And Not Fade Away Chapter 2: As We Tremble and Bleed, a startrek: voyager fanfic

CHAPTER TWO

"I know we don't talk about it.
We don't tell each other
All the little things that we need.
We work our way around each other
As we tremble and bleed."
- Todd Park Mohr

Kes sat alone, her legs dangling, swinging erratically over the edge of the billiards table. So much time wasted while the officers poured over the data. Slow, sensual music played in the background, a little too low to be heard distinctly. She had removed the holographic characters so she would be undisturbed. But there were ghosts in Sandrine's, all around her. The room was thick with them.

Gaudy perfume, wood polish, strong whisky. She shook her head in amazement. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she had asked B'Elanna to program smells into this simulation. An intangible bittersweetness, like baby powder mingled with beer, almost too faint to detect. What was it? The scent of abandoned innocence. It was gone. She hopped down from the table, stepping tentatively in different directions, trying to recapture the fleeing fragrance. Where did it go? She could feel her heartbeat throbbing in her neck. It was important, whatever it was. Her world narrowed until this quest was all it held. Wait. There it was again. Clean. Scrubbed. Fallen.

/Tom./

Kes knew that Torres could not have programmed this. Her mind was aching with effort and toying with reality. She sat in the floor where she had been standing. /Tom, you are just beyond my reach. I've stretched with every nerve, every sense I have, but you're fading away. You've got to help me with this!/ The thought was a new one. She paused uncertainly. /How can you help me? Do you even know what I am trying here? Can I touch your mind like you touched mine? Can I send you a signal? Can you respond?/

"Kes?" A tentative voice, so soft she did not register it. A cough, another tremulous try. "Kes?"

She did not turn around, did not move from where she sat in the middle of Sandrine's floor. "Neelix?" Her voice sounded far stronger than his.

"Yes, it's me, sweetie." He waited for a reaction but received none. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Neelix, just thinking." Bright blue eyes peered over her shoulder at him, waiting for him to continue.

"Why don't you come eat some dinner with me, then maybe we could go back to my quarters and listen to some music. Get you mind off of everything?" He clasped his hands in front of him nervously.

"Thank you, Neelix, but I can't right now. I have to concentrate." She swiveled to face him, but she never met his eyes. "I wish I'd learned more from the other Ocampa on the array. If I knew how to use my mind more fully, I'd know the best way to follow the landing party. As it is, I am having to stumble along on my own and teach myself." Her fingers pressed a throbbing point at her temple distractedly.

It occurred to Neelix that she really was not talking to him at all. He cleared his throat as if to remind her of his presence. "But Kes, dear, the officers will devise some way of penetrating the atmosphere and finding the shuttle. Don't worry..."

"You don't understand, do you?" It was a simple question. No malice or judgment. He had no answer. "They aren't with the shuttle. They have been captured. They could be anywhere. And the only way we might have of finding them is this link I somehow have. And I can only sense one of them, the one who is injured, fading away. I've got to find a way to hold onto them." She put her hand out to him conciliatorily. "Do you see? I can't afford to 'get my mind off' of this. I have to stay focused and figure it out."

He nodded mutely and took her hand. "I guess I'm just a little... uncomfortable about the whole thing, that's all."

She drew him down next to her and wrapped her arm through his. "About Ocampa abilities?"

"No, not so much anymore, I don't think. I know you're special... you're with me, right?" Even he did not smile at his own forced bravado. "I'm afraid about what this could mean for you - experiencing what they're experiencing, working so hard to develop this link... I can't explain it. I'm just worried for you, and for us." She leaned her head on his shoulder silently. "I'm here for you, Kes, even if I don't understand what's going on." She lifted her head and smiled then, a sad smile, and withdrew her arm so that she could wrap it around his sturdy back. He rocked toward her as she drew him near and placed his head on her shoulder as she had done to him seconds earlier.

"I have to believe everything will be all right." She whispered the words to him and he nodded, resigned. Still holding him close, she returned again to her thoughts.

/He wants me to assure him all is well. I don't know that it is. Or will be. But I'll do my best to make it so. Dear, sweet Neelix, I'll hold it all together, I promise, for you, for me, for the three men on the surface down below./ She rubbed her aching eyes with her free hand. Exhaustion haunted her and made the unspoken vow seem cruelly difficult to keep.

