It was the same smooth rock where Julian had treated Teyanha, a little over a day earlier. But this afternoon, the shade was somewhat blurred by wide, feathery clouds passing in a steady queue across the sun.

Rul had wrapped himself in a dark, moss-green shirt, rendering him almost shadowlike with the black of his hair and the meagre light of the forest. Bashir approached from behind, every step cautious, but the boy remained seated even as his new companion settled quietly beside him. Julian half expected to see the same fiery anger as he and Jaliya had been seeing all through the morning. But Rul just sighed as though too tired even to protest.

"He's not my father," he muttered to the breeze.

Bashir nodded. "Ah."

The twins had told them everything they could think of to tell, and Rul had stood in silent discomfort until Jaliya finally scolded both girls, warning them to hold their tongues. Then she'd ushered the boy into one of the back rooms and not emerged for over fifteen minutes. When they finally appeared again, Rul was still silent and moody - and with swollen lids at the base of his eyes.

"He's been arrested," the boy said quietly. Julian nodded. This news had not escaped him either. But he caught something else in Rul's expression - something he had seen too often in his own.

"So you weren't really angry with Irexa, or Simi, or any of the others?"

"I was too!"

"Really?" Bashir's eyes watched him, half searching, half challenging.

Instead of an answer, the boy picked up a fallen seed case, and threw it hard against a slender-backed tree. He snatched a rock from the same patch of ground, and looked for a moment as if he would throw this as well. But then he enclosed it in both dirty hands and stared, brooding.

"What will they do to him?"

Bashir considered his answer. "I don't honestly know," he confessed.

And now Rul did throw his rock. "It's not fair!" The cry escaped him with not a moment's warning. "What was the point in coming here, if he gets himself locked up like that? I mean, if he has to go around stabbing people, why bother trying to find me at all? Why not just leave me alone?"

As suddenly defeated as his anger had risen, the boy wiped the sleeve of his jacket across his eyes and nose. He lowered his gaze. "I'm never going to see him again, am I?" he whispered.

"I wouldn't say that…" Bashir began.

But Rul shook his head. "I don't want to see him."

"Maybe not." Bashir's reply was just as soft, but clear enough to be easily heard. "It's not a simple choice. You might not be ready to see him yet. But I think it's something you need to try. Because one day when you grow to be an old, old man, you don't want to look back and discover that you missed your chance."

After a long pause, the boy looked up. The expression in his eyes was one which Julian had seen too many times, but never until now on the face of Brethen Rul.

Pleading. Quiet. Vulnerable.

Secretly, for the boy's sake, he was glad to see it. It was important to admit to a little vulnerability every once in a while.

"Would you come with me?" Rul begged.

And Bashir formed the slightest of smiles. "Of course."


"I think you'll be pleased to know." The guard offered little indication that he cared whether Elmek was pleased or not. "Amon is going to make a full recovery."

The Cardassian glanced wearily through the transparent barrier of the holding cell.

His guard stepped forward, exaggerating every small movement. "Amon Perel," he persisted. "That man whose life you very nearly took. But it would appear that he is going to live, so you will not be charged with murder under Bajoran law. Instead, the Chamber of Ministers has arranged to have you extradited to Cardassia."

"Extradited," repeated Elmek. The word was bitter dust upon his tongue.

"Put down your weapon," one of the Security officers had warned him. They had been quick to respond to the calls of patrons, who stood around the scene in a distant, fearful ring. "And step away with your hands raised."

Elmek stared, paralysed. "I assure you, I…"

"Drop your weapon."

The dagger fell from his slackened fingers, crashing to the ground with a hard metallic clang. Keeping a wary eye on the nearest officer, Elmek took a deliberate step backwards.

"I won't resist," he promised them.

"Hands up," the same voice barked. The Cardassian did as he had been ordered, carefully turning both grey-white palms their way. He watched as two more Bajorans - this time in the uniforms of local medics - lifted the wounded man onto a long stretcher, lit from below by the steady light of an inbuilt antigrav unit.

As they disappeared in a tumble of lights, Elmek kept his focus on the tensely waiting Security men. They were both so young. Or maybe he was just too old. But they stared at him with frightened eyes and phasers still aimed directly at his chest. He paused, and caught himself wondering if either of them had ever fired at anything but holograms in some training programme.

