Perfect Knowledge: Paris, by Ruth Devero


This is an original fan story. However, it uses characters and situations copyrighted by Paramount. I make no claims to any copyrights regarding these characters. This story is for my enjoyment and for the enjoyment of readers.


PERFECT KNOWLEDGE
A Star Trek: Voyager slash story by Ruth Devero
Rated NC-17


The old lady died while Chakotay was inspecting the power plant on the other side of the valley; and this is what made the difference.

He realized later that she'd pretty much planned it this way: realized that she was dying, sent him out for some vacuous admiration of his hosts' technological toy, made sure he wasn't at the palace when they closed the gates and set the guards.

When Chakotay got back and found out what had happened, he thought, Damn, because she'd been a great old gal, earthy and smart and funny, with a lively gleam in her eyes; two generations ago, Wa'uuta had bludgeoned sense into feuding clans, and she still ruled with a velvet hand in an iron glove.

Then he thought, Shit, because it meant a state funeral, and he and Tom Paris didn't have their dress uniforms, and Voyager was a few lightyears away, dickering over dilithium.

Then he was stopped at the gate by guards, wielding spears with steely-eyed proficiency; and he thought, Huh?

Then the head priest talked to him, and Chakotay thought, But TOM'S in there.

"Lieutenant Paris is in there," Chakotay said reasonably.

The priest inclined his head. He knew this.

Chakotay tried again. "He isn't-- We're not--"

The priest gazed placidly at him, pale eyes blank in the greyish face, four-fingered hands folded in that way that seemed to come with being one of the religious.

"Is there some sort of purification ritual he has to undergo?" Chakotay asked.

"The oata'u has been brewed, and he has received it," said the priest. "He will be washed and prepared."

And Chakotay started to get that chill in his belly.... "Prepared for what?" he asked very calmly.

"To be the daumna's concubine."

And for a moment Chakotay couldn't breathe, couldn't think; the chill had filled him, and everything was frozen, including his brain. "Her-- She's dead."

The priest inclined his head.

Chakotay stared at him. This meant that-- Shit, that old-- She'd laughed at Paris's jokes and applauded his stories, and-- "But--"

"He accepted the veil," the priest said as if this explained everything. And then he left, tugged away by someone to take care of some insignificant aspect of the ritual.

The veil. Paris had accepted the-- Chakotay closed his eyes. Veil. Veil. Oh, shit, that fucking scarlet cloth, silky, gaudy, tawdry.

"Uh--thank you," Paris had said politely when Wa'uuta gave it to him. "I'm--I'm honored."

And he'd looked over to Chakotay, who had been given nothing. As they left for their quarters, Chakotay had seen an impertinent twinkle in the eyes of Wa'uuta's women, and great satisfaction in Wa'uuta's face. And one of the handsome young guards in the hallway smiled when he saw Paris carrying the gaudy cloth.

Now Chakotay knew why.

Shit. He had to--he had to fucking do something. With Voyager out of range for the next five or six days, it was up to him to fucking do something without getting them both killed. Chakotay felt panic trickle in, felt cold sweat. No weapons, because Daumna Wa'uuta would have been insulted; and this was supposed to be a friendly visit. A little break from duty.

Chakotay snorted. Some break. No good having the fucking phasers, anyway, because he and Paris would have to escape capture for five or six days, hide out in a landscape they didn't know and the Chaauree did know. And that was if Chakotay could get into the palace to break Paris out.

And if Paris was still alive.

Best not to think that way. But--

He found one of the priestesses, one of the few who wasn't praying or singing or working in the square before the palace gate.

"I don't-- I don't understand," he said to her; and the priestess smiled at him as if he were a bright six-year-old with a cute question and drew him underneath the uala trees that shaded the wall near the gate.

"What do you wish me to explain?" she asked.

"It's-- Burials aren't quite the same where Paris and I come from. I don't understand what's going on." He found himself covertly eyeing the trees; was that big one overhanging the wall far enough from the gate that he wouldn't be spotted if he climbed it at night?

"The palace has been made sacred by the daumna's death." The priestess's voice took on the comfortable and relaxed tone of the born lecturer. "The gates have been closed so that the rites may be attended to. All who will not journey with her have left; only those who will take the journey remain, tended by the religious who now serve the daumna. The daumna's spirit has gone on the journey to her home in the life beyond this, learning the path so she can guide those who will attend her as she enters the life beyond. But she also watches over the palace as her attendants are prepared to join her. The palace is hers, until the burial rites are over and she has gone to her home beyond this life. Inside her palace, all is calm and joyful, and the prayers are being sung. It is peaceful where the daumna is in this life, as it will be peaceful where she is in the life beyond. Those who will join her in that life have drunk the oata'u; now they wait and dream and ready themselves. Tonight, and tomorrow, and the next night, they will be bathed and blessed and readied. It is a great honor. Your friend will know much joy and peace in the daumna's house in the life beyond. As she cared for her people in this life, so she will care for them in the other life. Your friend is to be envied."

That was debatable. "What is 'oata'u'?"

"It is the drink that prepares. It calms and strengthens the will."

"It's not poison."

"No!" She looked shocked. "To murder would be an unholy act! And at such a holy time! The oata'u merely strengthens the will to die, which is in all those who have chosen to accept the daumna's veil. She has invited them to join her in the life beyond, and they do not wish to live without her. The oata'u helps them to join her."

And, if you didn't want to die? Chakotay tried to calm his hammering heart. "So, she'll be buried the day after tomorrow?"

"Yes." The priestess smiled and took one of his hands between hers. "I know you weren't her choice. But be happy for your friend. And in the life beyond, perhaps--" Her eyes sparkled as she smiled. "--perhaps the daumna will change her mind about you."

Gosh--what an honor. He forced a smile as she left him.

Chakotay reached out to finger the ribbed bark of the uala tree shading him. Not the texture he was used to--too even--but still a tree. A living thing; he could almost feel the life force beneath the pale bark. The coppery leaves rustled in the breeze. He caressed the trunk, closed his eyes, inhaled the spicy sweetness exuded from leaf and bark and broken twig. Alive. So alive.

The square was full of life. He watched with his hand on the tree. The dusty square had been emptied of the small booths that sold the various sundries of Chaauree life. But the tavern was doing brisk business: villagers had gathered in front of it in solemn groups. Many were drinking wuaash, the golden beer on which the village based its fame; but the mood was somber. Occasionally a gentle keening rose above the murmuring in the square. Banners were being rolled from windows overlooking the square: some faded, others newer. Nearer the palace, priests and priestesses sang prayers and played the little golden drums that punctuated each line of their song. Right next to the palace wall, two priests and two priestesses bent and stood, bent and stood, to an unheard cadence as they lay out a complex pattern in small stones. Nearby, a largeish canopy was being set up.

Nothing he saw made any fucking sense to him at all.

He'd put off thinking about his problem long enough. Chakotay laid his cheek against a low branch of the uala tree and regarded the wall around the palace. He had to get Paris the hell out of there. For a number of reasons, chief among them that allowing a subordinate to be buried so he could whore in someone's afterlife just wasn't going to impress Janeway with Chakotay's renewed commitment to Starfleet.

He allowed himself a flicker of a smile and sighed. Paris. Tom Paris. Shit, the man annoyed him. And beyond that: How the hell could one man get himself into so much trouble? When Paris was around, shuttles tumbled from the sky and old husbands died and terrorists entangled Voyager in their struggle.

And old Indians who should really know better lost every shred of temper and dignity and just wanted to haul off and punch him. Not without reason: Paris was just too damned believable at the kind of insubordination that had flummoxed Chakotay and helped flush a traitor. Sometimes Chakotay just wanted to just deck him. Yes, and he saved YOUR worthless ass on the Ocampan homeworld. Even if he weren't a subordinate, you owe him. Yes: beyond the fact that Paris was under Chakotay's command, beyond the fact that he was a human being, there was the fact that Chakotay owed him at least a life for a life. But, my god, the man attracted trouble the way a starship attracted baryon particles.

And, how the hell was Chakotay going to get him out of this? It wasn't simply a matter of going in and getting him: the priestess had made that pretty damn clear. No one entered; no one left. And even if they did and he could slip in, or if he could climb that tree unseen and drop over the wall: "The palace has been made sacred by the daumna's death," the priestess had said; and he couldn't profane a sacred place with his unwanted presence. But this is life and death, he thought. And it was just a palace where someone had died. Surely saving Paris's life was itself an act sacred enough to-- To what? his conscience demanded. To despoil someone's sacred place? Did you learn nothing from your father? Since when do YOU get to choose what's sacred and what's not, hotshot? Since when do you get to stomp into someone's temple and start making demands? He closed his eyes wearily. And even if he could shut down his conscience and his soul long enough to storm in and drag out Paris, there was the little matter of keeping them both alive until Voyager swooped in and saved their butts.

A rustle nearby; and Chakotay turned to see a man and a little girl removing their shoes not far from the gate. Then they walked right up to it, and the man knelt and placed his hands in the dust before putting his palms on either side of the crack where the two sides of the gate met. There he murmured fervently into the crack. The guards looked on.

A minute or so later, the man helped the child to mimic him, to place her dusty palms on the gate and whisper. When they rose and went back the way they had come, her face glowed with delight of someone who'd accomplished a very grownup act; he had the satisfied air of someone who'd cleansed his soul in prayer.

"You look very confused." The priest's voice was less condescending than it could have been.

Chakotay turned. The priest stood motionless a meter away. How long had he been there? "I am confused."

"Surely your people pray to those who have gone before."

"Is that what they were doing?"

"They were speaking their hearts to the daumna, telling her of their love, and asking for her blessings. Even after death, the daumna still cares for her people."

"But she's asking some of them to die."

The priest looked at him for a moment. "She has invited some to live on with her and to share in the life after this."

Semantics.

The priest moved toward him. "We gave up space flight generations ago, because we cannot bear to be so far from the world which loves us; we forget that there are those who do not share our ways. I'm afraid you are very sad to be losing your friend."

"There has to be a way to get him out of there."

"He's the daumna's now. He accepted the veil from her. Try to understand that he will find much joy and peace in the life beyond this. It's what he has chosen."

"But he didn't-- We really had no idea what it meant when she gave him that piece of cloth."

