The Klingon tried to adjust the blanket again, but the worn material just didn't provide enough warmth to satisfy him. Listening to the breathing of the others in Barrack 7, Tonika's the easiest to differentiate as she was lying in the bunk directly above his, he tried to suppress his frustration.

It wasn't fair that after all he'd been through, all his planning, he wound up a captive. He needed to find Dukat so he could avenge Jadzia's murder, and he wasn't going to be able to do it trapped in a tiny barrack, struggling to stay warm under a insubstantial blanket. Worf had considered killing himself from the moment he woke up in the temporary holding cell, but since his mek'leth was gone, that option was out for now. He was curious as to why Tonika was still alive.

She hadn't chosen suicide upon being captured. Why? He would have to ask her tomorrow. He shivered. Soukara's cold night air managed to penetrate even the thick rock walls of the barrack. Every so often the rhythmic footfalls of the guards making their rounds became audible outside. Sometimes a muffled voice could be heard, giving orders or asking questions.

When he finally slept, it was only for an hour or two before Callahan was shaking him awake.

"Get up. Breakfast." Worf almost shrugged off his hand, wanting to sleep, but the thought of food made his mouth water. He hadn't eaten since he left DS9.

Swinging his legs off the side of the bunk, he saw that an early light was streaming through the windows. Pradak, Jeric, and Kavi were gathered around a box, on which a few opened packages of rations were spread out. They glanced up at him as he joined the circle.

The Bajoran sat back and leaned on her hand.

"I don't believe we've been properly introduced."

She had a low, husky voice that somehow managed to fill the room.

"I am Worf, son of Mogh."

No ranks here.

"I'm Kavira. I go by Kavi."

Behind them, Callahan had climbed up to the bunk above the one Worf had slept in, where Tonika still lay drowsing on her side. He nudged her shoulder so she fell onto her back, then jerked his hand away as if she might bite it off when she gave an annoyed snarl. Jumping down, he chuckled,

"Well, good morning to you too, sunshine."

"Call me sunshine again and I'll break your nose," the Klingon replied.

Worf noticed that Callahan seemed unusually cheerful, reminding him a bit of Chief O'Brien. The commander sat in the circle around the makeshift table.

"Someone should tie that hair of hers to the bunk while she's asleep."

"Don't even think about it," Tonika retorted as she shouldered her way in. "Good morning, Worf. Sleep well?"

"I did not."

It was the Romulan who extended his hand to Worf next. "Name's Pradak. Are you any good at hand-to-hand combat?"

"I am trained in Klingon martial arts."

"Good. You can help me take out the Jem'Hadar."

The Bolian introduced himself subsequently, stating only his name and striking Worf not as cold-mannered but as distracted, preferring to keep to himself.

Pradak fought ferociously with a strip of dried meat. Following the Romulan's example, Worf helped himself to a piece of the meat, which looked recently cured. He couldn't identify the flavor when he ripped a leathery chunk off with his teeth. Probably some native Soukara animal. Despite the odd aftertaste, it seemed like a delicacy after not eating for so long.

A jug of water was passed around to wash it down. Then Jeric produced a lumpy bag from out of nowhere, causing Tonika to yelp in surprise and pounce on him.

"So you did get into the supply shed!"

The Bolian protested, "I never said I didn't, I-."

"Whatever, whatever."

The Klingon shook the bag, and out tumbled eight small, hard biscuits that resembled rocks. Everyone grabbed for their share. She tossed Worf a biscuit and began to gnaw on her own, informing him matter-of-factly,

"The cult gives us one week's supply of rations at a time. If you finish them before the week is up- well, you're going to be hungry. It's always a treat when we're able to raid the supply shed."

Worf nodded absently, surveying the circle of his fellow prisoners.

"How long have you been here?" he asked them. He found himself warming to Tonika, feeling like he could talk openly with her despite her young age and the fact that they had just met. Certainly their conversations couldn't be nearly as open as they had been with Jadzia, but to a certain extent he would be willing to tell her things about himself and his past.