"Think of it this way," suggested the bearded man who now guarded his cell. "You'll get to see your homeworld again."

Elmek shook his head sadly. "If I go back to Cardassia, I will die. There's nothing for me to be happy about."


At first glance, the prison grounds might have been mistaken for some kind of community garden, except that the steeply featureless wall that loomed suddenly from the end of the central path could not have been more different from the tiny shrubs that grew in even rows around its edges.

There was usually something vaguely pleasant about the mood of Bajoran architecture. Shapes complimented each other with smooth, quasi-organic curves. Colours were warm and harmonious, and almost always fitted well with the natural tone of the landscape.

Not this time.

A smooth, barely textured block rose like a monolith, or perhaps more like a fortress - with two small painted alcoves about half way up which might once have been windows. Even its predominant shade of lichen green, which might have been somewhat attractive in an arboretum, was distinctly ominous when spread across the surface of the prison.

"Nervous?" Bashir asked Rul.

The boy shook his head, but his brow ridges shifted, knitting together slightly as he stared at the high front entrance. Bashir rested one hand on Rul's shoulder as the pair continued along the same wide path, and cast him a hopeful smile.

Nearing the front door, he gazed up at the sharp, geometric blades of dark brown that curved symmetrically around the awnings. They reminded him of the upper pylons of Deep Space Nine - slumbering remnants of the Occupation, each one protruding inwards and upwards like thorns. "Wait here," he said quietly. Rul obeyed.

At a touch of Julian's hand, a screen lit up at one side of the door, and a tense-jawed Bajoran soon appeared in the familiar light-and-dark beige of Militia Security. "What?" he demanded in a deep, barking voice.

Nice, thought Bashir. He kept his answer deliberately steady. "We're here to see one of your prisoners," he said. "Gorol Elmek."

"The Cardassian?" The Security man snorted loudly, although the expression that reached the screen was more of an irritable glare. "What for?"

"Just a visit."

"And who should I say is visiting?"

Bashir stepped to one side, so that his younger companion was clearly visible behind him. "His son."

"The boy may enter," the stranger grumbled after an infuriatingly long pause. "But you, stay."

"No problem," muttered Julian. Turning to where Brethen Rul still waited, he clasped the Cardassian boy's upper arm and crouched slightly to look up at his eyes. "Will you be all right?" he asked. Behind them, the door slid loudly open.

The boy's throat tensed slightly, but he nodded.

"That's good," Julian reassured him. "I'll be right outside if you do need me."

There was a stone bench just two steps from the path - hard-surfaced, but smooth enough to settle upon without significant discomfort. As the boy disappeared within the rough green confines of the gaol, Bashir picked his way across the grass towards it. He sat down, leaning forward a little, and pressed one flat palm irritably against the other. Head bowed against his hands, he turned sideways to stare at the high, forbidding wall. And even in its silence, the Bajoran prison seemed to accuse.

"You don't understand, Jules," his father had told him, during a rare visit to his quarters on Deep Space Nine. "You never did."

And hot fury had gripped him like a hand around his chest. Suddenly shouting, an uncontained, uncontrollable flood of words. He was not the one who failed to understand.

Flushed and trembling, he raked his fingers roughly through his hair and clutched each loose, dark strand so tightly that it hurt. He was glad for the pain it gave to him. It was sharp, clear - something better to focus on than the rush of blood to his face, or the ever-constricting pressure against his chest.

At some point, he knew that Rul would emerge. And he would expect to be met by someone with steadier hands than his, whose pulse was not so constantly continuing to throb behind his ears.


The Cardassian looked up from behind an illuminated forcefield. For a moment his eyes were no longer hidden by dark, impenetrable shadows. He'd been sitting on the barely comfortable bench, shoulders hunched, and with his normally immaculate black hair already frayed and brittle at the edges.

"Aruvel." A soft gasp lined his voice. "Tell me I'm not dreaming."

And then, a wave of sudden horror. Leaping upright, he backed away on stiff, robotic legs. "No. Wait. Tell me that I am. You can't be seeing me this way. You can't. Not like… this."