The priest blinked for a minute. Then he gave a little sigh. "We should have thought--the daumna should have thought. But it didn't occur to her that he wouldn't know. She saw a beautiful and exotic young man who made her laugh, and knew he would be a pleasant companion in the life after this."

"Then we can get him out."

"I'm sorry," the priest said gently. "He belongs to the daumna now. That is--" His eyes flickered to Chakotay's.

"Yes?"

"Was he promised to another?" The priest seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "Does his life belong to another?"

"Yes," Chakotay heard his mouth say.

"To whom?"

The question ricocheted through Chakotay's skull for about four nanoseconds. "To me. He belongs to me."

The priest looked deeply into his eyes, and Chakotay hoped to hell that the workings of the Chaauree mind were different from humans, that the man couldn't tell that he was lying his head off.

But the man seemed to see something that satisfied him; he smiled slightly and visibly relaxed. "This will remind us," he said, "that the ways of others are not our ways. It will be yours to claim him."

"Then we can get him out?"

"Not out of the palace. If you will wait until the burial, it is your right to claim him."

Thank the spirits. Chakotay felt weak with sudden relief.

"This will be a memorable funeral," said the priest. "There has not been such a claiming in many generations."

"Why didn't Wa'uuta just invite her own concubines?"

For the first time, the priest seemed taken aback. "She had no concubines. As daumnaii have been since the beginning of civilization, she was celibate."

What?

The priest looked amused at Chakotay's astonishment. "We continue to surprise each other. I thought your people understood this; it seemed to us that Daumna Janeway is also celibate. Is she not?"

Chakotay did that thing where he locked every muscle for about ten seconds, so he wouldn't laugh. Then he took a careful breath and let it out slowly. "Our leaders," he said, "are not required to be celibate. Captain Janeway ... makes her own choices." And, she'd be making new choices before the end of the trip, if he could just get the seduction right.

A twinkle of amusement. "I see," said the priest. "It is good to learn of other customs and other ways."

Indeed. Chakotay gestured toward the square. "I'm afraid that nothing I see makes much sense to me."

"Ah! All is as it should be. The daumna's people prepare themselves for her successor. The priests prepare the path." His smile expressed satisfaction at having made all clear.

"Uh-- I don't--" Chakotay pointed. "What are the cloths hanging from the windows?"

"The banners of the clans represented in each household."

"There are so many."

"Many households belong to two different clans. Before the daumna brought us peace, each household would have been allied with only one. This is a tribute to the daumna's peace, and a reminder to her successor of what she wrought."

"Her successor?"

"Her nephew. She selected, and he accepted."

"I see," Chakotay said, not seeing at all. "May I ask what the priests are doing near the wall?"

"They prepare the path. Those outside the palace who will journey with the daumna to her home beyond life will walk it in preparation for the journey."

"You mean, not everyone's in the palace?"

"One tends a flock of giiba'a on the mountain. And, I believe, some journeyed to the next village to trade."

And they were coming back here to-- Mygod, Chakotay couldn't fathom it: people dying because of some old woman's vanity.

The priest regarded him with professional patience. "You must remember that those who will journey with the daumna do so with the gladdest of hearts. It is their desire and their choice. They truly do not wish to remain here without her."

"They loved Wa'uuta that much?"

The man winced. "It is ... not done ... to speak the name of the dead."

Oh, shit. As if there weren't enough precedents on Earth for him to know better than to mention the name of the dead. "I apologize," Chakotay said. "It is also so among some of my people. But the tradition has fallen out of use. I should have thought. I apologize for my rudeness."

"It is forgiven," said the priest. "And the answer to your question is, 'Yes.' They have that much love."

"Is that why it's been generations since anyone's been claimed at a funeral?"

"Partly. And partly because the claiming must come from a depth of knowledge that few experience. To claim your spouse, you must choose him from the others, unhesitatingly." He looked at Chakotay. "You get one chance."

One chance. But surely Chakotay could-- He thought of that silky cloth. Surely it didn't cover anyone completely. And it was so damn thin. Something distinctive had to show. Shit--just Paris's cocky walk would be enough to set him apart. And, there was always the tricorder....

"One chance should do it," Chakotay said. "My relationship with Paris has always been ... special."

"Your spouse is fortunate," the priest said, smiling. "Such a claiming would make you and he the stuff of legend for generations to come."

The man bowed and left him then, stopping to speak to a group of awe-struck little boys. Chakotay watched him lead them in prayers at the daumna's gate.

Your spouse. Oh, shit. The priest thought Chakotay and Paris were married. Your spouse. Well, Chakotay could live with the lie, just so long as it got Paris out of that damned grave. Your spouse.

Then it hit him with a force that made him gasp. It is not done-- The man had never used Paris's name. --to speak the name-- Never used his name at all, even after he thought Paris was Chakotay's spouse. It is not done to speak the name of the dead.

And, watching those eager little worshippers at the gates of the daumna's dead palace, Chakotay felt a chill so sudden and so cold that he had trouble finding his breath.

The chill lingered as evening came on. Chakotay had spent the rest of the afternoon finding lodging and arguing with his panic.

He would recognize Paris. It was inevitable that he would recognize Paris, even if the cloth was some sort of veil. The arrogant set of that head, the self-important walk: the miracle would be if he didn't recognize Paris.

Dickering with the landlady at the inn right on the square took a good fifteen minutes. The inn was full, and all she had left was the large room just under the roof, at double the price of a regular room; but it had its own bathroom-- Five fingers on each hand. The Chaauree had four. Paris had five. A guy could spot that kind of thing. ANYBODY could spot that kind of thing.

Of course, getting their things from the palace was out of the question. Chakotay set out in search of toothbrush and soap. --So, five fingers would tell him that it was Paris, even hidden by the cloth. And, mygod, the man had five toes on each foot, too. So, if he was barefoot-- And, besides, if he was barefoot, his skin would be a different color from the grayish Chaauree--

"Toothbrush" apparently wasn't a universal word, but tooth cleaning was a universal concept. Soap took longer. --And the tricorder. The tricorder would also tell him that it was Paris. Because Chakotay would use the fucking tricorder even if it was cheating. A life was at stake. If Chakotay hid it in his hand--

Apparently no sale was complete without dickering over every aama. Chakotay reached down deep for patience, tried to pretend this was some sort of game, or scenario at Starfleet Academy, though it was just fucking soap, for fuck's sake. --But he wouldn't need the tricorder, because he was going to recognize Paris under that flimsy red cloth. There was just too much distinctive about Paris, too much that set him apart from the Chaauree. And, even if Chakotay couldn't see Paris's feet, he could see Paris's footprints, and if Paris was barefoot, there would be those five-toed footprints, and Chakotay could follow them right up to the right guy--

Meals were extra, and not really worth it. But Chakotay ate, because it was time for food. He would recognize Paris.

He took a deep breath, tried to still the part of him that was arguing that there had to be a catch. He would recognize Paris.

Around him, in the square, torches were being lighted against the soft dusk. Under their canopy, the priests drank tea. Soft murmurs of voices, and lights being lit inside the houses. Chakotay breathed deep and tried to settle into the coziness of the golden light. He would recognize Paris.

And it worked. The doubter inside him hushed, silenced by the unshakeable logic that Chakotay would recognize Paris, even in a crowd. And, remembering the earthy old woman with the wicked smile, Chakotay was sure there would be a crowd. Celibate.

Now, if it was Janeway-- Who would she give veils to?

He snorted impatiently at himself, shoved the thought from his mind. You weren't going to think about her that way, until-- Until she made herself known. Until that prickle of attraction was acknowledged by both. Which, at the rate they were going, might be a couple decades. "Your spouse," the priest said inside Chakotay's head. Well, shit.

Knots of villagers gathered for a while outside the tavern. Chakotay strolled over to--well, in all honesty, to eavesdrop.

The beer was good, and the company even better. "I hear you'll be claiming your spouse," the man to his left said by way of greeting. "We've not had such a claiming since--since--"

"Since the eighth daumna," a companion supplied for him.

"No. It was the sixth," another man broke in. "The eighth daumna had only two concubines."

"Oh, yes! How could I forget? The siiiiixth!"

And from the general laughter, it was clear that the sixth daumna was the byword for multiple concubines.

"I remember the tenth," an old man said dreamily. "The one before ours. Five concubines, all beautiful young men who kept themselves virgin for him. He was a lucky one."

"But none of them as exotic as what you'll be claiming!" someone across the table said to Chakotay. "That pink skin, and five fingers on each hand--five fingers!--our daumna certainly has a taste for variety!" His cheerful admiration seemed unforced.

"Five fingers." The man to Chakotay's left frowned at Chakotay's hand. "I don't know if I would like to be touched by someone with five fingers. I could overlook the creepy brown skin--especially in the dark--but I don't know about the five fingers."

"Our daumna has no such qualms!" said the man across the table. "The ways of the daumna!"

The phrase was more than just an expression of admiration; it seemed it was a toast.

"The ways of the daumna!" the others thundered; and knocked back their beer with great satisfaction.

"Do you remember the time," the man to Chakotay's right said, motioning for more beer, "that trader cheated her potboy out of half his pay? And she went after him on that big warbraagh of hers? And when she caught up to him--"

The stories--and the beer--lasted well into the night, as they were joined by half the village. Children came to the tavern with their parents, fell asleep on fathers' shoulders, listened entranced with their heads in mothers' laps. It was, Chakotay realized, a sort of wake. The daumna was remembered, drunk to, admired. And she was admired; and loved. Tears glistened on cheeks even as people roared with laughter. Her laundress told about the daumna and the would-be assassin she drowned in her bath. One of her guards told about daumna and the griith pup she trained for three weeks as a gift for her favorite nephew, romping with it as if she were a child and weeping for a morning after she gave it to the boy. Other stories were told: the daumna and the lying taxman; the daumna and the rebellious clan leader. The daumna and the stranded shepherd was a special favorite: "Tell it again," whispered an enraptured little girl; and Raabio--who smelled like he spent his life herding something four-legged--flushed and told it again, so drunk on beer and attention that this time he became the story: became the terrified shepherd watching the water rise higher and higher, became the enraged river, became the determined daumna, became the snorting warbraagh she rode into swift water. Listening and watching, Chakotay realized that the stories allowed them to remember, to imprint history on their children--and, ultimately, to let go, to ease the eleventh daumna into legend.