/As long as I have the strength./

All she could do was wait. Torres and her team needed time and peace to process the data from the shuttle. Then they could talk about options. How a rescue team could get to the planet. How they could find the missing men. How they could return.

But waiting never came easily to Kathryn Janeway. She was grateful for her reserve of replicator rations, saved for just such a situation. The espresso burned her throat and she arched her neck appreciatively. The ready room swam with the aroma, bitterness so biting it tasted on the tongue. To others it signaled jittered, frenetic activity, but to her it was a comforting comrade-in-arms. The night would be long and she was far from sleep.

She tucked her legs beneath her on the couch. Her quarters would not do. The stiff bonnet and heavy cloak would haunt her, reminding her of the holosuite hours she had enjoyed while her navigation officer had suffered torture on the planet below. Intellectually, she knew that she could not have known of Paris's plight. But guilt was seldomly rational.

Besides, the bonnet and cape represented waste. /Think how many cups of coffee I could've replicated with those credits.../ She chuckled bitterly to herself and took another deep swallow. There were many things she wanted right now. To see a dark, broad presence, hands clasped behind him, nodding gravely to her as she commented on his first officer's report. So sober, so serious. If she were lucky, she might make him smile once, a concession to their steadily-growing familiarity and rapport. Or vulnerable blue eyes, carrying her on a breathtaking ride through despair to invincibility to cynicism, and perhaps even hope, all in one look. What had Chakotay called him? Her "personal reclamation project"? Of all of them on board, he was the most fragile. Another gulp, biting at her senses. He knew it, too. That grieved her the most. And what of a ramrod-straight youth, burgeoning with talent and possibilities? She had lost him once and her heart had screamed, even as she had forced outward impassivity. Having his parallel-self on board had erased that pain. If she had thought of her conversation with his mother once, she had relived it a million times. It was right before they left spacedock, right before they disappeared. /You had the right to be proud of him. He's one of the finest I've ever known./

The cup was empty. She sighed. /Why do you do this to yourself? She rolled her neck, stretching. It was a familiar question. You know why. You never want to forget what's at stake. You can't make people into numbers, and determine their fate by some equation. Compassion and care are Human strengths, not weaknesses./ She played idly with the dry mug, still warm from its former contents. /Don't be afraid to feel for them, Kath./

Rubbing the leg that threatened to go to sleep, she shifted slightly on the couch. /That's easy to say now. A time will come when you'll have to make hard choices. Pleasant platitudes will be just so many words then./ She twisted again, failing to burrow into a comfortable spot on the couch. It would be a long night, indeed.

Awareness appeared out of nowhere, a surprise for one who had thought it gone forever. But nothing comforting met him. His stomach twisted as he relived the experience, felt the alien hands hold him to the ground, felt his own traitorous body writhe and scream and entertain them. Wretched humiliation. He feared he would die. He wanted to die. Painful paradox in constant tension. Anywhere, anywhere but here, anywhere but beneath these eyes, the eyes of his torturers. The fevered dream held him captive, like the Phrama guards that had beaten him and laughed at his feeble attempts to protect himself. He shuddered and cried out a ragged, raw plea. "Kes!"

Beside him, a protective hand on the thin shoulder, Kim looked embarrassed at the strangled syllable of the Ocampa's name. Across the fire from him, Chakotay had the gallantry to pretend he did not notice.

Their camp, like the others before it, lasted one night. They traveled farther into the mountains at daybreak.

"Go on, then. Go off shift. I work better alone, anyway. Just go."

"Lieutenant..."

"Go!"

Crewmen shuffled awkwardly from the holodeck, leaving B'Elanna Torres crouched on the floor, alone. A cluttered pile of datapadds surrounded her. "Be glad I didn't break your noses," she mumbled darkly.

"Up the velocity... angle... 5 degrees..." She crawled over hardware, rubbed her forehead, and threw a right-handed spanner at the wall. "Computer, resume simulation."

