Harry/Ginny) A story Ginny's working on for the Daily Prophet turns up some unexpected results. Written for lyras for the Changing Seasons exchange.

A Fresh Start. (Rated PG-13, 6,249 words, Rose/Scorpius) Temporarily rescued from self-imposed solitude after breaking up for good with her long-term boyfriend, Rose Weasley encounters someone from her past who offers her the opportunity for a fresh start at love. Written for j_a_lie for the smrw_ficafest.

WIP updates (8,169 words)
The Transformation of Ducklings, chapter six and chapter seven. (Rated PG-13, 3,208 + 4,961 words, Rose/Scorpius) Rose Weasley-Granger and Scorpius Malfoy aren't about to let decades of enmity between their fathers get in the way of their friendship. As two shy, awkward teenagers wrestling with the onset of first love, they've got enough obstacles to overcome. While I made a valiant effort to write chapter 8, I formally gave up and abandoned this fic at the end of October.

Ficlets and drabbles (952 words)
Ficlet #1. (Rated PG, 534 words, Harry & Ginny)

Ficlet #2. (Rated PG, 317 words, Harry/Ginny)

Drabble. (Rated PG-13, 101 words, Hannah/Neville)

Ashes to Ashes - 2,117 words total
Companion of Mine Ease. (Rated PG-13, 1,933 words, gen with some Gene/Alex UST) You know that convention about the big, tough guy, hard as nails on the outside but a secret marshmallow on the inside? This is one of those stories. While I did write another 2,700 words for this, I never posted them, and eventually gave up because I found Gene's voice too difficult to work with.

Drabblish Ficlet. (Rated PG-13, 184 words, Gene)

Vorkosigan saga - 7,275 words total
Comitatus. (Rated PG, 3,305 words, gen) Gregor seeks the input of his closest advisors on whom he should appoint his new head of Komarran Affairs. Set just after Memory. Written for glishara for Yuletide 2008.

Father Frost's Winterfair (Mis)Adventure. (Rated PG, 1,459 words, Ivan) Ivan's annual tradition of playing Father Frost for Miles and Ekaterin's twins doesn't go quite as planned this year. Written as a Yuletide treat for jedishampoo for Yuletide 2008.

Untitled. (Rated PG, 1,638 words, Ivan) Not two, but three moons shone brightly over Vorbarr Sultana that cold Winterfair night. Pre-Warrior's Apprentice

Ficlet. (Rated PG, 873 words, Cordelia & Ekaterin, post-A Civil Campaign)

Overall word count in 2008: 44,277
Approx. word count in 2007: ~ 60,000
2006: ~ 40,000
2005: ~ 77,000

Favorite story (of my own): Weirdly, Father Frost's Winterfair (Mis)Adventure. It's sloppy and in need of an overhaul, but the combination of Ivan and romantic misdaventures makes me feel happy like I haven't in ages.

Least favorite story: From Headline to Deadline seems like the obvious choice, but it's not true; I think it's a pretty decent story, and my antipathy towards it arises more from how I struggled to write it in the first place and the way it fell so utterly flat afterwards. Actually, I can't say that I have a least favorite story this year.

Best story this year: Comitatus. It's well-written, concise, fits well with canon, doesn't indulge some of my usual quirks (rhetorical or narrative), and is just generally awesome, dammit. IMNSHO.

Favorite line: "For noticing that you've got fantastic tits," from Harry Potter: Hotheaded Hooligan, or Heroic Husband?. That line was actually the starting point for the fic; it came to me from out of nowhere, and I was overcome with a desperate urge to hear Harry say it. (Ack! Linked to the wrong fic, and didn't realize it for several hours. Fixed now.)

Biggest surprise: Egads, I don't know. Thoughts, suggestions, random remarks?

Most underappreciated: Hello! From Headline to Deadline, hands down. No one read it. Not even the person who managed to comment on everyone else's fics and art read it. :-(

Most fun story: Father Frost's Winterfair (Mis)Adventure. Ivan, romance, and fluff: the trifecta of fun.

Sexiest story: Some might argue for Idyll, but I say A Fresh Start, because of that kiss in the rain at the end, shamelessly cribbed from "Breakfast at Tiffany's."

Easiest story to write: Father Frost's Winterfair (Mis)Adventure. I knocked it out in about 3 hours on Christmas Eve, and I never write that quickly. Harry Potter: Hotheaded Hooligan, or Heroic Husband? is a very close second.