He nursed one beer the entire evening, though he could have gotten drunker than the daumna did when she drank the rebellious clan leader under the table and into submission; because everyone at the tavern seemed to want to buy a wuaash for The Man Who was Going to Claim His Spouse. Chakotay had the uneasy realization that he and Paris were about to enter Chaauree lore--whether he succeeded or not.

When the storytellers went home, he took a stroll around the quiet square, letting the stillness settle into him before going to bed. He stopped in front of the palace gate, nodded to the guards. The maze of small stones gleamed in the uncertain light of four of Chaau's fourteen moons. The maze led into a small, three-sided tent. One or two lights gleamed just inside the wall, but for the most part the palace was silent, dark, sleeping. Or dead.

You old-- He sighed. Hearing the stories tonight, he couldn't blame her: she'd always acted while others waited, decided while others dithered. Not unlike a certain Starfleet captain he knew--or, come to think of it, not entirely unlike a certain Maquis captain, who'd led with his heart before his head caught up. Leaders were sometimes like that. But, damn it. That didn't confer the right screw up a man's life. Though-- Just whose life are we talking about here? Paris's--or yours? Chakotay was afraid he knew the answer.

Sitting under his canopy and surrounded by priests and priestesses, the head priest was watching him. Contrite, Chakotay strolled over.

"I think you were not praying." The priest's eyes held admonishment--and understanding.

Chakotay snorted a laugh. "I'm afraid I wasn't." He accepted tea from one of the priests, waited as the head priest was served, then took a cautious sip. It was fruity and earthy, and he wasn't entirely sure he liked it. Then he took a deep breath. "I'm very nervous about claiming ... Tom." He would use Paris's name--be damned with not mentioning the names of those who might die, and be damned with calling Paris his "spouse."

"It is not to be undertaken lightly. It is a moment of wonder, when a loving heart wars with the will of the daumna."

A loving--oh, damn. "What sort of ritual is involved?" Chakotay wouldn't exactly describe his heart as "loving." Maybe a furious heart would be just as much of a match for the eleventh daumna.

"The ritual is simple. You advance and demand--and claim your spouse." The priest's tone implied that the last part was optional.

Chakotay felt stubbornness ignite deep inside him. Rescuing Paris was not optional, and he was growing tired of the implication that it was. He would find Paris: the loathing heart knew its target as well as any loving heart knew its. That stubborn set of the shoulders, the fuck-me angle of the ass, the fuck-you tilt of the chin-- He knew the son of a bitch all right. No problem. And he had a tricorder. Really no problem.

"How many succeed?" Chakotay asked as evenly as he could.

The priest looked at him for a moment. "Not many."

Chakotay found himself clutching the cup hard. He set it down carefully. "I have to try," he heard his mouth say.

The man smiled with real warmth. "I know," he said.

A rustle, and the head priest stood. Chakotay turned to find a priestess escorting a middle-aged woman who smelled strongly of animals. She looked freshly scrubbed and smelled also of a cheap, flowery scent. Worn ribbons were braided into her hair, and her calf-length robe was evidently new; surreptitiously, she dropped the shoes she was carrying and shuffled her feet into them. She looked frightened and defiant.

"The one who tends the daumna's giiba'a," the priestess said; and Chakotay watched in astonishment as every priestess and priest sank to their knees and bent their heads, placing both hands on the ground.

The herder looked around her, bewildered and apparently on the verge of tears.

The head priest rose and gently took her gnarled hands. "We do honor to one who will travel with our daumna."

The herder blinked and hung her head bashfully, shuffling her feet--and then apparently remembered that these were new shoes, and polished them on her trousers--and then seemingly remembered that the trousers were new, too, and freed a hand to dust at them frantically--then looked embarrassed.

"It is time to start," the head priest said gently.

The herder froze for a moment. Then Chakotay saw what he never expected. She looked up, and joy slowly dawned in her eyes. At her smile, he realized that for her some long struggle was at last over, and some new glory was about to begin; and he didn't know whether to feel gladness that her life was about to reach its culmination, or rage that she was so ready to die for nothing.

The head priest led them to the maze laid out in stones beside the palace wall. Chakotay hung back, unwilling to intrude, but a glance from the priest, and he joined the handful of religious at the edge of the maze.

The herder's priestess stood beside her, holding yellow fabric. Behind her stood a priest holding a cup. The head priest stood at the entrance to the maze, still holding the herder by the hands.

They stood silent for a long moment. Chakotay's breathing was loud in his ears.

Then, "Who walks the path?" the head priest asked.

The herder stared at him. The priest looked expectant. The herder's stare resembled the frozen fear of a startled deer. It was apparent she had forgotten her line.

The priestess murmured into her ear, and the herder relaxed.

"One who would travel far," she said.

The head priest smiled and walked backward into the maze, drawing her with him. The others followed. They took a turn, and another turn; and the head priest stopped.

"Who walks the path?" he asked.

And, after a coaching murmur from the priestess, the herder said, "One who would follow her heart"; and they all took another turn, and another.

It was a path of smooth curves and intricate knots, Chakotay realized as he watched: a snarled path to the center, and a spiralling path to the other side. They walked the maze together, the head priest never looking anywhere but into the herder's eyes.

"Who walks the path?" he would ask each time they stopped; and the herder would answer: "One who would cross the river," "One who would seek the meadow," "One who would see far."

The whole thing was, Chakotay saw, a meditation. As the herder made her way along the path, as she gave each answer, she grew calmer, more confident. Her gaze turned inward. Her voice grew steadier. What her answers meant, Chakotay couldn't think: perhaps they mentioned landmarks on the way to the land of the dead; perhaps they were simply words. Either way, they meant something to her, even if it was only that she was saying farewell.

"Who walks the path?" the head priest asked when they reached the other side.

"One who would live her dream," she said without coaching; and she reached for the cup and drained it. The yellow cloth was unfolded. Chakotay saw the herder's face as the cloth drifted down over her, and he was shaken by the peace and joyful anticipation he saw there.

She stood for a moment. The head priest leaned forward, whispered into one ear, then into the other; and then guided her down to sit in the little tent. Once she was settled, she didn't move.

The priestesses and priests sighed and murmured among themselves as they went back to the canopy. The head priest looked deeply into Chakotay's eyes as he walked past. Do you see? his gaze said.

Chakotay saw. He stared at the herder in sudden sick understanding. Looking at the cloth, so long it brushed the ground when she stood, hiding her completely. The cloth, so flimsy in Paris's hands, but too thick and stiff to cling. Folds obscured the shape of the herder's nose, chin. The shoulders could be anyone's.

He felt his nails bite into his palms.

Yes, he saw. He saw, and the cold returned full force.

Everything really fell apart the next morning. Up from fitful dreams he couldn't remember, and washed, and into wrinkled clothes still damp from a quick scrubbing the night before. Chakotay reached for--

Fucking tricorder wasn't there. Shit.

He tore apart the room, though he knew it was useless, knew that the tricorder had been removed. He sat on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers through his hair. Well, hotshot--did you really EXPECT the nice primitives to let you use your tricorder in their quaint little ritual? He sighed. Fuck.

Walk it off. He went to the window, looked out at where the yellow shape of the herder was motionless beside the maze, where the head priest returning to the canopy steadfastly met Chakotay's gaze, and then inclined his head in greeting. Fuck.

Walk it off. He paced, cursing himself, trying to ignore the growing panic. Just because the Chaauree didn't use all the technology at their disposal didn't make them stupid. They took their rituals as seriously as he took his. It is a moment of wonder--and he'd been ready to sneak in some fucking little machine to make his magic for him. "Arrogance," his father had said all too often. Just that one word, with just the right expression. "Arrogance." Well, now Chakotay was paying for that arrogance.

With Paris's life. Fuck. For a moment, Chakotay let himself curse everything he could think of: curse the fucking door to his room, which had no working lock; curse fucking Paris, who couldn't keep himself from smarting off in some theoretically charming way; curse the fucking daumna, so ready to jump somebody's bones that she even went for Paris; curse the fucking culture that forced the leader to be celibate--no wonder they looked forward to death and collected concubines along the way.

And right back to cursing himself for being a stupid moron asshole. Because at the back of his mind was the little niggling thought that, yes, Paris would be dead, but Chakotay's life was toast, because nobody--but nobody on that ship--not even Kes--would believe he'd done his best to get Paris out of the situation. There would be side glances and sudden hushes as he entered a room; there would be rumors and counter-rumors, and the sure and certain knowledge that Chakotay had finally seen his chance. And some of the crew would be smug, and some of the crew would be scared; and Janeway would patently pretend to believe him; and maybe the ship wouldn't fall apart, but his career as a good Starfleet prodigal son would be over.

And the shameful thing was that this last was almost as big a factor in his panic as Paris's impending death.

Walk it off. He clattered downstairs, shook his head at the proffered breakfast, and went out into the square. He really didn't feel like talking to the fucking priest; time to--well, to take a walk.

So he walked. He walked through the open village gate and out into the surrounding hills, rusty with lush summer grasses where insects buzzed.

Walked and-- Chakotay stopped.

And found himself near a grave, a large one, being dug. He stared.

The hole would be round when it was done; he saw the stakes pounded into the coppery grass and clumps of green flowers. Around the grave were rounded hillocks--other graves, softened by time. Fuck. A team of Chaauree were digging it, with hand tools: Chakotay recognized the tavern keeper, saw Raabio. The villagers digging the grave of their beloved daumna. Fuck.

Chakotay turned and stumbled toward the road. It was real; it was actually happening. Somehow the grave made it real. Paris would-- He caught a sobbing breath. Paris would be put there, lain in the reddish-gray dirt there, have dirt shoveled over him--

He retched, spat bile into the dust. Do something, you have to do something, you have to--

Deep breath. He could hear his father's voice in his ears. Take a deep breath. And the breath--or the memory of his father's voice--jerked his thoughts out of their panicky whirl.

What did the priest say to you?

"I have to know which one he is," Chakotay murmured into the wind, answering his father, who seemed just behind him.

How will you know?

"By knowing him." Chakotay's mouth twisted. "'A loving heart.' 'A depth of knowledge.' Just what I don't have."

A chuckle. But you know what to do.

"Yes." Because he did know what to do. "Thank you," he said; but there was no answer.