Typing figures into the console, the engineer slid into the all-too-familiar seat of the simulated shuttle. "Oooooookay. Now. Computer, begin ascent sequence."

Elsewhere on the ship, Kathryn Janeway was preparing to go on duty. Wrapped in a rose silk gown, she leaned over the lavatory in her quarters and wound her hair up the back of her head. She hummed absently to the music she had programmed, the madrigals complete with lyre and virginals alternating with the stunningly acappella Gregorian liturgies. The melodies were familiar friends. They dated back to several centuries, as much Eleanor of Aquitaine as Anne Boleyn. Whether for God or King or lover, they were all songs of love. Strong and sensual. Her lips moved to the chant without her realizing it. "Non nobis Domine, non nobis, Sed nomine tuo da glorium." Latin. Old English. French. So reassuringly familiar.

The haunting phrases continued. "Media vita in morte sumus: quem quaerimus adiutorem..." She chilled as the meaning of the mournful words struck her foggy reason. "In the midst of life, we are in death: from whom should we seek help..."

"Computer, end music." /My officers.../ Each luxury she had enjoyed - the heat of a bath, the feel of silk, the sound of beloved music - was lost to the three stranded men. She wondered about their food, their shelter, their clothing. They were two smart, able officers led by a former Maquis Captain, seasoned in danger and deprivation. If anyone could survive, they could. But still...

The uniform went on. /There will be hours for despair after shift is over. There's a time and place for everything./ She affixed the communicator and took one more glance in the mirror. /You've looked a lot better. Well, sleeplessness does that for you. /

Her pin chirped. "Janeway here."

"Captain... I've got it! We can power down and fall through the top layer of atmosphere, and then punch through on momentum to return. It will require a precise speed and trajectory on the ascent, but it will work -"

"B'Elanna, where are you?"

"I've been running simulations in the holodeck -"

"I'm on my way."

The lieutenant propped her feet up on the console, smiling. She cleared her throat, raw from screams and shouts of frustration. "Torres to Kes. Do I have news for you... "

[ "Not unto us, Oh Lord, not unto us, But unto Thy name be glory given." From "Non Nobis Domine," medieval chant. Author and date unknown. Carved on the portal of the church of Pont-Hubert (near Troyes in France) by anonymous artist.

From "Processional Responsory for the Sundays immediately proceeding Lent," traditional medieval Gregorian chant. Author and date unknown.]

The resulting rescue attempt was tragically short-lived. By the time Janeway arrived at the shuttle bay to meet the two team members, Kes was gone. Torres was still there, pacing the quiet metal interior with long, erratic strides like a caged tigress. The captain entered quietly, searching for the appropriate way to approach her seething chief engineer. A scream pierced the close space, echoing with the sound of Torres hitting the shuttle's hull flat-handed. Janeway jumped at the unexpected wail.

"Feel any better?"

"No."

"If you'd said yes, I think I'd have slapped the shuttle, too. I'm searching for some new outlets."

Torres smiled crookedly, appreciating Janeway's attempt at comfort. "Kes has gone to her quarters, to rest. She was exhausted."

"How did she take it?"

"It was her suggestion. I wanted to go ahead, I wanted to try..." She looked like she was considering hitting the shuttle again. "But we couldn't. There was no way to conduct a search in those conditions. By the time we got our bearings and started, we could have been immobilized by the weather. She understood that the attempt had to wait. She was very strong -"

"You made the right choice."

"I'm sure Chakotay, Tom, and Harry feel the same way." She leaned into the cold metal. How long would it be before the frigid winter crept up the continent and swallowed them? Could they survive it?

"B'Elanna." The word exuded empathy.

"I'll be able to project when the winter passes and we can return."

"Good."

"The only way this will work is with Kes. It's a large landmass, Captain. She's our compass. Not two, not twenty, not two thousand people could find them down there. This will be a long, hard season for her."

Janeway nodded gravely, but Torres continued before she could speak. "Permission to speak freely, Captain?"

"Of course."

"I would really appreciate a few moments alone in here. I still have some screaming to do before I officially reboard."