Hardest story to write: It's a toss-up between From Headline to Deadline and Companion of Mine Ease. Gene Hunt's voice is amazingly difficult to capture.

Most unintentionally telling story: From Headline to Deadline. This was the fic that made me realize I'd hit the bottom of the barrel when it came to writing HP fic. I was so demoralized after posting it I decided it was (past) time to give up Potterfic for good. I tried to carry on with "Ducklings" just because I was so close to the end (2 chapters and an epilogue, for heaven's sake), but in the end it just didn't happen. That turned out to be my biggest disappointment of the year.

What pairing/genre/fandom did I write that I'd never have predicted last year? Both Ashes to Ashes and Vorkosigan fic. A2A hadn't even aired for the first time until February 2008, and while I was familiar with the Vorkosigan saga, I didn't really get into it until this summer.

Where do I see my writing going in 2009? With the way 2008 went, I'd be happy to see my writing going, period. However, with a thesis to write between now and June and a job hunt - hopefully a successful one - to occupy my attention when not thesis-writing, I don't expect this to be a very productive year, fic-wise. What fic I do write will almost certainly be derived from the Vorkosigan saga, with (possibly, maybe, perhaps, I don't know) an A2A ficlet or two once season 2 starts, and (again, possibly, maybe, perhaps, I don't know) a random HP ficlet here or there. Don't count on it, though. One thing I am sure of, though: if I attempt another multichaptered fic, I will not post any chapters before I have a complete draft written. No more abandoned WIPs, dammit.

X-posted to magglenagall

Yuletide Recs

2008-12-30T22:48:51Z

There are many of you reading this journal who don't follow my "regular" LJ, so I thought I'd post links to my Yuletide recs for your enjoyment (and to spread the Yuletide cheer).

A-L Fandoms: Lord Peter Wimsey, Guarding Tess, Rebus, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Louisa May Alcott, and my Yuletide gift, from The Lions of Al-Rassan by Guy Gavriel Kay

M-Z Fandoms: MI-5/Spooks, Greek mythology, The Princess Bride, The Quick and the Dead, Rome, State of Play, Wire in the Blood, and WKRP in Cincinnati

Happy reading! Don't forget to comment!

Oasis 4/4 (TNG)

2008-12-23T20:22:38Z

Title: Oasis
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A Starfleet doctor, still grieving her husband's death during the Enterprise's first encounter with the Borg, finds herself faced with an agonizing choice when Q is mortally wounded.

DISCLAIMER: Paramount owns the Star Trek universe and everything it encompasses. This story is not intended to infringe on any copyrights, and the only profit I gain by it is emotional satisfaction.

PART THREE

Fatima slept better that night than she had in the previous seven nights combined. When the first glimmer of morning light reached her face, she rose quickly and dressed in the funeral robes she had finished the night before. As she was braiding her hair, she heard Q step around the partition separating her chamber from the rest of the tent, and turned to greet him. Like her, he was dressed in white from head to toe; like her, he looked rested, composed, expectant.

"Abu sent me to tell you to hurry up," he said, somewhat bashfully.

"I'll be right there," was her reply. She glanced at Q, and smiled, reading his discomfort at the idea of praying. "It won't be that bad. It's really for my benefit more than yours; I was raised by people who prayed five times a day. There's nothing quite like trying to figure out what direction Mecca is in when you're way out in space somewhere." Q's eyebrow lifted. "Even the Bajorans thought I was nuts sometimes." He stifled a laugh as she rose. "Come on," she said, tugging at his arm. "I'll walk you through it."

The prayer ritual went smoothly, and even though Q knew it was meant for Fatima's benefit, something about the rite resonated within him. He had always been fascinated by human liturgies, and loved to watch them, unseen, as the participants struggled through their pitiful attempts at communion with the sacred. What was even more fun, he remembered, was spicing the rituals with a little 'deus ex machina' from time to time. It had been a long time since he tried that though; the last he could recall, the Oracle at Delphi had fallen off her tripod and broken her leg.

He did not mock Fatima's prayer ritual, although there was a certain incongruity in one immortal being speaking in human sacred language to another. He was glad when it was over.