He waved an arm wildly, as though it could cause the boy to vanish like smoke and cobwebs. But Rul's only response was a determined step forward. "I am here, Father."

His voice was a knife twisting deep in Elmek's chest. And to see such tears in his young son's eyes, to feel the same aching flood begin to touch his own…

"Aruvel." It was all he could think of to say.

"Don't send me away," the boy pleaded. "Not like last time. I won't go."

"I wish…" Elmek paused, and placed a hand across his heart. "I wouldn't really leave you, Aruvel. Not in here."

"You did last time." Suddenly, there was cold, seething anger in Aruvel's voice. "I called and called, and then I waited. But you never came for me. Not once."

"They told me you were dead. I couldn't find you, and I couldn't possibly stay. Not after…" His throat clenched against him, words melting away like smoke in the wind. But Gorol forced himself to continue. He owed that to his son. "You have to understand, please. There were too many memories. Of you… of your mother… If nothing else, understand that. They told me you were dead."

"You should have looked harder."

"I should have looked harder." Elmek nodded, barely whispering. "I should have done a lot of things, and I can't take back what wasn't done, any more than I can take back what was."

The silence that followed was long and tense. Aruvel wiped a thin stream of tears from his cheeks. When he spoke again, his voice was free of the anger that had tainted it before - but replaced with a weary sadness that was even more unbearable.

He's a child, Elmek thought. These are not the emotions for a child to be having.

"What was her name?" the boy asked.

"Her name?" The penetrating, dark eyes had never failed to attract his gaze. Her hair, long and raven black - catching threads of sunlight in the morning. And that smile… Her smile could make him feel instantly as light as a warm spring breeze. And then there was her name. He had not spoken it in close to seven years, and he was ashamed at how readily it snagged within his chest.

"Eona," he said. He wanted so desperately to hide his face, to hide away from the deep, consuming shame. But even then, he forced himself to look deep into the questioning eyes of his son. It was true. Rul did have her eyes.

"Her name was Eona."

"How did she…?" Aruvel began, but his voice faded to nothing before he could finish. He was frowning, troubled. "I mean, how…?"


Theirs had not been a large house, more of a low-walled cottage than the sprawling, ostentatious mansion of Gul Jirem. By evening, an assortment of junior officers and medium level bureaucrats had gathered in the foyer, dinner guests of the mountainous, thick shouldered gul.

By the time they found a chance to return home, the night was already dark enough to reveal a dull orange glow behind the distant hills.

"It's no good," a young soldier shouted in Elmek's ear, as he watched it burn from a distance. Gorol Elmek lurched forward, shouting orders at the younger man to let him go, threatening consequences if his commands were not obeyed.

Fire reared like an angry snake, turning its face towards the blackness of the sky. The soldier's arm remained, an impassable barrier across Elmek's chest. The youth himself was lightly built, and could not have been far beyond his nineteenth birthday. "I'm telling you, Sir. There's no way anyone could have survived that."

"I said let me - go." Elmek's voice rose to a cold-blooded scream. His mouth was wet with escaping saliva. But the strength of this younger man was truly deceptive.

Cardassians didn't believe in luck. But they believed in shifting fortunes. Only a fool could live in the universe for any time and still consider his position within it to be a safe and constant thing. Jirem boasted that Elmek had been fortunate to have escaped his own death simply by his presence at the mansion, that he really ought to be grateful to his blustering superior officer.

There wasn't a time when the incident didn't replay inside his memory, when the same question didn't come again and again into his thoughts.

Why?

The Resistance could have taken a perfect opportunity to dispose of the entire local administration in a single hit. Why target the family of a second rate junior officer - before that officer had even yet returned home?

It had taken Elmek many weeks to realise. He knew the answer. The knowledge had turned his heart to cold flame, as searing as any that could have come from the terrorists' bomb.


"It was a bomb," his father answered. "People told me that you would have both been dead before you'd even had a chance to wake. It was so late at night, and I had told her not to wait up for me."

Aruvel's dark eyes were sparkling, light shifting over a shallow layer of tears. He sniffed once, and rubbed the back of one hand across his nose. "But didn't you even look for her?" he asked hoarsely.