She seemed strong and healthy despite her incarceration, and fought with skill and practiced ease. And not once had she complained about the hideous plasma burns on her back, even though they must have hurt enormously. Over time, perhaps she could become a confidant.

Worf was standing with his back to the door, gazing disconnectedly out the window, when Jadzia crept into the bedroom, not sure if he was asleep and not wanting to wake him if he was. It had been a long day for both of them, as they had spent it babysitting the unstoppably energetic Kirayoshi O'Brien.

When she found him up, she came to his side, but the playful remark she had intended to make faded from her lips when she saw the solemn expression on his face. Her smooth forehead creased with concern.

"Worf, what's wrong?" He seemed not to hear her at first, then glanced down to meet her gaze.

"It is nothing. Go to bed; you need to rest."

The Trill wasn't about to give up that easily. She hated to see Worf upset about something. He always did so much to help her through various hardships, but when he was having a hard time he tended to withdraw and suffer in private. Her arms slipped around his waist and she rested her head on his broad back.

"What's on your mind? You can tell me."

Worf's bass voice was deeper than usual when he spoke, his words seeming to echo.

"I do not know if I can talk about this with anyone."

Jadzia responded, soft and encouraging, "If you can't talk to me, parmach'kai, who can you talk to?"

Worf silently contemplated this, knowing she was correct. If he refused to tell her his thoughts, who was there left to trust? The Klingon resigned himself with a sigh and sat on the window ledge, drawing Jadzia down at his side. She faced him and tucked her long, spotted legs up underneath her.

"It is about�our children."

She raised her eyebrows.

"We don't have any, to my knowledge."

"I am not certain that we should."

He had expressed this with caution, not wanting to insult her, but after her centuries of experience not much could shake her anymore.

"I see," she said slowly. "Why?"

"It is because of the way Alexander grew up. I was separated from him until he was five years old. Because of that, I know virtually nothing about caring for children. I am afraid that our baby would grow up without the benefit of a proper father. It would be my fault if anything bad were to happen."

Jadzia reached over and took his hands in hers.

"It would be different with our child. The three of us would stay together, no matter what. And what about all this time you're spending with Yoshi? He loves you, Worf! Remember that "gung, gung, gung" thing? You're a natural."

The Trill slid closer and stroked the side of his face. "Everyone's got to start somewhere. You'd make a wonderful father." A pause. "You are a wonderful father."

Jadzia was indeed impressed by how quickly he and Alexander had bonded since his son joined the House of Martok. Worf stayed silent, thinking, before extending a hand to pull her close. She leaned against him, her head on his chest, one of his arms around her and his hand on the gentle curve of her hip.

The Klingon asked,

"Would you be all right, Jadzia?"

"What do you mean?" she said, looking up.

"A child might be too taxing on you, after what happened on Soukara-."

His wife placed a cool finger over his lips.

"It's been so long since then, Worf. I've been fully recovered for months now."

The last of this came out in a yawn. Watching his wife, Worf remembered how tired he was from chasing Yoshi around their quarters for hours on end.

"We should get some rest."

"You'll get no argument from me."

Over time? How long was he expecting to stay here? Was he really surrendering that easily? Worf stiffened. He could not allow himself to lose sight of his goal. He had a responsibility to Jadzia: to escape and find Dukat. Perhaps his fellow prisoners knew a way out of this camp. The people in question went around their circle and answered the inquiry he didn't even remember making. Commander Callahan spoke first.

"They brought me here about four months ago. I still haven't got used to the food."

Kavi was next.

"Four months for me, too. And Pradak. We were on the same shuttle here." The Romulan confirmed this with a nod in her direction. Jeric was last, announcing only,

"Three months."

The Klingon leaned forward, sure that in their combined time here, one of them must have seen a possible escape route.