"You didn't eat."

Oh, damn--it was that damned landlady, blocking his way with great efficiency, since she was about as wide as she was tall and fit quite snugly in the doorway that lead to the stairs.

"I--I can't."

She said nothing, only looked up at him with her hands clasped. With her graying hair and in her slate-colored robe with tan piping, she looked like a particularly immovable boulder.

"I'm fasting," Chakotay said. "I ... need to meditate, and it works better when I fast." Then, when she still didn't move, he said desperately, "It's ... to prepare myself. To claim Tom."

Romance melted her. She looked up at him in silence; and then a smile flooded her eyes and her mouth twitched a little; and then she stepped aside. He could feel her watching him all the way up the stairs.

Damn. He didn't have his bundle. Meditation without the akoonah wasn't impossible; but it was more difficult. Even so--

He paced, took off his shoes so he could feel the floor beneath his feet, paced some more. The rhythmic movement had the effect he was hoping for: it began to calm him, to bring the rhythms of his own body into alignment. He let his tension ease out.

Chaau didn't feel like Dorvan V, didn't smell like Earth, didn't sound like the starships that had been his home. It was its own place. But it had the scents of dust and living things, the feel of the sun and the ineffable sensation of air that was alive.

He paced, feeling the heat of the sun as he passed the window, hearing the sound of a little bird just outside.

The cloying smell of dust; the rustle of a breeze through the uala leaves; the smoothness of the worn wooden floor beneath his feet; the chirping of insects in the summer grass. The pull of gravity aligning him with this new planet, with the sun, with the waxing moon now riding the sky--the one with the odd orbit, that the Chaauree called the Lonely Moon.

And here was where the sun rose; and there was where it set; and this was the warm north; and that was the cold south; and he was at the center of it all.

He lowered himself to the floor. No bundle meant no stones, no feather, no emblems of where he'd been, where he was, where he needed to go. But--

He gazed at the floor, visualized the bundle. He watched his hands open it--plucking at the air--and, as always, his heart feasted on the sight of what lay inside. Deliberately, he laid out the objects, let himself feel them in his hands: now heavy, now light.

When all was laid out, he gazed at the pattern, letting himself see the familiar objects in this new place.

The sun warming his right side; the cool shadow on his left; behind him, the day's beginning; before him, the place of its ending; above, the power of the sky; below, the strength of the earth; and he at the heart, where all came together, centered.

He closed his eyes.

"Akoo-cheemoya," he murmured. "I am far from the sacred places of my ancestors, far from the bones of my people. In this place I do not understand, I seek guidance. I seek to know a man I do not know, to save the life of a man I despise. If it is permitted, lend me your guidance. Show me how to find the knowledge I need to save a life."

He fell silent, heard his own breathing, listened to the slow beating of his heart, watched the darkness behind his eyelids. Waited.

In the darkness, something stirred, unfolded. And he saw with the vision of his heart the uala tree outside the daumna's palace, poised against blackness. His vision-self walked toward it, reached out, was not surprised to see that beyond the tree lay the hills outside the village.

He walked out, past the tree; and, looking back, he saw that it had vanished, that he stood at the center of the landscape of gentle hills, featureless except for rust-colored grasses and patches of low, copper-colored bushes. Nothing moved.

No sign of his spirit guide, but he sensed that she wasn't far away, that she was just ahead, just out of sight.

So, forward. He walked forward. The sun above him cast no shadow; the breeze ruffling the tufted grass was silent. The hills were endless around him. He left no trail in the grass: it was as if he walked and walked and never moved.

But he reached the top of a hill, and waded through the grass to the top of another, to a third, a fourth--and he found himself looking at a circle of raw earth, a grave freshly dug, and a man standing beside it, knee-deep in the grass and perfectly at ease. He made his way down to the valley, to the grave.

He and the man stared at each other.

Shit, Chakotay said to Chakotay in dismay.

The man grinned. This is your vision, he said. Don't I get any respect?

Were you sent to guide me? Chakotay asked. Coming upon yourself in a dream vision: how damned banal. And, shit, had he really looked like that when--well, the guy was wearing Chakotay's favorite jacket, the one that had gone up with his old ship--when he'd been a Maquis? Arrogant, full of himself--

The Maquis-Chakotay was eyeing Chakotay's Starfleet uniform. You never thought you needed guidance when you wore that uniform, he said with a bitter twist to his mouth.

Chakotay reined in his temper. I need it now, he said.

To save-- The Other shook his head with an expression of disgust.

I need to save him.

The Other didn't answer right away; instead, he sat down on the grass, dangled his feet over the edge of the grave. He plucked a few stems of grass and began to toy with them, weaving them together. Why? he asked, finally.

Why-- Fuck, this would take forever. Chakotay sat about half a meter from the grave. He's alive. He deserves to be saved.

The Other looked at him and grinned. And what you need has nothing to do with it, he drawled.

Chakotay suppressed a flash of anger. Of course it does, he said. Saving my ass has EVERYTHING to do with it. I haven't been keeping that from myself. If I screw this up, my future is toast. No one on the ship will trust me again: they'll all think I saw my chance to take revenge on him. And if we get back to the Alpha Quadrant, the Maquis won't trust me, either. I promised I'd protect him. I owe him a life. I can't betray that promise.

The other Chakotay grinned, as if he'd said something foolish; he was looking down at the mess he was making of the grass stems. Chakotay himself had never gotten the hang of weaving; this guy didn't seem to have the knack, either.

Why not? the Other asked.

Why not-- I can't go back on my word, Chakotay said. If I did, I'd be betraying myself.

The Other looked at him then, looked pointedly at the Starfleet uniform.

Damn it. Chakotay rose to his knees, leaned over. This isn't about you, he hissed into that other glare. Not every damned thing is about you.

Maybe.

This isn't about you, Chakotay insisted. I haven't betrayed you.

The Other let his gaze linger on Chakotay's uniform. Haven't you?

I haven't betrayed you, Chakotay repeated. I'm still fighting for my people. It's just that my people are-- He took a breath at the brush of a sudden realization, still amorphous, still out of reach. My people are the people on the ship now. Maquis, Starfleet--it doesn't matter. They're all my responsibility, all my people. Even-- He felt his mouth twist in a rueful smile. --even Tom Paris belongs to me, now.

The Other looked at the grave. Yes, he said.

Damn. Chakotay had hoped for some guidance. He sat back down. Why do you hate him so much? he asked.

I don't hate him. The words were too quick to be true. I hate the Cardassians. I hate what the Federation has done to my homeworld. But I don't hate him.

Liar. Then, why are you so angry with him?

The Other scowled. He betrayed the Maquis.

No, he didn't. That was probably Tuvok--or Seska. He'd realized it a while back, figured out how many times the raid that failed, the action that went awry, probably did so because one or the other had sent out a warning.

For such a damn hotshot pilot he sure flew himself right into the arms of the Federation.

Getting yourself captured doesn't constitute betrayal, Chakotay said lightly. Just bad luck. You ought to know.

The Maquis was stubborn. He betrayed you to Janeway.

No, he didn't. She already knew I'd be there; she just brought him along for-- He cast about for the word. --insurance.

He betrayed you on the ship.

Not a betrayal; just part of a trap for a traitor. The words came easily.

The Maquis looked at him. He betrayed YOU, he said again.

Chakotay looked back. Yes, he said, finally. I had faith in him; I thought he was changing. I thought we were all changing. The insubordination-- That hurt. All my trust ... in him, in my own judgment, in my own leadership-- That hurt. Even if it was to flush out a traitor, it still hurt. And it had. But what he did was nothing, compared with ... with others. He didn't want to get into that now. What he did was petty. The pleasure he got out of goading me was petty. I can forgive him. After all, Janeway's forgiven him. Like she's forgiven you.

I don't know what she sees in him, the Other said. There was a bitter cast to his mouth.

Maybe she sees something we can't, said Chakotay. Maybe there's more to him than you can see at first glance.

Like you, the Other said. Another little Starfleet project.

Maybe, Chakotay said, ignoring the Other's contemptuous tone. Perhaps. Two little Starfleet projects: damn, maybe he and Paris did have something in common.

I wasn't drummed out of Starfleet, said the Other.

You left of your own free will. You left for a principle. Is that why we despised him?

Of course that's why. The son of a bitch HAS no principles. He was kicked out because he lied.

No, Chakotay said, realizing. Because he exposed his lie. Because he couldn't live with the fact of that lie. If he hadn't confessed, no one would ever have known. Damn.

The Other looked at him. You sound like you're on his side.

I have to save him.

Why?

I TOLD you why!

But the Other Chakotay just gave him the kind of look his father always gave him when he was saying something obviously foolish. Is that the only reason?

Chakotay refrained from ripping the other guy's head off. Are you going to help me at all?

The Other Chakotay started fiddling with grass stems again. Why should I, when his own father wouldn't help him against Starfleet?

You know the stories about the admiral. Family, tradition, and Starfleet; and all three are pretty much the same thing to him. He isn't going to forgive a mistake very easily.

So Paris lied out of fear? There was that contemptuous curl of the lip.

Or-- Chakotay felt his breath catch. --or out of love. Didn't want to disappoint his family. Something inside him turned over. And then he told the truth--and when he told the truth, everything collapsed on top of him. Mygod; mygod. The thought was sickening.

Sons have disappointed their fathers before, said the Other.

And regretted it, and tried to make amends ... Chakotay looked at the raw earth of the grave. Our father never repudiated me. Even when I insisted I wanted the Academy instead of what he hoped for me, I still knew I had his love. Unlike Paris. He felt a twinge of sadness for the lost.

So you forgive him. The Other sounded almost disappointed.

Yes. I forgive him everything.

Do you? The voice was different, had that smoky purr he loved.

Chakotay looked. The Other Chakotay was now Janeway, captain's uniform and all. She was weaving the grass stems neatly into a little braid.

Do you forgive him? she asked again.

I have to.

She lowered her chin and gave him that smile that felt like his alone. Why?

To save his life.

Why?

For the ship.

Janeway tilted her head. Is that all?

Huh? Is there another reason?

She just smiled at him; her smile had a tinge of wistfulness.

For himself, Chakotay said, because it was true; and she didn't answer.

Chakotay looked at the open grave. For--for me, he said finally; and this also was true.