"I called until I no longer had a voice," Elmek replied. "And every day - every hour - took away a little more hope that either of you would ever be found alive."

There was a soft, breezy sound - a door opening. Father and son both turned towards it.

"Time to go," said a deep, harsh voice. The barrel-chested officer watched them from the door, arms pressed tightly against his back.

"Five more minutes," Rul begged.

"Aruvel." Now it was his father whose voice turned slightly hard. "The Security gentleman is right. Five minutes won't make this any easier. The only thing we will find in that time is a longer goodbye."

"But…" the boy protested. The sudden chill in Elmek's eyes was enough to halt him in mid-speech.

"I will go to Cardassia." There was resignation in the big man's voice. "This is the way it has to be. I can be satisfied with that, as long as I know for certain you are safe. All I ask, Rul, is that you don't allow this hurt to consume you from within. Be well. And before you say anything, I do not ask this for myself. I need you to be well for your own sake, my son.

The boy was first back out through the door, mouthing a silent farewell as it slid closed behind him. Alone, in silence, the Cardassian prisoner wondered at the pain now coiled around his heart. Perhaps one day he would take that pain to him, embrace it as he might a child, and turn it to something of his very own. With his head bowed low against his chest, Gorol Elmek sighed and slid to fall upon the hard, narrow bench.

"Tomorrow, Aruvel," he'd promised his boy. "I have to be somewhere tonight. But tomorrow I will take you back to the river. It will be something special. Something just for us. You'll see."


"I'll catch up with you," Bashir told Rul, who regarded him with an expression of anxious scepticism.

"It's all right." He forced a smile, sensing that the boy should not hear any hesitation in his voice. He steered the boy gently back towards the homeward path. "Go. There's something I have to do, that's all."

Uncertainty still held Rul back a little, but he continued obediently in the same direction as before.

As Bashir watched him go, taking care to assure himself that the boy wasn't about to glance behind him, he brushed a hand down from his forehead to his chin. It came away coated with a thin layer of sweat. Strange. The weather had not been particularly warm that day. Certainly not enough for him to feel its heat. He already felt heavier than usual, before the boy had even re-emerged from behind the prison's entrance. But now that they were back in the valley, an invisible weight had close to trebled across his shoulders.

It was too much for him to push away with any ease. Arms and legs reluctant to move, they almost failed to support him as he lowered himself into a sitting position by the roots of the nearest of three large trees. Rubbing his eyes on the back of one sleeve, he realised with some distant surprise that they remained closed once he had taken his hand away.

With a sigh, he leaned back against the trunk, and forced them open to gaze at the canopy above. He wondered how old the tree must have been - certainly old enough to twist its limbs into a multitude of shapes, and give it the appearance of tangled shadows.

The ground was swaying beneath him. Drifting, rocking - descending like some large, slow-moving bird. Still oddly warm - although barely caring any more - Bashir peered at the spider pattern of branches and blinked ever more slowly through half closed eyes. There were tears in them.


"What did you do?" the teenager raged at his father, who paled, eyes wide with sudden fear even as he forced a cautious step forward.

"Wait. You just don't understand…"

"You're right about that!" The boy dodged away from his father's attempt to catch him by the arms.

"Jules…"

"Why would I understand? I mean, what did you… take me apart and stick me back together like just one more project? Is that all I am to you?"

"We did it to help you," Father pleaded, half choking through the threat of sobs. "We had your future to consider." But the boy was not moved. This man - this stranger - had no right to plead.

"You changed me. You… you violated me."

"Don't be so melodramatic." The voice of his father turned suddenly hard. "You're our son, Jules. We would never…"

"Your son is dead," Julian hissed, and pushed past the man on his way out of the door.


And then he was ten years old again, a child waking from a bad dream. "She's dead," he cried to the darkness. He clung to his mother, her arms wrapped tight around him, and Father had a hand upon his back. But this had not been just a dream. Not two nights ago when a young girl's life faded like dust in the wind because the frightened boy at her side had been powerless to do anything but watch.

"She's dead," he sobbed again.

"Shh, Jules," whispered Mother as one large, warm hand stroked the back of his head, and her cheek pressed lightly against his own. "We know. But it's over now. You're all right. Shh - you're all right."