"Is there-?" he began, but was interrupted when the door to the barrack flew open and in plowed a Cardassian, the bright sunlight behind him making it appear as if he had been catapulted out of a supernova. Pradak snatched the bag of stolen biscuits and hid it behind his back.

"Get up," instructed the guard. "You will work in the mines today instead of completing the harvest temple." No one moved. Worf, following their examples, remained still.

"Why?" asked the Romulan.

"The Master has ordered it."

Tonika spoke up, her voice dripping with animosity.

"Why doesn't he come down and tell us himself? Is he so afraid of a bunch of prisoners that he has to hide on the mountainside like the coward he is?" The Cardassian's hand went to his belt and withdrew a phaser. Worf finally realized that this was the second guard who'd assaulted her the day before.

"Get up. Now." When no one budged, he strode across the room, bypassing Worf, Kavi, Callahan, Pradak, and Jeric, and grabbed Tonika's arm, dragging her roughly to her feet. "You think you're so smart, Klingon. Maybe I should send your friends off to work and keep you here for myself, show you who's boss."

If anyone ever touched Jadzia in that way�

Abruptly he snapped his other arm up, placing the phaser against her temple. "The rest of you- up and to the mountain before you're short a worker."

Jeric, glowering, got to his feet, followed by the rest of them. The guard released Tonika and shoved her into line next to Worf.

She was fuming as they walked along the main road leading to the mines.

"One day," she swore, "I'm going to make him wish he'd never even laid eyes on me."

Worf knew that if it had been Jadzia in that Cardassian's grasp, he would have been dead on the floor so fast it would make his head spin- the whole way around to face backwards.

"Where are your parents?" he asked her. Since she was not wearing a jinaq amulet, the sign that a Klingon girl was of age to take a mate, he'd assumed she was still under the care of her parents. But the cult had taken his comm badge, so surely they would have taken jewelry as well.

"Dead. They were captured at the same time as me, but they were executed two months ago. And you'll never guess how."

She swung toward him, her face contorting in the hatred he was seeing so often in Bal'gurna. "Burning. They were burned alive, tied to a stake in the middle of the city, and I was forced to watch."

Worf thought of the horrendous painting he had seen on the Jem'Hadar ship and shuddered. "Do you know why?" the girl continued. "It was my birthday the day that they died. I had just turned eighteen and was supposed to have received my jinaq this year."

He had originally thought her to be only seventeen. Her time in the camp and malnutrition must have stunted her growth. "My parents hated it here as much as I do. My father's last words to me were 'Daughter, on this day I will bring you honor.' Then he and my mother set off up the mountain to kill the Master. They actually got inside his house before the guards apprehended them." Tonika shook her head sadly. "The next time I saw them they were engulfed in flames."

Worf did not express sorrow; to do so would be an insult, implying that her parents were not worthy of entering Sto'Vo'Kor.

Instead he replied, "I see." They walked in silence, contemplating the fond memories of the ones they had loved.

"We're sending the Ninth Fleet, Ben."

Admiral Ross was speaking of the need for vessels to protect Deep Space Nine against the cluster of troops at Cardassia. Sisko restrained himself from letting out an explosive sigh of relief.

"Thank you, sir. I felt it was necessary to have some ships besides the Defiant to protect DS9, even if the Dominion doesn't attack over this."

On the screen, Ross sat back in his chair.

"Starfleet Command agreed with you."

"When will they be arriving?" Sisko asked, trying not to sound too anxious.

Ross replied, "The fleet's here at Starbase 375 at the moment, so traveling at maximum warp, about three days."

Sisko nodded.

"Let's hope we don't need them."

He began to sign off, but the admiral stopped him.

"One more thing. I talked to Starfleet Command about the situation with Commander Worf, as well. Naturally, the first thing that popped into their heads was the failed mission to Soukara, on which Worf abandoned duty to save his wife. Yes, this is a different situation because he didn't go against orders, but all the same, he acted without permission. He disobeyed orders once and was lucky to barely escape a court-martial. Now we need to think about what's going to happen if the Dominion captures him, or he kills Dukat, returns, and they want to put him on trial. The commander did this on his own and without Starfleet's approval, so there's no guarantee that we can defend him against the Dominion if it becomes necessary."