Silence. He looked up, at Tom Paris, who was studying the unfinished cord Janeway had woven.

Tom looked at him. You don't have to do this just for me, he said.

I'm doing it for both of us, said Chakotay.

Really?

Yes. Chakotay watched the deft hands as they wove one end of the cord seamlessly into the other--some complicated sailor's knot. Are you here to help me?

Maybe. Paris gave him a rueful grin. Never much good at helping mySELF.

If you help me, you'll be helping yourself.

Paris's hands paused in their work; the intensity of the look he gave Chakotay was breath-taking. Do you promise?

Uh-- Yes. Somehow he was having trouble catching his breath. What had he just promised? I have to recognize you. How will I know you?

Paris frowned over his work.

Chakotay put his hand over Paris's, to get his attention. How will I know you?

Paris looked into Chakotay's eyes for a moment. It may be, he said, that what you need to have, you have already.

He fumbled at Chakotay's hand. Puzzled, Chakotay looked down.

He looked up quickly again; but he was alone beside the grave. Alone. He looked again at his hand, again at the woven grass cord which in Paris's hands had become a ring on Chakotay's finger.

The world flooded back in a rush: shock, probably, pushing him out of the vision state and back to the smells of dust and sound of birds in the ivy. After that vision-world of muted sensations, the physical Chaau was clamorous, abrasive. He drew its sweet air deep into his lungs before opening his eyes.

Fuck: what had he just promised? Chakotay looked at his left hand, almost expecting to see the glint of a woven grass ring. What the hell had he just promised Paris?

The sound of another breathing met his ears; he looked up and started. The landlady, placid in a chair, looking out the window. A cup of something steamed gently on the little table beside her.

She looked at him. "You can have tea," she said. "I asked the priests."

Busybody. Chakotay swallowed a grin and eased himself to his feet. "Thanks," he said. He stretched and picked up the cup. Something light, with an elusive flavor. He drank thirstily.

The landlady still hadn't moved. Chakotay glanced out the window, caught his breath. Two more figures veiled in yellow sat next to the herder.

"The daumna's traders came back," the landlady said.

Chakotay finished the tea. His hands were shaking. No time, no damn time at all. The funeral was that much closer; the moment when he'd have to recognize Paris or stand by at his death was that much closer.

"Did you see your spouse?" the landlady asked.

"I saw him."

She smiled again: that smile that warmed her eyes and then curved her mouth just a little. "He's dreaming of you." She patted his hand. "He'll be with you soon," she said. She rose to her feet.

"I hope you're right," said Chakotay.

The landlady took the cup. "You need more tea," she said.

"You don't need to--" Chakotay began; but she just turned and looked at him--one of those silent looks the old women on Dorvan V gave you, that brooked no refusal.

He followed her down the stairs.

Chakotay drank his tea just outside the inn, leaning against the wall. She was right: the tea was just what he needed.

The landlord stood placidly in the doorway beside him. The crowd at the saloon was listening raptly to Raabio, waving his earth-stained hands in some bit of story telling. Above the square, clan banners stirred in the breeze. Some little buzzing insect investigated blue flowers blooming in the ivy. The warmth of the tea, the colors and life in the square: Chakotay could almost wish the moment would last forever.

So it was that he saw the new daumna enter the village. Chakotay dismissed him at first: a dusty traveler walking a dusty braagh through the village gate. But something went through the square then, and he realized that everyone there was looking without seeming to look.

The man paid no attention; he just walked the braagh the length of the square, tied it to the water trough just at the palace gate. Removed his shoes, strode to the gate, and knelt to pray.

Suddenly, the square was full of watchers. The story-telling didn't even pause; but Chakotay knew that everyone in that crowd was watching the twelfth daumna. People came to windows and glanced out--apparently casual. The landlady came out to shake something--and was a long time folding it. Some children stopped playing and stared at the palace. Chakotay went in for more tea and went out to drink it.

The new daumna's prayers went on and on; and at last watchers began to drift away. The landlady looked satisfied as she came in; Chakotay saw her husband look inquiringly at her.

"Maybe," she said.

It was sometime later when the new daumna finished his prayers and led his braagh to the door of the inn. "Is it possible," he said to the landlord, "that there is a room for a traveler?"

"We have a small one," the landlady said, coming up behind her husband; and the haggling was on.

It was like watching a couple of superb duellists, circling, sizing each other up, thrusting, parrying; and seeing the landlady warm to the battle, Chakotay realized just how poor an opponent he'd been for her the day before. The daumna was steady, insistent; and soon it was apparent that he was really enjoying himself. So was the landlady. Neither really gave a centimeter, but the deal was made; and at the conclusion both seemed satisfied and impressed.

The landlady went inside; the daumna accompanied the landlord to stable his braagh. Chakotay let his legs walk him through the village.

What the hell had he promised Paris? If you help me, you're helping yourself. What the hell had he promised Paris?

The damned ring--what the hell had he promised Paris? A ring from Paris's hands, knotted by those graceful fingers, from a braid shaped by Janeway--what the hell did that mean? A braid his own shadow-self hadn't been able to form. What the hell did that imply?

His head was swimming. Just quit it, Chakotay. Relax. It'll come to you: relax. RELAX, damn it!

There was a tailor's shop, and there also was Raabio, describing with his hands a garment which the tailor was mimicking with less enthusiasm. Some sort of complicated funeral suit, no doubt.

What you need to have, you have already. What did he have that-- Chakotay took a deep breath, paused to study some fat, blue poultry in a crate, beeping and gobbling in a melodramatic fit. What did he have? He had-- His brain rattled around through the empty hall of his skull, looking for insight.

Chakotay walked on, fast. His thoughts kept up with him, though. What you need to have, you have already. And he had-- He skirted a puddle of worrisome origin. He had-- What he had was the sickening suspicion that what had driven Paris just after Caldik Prime had been honor, the breathtaking realization of just how alone Paris had probably felt after his father's repudiation. And just what did YOU do, hotshot? Chakotay felt his cheeks burn. What he'd done was accuse Paris of being nothing but a mercenary, which actually was pretty much on target. Paris certainly hadn't joined the Maquis on principle. No: he'd joined for the fight, for the chance to get back at those who'd hurt him. And--well, shit--maybe for the chance to earn back something he'd lost. Observing Paris on Voyager, Chakotay had realized that he was basically someone who wanted to uphold a code of honor, was someone who needed structure, needed guidance, needed a leader.

He turned onto a street of ramshackle houses leaning against each other like friendly drunks. And what kind of leader did he find in you? A damned poor one. What Paris had found was a man ready to distrust, to humiliate, a man so immersed in his own hurt and sense of betrayal that he lashed out at the admiral's son who'd had his way smoothed by nepotism--and who'd still blown it. Oh, yes, a perfect leader.

Oh, just quit that. Wallowing in self-condemnation was just another form of arrogance. Chakotay hadn't been that bad.

But he hadn't been what Paris needed, either. Too angry, too mistrustful. An admiral's son kicked out of Starfleet had seemed just too perfect a spy, and Paris getting captured so damn quick--

Chakotay halted, felt his face heat. Too damn quick. What kind of damn secrets did you think he'd taken with him? Damnfool Paris had been captured on his first mission. Just what kind of valuable, secret knowledge did you think the Federation would get from HIM? Tuvok: that was a spy. Seska. Both there for the long haul, learning everything, reporting so discretely that Chakotay hadn't learned they were spies until it was far too late. But, poor Paris stumbling into the unwelcoming arms of the Federation.... Chakotay grinned ruefully. Fuckit, you WERE paranoid.

Seska. Tuvok. Or not paranoid enough.

For some reason, Chakotay suddenly felt more cheerful. He set off briskly down a street that led in the direction of the square. The Paris of his mind--the arrogant, self-pitying, self-serving mercenary--didn't-- Well, actually, he did exist. It was just that he hadn't been a spy. There was no logical reason why that should cheer up Chakotay, but it did. YOU were the stumbling block. If you'd just managed to trust him, he could've been--well, just about ANYthing. Look at what he's accomplished under Janeway's leadership. Because there was still something there: some kind of honor, some level of loyalty. And wariness. And distrust. Along with some fear that all too often manifested itself in the kind of smartass that made sane First Officers want to just flatten him. But Chakotay could live with that. Just a little patience, a little time, a certain amount of gentle guidance--

"I'm the daumna, and you're the concubine," a little girl was insisting. Chakotay stopped near the little group of children to watch as the girl placed her spread hand on a little boy's head for a moment. "See? That's your veil."

The boy rolled his eyes up as if expecting to see something, and gingerly patted his head.

"I wanted to be the concubine!" A littler boy was practically in tears.

"Here." The girl rested her hand on his head for an instant. "Now you're a concubine, too."

The second boy grinned and hugged himself and bounced up and down on his toes, careful not to dislodge his invisible veil.

"But I want to be a guard," said a little girl.

"I need guards, too. Here!" The faux-daumna placed the imaginary veil.

"Meee!meee!meee!meee!" shrieked a very little girl, jumping up and down.

"No. You and Riilda are the priests," the new guard said loftily. "You get to bury us--"

Chakotay's stomach lurched. As he stumbled away, he heard behind him the little girl shriek, "Lay down! Lay down! You're dead!"

He was still shaking when he reached the square. Mygod. Children played at being adults the galaxy over, but--mygod. He looked over at the palace, where someone knelt in prayer. He had to rescue Paris, had to rescue Paris and get them both the hell out of here, get them both the hell off this damned planet--

Someone had placed a rickety table and some chairs outside the inn; and the new daumna sat there, drinking tea. When Chakotay approached, the daumna caught his eye.

Okay. Chakotay sat down and was unsurprised when the landlady appeared with tea. She gave him that smile that started in her eyes, before she went back inside the inn.

The daumna chuckled. "Siilne approves of you," he said.

So that was her name. Chakotay realized that the daumna was trying not to stare at Chakotay's five-fingered hands, and hid a smile. "I think she's just a romantic--" He caught himself. Referring to the former daumna might not be in the best taste.

"She is a romantic," the daumna said easily. "The Man Who's Going to Claim His Spouse. She's very proud of you."

There was a twinkle in the daumna's eye that coaxed Chakotay into smiling. The daumna grinned at him, and Chakotay grinned back, feeling himself relax. There was something about this guy that he could like.

