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.

<hr noshade width="5%">

     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.


[End of part one]