Sisko had known this, even preached it to Ezri earlier. Still, he protested,

"With all due respect, Admiral, are you telling me Starfleet would just leave Worf at the hands of the enemy?"

"He has lost the trust of Starfleet, Captain," Ross emphasized, annoyance seeping into his voice. "And if or when he returns, there will most definitely be a court-martial waiting for him this time, maybe worse. I'm sorry, but there's nothing that can be done. Ross out."

The admiral's image blinked abruptly off and was substituted by the blue Federation logo. Sisko rubbed his eyes tiredly. Worse than a court-martial- what did that mean? Prison time? Dishonorable discharge? He hoped for Worf's sake that it wasn't the latter. There weren't many things the Klingon valued more than honor and keeping it intact. But there had been one.

Bal'gurna is beautiful at sunrise, the Master thought as he stood on his balcony, still dressed in his sleeping robes. It's a shame my followers don't have a view like this. But they are the luckiest among us, I suppose. They are the most deeply involved with the holy city, as they are the ones building it from the ground up. He adjusted his telescope and pressed his eye to it, sweeping the device from side to side to take in all the activity going on below in the early morning hours. Voices rang out, and hammers could be heard clashing against the mountain as rocks were excavated from the many caves.

Soukara's sun reflected in the eyepiece, making him blink and turn away from the blinding light. When his vision had cleared and he was able to look again, he focused on the tiny building that was Barrack 7, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Klingon if he hadn't left to begin work already. He had instructed his guards to pull Barrack 7's group off their current project, constructing a temple devoted to praying for things related to the harvest, and put them up in the mines today.

Just then the door to the brick structure swung open, releasing a line of workers. The Bolian was first, followed by the Romulan, the Human, and the Bajoran. The two Klingons brought up the rear.

The head Cardassian guard who'd been sent to get them stood around to make sure they were really going to the mountain, then moved off, satisfied. He was a good follower, that one. Resistant at first, but willing to serve- in exchange for a promise. But he didn't know there wasn't a shred of truth behind it, and what he didn't know couldn't hurt him- yet.

The Master mused over his conversation with Elij the previous night. Should he have selected a Bajoran to rule with him as his servant had suggested? In any other case, that might have been appropriate, but here the Pagh'Wraiths had insisted on someone who had a deep understanding of them, not just a devoted belief in their existence. The Klingon had that knowledge. He'd acquired it some months ago, quite against his will, when he'd made a sacrifice in their favor, helping them grow even stronger.

It had been something he cared about very much, but that paled in comparison to the goodness of the Pagh'Wraiths and the happiness they could bring him if he agreed to serve them. And he would agree.

The Master peered through the telescope again, tracking the Klingons as they walked to the mines. They weren't talking anymore, just walking side by side and looking straight ahead. The girl was clenching and unclenching her fists as they crossed the central square. That particular place seemed to stir up strong feelings in her. Why was this?

The Master wracked his mind. Oh, yes- her parents had been executed there. It had been an unpleasant task to have them put to death, but they had tried to kill him. The assault had been unexpected. In his earlier life, he had stationed guards day and night to protect himself, for it had seemed everyone was after his throat. Now, as he was a spiritual leader, attempts on his life were rare if not nonexistent and he hadn't expected the attack. No guards had been on duty, but Rek had seen the pair of Klingons and gotten a phaser just in time.

The Klingon that the Master had selected wore a disconnected expression on his face. The Master studied him carefully. He wasn't showing any further signs of rebelling. Excellent. That was already a step in the right direction. He wanted desperately to talk to the Klingon, to be able to discuss the love of the Pagh'Wraiths with someone who understood what it was like to give up everything for them.

