This story is a sequel to Enter the Child, taking place four years later.

It will be continued soon. Please R&R, I might even take your feedback into account in future chapters :)

Jazdia wondered what had made her do it. What had ever been going through her head that day four years ago. That day he had come back from the prison camp. The day she had ignored him and insulted him and refused him.

Picturing that day, she thought of all the things she could have done to make it better. She could have looked nice. She could have been standing at the airlock, waiting. Of course, she hadn't known Worf was coming back, but maybe if she'd been paying attention to the announcements, she would have guessed. Or hoped.

Then he wouldn't have come back to discover that she had forsaken him.

She could have cleaned up Kang and brought him out the the airlock with her, she thought. It would have been nice for Worf to see his son as soon as he got off the transport. Then he wouldn't have thought that she was trying to hide him. When she pictured this, she saw the energetic, easily distracted five-year-old Kang, not the uncontrollable one-year-old Kang.

In her fantasies, everything had turned out all right, and no permanent damage had been done.

She'd done it once before, the first time Worf was captured by the Dominion. There had still been a lot of Curzon left in her then, and she'd thought that the key to getting his mind off the camp was to get him naked as soon as possible. She knew better now. It wasn't the sex, it was that she'd been there for him, that she'd fawned over him, that she'd quashed every doubt he'd had about whether he'd been brave and whether he'd done the right thing.

She remembered leaning over him in the treatment chair in the infirmary, kissing him, touching his face, telling him how brave he was to escape, how pleased she was to see him. She remembered how the hollow look in his eyes had become pleased and triumphant. How he had started to believe her. By the time his body had healed enough for her to take his clothes off, he was back to his overconfident self, pretending to be afraid of nothing and bragging of his exploits.

She also remembered the look on Dr. Bashir's face when he'd seen her leaning over Worf in the infirmary. It was the pitiful look of a man who'd faced battle only to clean his own wounds and sing his own praise.

That was where the real damage from these things came from. And then she'd turned around to do the same thing to Worf, after he'd been through something so many times worse.

And he'd never been the same again. Four years later, he still wasn't quite the same. Sure, he'd stopped sleeping with a phasor , locking himself in closets for days and screaming in his sleep, but there was still that unyeilding vacant look in his eyes. He'd lost his old swagger and the bravado that she had always pretended to hate. He was unsure of everything.

Just last night, he'd looked her in the eyes and said he didn't deserve her. That wasn't the man she'd married. The one who used to make her furious by acting like he was entitled to her.

It wasn't her imagination. Starfleet hadn't let Worf return to active duty yet. "Post Traumatic Stress Disorder" were the words they used, but she knew it was just an official way of documenting the indescribable feeling that had that he was somehow damaged.

They had been correct too. A year and a half after Worf had returned, after Martok had died, after he and Jadzia had worked out their differences, and after everyone except for the Starfleet psychiatrists had thought he was back to normal, he had gone back to the Rotaran as captain. For three months, everything had gone well. His crew accepted his leadership without a hitch, and he ran the ship with utmost efficiency, albeit with a softer hand than most Klingon officers. They led the fleet. They won battles. The one day, at a bar on Kronos, Worf killed another captain.

"He wanted me to sleep with a prostitute," was all the explanation he had given. But Jadzia knew that this was close to no explanation at all. Having grown up surrounded by humans, and having spent much of his life in a monastery, he was used to jibes from less virtuous crewmen. They always tried to bring him women. The truth was, he had killed the captain for no reason at all.

"I was angry," he'd finally admitted to her.

"About what?" she'd asked.

"If I knew, I would have given that as the reason!"

So it was just a random outburst. Starfleet had known what they were talking about.

Jadzia had talked to a Klingon contact about getting Worf removed, but he had just laughed.

"And what? Be short _two_ captains?"

Klingons didn't believe in psychiatry it seemed. As far as they were concerned, Worf could serve until he died. If he killed a couple of people, that was just the way things went. You couldn't expect soldiers to always control their anger.

But Worf had felt terrible. He had paced around aimlessly for days.

"It's okay, it's okay, it's okay," she had whispered, trying to console him.

But she doubted it. It had been a long time since things had been okay. And the way things were going, she thought it would be a long time before things would ever be okay again.