Some of the adaptations were conscious decisions, and others evolved organically over time. Choosing the clearing, where the brook ran down from the mountaintop and the tree line provided shade and shelter, was a natural and welcome end to their flight. With Paris safe beneath a temporary lean-to, Chakotay and Kim used the tools the ensign had taken from the Phrama stable to build a sturdy log cabin. Additions to this humble dwelling followed. A bedstead, to keep the frail Paris from the cold drafts of the night floor. A hearth, for heating water and cooking foods. A stretching post, for drying the skins of the animals they ate.

Chakotay and Kim did not discuss the hope of rescue. They both knew that their relocation into the mountains would add time to any search effort. In the meantime, their first duty was survival. And, slowly but surely, in a myriad of little ways, they transformed their meager camp into a home. They were unlikely housemates, to be sure. But their diverse talents soon allowed niches, a natural division of labor, to form. Kim watched over Paris. The lieutenant would accept food and water, and even open unfocused blue eyes at his friend's gentle word or touch. But he whimpered when they wrapped bindings around his ribs or checked his fading bruises and burns. His breathing was still pained and labored. Coughs relentlessly assailed him whenever he moved. Often his own hand scrubbed against his aching chest, a frantic, palsied, repetitive motion, as if he could rub out the disease that devoured his lungs. And despite Kim's constant attention and encouragement, Paris had not spoken since the first night the Phrama had returned him. Except in his infrequent and obviously violent dreams, when he called Kes's name.

The cabin and the chores that went with it took up the rest of Kim's time. He chopped wood from the ample forest, drew water, and searched for edible plants. While Kim stayed close to Paris and the cabin, Chakotay took short trips of two and three days, exploring the surrounding country, hunting, and trapping. The circles he made around their shelter also served as a patrol of sorts, as he constantly kept guard against any Phrama or other predators. If one of them had to stay with the cabin, it was logical for Kim to do so. Paris's condition was far more likely to improve if Kim, his oldest and closest friend on Voyager, were near. Besides, Chakotay was born for a measure of solitude and independence, and their circumstances seemed far less likely to suffocate him when he slept beneath the open sky.

The most subtle changes offered the most tangible evidence of the passing of time. Kim took to tying his hair back with an animal-skin thong to keep the long strands out of his eyes. A ginger-colored beard framed Paris's sunken, pale face. Chakotay's leggings pulled tightly across thighs increasingly disfigured with new muscles from hours on a beast too wide for a Human's comfort.

The days passed.

The door chime sounded, and a delicate voice welcomed the last visitor into the room. Janeway approached somberly. She made it clear by her demeanor that she relinquished command in Kes's quarters. She would follow the Ocampa's lead. Like the others sitting in a semi-circle on the floor, by Kes's invitation, she knew that the diminutive woman-child was the only hope for the three men now abandoned to the planet's winter season. When Kes had told her that she wished to pursue this link, Janeway had stressed that it was her decision. When the Ocampa confirmed that she was sure, Janeway announced her complete, and grateful, support. And offered any help that she might give.

Taking a deep breath, the captain lowered herself to join the others, cross-legged. Kes was bent forward, her eyes closed, concentrating. They sat very still for some time in throttled, uncertain anticipation. When she finally raised her head, her eyes glittered like a medium channeling some faraway dimension. The other three exchanged wide-eyed looks, awed spectators at this seance.

With a glance from Kes, Neelix began. They had all agreed on a degree of formality, to help them meet the uncomfortable, intimate demands of the event. He cleared his throat nervously. "I am Neelix, obviously, I mean you all know that. But I have come here tonight to represent Thomas Eugene Paris. My friend. You all know how much we have been through, Tom and I. Our misunderstandings, our adventure on "Planet Hell," even my journalistic inquiry into his abduction by the Kazon." He chuckled without humility, distracted by his own memories. "I have been jealous of him, disappointed by him, and angry at him. That is all in the past. I know the man he is. Now I count him as one of my closest friends. I want him back." He dropped his eyes, seemingly fascinated with the pattern of the fabric of his slacks. "I have brought the original program of Sandrine's, the program we've all copied. This is him. The world he made for all of us, the world where he was at home, the world where we have so many memories with him. This represents Tom to me." He placed the crystal at Kes's feet.