Oh, he could talk to Elij, Kolara, Rek, or his fourth servant, Dela, and even though they were worthy enough to serve him they didn't entirely comprehend how powerful and good the Pagh'Wraiths were. He couldn't yet converse with the Klingon, though, for he hadn't yet received a vision telling him to do so. The Master looked forward to that day anticipatively. Pushing the telescope aside, he continued along the length of the balcony, gazing out over Bal'gurna. He almost stumbled in surprise when a board creaked under his feet.

The house was getting rickety, even though it had been built not half a year ago. Apparently ordinary wood planks weren't the best material to use. But he had needed a temporary dwelling, somewhere from which he could keep watch on his followers. In time, his own spectacular palace would be built in the middle of the city using the massive stones he favored, right in the central square where the citizens and workers could look upon it with awe and reverence. And the Master knew the perfect people to perform the task.

Ezri lay in her own small bed in her quarters with the blankets pulled up to her chin. Under the covers, she was curled in a tight fetal ball. She just couldn't seem to get warm. Worf had been gone for almost an entire week now. Even as Jadzia, she hadn't worried this much when her husband went off with General Martok for extended periods of time. There was just an uneasy, dreading feeling in the bottom of her stomach that she couldn't explain.

The Trill sniffed and rubbed her tired eyes. Forcing herself to relax, she stretched her body out the length of the bed and folded an arm under the side of her head. Why was she reacting to Worf's disappearance so strongly? Ezri hadn't allowed this to sink in until now. It wasn't normal that she should have such overwhelming feelings for someone involved with a previous host, even if the feelings weren't love. It was natural to be concerned for a lost friend, and she would have felt the same towards Nerys or Julian.

Would I really? she thought. Don't kid yourself, Ezri. There's a special bond between you and Worf somehow. He loved Jadzia so deeply that it carried over into the next life. But this isn't love. It's just�oh, hell, I don't know. I'm not trained for this. Counselor or no counselor, I'm not prepared to deal with something on this level.

The Trill tossed and turned for fifteen more minutes before getting up and wrapping herself in her cozy gray robe. Shuffling out into the main part of her quarters, she stepped up to the replicator and mumbled,

"Cocoa, hot."

The mug appeared, a delicious odor wafting from it. Ezri picked it up and took a sip. The creamy liquid was thick and soothing, just what she needed. Taking the mug back into the bedroom, she sat on the bed and folded her legs as she drank. Once she'd drained the cup, she put it on her nightstand and lay down again.

The sensation of muscular arms around her nudged at her mind, but she pushed it away and slept.

Worf's first week in Bal'gurna was filled with some of the hardest manual labor he'd ever done in his life. Each day they would awaken early and trek across the city and up to the mines, where they would take up their tools and hack ineffectually away at the inside of the caves, breaking away pieces of rock that were minuscule when compared to the mountain in its entirety. The work was grueling, the air was stale, the temperature unbearable. Modesty was a luxury, as the prisoners shed almost all articles of clothing in an effort to keep from passing out from the heat. At the end of the second day, Worf's hands were covered in open, oozing sores.

His cellmates showed him their own leathery, callused palms that night. Danger lurked constantly. Rock chips flew and would blind a person if they were struck in the eyes. A pickax could be swung just a little in the wrong direction and crack open a skull just as easily as it would a rock. The guards were always there, the Cardassians thriving in the heat, the Jem'Hadar not caring, both races equally aggressive when it came to keeping the prisoners on their feet and working.

The Romulan and Bajoran guards stayed outside at the mouths of the caves, waiting to pick off anyone who tried to make a run for it. On the third afternoon, a blond man suddenly dropped his tool and sprinted for the light beyond the cave opening. No sooner had he taken three steps past it then he was sprawled on the ground, a horrible, gaping red maw between his shoulder blades. A Jem'Hadar left the cave and slung the body over his shoulder, carrying the man's lifeless form away down the mountain.

Using Pradak as a shield so the guards wouldn't see him, the incessantly happy Callahan slumped down to the dusty floor with his face in his hands, sobbing. The man, he later explained, had been his best friend aboard the Parthenon.