As they walked silently through the forest on their way to the river, Q noticed that the cacophony of birds he heard yesterday was strangely absent, and even the wildlife he had seen had disappeared from view. It was an eerie sensation, such utter silence after the joyful noise and liveliness of the day before, and it reminded Q of the proverbial 'calm before the storm'. He thought to ask Fatima her opinion, but she seemed to be lost in thought, a wistful smile on her face.

The silence was stifling as the trees gave way to a narrow sandy strip on the banks of the river, and Q became increasingly nervous. He reached for Fatima's hand and gave it a squeeze to reassure himself of her presence, because she seemed to be thousands of miles away. She squeezed back, but continued walking towards the river, not even looking back at him. He dropped her hand and stopped. "Wait," he insisted.

She stopped but refused to turn and face him. "What is it, Q?" she asked, a subtle note of impatience evident in her voice.

"Something's not right. I can't explain what. It's -- oh, I don't know. It's not real. What happened to all the birds and animals? Doesn't it seem unusually quiet to you?"

Fatima spun around, alarmed. "What are you talking about? The trees are filled with birds. Can't you see those lions on the other bank?"

Q took a step forward. "No, I don't," he replied, stressing each word separately. "As far as I can see, you and I are --"

Fatima held up a hand, momentarily silencing him. "Sh. Do you hear that?"

Q strained his ears. "Hear what?"

"That rumbling sound."

"Where is it coming from?"

She looked around nervously. "I can't tell. I'm not even sure I'm actually hearing it. I can feel the ground shaking."

Q froze, directing his attention to his feet. A muffled bellow, barely perceptible to his heightened senses, rose up from deep within the earth. As he strained to identify the sound and determine its source, the volume increased, shaking the ground beneath his feet with a dull pounding rhythm and driving water over the river's natural banks. He grabbed Fatima's arm and tugged her back towards the forest. "Come on," he urged. "Let's get out of here."

Fatima resisted, wrenching herself free of his grasp and turning back to the river. "But the ritual --"

"The ritual can wait. Something is very wrong here, and I'm leaving with or without you." He moved towards the relative safety of the trees, his long legs carrying him across the sandy beach in three strides.

With his back to the river, Q did not see what transpired next.

A monstrous black bull emerged from the river with a thundering roar and charged straight for Q, its head held low, its long curved horns aimed menacingly at his back. In less time than it took for Q to turn in horror at the terrible sound, Fatima had unsheathed her dagger and hurled it, embedding the blade deeply between the beast's eyes. Blinded by blood, pain and fury, the bull turned towards Fatima's scent and charged. She stood her ground, intending to step aside at the last minute and let the animal run past, but a treacherous root snagged her foot and she fell to the ground with a cry of alarm. Before Q could react, the bull had gored Fatima and tossed her in the air like a rag doll, then flung her to the ground and trampled her, sending particles of sand mixed with blood and sweat flying.

"No!" Q screamed with a voice torn from the very heart of the Continuum.

Without thinking about his own safety, Q raced to Fatima. The bull, sensing Q's presence, turned its attention away from Fatima's broken, bloodied form and snorted at Q, pawing the ground with a mighty hoof, daring him to come closer. Q slowly reached down to pick up a stick -- a woefully inadequate weapon, he realized -- and brandished it as he edged between Fatima and the bull. With a sickening sense of relief he heard Fatima moan and stepped bravely foward, swinging the stick back and forth in an attempt to confuse the animal. He could feel its hot breath, rank with pain and hatred, on his face. The bull bellowed, gathering its powerful muscles in preparation to charge, but just as suddenly dropped to its knees with a groan and toppled over, dead before it hit the ground.

Q stood there dazed, his mind reeling, his chest heaving as he struggled to regain his composure. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flutter of movement, and remembered Fatima.

Her once pristine garment was covered with blood, dust and grass and her hair was matted with blood pouring from a cut above her left ear. There was a horrific gash across her torso where the bull had gored her, and Fatima pressed her hands to the wound to keep her intestines from spilling out. On her back a giant cloven hoofprint gave testimony to the trampling she received, echoed by the dozens of scrapes and bruises that decorated her sickly pale flesh. She was alive, but barely.

Q knelt down by her side and with infinite tenderness lifted her in his arms. Even in the fullness of life she was a mere slip of a girl, but now she was virtually weightless. As Q stood she moaned again, bringing a brief rush of color to her cheeks, but Q could tell by her pallor that death was near. His only thought was of getting her to the shrine, where Abu Primus, or pehaps even the Saint, might be able to help her.