"I apologize for my aunt," the daumna went on. "She's a romantic, herself. She'll be disappointed to lose your spouse--she always did have an eye for the exotic--but I think she'll enjoy seeing you confirm your love of him."

Chakotay felt his breathing stumble. He'd never heard anyone so unselfconsciously refer to the dead in the present or future tense. He watched the twelfth daumna serenely sip his tea. The eleventh daumna seemed as alive for this man as she had a week ago. That kind of faith was heartening. But: confirm your love of him. Damn.

Chakotay took a deep breath. "I hope I don't disappoint her," he said diplomatically.

"You won't," said the daumna. "She'll have the memory of your devotion, or she'll have him to comfort." The daumna suddenly looked startled; and Chakotay realized that he hadn't meant to sound so callous. He smiled a "no-problem" smile at the daumna.

"Not that I--" the daumna began hastily. "I mean, she has six," the daumna said. "She doesn't need seven."

Six. The cup rattled as Chakotay set it down.

The daumna was watching him. "They told me that you couldn't understand our ways." His tone implied that he hadn't expected to see proof. "Aren't you born to serve each other, in this life and the next?"

Six. "We don't expect people to follow us into the grave, just to satisfy our--" He bit off the end of that sentence and flushed.

The daumna was regarding him with something akin to pity. "How lonely," he said. "To serve no one in life or in the life after this."

Huh? "That's not-- I serve others. I just don't expect them to die with me."

The daumna shook his head, smiling condescendingly. "You don't understand. You think it's vanity or pride. For us, our lives with each other are the most important thing we know. They become so intertwined, that the bond continues even in the next life."

Six. Chakotay bit back some undiplomatic words.

The daumna smiled. "I don't expect you to understand," he said. "It's just that some people don't wish to be in a life without my aunt. So they're following her. You'll see how it is."

He already saw how it was. It was a waste. "Do you have many who will ... follow ... you?" He knew he was being rude, but he was sick of being polite about this massacre.

"I'm not the daumna," said the daumna.

What? "I thought..."

"My aunt chose me to be the daumna," the man said wryly. "However, the people haven't chosen me yet."

Chakotay looked at him.

"After my aunt has led her people to their home in the afterlife," the daumna went on, "I will go live in that empty palace and wait to see if the people accept me."

"'Wait'?" said Chakotay.

"Those who wish to follow me will come and swear allegiance." A wry smile was working its way across the daumna's face. "And those who don't ... won't." He grinned at Chakotay's amazement. "The Chaauree follow only those they decide are worthy. They'll watch me and see what I do and listen to what I say, and then decide. It can take months."

Good god. "What if they--ah--decide not to?"

"It has happened that a would-be daumna has been ushered out of the village, and a new one selected by the people," the daumna said dryly.

Chakotay gaped at him. "And the rejected one doesn't just come marching back with an army and take over?"

The daumna laughed. "Where would I get an army? If you're going to be daumna, you must give up all possessions and live on what your people give you. I had to borrow that braagh in the stables. I won't be able to pay Siilne until somebody gives me some money. I couldn't hire soldiers; and no one's going to ally themselves with someone who's been so disgraced." He shook his head and grinned at Chakotay's naivete as he finished his tea.

Fuck. Chakotay's head was spinning. The President of the Federation waiting to see if-- He grinned at the thought.

"And my aunt warned me when she decided on me," the daumna said dryly, "that these are the most stubborn people she's ever dealt with. Eight other villages in her domain came to swear allegiance before anyone from this village set foot inside the palace. I may have to outdrink them all." He saw Chakotay's smile. "Have they been telling the stories?"

"Yes." Then, "Your aunt was an amazing woman," he said. Six.

The daumna's eyes glistened with sudden tears. "It will be a quiet world without her. There are many who are disappointed she didn't ask them to follow her into the new life. This village alone would be half empty if she'd given in to everyone who begged to follow her."

Chakotay fumbled for breath. Who the fuck did he know who could command that level of devotion? Who would he choose to die with, rather than live without? That he could think of no one suddenly struck him as depressing. But, six....

The daumna straightened in his chair, and Chakotay looked up to see a priest and priestess coming toward them.

"The head priest will see you now," the priestess said to the daumna; and he went off with her towards the canopy.

The priest smiled at Chakotay. "I will be at your side tomorrow," he said; and Chakotay fought the sudden clench of panic.

Tomorrow; shit, tomorrow. And he wasn't nearly ready.

"It is a simple act," the priest went on. "We will wait beside the resting place of the daumna's body. When the procession draws near, you will speak the challenges. And then you will claim your spouse." His tone and his smile made that seem the easiest thing in the universe; and for the first time Chakotay felt he could draw a full breath.

"'Challenges'?" he echoed.

"Four times you will step into the procession's path. Three times the procession will move forward. Those three challenges, I will teach you. The fourth--" His smile was beatific. "--the one that will halt the procession--the fourth will come from your heart."

The fourth will-- Chakotay forced a smile onto his face, forced his hand not to tighten on the table top, forced himself to look steadily into the priest's shining face. --will come from your-- Felt ice spread through his body. --from your heart.

The fourth would come from his heart. As well kill Paris right now.

Meditate. He needed to meditate.

What he got was the landlady--Siilne; her name was Siilne--blocking his way to the stairs. Handing him a cup of tea with an expression that made him stop and drink it all down that instant. It was good tea.

"Thank you," he said as she turned with the empty cup.

"You shouldn't let yourself get so upset." But her voice sounded oddly approving.

Upstairs, he leaned against the shut door and closed his eyes. Let the quiet of the room steal into him. Opened his eyes: lost himself in the intricacies of ivy-shadow on the wall. The sun, low in the sky, flooded the room with radiance. The bed looked soft, steady. The chair near the window looked mysterious with shadow. The worn floor was golden.

Off with the boots and socks; his tunic was draped carefully over the bed.

Chakotay walked, walked through the glowing room. Paced, until his heart, his breathing, aligned themselves; paced, until the glow of the sun filled him. Paced, until the whispering of his own breath became the rustle of the breeze through the ivy; paced, until the song of a little bird pipping in a nearby tree resonated through his soul.

This time, when he looked up from opening the imaginary medicine bundle, he found Paris seated across from him, looking serenely back.

They gazed at each other. Paris was so close, their knees almost touched. Chakotay could count the shades of blue that blended in Paris's eyes, see the way the strands of gold and brown mingled in Paris's hair. Note the network of lines near Paris's eyes, the fine traces of bitterness at the soft mouth. He thought, My god, he's grown older. And then, And so have you.

I made you doubt yourself. Paris sounded apologetic.

I-- Chakotay felt himself flushing. I could always do that without anybody's help. No sense lying now.

But I didn't help.

You did what you had to do. Then, when Paris didn't answer, You did what she asked you to.

But the embellishments were my own. The wry grin broadened when Chakotay grinned back.

Well, that was just your natural son-of-a-bitch qualities coming out, Chakotay drawled; and Paris laughed.

I haven't really been much good to you, have I? he said.

Wha-- You've saved my ass more times than I care to count, Chakotay protested. Not to mention everybody else on the ship.

And how many times have I humiliated you?

Not that many, Chakotay said stoutly. Then, Not so many that I can't forgive you. Besides, he said to the glow in Paris's eyes, most of my really complete humiliations have been my own damn fault.

Not always.

Enough times, Chakotay insisted. Following my ... my passions down the wrong path. Seska....

You've just needed....

Structure, Chakotay supplied; and Paris smiled. Guidance; and Chakotay grinned at Paris's grin. Now, what was that other thing he'd decided Paris needed? Oh, yes: A leader. Janeway.

And a new path, said Paris.

Janeway.

I haven't been much of a leader for YOU, Chakotay said.

But at least you weren't my father.

Chakotay blinked at him. You mean I-- He thought a minute. But I DID expect you to conform to my idea of what-- He caught his breath at the flood of realization. --what I thought you should be. Just like the admiral. I wanted you to be--I wanted you to be the Maquis warrior dedicated to the cause; and when you weren't, I--I lashed out. Just like the admiral.

And then I got captured.

Before you could prove yourself.

Or change myself.

They looked at each other across the sun's brightness.

I wish I were the leader you need, Chakotay said, meaning it.

What do I need?

Steadiness.

You can be pretty set in your ways, Paris said with a little smile.

Smart ass. You need structure.

And you do love those rules.

Chakotay felt his mouth curve. Guidance.

And you're not shy about telling us about them, either.

They were grinning at each other. The glow of the setting sun washed everything red.

You need someone who cares, Chakotay said finally.

Paris's smile was tender. What I need, I have already. The light of sunset was the color of blood.

Chakotay seemed unable to look away from the glowing face. How will I know you tomorrow?

Paris leaned forward. What you need, you have already, he said urgently.

The light was dimming as the day slid into night. He stared desperately into the shadowy face. But I need a sign.

Forget that I made you doubt yourself. The night was gathering. What you need, you have already, Paris said; and the last light of the dying sun faded, and he with it.

Chakotay opened his eyes, not surprised to find that night had come, not surprised to find that the landlady was sitting nearby with a cup of tea.

"Did you see him?" she asked, watching him drink.

"We spoke."

Siilne smiled. "You must be very close to him."

Well .... "Our relationship is ... complicated."

She took the empty cup. "You must love him very much." And she was gone before he could reply.

He sank down in the chair and stared out the window. You must love him very much. What you need, you have already. Damn.

There were more people in the square than he expected. Well, the funeral IS tomorrow, he thought. And everybody would have come from miles around to-- You get to bury us, the little girl said in his mind; and, Lay down! Lay down! You're dead!

He lurched to his feet, pulled on his tunic. Out of there; he had to get out of there. His head was spinning.

Even in the dimness of the square, he was a startling sight to some of the Chaauree: a brownish-skinned man with five fingers on each hand. He strode through the square, ignoring the stares, the nudges, the murmurs about The Man Who Was Going to Claim His Spouse.

At the tavern, Raabio was holding forth for a rapt audience. Someone tugged at Chakotay's sleeve: it was the admiring man from the night before.

"You should listen," he said. "There are good stories tonight. I will buy you a tea."