Worf trained himself to block out the exhaustion and monotony of the tasks he was forced to perform, to let his body move on its own, like a kind of autopilot. He used the time to think.

Jadzia ducked under Worf's outstretched arm and came up panting, thrusting her bat'leth up to deflect the Klingon's away. The power of her movements always impressed Worf; even though she was slighter of body then he, the Trill's energy and enthusiasm were boundless and fueled her strength. He could make out the contours of her lean, firmly muscled body beneath the snug black jumpsuit she wore, similar to his own. Her loose hair flipped with every dodge, wild and Klingon-like, but it was too straight, too much the texture of silk to be a Klingon's. Streams of sweat trickled down her spotted face and neck, and she growled, swinging her bat'leth at him,

"Surrender!" Worf didn't bother to reply, ducking out of the way, but the blade nicked his arm, tearing his sleeve and drawing blood. Swinging around, he used his bat'leth to knock Jadzia's away, and she immediately grabbed his as hers clattered to the holosuite floor, a simulation of an ancient, dusty stone courtyard.

They grappled for the remaining weapon before Jadzia twisted it out of his hands. The Trill used it to expertly sweep Worf's feet out from under him and send him sprawling to the floor next to her blade, but the Klingon, equally skilled, wrapped his leg around his wife's and tripped her. She released his bat'leth as she fell, and for a moment they lay there, each keeping a close, suspicious eye on the other.

When Worf made the first lunge towards the two bat'leths, Jadzia leaped on him and pinned him to the floor with her body, kissing him hard and digging her teeth brutally into his lip. This distracted him enough so she could escape and scoop up both bat'leths. He scrambled to his feet, noting that he'd been fooled with one of her decidedly non-Klingon tactics.

Now Worf was unarmed, and Jadzia knew that to fight a defenseless opponent when you yourself were armed would all but scream that you were dishonorable. So she tossed him his bat'leth, which he caught with ease.

With a shriek, she lunged at him, and not long after he found himself flat on his back again, Jadzia straddling his chest, pressing her long legs against his sides, the tip of her blade digging into his throat.

Hoarsely she said, "I guess I'm just lucky today."

Worf would think about a lot of things while he worked, mainly how much he missed Jadzia and how deeply he hated Dukat. If only he knew where Dukat was. It would be so much easier to formulate an escape plan if he had a destination in mind.

At about 1430, the prisoners would be instructed to load all the new building stones into carts and haul them down the mountain to a site where they would use smaller tools to smooth the tops so the rocks could be stacked evenly to form walls and the gaps filled in with clay. This change of pace was always welcome, as they could sit down and rest their aching muscles, sometimes in the shade. But that was only after they lifted the heavy boulders into the carts, then grasped the splintery wooden handles and pulled them along, struggling not to let the weight crush them on the way down the slope. Worf and Tonika often worked side by side at this.

While they labored, they talked, mostly about Tonika's past. She had served aboard her father's Bird of Prey since she was fifteen and had much experience in battle. Her tale of how she'd had to take command on one occasion during an attack was just one of the enthralling stories she told, which helped to pass the time. After a few days she got curious about his background. Worf weighed the decision in his mind and decided to tell her about himself, something he normally reserved for close friends and family. For some reason he trusted her almost immediately.

On the afternoon of his fourth day in Bal'gurna, as they sat perspiring and chiseling away at the rocks to level them, he began to reveal the details of his life.

"My parents were killed at Khitomer when I was very young," Worf began. "I lived with Human foster parents until I went to Starfleet Academy. When I graduated, I served aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise for a number of years. When she was destroyed, I spent time in the monastery on Boreth."

Tonika interrupted,

"You? In a monastery?"

"Yes. Why does that surprise you?" She shrugged and set aside the rock she'd been working on, as it was now satisfactorily smooth, and reached for another.