Drawing strength from his determination, Q carried Fatima into the forest.

* * * * *

Abu was waiting for them at the entrance to the shrine and seemed to Q to be curiously unsurprised by the sight of the bloodied figure draped over Q's arms. He beckoned Q inside.

The interior of the shrine was as simple as the exterior was ornate. The four walls were freshly whitewashed, bare of any decoration except a small niche in the eastern wall indicating the direction of Mecca. In the center of the shrine was a long, low table covered with a white cloth, on top of which rested a gold chalice. At each end of the table were two candles, providing the only light inside the shrine. Abu instructed Q to lay Fatima on the table.

Abu produced from within the folds of his cloak a long knife set into an ebony handle inlaid with precious stones. He turned the knife so the handle was pointed at Q. "Kill her," he said.

Q was stunned.

"What?" he cried.

Abu was unmoved by Q's reaction. "You must kill her if you want to go home, Q. That is the challenge you must face."

Q felt his fury rising like bile in his throat as he resisted the urge to strike Abu. "How dare you demand this of me! She saved my life countless times, and her reward is this treachery?"

Fatima's eyelids fluttered and she reached out her hand, searching for Q. As her hand came to rest on his cheek, she forced her eyes open with great effort. He was astonished at the tenderness and love he saw in her expression. "No Q, I did not save your life, at least not yet. If you don't kill me, then you will die."

"No!" Q roared in impotent rage and helplessness. "I won't do this to you! Not after what you did for me." His hands trembled as he carefully tucked a strand of hair behind Fatima's ear and wiped a smudge of blood from her cheek. "I can't live without you."

"You won't have to. The moment I breathe my last, we will become as one, and I will be with you always. But I must die at your hands, Q."

"I think the bull's already taken care of that." Tears streamed down his face, washing away the bloodied imprint of Fatima's caress.

"The bull was merely the last manifestation of Soma's poison," Abu said. "You have been restored to your natural state, now that all vestiges of the toxin have been defeated. But Soma's poison didn't just turn you into matter; she wiped away your identity and your link to the Continuum. Fatima volunteered to sacrifice her life to restore yours."

"You've known all along that I would have to kill her," Q said menacingly, glaring at Abu.

"Yes."

"And still you let me --"

"-- grow to love her? Of course; it was only natural. You've been two bodies sharing a single soul as Fatima helped you overcome the poison. She has also come to love you, even against her memory and instinct. But now that you are free from the poison, you must occupy this soul alone. Fatima's work is done. If you do not kill her before she dies of her injuries, then there is nothing more I can do for you, and she will have died needlessly."

Q bent his head down and inhaled deeply. He could not let go. There had to be another way. In his infinite knowledge he knew, however, that there was no other way. He knew about Soma, and knew that only one other Q had survived one of her assassination attempts. That Q, his father, now stood before him, urging him to take the knife and restore himself to immortality by killing the one human he could not live without. Without looking up, he held out his hand, palm up. "Leave us alone," he said.

Abu gently placed the knife in Q's hand and exited the shrine.

Q lifted his head and gazed at Fatima, his heart bursting with love and gratitude and mourning. Her eyes were open, but the light that once flickered in them was dull and vacant. He smoothed his hand across her brow and leaned over, careful not to put any weight on her, and kissed her, his lips whispering "Forgive me" against her cold skin.

In the blink of an eye, the knife flashed across her throat.

Our two souls therefore, which are one
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion
Like gold to aery thinness beat

John Donne, "A Valediction: Forbidden Mourning"

Q knew the moment his eyes opened that he was on the Enterprise, in Sickbay.

His head ached, but he was fully restored. Raising himself up on his elbows, he spotted his son and Primus standing at the foot of his bed, joy and relief radiating from their faces. A commotion in the next room drew his attention away from them, however, and he sat up and jumped off the biobed to investigate.

A cluster of humans were gathered around a pale form in Starfleet medical blues. Doctor Crusher was a blur of movement as she called for instruments or hyposprays in an obviously futile attempt to revive her patient. Picard, standing at the head of the biobed, looked up and saw Q standing in the doorway. His lips thinned in a half-grimace, half-smile, then he looked back towards the patient, absently stroking her thick black hair.