Looking down into that cheerful face, Chakotay couldn't say no. He had a tea, and then another. The man was right: the stories were good. Partway into the evening, the twelfth daumna emerged from the crowd to tell the story of the eleventh daumna and the untamed braagh, which dragged her across hillsides and through thorn bushes before submitting to her in its exhaustion; and the story of the eleventh daumna's gift of a griith pup, which drove everyone to distraction by whimpering and crying for her for three nights. The daumna's face gleamed with tears by the end of that story; and Chakotay watched the crowd warm to him. Maybe he wouldn't have to drink them all into submission, at that.

A second tea almost led to a third, but Chakotay waved it away. Something must have been in that cup besides tea: suddenly he felt completely boneless. He stumbled to his feet and thanked the man; and Raabio was beginning his rendition of the eleventh daumna and the stranded shepherd when Chakotay walked carefully away into the relative peace of the square.

The cool night air revived him. He walked toward the palace, watching the four waning moons rise above its roof. The three silent ones in the little tent on the other side of the tangled maze; the priests quiet under their canopy; the breeze rustling the leaves of the uala tree: it could have been peaceful, except--

He turned his tired mind from the thought. No use hurtling himself against the bars of the cage the Chaauree had constructed for themselves. Those who wanted to die, would die. He couldn't change a civilization in a night. Better to focus on the one he could save.

He looked at the quiet palace where the dead still ruled. Six concubines, and who knew how many servants and guards: This village alone would be half empty.... Sickening.

But, Paris-- He felt his breath catch, consciously smoothed it out. Concentrate on Paris. Paris was alive and safe inside; and he would be alive and safe on Voyager in a few days. You have to believe that, Chakotay. Paris.... What I need, I have already, Paris whispered in his mind. Oh, Paris, you poor fool.

He strode close, under the watchful eyes of the guards, and placed a hand on either gate, closed his eyes, let his forehead rest on the weathered wood. Paris, he thought. I'll get you out. I'll get you away from her. Not quite a prayer, and certainly not to the daumna. Paris. Paris. Paris. What you need, you have already. But he had nothing. I'll find you, Paris. Paris. He had nothing. And it came to Chakotay that he had to be drunk, because he was standing at a silent gate and thinking promises to a man he basically wanted to deck. But--Paris. There was something soothing in standing there, as close as he could get, sending comfort in the only way he could. Paris.

Comforting himself, too.

Paris.

He'd intended to spend the night in meditation; he'd intended to sleep so deeply that his own renewed vigor would guide him through the ritual. Chakotay sat part of the night in the chair, watching the moon-washed palace and pursuing a vision that stayed just out of reach; the other part of the night he lay on the bed, waking from dreams that the funeral was over and he had missed it, waking from dreams that it was all a trick and Paris had died instead of the daumna, waking from dreams that it was all a trick and Paris was already in the daumna's grave, waking, waking, waking.

Time seemed frozen in ice; in the space of a blink, the moons slid halfway across the sky.

He was ready before the landlady came with a cup of tea and a smile; it was far too soon when the priest came to take him to the grave.

Dawn gilded the empty road before them, and their shadows were the shadows of giants. The hills were crowded with small camps; and beside the road, people were stirring, rising to look at him. He realized that he and the priest were the first of the procession: the man who was going to claim his spouse being led to his post.

What you need, you have already.

All too soon, they were at the grave. He could not look into it. The raw earth beside it gleamed like blood in the red rays of the rising sun. A ramp into the grave led down to darkness. On the hills around it, a crowd watched him. Somewhere, someone was sobbing.

Chakotay steadfastly looked at the rising sun. What you need, you have already.

He sat on the ground, closed his eyes, took a cleansing breath. Looked inward. He felt sunlight touch his face as the day began. His thumb grazed his finger, where the memory of a ring lingered on the surface of his skin.

What I need, I have already. Paris had him. What you need, you have already. And he had-- What did he have?

He had Paris.

He had the son-of-a-bitch smirk and the wry wit, the smack-me-one arrogance and the breathtaking talent. He had the self-pity wallow and the insolent courage after everything Paris valued was lost.

He had the hands graceful on the conn and the eyes blank with defiance, the soft mouth sweet-talking a whore and the jaw tightening as Paris hauled Chakotay out of an abyss.

He had Harry Kim's steadfastness (and loving disapproval); he had Janeway's confidence (and fond exasperation). He had the artistry with a holoprogram. He had the small-boy enthusiasm for the past.

He had the delight when baby Naomi Wildman grabbed Paris's finger and wouldn't let go. He had the preternatural ability to find just where a razor-sharp comment would cut the deepest.

He had the gentleness in sickbay and the mooning over Kes and the who-me? astonishment when the three women Paris was dating simultaneously circled for the kill.

He had the bull-headed stubbornness refusing to give in when giving in was the only option.

He had the sense of honor that tried to undo a panicky impulse and destroyed a life.

He had Paris.

The murmur of the breeze told Chakotay when the procession passed through the gate of the village. The keening in the crowd told him when it was close enough to open his eyes and rise to his feet.

The sun was high in a hard-blue sky. The Lonely Moon was a white smudge just above the horizon. Against the drabness of the assembled mourners, the procession was a glory of color: white-wrapped corpse borne on the shoulders of grim guards, the religious clad in cobalt blue guiding figures veiled in yellow or in-- Chakotay caught his breath. --in red.

As the procession advanced, the mourners beside the road keened and sobbed, rocked and wept. Wails resolved themselves into prayers; prayers lengthened into howls. In front of the corpse, the head priest walked as serenely as if he were walking alone.

When Chakotay stepped out in front of the procession, silence began to sift in.

The procession stopped.

The head priest looked at him for a moment. "Who stands between?" he asked conversationally; and in the silence that followed, Chakotay heard a spiral of birdsong.

"One from the living to challenge the dead," Chakotay answered.

The priest inclined his head and strode forward.

Chakotay stepped into his way.

"Who stands between?" the priest inquired.

"One from the living who follows his heart." Chakotay could feel his own priest behind him, a support ready to give answers he didn't need.

The head priest started forward. Chakotay stepped into his path.

"Who stands between?" asked the priest.

"One from the living who seeks what he loves."

The head priest started around him. Chakotay let a heartbeat go by and stepped once more into his path.

The priest looked straight into Chakotay's eyes.

"Who stands between?" he asked.

The breeze ruffled the grass alongside the road; the spiral of birdsong fell from the sky.

"One who would claim another for life," Chakotay heard his voice say.

The head priest regarded him for a moment, actually seemed to consider what Chakotay had just said. Then he bowed and stepped aside.

"Come forward, then, and claim him."

Chakotay felt his knees wobble. He stepped forward, was guided by his priest past the guards bearing the daumna's body, through the priests and priestesses who bowed as he passed, to the two ragged lines of red-veiled figures who stood still as death. Seven.

He stopped.

Paris. Chakotay took a deep breath, listened to the little bird singing from somewhere near the sun. Every figure looked exactly alike. Paris.

And then he saw him. At the end of the line, over there on the left.

Chakotay started between the rows of concubines. Yes! That was--

Something stopped him.

He looked back, puzzled. The head priest had followed, had put one hand on Chakotay's shoulder, had stopped him. Huh?

The head priest looked into his eyes, looked down. Chakotay looked.

Looked down at his own hand firmly wrapped around the wrist of the second concubine on the right.

He felt his heart stumble. Damn it. No. This was--

He took a shaky breath. Let go of the concubine. Damn it, no.

Watched his hands go to the slimsey cloth, gather it. He couldn't look down as those four-toed feet were uncovered; he could only watch his hands bunch the cloth, gather it, gather it. Damn it, no. Damn it.

Gather it. Gather it.

And, suddenly, he could stand no more; and he swept the cloth up and over the concubine's head. And stared.

Tom Paris blinked back at him.

My god.

"Chakotay," Paris said delightedly; and he stepped forward and kissed Chakotay full on the mouth.

It was a dry kiss, but still a pretty good one. Holy-- Paris had both hands on him, leaned into it, was giving it all he had. Good god. He'd done it. He'd actually done it.

Paris broke the kiss and then sagged against him. Automatically, Chakotay's arms went around him. He'd actually done it. He realized that the sound he was hearing was the breathing of the crowd, the soft whispering of what had taken place to those who hadn't seen it. He'd done it.

Paris was struggling to keep his feet. Shit, he was naked. Desperately, Chakotay caught up cloth, tried to wrap the slippery stuff around Paris.

There was a tug at Chakotay's arm, someone's hand firm on the other elbow. A priest and priestess, guiding him out of the procession. He was grateful, except-- Fuck: they'd been guided to the edge of the grave.

Chakotay frantically wrapped the gaudy stuff around Paris. Ohmyfuckingshit, he'd done it. He looked around for help, found none. The procession was moving on past them, to the ramp. Shit, he'd done it.

Paris had steadied himself, was gazing placidly into the grave. Chakotay grabbed, wrapped. There seemed to be kilometers of the slippery damn cloth, and it kept sliding off.

Something bumped his hand, and he realized that the priestess was trying to give him something. He took it absently, almost dropped it, then realized what it was.

The tricorder.

Thank the spirits. He looked his gratitude at the priestess, put one arm around Paris while he adjusted the tricorder. Paris swayed and watched him. The pupils were pinpoints in the blue eyes. And, damn--that dry kiss meant he was dehydrated.

Paris watched Chakotay scan him, then looked again into the grave.

Chakotay looked at the readings. Dehydration and weak pulse and lower-than-usual blood pressure. Apparently some sedative with, oh, a lot of stuff Chakotay wasn't sure about. But nothing overtly life-threatening. He scanned again to make sure.

He felt his heart start pumping blood for the first time that morning, felt himself take a deep breath for the first time in days. Paris wobbled against him, and he automatically gathered him close, offered him someplace to lean. "It's okay," he found himself murmuring. "You're safe. It's okay."

But, something else was going on, something that was not okay, and Paris--with his head on Chakotay's shoulder--was watching it. Chakotay took a deep breath and looked.

Except for a circle in the middle, the grave had been lined with cloth. The daumna's body had been placed in the center, directly on the earth she'd fought for. And the others-- He closed his eyes against a rising dizziness. --the others were being placed around her, shielded from the earth by fabric. Still covered by their veils.

He forced himself to look. The concubines had all been placed in a group; and now those in yellow were being guided down the ramp, gently helped to lie down.