And he would be. The storm had ended. His parents were close by. And nothing bad would happen as long as they were near.


They drifted in from the adjacent room. Voices, talking. Soft and quiet. But he couldn't muster enough energy to react to what they said.

"He was up all night?"

"Very nearly every night." The answer came from Vedek Taenor. "I'd be surprised if this last one was any different."

"A shame," said the first voice. "I was hoping to speak with him."

"You'll get your chance," Taenor promised. There was silence, but for little more time than it would take to draw a breath. Then a noise - something like an old man, sighing. "But just for now, let's give him time to sleep."

The three ghostly children still watched him. But now one spoke, with the deep, rough voice of an adult. "Hurry - wake up."


Someone was shaking him, firm, insistent, although not rough. "Wake up, Bashir."

He stirred. His first thought was that the voice must have been Captain Sisko's. Had he slept in? Failed to report for duty? But no. This was a deeper, older baritone, spoken much faster than Sisko was wont to do. And besides, he finally remembered with a momentary pang of regret, Starfleet duty rosters just weren't a part of his life any more.

It was harder than usual to prise his lids open. His face tensed with the discomfort of waking. But he blinked his way past a throbbing headache that had formed just behind his eyes - at least until it had dulled to something more bearable. Next time, he chastised himself. Find a softer pillow than the bark of the nearest tree.

The tight grimace turned to a frown when he saw who had roused him. The expression on Nalor's face was one of marked concern. But there was another dimly perceived memory coming into view, something else the middle aged farmer had been demanding of him.

"Pardon?" Bashir spoke through dry lips.

"You look terrible. Are you all right?"

"Fine." He rubbed his eyes, brushing away a shallow film of sweat.

"Thank the Prophets," said Nalor, with a dramatic breath outward. "For a moment, I thought…"

The ache did not lessen as Julian hauled himself to his feet. If anything, it was even stronger than it had been before. His first steps were clumsy and uncertain, and he was quick to discover that his head was not the only part of him that ached.

Briefly, he grasped a knot in the trunk, and leant against it until the passing unsteadiness seemed to fade. He pressed the ball of one palm against his forehead, rubbing away the tight, dull pain behind it. "I guess I must have nodded off."

Definitely going to find a better place to sleep next time.

He turned back to where the watching farmer still studied him nearby, and realised that there was more to Nalor's expression than simple anxiety. It was enough to cast away the final trace of drowsiness.

"What's wrong?"

"Bula Torem is dead," Nalor replied without hesitation.

The elderly katterpod farmer, remembered Bashir. Who waddled as he walked. With the wiry grey hair and permanent frown… The lines between his own brows deepened. "How? What happened to him?"

"Heart attack," A quiet shake of Nalor's head was almost too subtle to see. "He was an old, sick man. I doubt he could have been saved even if he had been found in time."

"You're certain of that?"

"We'll never know, will we?" The farmer cut short all of Julian's rising expressions of doubt. "But right now, that's not the point. Something's starting, Earth man. Remember that muddy jar I told you about? I'm not sure exactly how, but I get the feeling that it's about to be shaken."

Renewed tension shot through Bashir's already aching muscles. "Why? What do you think will happen?"

"I don't know," whispered Nalor, intensity burning behind his dark eyes. "I'll do what I can to stop it. But I'm far from sure that I can make any real difference. Just… If anything does happen… Just, stay alert. Won't you?"

He shook his head again. "I have to go," he asserted, rubbing one side of his scalp in a gesture oddly reminiscent of Captain Benjamin Sisko. And now he glanced furtively behind him. "You ought to be warning those friends of yours."

Bashir nodded, unsure of whether the older man had even noticed. Nalor had already turned to hurry away. And just as suddenly, he was running himself, half sliding down the treacherous slope with his pulse throbbing painfully in his ears. Dodging every tree and protruding tussock, battling an urge to stop and choke as his lungs begged for relief from the cold evening air.

But all the while, his thoughts alone were enough to make the ache in his head nearly double in strength. What chance could he have to warn anyone, with so little idea of what he was alerting them against?


