It is no hardship for Kira to make the journey to participate in this ceremony, and her presence here – standing beside Lang – reinforces the joint message of their governments that whatever their histories, the continuing tale of Cardassia and Bajor is one of peace and reconciliation. And, twenty years on, at the back of her mind, she wonders how much time there is left.
The man in the seat to her right shifts uneasily. He moves the bouquet of perek that he’s holding from one arm to the other and back again. He doesn’t like to make public appearances; this is the only such occasion that he attends. And why shouldn’t he, she thinks. He earned this one, that’s for sure.
She looks down at the decoration on her chest. Black and gold stripes on the ribbon. The medal part itself is bronze, in the shape of the symbol of the Union, inlaid with the same shape in black enamel. Hundreds of these were given out to those who took part in the resistance, but she is – she thinks – the only Bajoran to be honoured this way. The only Bajoran to be honoured by the Cardassian Union. Hers, too, is different from the rest. In the centre, there is a little gold trefoil. There are only two others like this. One is pinned to the coat of the man sitting next to her. The other is buried with the man in front of whose statue they now sit.
She watches as Lang – tall, straight-backed and dignified – stands and walks forward. When she reaches Damar’s statue, she bows her head for a moment, then bends to place the perek flowers at the base of the plinth. And then it’s Kira’s turn to stand and walk forwards, and place her hasva there.
Garak is next – but he doesn’t bend. He places one hand against the stone of the plinth, and he lowers himself to one knee. He places the perek on the ground, and then remains there for a while, his head bowed, his hand covering his face. When he makes to stand again, she’s momentarily gripped by terror, convinced he’s not going to make it. But he does; more slowly than he might have in the past, but, still, back on his feet, again. His face, returning, is heavy with grief. When he sits, she reaches out to clasp his hand.
An hour later, she is walking with him along a promenade that overlooks an orange beach. Below, there are families out for the day, doing whatever it is that families do when they go out for the day. In her hand, she holds a single hasva flower; he has matching perek. This is Cardassia, after all, where you might spend the morning honouring a hero, and the afternoon mourning the child he murdered.
They come to some stone steps, and take them slowly down onto the sand. They walk out toward the sea. The day is very still. She’s been wondering why he chose to come here, of all places, and when they reach the water’s edge, he says, “I brought her here once, you know. In the holosuite, I mean. We skimmed stones and ate fresh litik from their shells. I tried to choose ordinary things for us to do. Things she would have done, if she’d been…”
“I did the same,” she tells him. Not that she had much in the way of everyday childhood memories, but she’d tried to think of things that they might do together that they would both enjoy.
“And none of it true,” he says. “Ridiculous, really.”
“I think we did our best,” she said. “I think we did what we could, with what we had.”
He throws the perek out onto the water. She sends the hasva to join it. They stand side by side and watch as the waves pick them up and carry them, wherever they may go.
“I wonder, I often wonder…” he says. “Do you think we might have done more?”
She’s thought that too, and often, over the years. Could she have prevented her coming back from Bajor? Could she have kept a closer watch when she returned? Could they – both of them – have spent less time circling each other mistrustfully, and more talking – just talking – about what it was she really needed from them? And then she tries to remember not to torment herself this way. They did their best, with what they had; before she was murdered by a man whose moral awakening came just a little too late.
She remembers him, down in the cellar, accounting for what he’d done. She remembers Garak, getting up and walking away, standing with his back to them, his hand against the wall, fingers tapping as the other man spoke. She remembers her own hot rage, and how very still she’d held herself, as she listened. Damar had never known, she thought, how close he’d come. How very, very close…
They turn to leave. She takes his arm as they walk back up the steps.
“Do you think,” he says, “that we ever stood a chance of saving her?”
And she remembers what else Damar told them – that when he’d shot her, she’d been running away. Running away from her father. Running towards freedom.
“You know,” she says, “I think we did.”
theartofmadeline
dededos
origamiaround
kaledo-art
pixelskylines
tangentwithtanner
ellievsbear