Chakotay surreptitiously readjusted the tricorder, took a scan. Blinked at what he saw.

The concubines were all dead. And of the rest, all but two--and one died as he watched.

He scanned the next one down, watched as the figure was guided toward its spot, watched the life go out between one step and another, saw the body tenderly caught and positioned by a priest. My god. Chakotay closed his eyes, clutched Paris's warm body, breathed in the heady spice of his skin. Shit, how could they?

They had to get away from here, away from the horror just a few steps away, away from the slaughter. Paris sighed, and Chakotay's arms tightened protectively. He looked around, but the crowd was too close, too involved in its grief to allow them to slip through.

So they had to stand by at the grave's brink, walled in by grief; stand by while twenty-two people followed their daumna into death. Chakotay locked his muscles against the shaking, kept the ice in his soul at bay with the warmth of the body in his arms. This village alone would be half empty.... Waited for it to end.

A touch on his cheek. Paris was watching him, and caressing him.

He looked at the rose-golden skin, into the unfocused eyes. Found one of his hands stealing to smooth the tousled hair. The tender glow of Paris's face was warmth against the chill. The sobbing around them blended into a sustained murmur of grief.

Paris put his head on Chakotay's shoulder, sighed, nestled into him. Chakotay hitched at the sliding veil, felt something cold.... What the hell was that around Paris's bicep? He fumbled for it.

An armband of dark metal, some cheap ornament for a prostitute. Chakotay fumbled with the clasp; and then, when he had it off, realized that he didn't know what to do with it: didn't want to drop it, because that would be an insult. It sure the hell wasn't going back onto Paris.

A renewed keening; and he looked to see that cloth was being laid over the daumna and those who'd died with her. A quick scan told him that they were indeed all dead. He sent a quick prayer for the souls of the dead, turned his thoughts to the living man in his arms. He couldn't help the Chaauree; he could save Paris.

There was movement in the crowd, and he realized that people were stepping forward to offer gifts: a carved flute from an elderly man, a handful of wilted flowers from a little boy. Chakotay reached through the crowd, held out the armband. The priest hesitated, took it.

The gifts were wrapped in an embroidered cloth and carefully placed at the base of the ramp.

And suddenly it was over. The religious climbed out of the grave, did obeisance to those who had died, settled beside the grave or started toward the village. Some mourners knelt beside the grave and wept out prayers; most knelt in obeisance and started back to their camps. The guards spaced themselves around the grave.

The landlady stopped beside Chakotay. "You should get him back to your room," she said. She went on.

Getting Paris back to the village was the trick. He was amenable and obediently walked when Chakotay told him to; but he wobbled, and the damned slippery veil kept sliding off his shoulders. Chakotay tried tying it, but it wouldn't hold a knot. What the hell was this stuff?

Paris's knees started to give out halfway to the village; and finally Chakotay wrapped the damned red cloth around him and hoisted Paris over his shoulder. He staggered, caught himself. Damn, but the man was heavy.

He felt Paris clutching his tunic, which meant he was conscious. But the entrance into the village was a lot less dignified than the exit had been that morning.

The landlady was waiting for them just inside the door of the inn. She stepped back as Chakotay put Paris back onto his feet.

Chakotay looked at her. "Are you forbidden to touch him?" he asked, suddenly realizing.

"He still belongs to the daumna. She'll guide everybody to the life beyond, and then he won't belong to her any more."

"But I can touch him."

"You claimed him."

And you take care of him, she left unsaid, because it was evident that that was what was going to happen. By dint of heaving and coaxing, he got Paris to their room.

Another scan: shit, the man was at the end of his strength. Chakotay brought water, struggled to keep Paris from swallowing it all in one gulp.

The landlady entered, then, with a tray. "The soup is for him." She looked at Paris, and Chakotay saw the smile that started with her eyes. She looked at Chakotay, and the smile spread until the corners of her mouth folded into dimples. It was like seeing the sun after a long winter. The glow stayed with him after she left.

He scanned the soup: nutrients and glycosides and peptides and amino acids in--he grimaced at a sip--in some broth actually worse-tasting than leeola root. But Paris drank it, smiling at Chakotay between spoonfulls, and then drank more water. And then closed his eyes and toppled over onto the mattress.

Quick scan, and a relieved breath. Just sleep. Sleeping off exhaustion and whatever the hell he'd been given.

Chakotay tugged the blanket out from beneath Paris and dragged it over him, looked at the dusty five-toed feet and went for a damp cloth to clean them. Paris had cut his foot on a sharp stone: Chakotay cleaned it carefully and made a mental note to ask Siilne for ointment. Or a regenerator--surely they had that kind of technology.

She brought a regenerator with her when she came for the tray.

"How long does-- How long does it take for the daumna to guide her people?"

"The rest of today, and tonight, and tomorrow, and tomorrow night," she said.

"So, a couple days from now...."

"He'll come back to you."

Okay; he could handle it. He scanned Paris again after she left. Still sleeping.

He did handle it. But it was like caring for an unprogrammable android: Paris did what he was told--walked, ate, peed into the toilet--but he had to be told to do it. You wanted obedience, Chakotay thought wryly more than once. Well, you got it.

Anything complex was out of the question. Paris simply ate, walked, peed--and gave Chakotay smiles of breathtaking tenderness. Chakotay's heart turned over every time he caught one of those smiles; something was going on here that he wasn't sure he wanted to understand. But he found himself looking for those smiles.

And Paris slept. All day. All night. Sometimes he was peaceful; sometimes he struggled against something unseen.

"He's trying to find his way back to you," Siilne said the first night.

Chakotay reached for him, took Paris's clawing hand; and felt it relax in his. So he stayed near the bed, soothing Paris when the dreams got too violent; and eventually he pretty much stayed on the bed, ready to calm him. A couple of times he dozed and woke with an armful of naked, snoring navigator. There were actually worse ways to wake.

The village was quiet.

"Everybody's praying," Siilne explained. She indicated the religious, silently meditating under their canopy. "All the priests and priestesses are helping the daumna to lead her people home." She looked at Chakotay, looked at Paris; and an impish smile brightened her face. "It'll be rowdy pretty soon," she said. "Everybody making souls."

"'Making souls?'" Chakotay wasn't sure he liked the sound of that.

He liked the explanation even less. These quiet days weren't completely quiet: mourners were busy covering the grave. The day after Paris woke, the day after the daumna presumably had led her people to the next life, the last timber, the last piece of sod would be ritually placed; and then a feast would mark the end of mourning. And that night, Siilne explained with a wicked twinkle, and for the next two days and nights, couples would be making love with all their might, for each time they made love, they would be making new souls to be born into the village.

Chakotay had to admit that there was a kind of earthy logic to this: turning to each other in a time of grief, making children to replace those who had died. But it didn't seem to matter that he and Paris couldn't have children together: the children would be born to the Chaauree. What mattered was that he had claimed Paris, and so their lovemaking would produce souls that would do honor to the Chaauree forever.

He looked at her delighted face and plastered a smile across his own and hoped to hell Voyager came back before it came to that.

Shit, he thought after she left, a full-fledged orgy after ... after THAT. He would never understand the Chaauree mind.

He was across the room and taking Paris's hand almost before Paris frowned and stirred.

Paris eased back into sleep. Chakotay watched him, and looked down at their joined hands.

What the hell had he promised Paris in that vision? What the hell was the ring started by Janeway, finished by Paris?

Well, you dolt, you DID tell everybody you were married to him. Though, no, he hadn't: he'd simply allowed everyone to tell him that Paris was his spouse. But marriage certainly had been on his mind. That had to be it.

So they went through the days and through the nights. Paris was amenable to being showered. Paris was amenable to being fed. Paris was amenable to walking around and around the room to keep his muscles from atrophying. Paris listened to him like some sort of intelligent dog, but never said a word, himself. And Paris slept.

The last night came. As the sun set, the village was, if possible, quieter than ever. One by one, nine moons rose--full to nearly full--and washed the square with silver. There was no light in the empty palace. The religious sat quiet in the shadow of their canopy. Only a few lights dotted the buildings around the square.

Everyone was praying. Chakotay closed his eyes and, for a moment, joined them.

A sigh from the bed; and he was there in an heartbeat. Paris had been restless that day, sometimes crying out in his sleep. Chakotay sat on the bed in the dark and looked down at him, a dim figure against pale sheets. He took Paris's hand in his and sent out another prayer for those who had not been claimed.

Then he closed his eyes and slept.

When he woke, it was late. The air was sweet with the heaviness of dew. Paris's even breathing told him all was well. Moonlight poured through the windows.

And with a flash of alarm, he realized that they weren't alone.

Moonlight boiled inside moonlight. Chakotay blinked, saw something step from the light into the shadowy room--something that carried its own light inside it.

A figure--no, two figures. No, one. A shape frail with age; a shape gleaming with armor. The figures blurred together as he looked, became distinct, blurred again. Wa'uuta as he and Paris had seen her; Wa'uuta as the straight-backed warrior she'd been in her youth. Both shapes in one soul.

He clutched Paris's hand as the figure approached the bed.

And she bent toward Paris; and she stood looking into Chakotay's eyes. Wa'uuta murmured into Paris's ear; she spoke across the bed to Chakotay.

"You belong to him," she said, in the old woman's rasp, in the young woman's clear voice.

The warrior looked down at Paris and smiled; the old woman looked deep into Chakotay's eyes.

Wa'uuta whispered again to Paris.

A heartbeat.

And she melted into the shadows. He didn't need to turn on a light to know that she was gone.

He'd never seen anything like.... He drew shaky breath. Never.

He looked down at the man whose hand he still held. You belong to....

Chakotay sat for a long time in the quiet room, listening to the quiet in-and-out of Paris's breathing.

When Chakotay woke, morning light reflected off the wall near the door and cast a clear light over the room. Paris had kicked off the blanket in the night, and now lay wrapped in the scarlet cloth that lent an extra rosiness to his skin.

He was watching Chakotay.

"Hello." Paris's voice sounded rusty.

Then he leaned forward and kissed Chakotay thoroughly.

When Paris drew back, Chakotay struggled for breath. Paris's grin was a mixture of delight and lasciviousness. He tightened his grasp on Chakotay's hand.

"At least I didn't miss the entire honeymoon," Paris said.




On to part two