"It's happening again," shouted a thin-faced farmer with hair shaved close around his ears. Nalor listened, scanning the cluster of neighbours with increasing anxiety. But he did not speak. Not yet.

Stay quiet, he thought. Just for now. Take a moment to find out what you're up against.

"We can't be sure of that," insisted another, a woman this time. She glanced around at all their faces. "It was just this one time, after all…"

"But that's just the beginning, isn't it?" The first speaker argued. "That's how it starts. One incident today. Another tomorrow, and the next thing you know, it's a regular sight - spoonheads beating Bajorans. And worse, they're with the Dominion as well. I promise you, this is just the start. And what about those in the Capitol? They're all too busy sitting around and blathering on about treaties and concessions. There has to be a point where we draw the line. If we wait until we're certain, by then it may be too late."

"Which is why I don't intend to."

They all turned towards the door. None had seen Bula Johl enter, despite his broad frame now blocking their only way out.

"Amon Perel had cousins in this valley," he shouted above an escalating chorus of agreement. "Maybe he hasn't lived here since Independence, but he is no less one of us for that. Always has been."

"Not like those others."

Johl nodded in response to the continued noisy cries.

"That place on the hill should've been torn down years ago," he told them. "Just having it there dishonours the memory of every Bajoran whose life was taken. All those whose lives were… violated by the Occupation."

He choked a little on the last heartfelt words, as though regurgitating sharp, sticky thorns. But he quickly recovered. "All the ones who died. It's about time we did something about that, don't you think?"

"Just what do you think you're going to do?" Nalor demanded of him, unable to stay silent for any longer. Bula Johl surged forward until their chests almost touched.

"What did you say?"

Johl was far taller, having to bend his head to look the other man in the eye, but Nalor was not so easily intimidated.

His own ferocious eyes glared confidently into those of his adversary. His voice started loud, but continued its steady rise in volume. "You know as well as I do, I can't go along with whatever madness you're planning. All I can say is, Stop. Now. Before it turns into something you regret."

A wild, cackling laugh from Bula Johl sent a chill all the way down Nalor's spine. "Come on, Nalor,". he half pleaded, half mocked. And then his voice dropped suddenly. It was hoarse. Chilling. "For old time's sake. Let's fry us some spoonheads."

"Bula, don't be a fool…"

"Oh, now I'm a fool, am I?" Johl cut him short - a hot, enraged shout which ended somewhere close to a scream. "Was it foolishness that broke my father's back, and left him bleeding in the dust? Did foolishness beat him to the point where he could barely walk for months after? You stood with him, Nalor. You spoke with him - I know. But you never heard how he cried at night, and you never saw those times when it was all we could do to convince him that he wasn't being chased any more, and that he would live to see another dawn. No mistakes, Nalor. They are the enemy. And anyone who sides with them is a… a… traitor."

"Bula, I don't want to fight you…"

"Well that's a shame," retorted Johl. "But thankfully it's not my problem."

Nalor dodged the tightly clenched fist that swung his way, rendering his opponent slightly off balance. "You don't want to do this," he pleaded to the watching crowd.

Johl had righted himself after a few unsteady steps. "They're not stupid, Nalor," he growled.

The shorter man turned towards him. "Please, be reasonable. Torem wouldn't have wanted this. Whatever you're planning, it dishonours his memory."

"Don't you talk to me about my father's memory!" Johl's eyes burned with murderous rage. People scurried away as he surged forward, allowing himself to overbalance and forcing his neighbour into the opposite wall.

"Johl!" gasped Nalor. His back and shoulders took the full impact, and there was barely breath for him to form a sound. Hands around his opponent's neck, the larger man forced him first to one side and then to the other, and fell, pinning the other man to the floor.

People gasped, watching in wide-eyed horror to see one neighbour defeated - sore and bruised, fighting to force the unyielding hands away from just beneath his chin. With a soft derisive snort, Bula Johl released his hold and stumbled backwards to his feet. Nalor rolled immediately to one side, wheezing, choking, swallowing a sudden burn at the very back of his throat.

"Pathetic," Johl snarled, looking down at his father's old friend. He glanced at two of his comrades before waving a dismissive arm. "Bind his hands. I know a good out of the way place to keep this one. We can deal with him come morning."