Data and Counselor Troi came towards Q. "I see you have recovered, Q," the android said. "Primus's plan worked."

"Q, are you all right? Is there anything we can do for you?" asked Deanna.

"Who is she?" Q asked, indicating the unconscious young woman. "What happened?"

"That is Doctor al-Ghazali," Data said.

Deanna studied the expression on Q's face. "Do you remember anything of your experience?"

Q did not respond. At the mention of her name, he knew who she was, and realized with a start that what he thought had been a very strange dream was all too real. "Where you lead, I must follow; where you are going, I cannot come," he said to himself.

"Q?" Data prodded.

"She's dead, isn't she."

"She saved your life," Deanna said.

"She gave me her life. Hardly a fair trade, is it? One simple human life in exchange for immortality."

Picard, overhearing the exchange, joined them. "She gave you her life willingly, Q. Once again a mere mortal has rescued you from the jaws of death." He glared at Q.

"I'm not interested in any of your self-righteous sermons, Jean-Luc." He looked at Picard, his eyes narrowed with anger and impatience. "I am fully aware of what she sacrificed for me."

"Don't you ever forget it, either. I'll make sure you don't."

"Captain," Deanna interjected, "I'm sensing a very strong feeling of grief. What we saw in Sickbay may have only lasted a few seconds, but I think Q knows Fatima much better than we realize."

"How perceptive, Counselor," Q said. "Do you feel my pain? You cannot possibly fathom what I feel. I'm a Q; I don't 'feel' anything."

"You do seem unusually disturbed by Doctor al-Ghazali's death," Data rebutted.

Q ignored him and walked over to the biobed. "Don't bother, Doctor Crusher," he said hoarsely. "There's nothing you can do for her. There's nothing anyone can do for her." Beverly looked up, studying him. She remembered looking in a mirror not long after she learned of Jack's death; that exact same expression she saw so many years ago was now reflected in Q's face. She quietly put away her instruments and ushered everyone else out of the room. When he heard the doors slide shut behind him, Q finally allowed the unshed tears to fall freely.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and tuned to face Primus. "Why, Father?"

Primus responded without speaking, letting his compassion and comfort fill the Continuum and flow into Q's consciousness, healing and strengthening him. "You would have died if not for her, my son. Her death was instantaneous, and she felt no pain. Don't grieve because she is dead, rejoice in her happiness. She is with her beloved now, and you can go home."

Primus turned Q away from Fatima's body and forced him to look at the young Q standing a few feet away, longing to embrace his father. "Remember your son who needs you, and your responsibility to the Continuum." He patted Q on the back. "Let's go home."

Q took a long, lingering look at Fatima's lifeless body, committing her features to memory. She looked odd, wearing a Starfleet uniform rather than the desert robes to which he was accustomed, but he knew he would never forget her lovely face or her selfless sacrifice. She was a part of him, now. She was a part of the Continuum.

Q snapped his fingers and disappeared.

* * * * *

Q appeared at the entrance to the crypt and hesitated a moment, gathering his strength. Picard had dutifully brought him to Federation Headquarters last month, leaving Q on Earth with a stern warning to 'mind his manners' and a promise to keep Q in line. As soon as his diplomatic obligations allowed, Q came to this place, the al-Ghazali crypt outside the ancient ruins of Susa. He could not bring himself to attend Fatima's funeral, even though Picard had personally invited him, but he knew he had to pay his respects.

Q took a deep breath and stepped inside.

The crypt was a long marbled hall with golden plaques identifying each set of remains. Q could tell that the crypt had been in use for nearly twenty generations. The two most recent additions, Ali and Fatima al-Ghazali, were buried in a single vault near the back of the crypt, eternally reunited in death. He spotted the remains of several floral arrangements, holdovers from Fatima's entombment, and restored them to life with a snap of his fingers. Then a perfect sprig of jasmine materialized in Q's hand, and he carefully bent down and placed it on the floor beneath the plaque bearing Fatima's name.

Sighing, Q stood and walked towards the entrance. Had he turned around, he would have seen the ghostly pair emerge from the shadows to pick up his offering and hold it to their lips. Had he listened, he would have heard the young woman draw away from her husband and call out to him. Had he stopped, he would have felt her wrap her arms around him in a heavenly embrace and place the airiest of kisses on his mouth.

But Q walked out, never looking back.