"I don't know. You just don't seem like a person who'd follow a spiritual path." Steering the conversation away from that area, she asked, "So what did you do after Boreth?"

"I was transferred to Deep Space Nine to aid in the ongoing conflict among the Klingons, the Federation, and the Cardassians." Worf paused.

If he had gone through with his plans to resign from Starfleet, if he had stayed in the monastery- Tonika was right, he didn't belong there- then he never would have met Jadzia.

Jadzia, who'd helped him to adjust to station life, who'd been there for him during hard times. Jadzia, who'd given him an opportunity to unleash his frustration towards life in the holosuite, enduring and enjoying the long, hard-fought battles. Jadzia, who'd developed into something much more than a friend- and something much more than a lover. She'd become an eternal part of him, and he of her.

Tonika's voice cut into his thoughts.

"So that's it?"

Worf looked up at her, for an instant seeing Jadzia's enchanting face flash before his eyes. Impatiently she repeated,

"What happened aboard DS9? You've got to have some stories to tell. That station's right on the front lines!"

Worf had initially had some doubt about whether or not to tell anyone about Jadzia. But Tonika seemed trustworthy, and with her experience, she could prove to be a valuable ally in the future. He finished his rock and shoved it away, scanning the area hastily for any guards. When he saw there were none around, he turned to the girl. She laid down her tools as well, sensing she was about to be told something important.

"I do have a story. But you must not reveal any of it to anyone, Tonika."

She nodded. Worf studied her carefully. Would she keep it a secret? He must have hesitated too long, because she abruptly grabbed a sharp tool and sliced a line down her sweaty palm. Dark blood began to drip from the wound. Holding out her cut hand, she gave him the tool. Relieved that she was indeed serious, he slashed his own hand and clasped hers tightly, sealing the pledge with their mingled blood. Her grip was strong and confident.

"I won't breathe a word," she assured him. Worf took a deep breath and steeled himself. This was going to be painful. But some inner instinct told him that Tonika was going to be important to him in the near future. He could trust her.

"When I was assigned to Deep Space Nine," he began, "I met a woman. A Trill, by the name of Jadzia Dax. Perhaps you have heard the name; her predecessor Curzon negotiated the Khitomer Accords." The girl nodded, apparently making the connection. "She had a love of all things Klingon, despite being Trill. She enjoyed our operas, our food, our customs, as much as you and I do. Jadzia would even fight with me in the holosuites, reenacting famous battles. She was strong- very strong, in more ways than one. Almost instantly, Jadzia earned my trust and became my friend. Our friendship eventually developed into love, overcoming many obstacles along the way. But I knew that as long as I had her by my side, I could be victorious in anything."

Worf briefly closed his eyes.

Jadzia's smile, warming the room. Jadzia's touch, smoothing away all the pain. Jadzia's mere presence, adding meaning to his existence.

"After the Federation retook Deep Space Nine, we were married. That bond seemed to strengthen our understanding of each other, to the point where any more comprehension would have meant we were sharing one body and one mind."

Tonika was gazing at him raptly. The guards had called for a water break, but neither of the Klingons budged. "Our marriage lasted for a glorious three months and would have held strong until we died together and made the journey to Sto'Vo'Kor, but Jadzia was�murdered."

At the thought of Gul Dukat, who still ran amok in the universe somewhere while Worf was stuck here on this damned planet chipping at these damned rocks for no damned good reason at all, the Klingon snatched up a tool and vented his fury by ramming it into a rock so hard that it split in two. Kind of like a skull. A Cardassian skull. And it had indeed been a murder.

A senseless, futile murder. She hadn't died honorably in battle. With so much of her life-their lives- ahead of her, she had been carelessly slain.

"Perhaps you have heard the name Gul Dukat?" The Cardassian's name was bitter poison on his tongue. At his side, wide-eyed, Tonika nodded affirmatively.

"Who hasn't? The man who oversaw the entire Bajoran Occupation. Plus the only Cardassian ever to worship Bajoran gods."

Read the Conclusion