She picked it up tenderly, as she would the hand of the injured man.

They gave her the time she needed. After setting it back on the floor, she looked to B'Elanna Torres. The engineer shifted uncomfortably, her emotions raw upon her expressive face. "I am B'Elanna Torres. I am here to represent Chakotay, my former captain and present first officer. He has been my friend, my teacher, and my mentor. He was and is the only family I have known for many years, not because he had to be, but because he chose to be." She stared intently at the objects in her lap. "I could not trust or respect anyone more than I do Chakotay. He is a man..." A long pause "... a man of honor. To represent Chakotay, I offer his medicine bundle. It was always with him, giving him strength, reminding him of his people. If anything is a window into his soul, this is it." Torres handed the bundle to Kes, who held it reverently. For a moment the honest, intent expression reminded the engineer of the soulful gaze of its owner, and she looked away.

Ending the pained silence, the captain spoke. "I am Kathryn Janeway. One of the brightest aspects of life on Voyager has been growing to know a young officer I hand-picked without ever meeting personally, Harry Kim. I knew I had chosen the best, but even so he exceeded every expectation I had of him, as an officer and a person. He has a brilliant, gifted mind and a heart far wiser than his years. Gentle, giving, sincere. I wish I had heard him play. His mother loved his music so much. That's why I am bringing you his clarinet, Kes. I know he practiced every day, and that music was one of the many gifts he brought with him to our ship. This symbolizes the heart, as well as the mind." Kes accepted the instrument gratefully, holding it skillfully as if she were born to play it. The implications of such ease chilled Janeway.

Kes spoke kindly with only a hint of distraction. "Thank you, all of you, for sharing these with me. And for sharing your feelings, your ties to these men. I am trying to feed off of your relationships and draw closer to them through you. And I will honor these things, their things, with all my heart. Captain Janeway has agreed to allow me access to their quarters. If I go to any of them, I will contact the appropriate one of you to stand in their behalf. I don't want to invade their privacy, I just want to strengthen my link with them." Her eyes were growing more other-worldly with each moment. "Thank you so much. May... I be alone now?"

"Of course," Janeway agreed, and rose to leave. Torres practically bolted from the room without comment. The captain started to call to her in the hallway and offer the engineer a cup of coffee and a sympathetic ear, but one look at Torres convinced Janeway to let her go alone.

Neelix lingered at her doorway, concerned. "Are you gonna be okay, sweetie?"

"Yes, thank you. Thank you for helping me. I know you disapprove."

"I'm trying."

"I know."

"May I look in on you later?"

"Of course, Neelix. I'll see you in a little while."

"Yes, yes... in a little while. I'll see you then." The door slid closed while he was still muttering to himself.

When he returned an hour later, he found Kes curled on the floor like a wounded animal, arms wrapped around her sides, asleep. He crept to her side to convince himself that she was resting easily. He caught the faint aroma of peanut butter.

He left her where she lay, draping a blanket from her bed over her still form as he exited. He dropped the spredendron bloom he had brought from the hydroponics bay beside her, to tell her that he had been there. Then he returned to his quarters to worry.

Despite the warmth of the cabin's fire, the night cold still required bundling in clothes, blankets, and skins. So morning found Kim folding away the layers that covered Paris, trying to make him more comfortable. As always when he moved around the lieutenant, he spoke quietly about whatever came to mind. He sometimes doubted Paris could hear him but he could not stand to act like the tortured man was already dead. If Paris were aware, at least he would know that he was with a friend.

"Harry?" The rusty croak caught Kim by surprise. He stared at the still, pliant form, uncertain if he had imagined the whisper.

"Tom?" He slipped an arm beneath the blond head and offered him water. "Hey, welcome back. I was getting tired of talking to myself."

Blue eyes opened slowly, searched, finally focused on the ensign. He took a breath to speak and gasped, his features contorting. "It hurts." The tone was incredulous, like he was discovering the fact for the first time. "I-" He dissolved in a harsh fit of coughing and then wilted in the ensign's embrace.

Kim winced and swallowed. "I know it hurts, Tom, but we're going to get you through this. A Phrama healer showed me some herbs to use for pain. I'll make you a tea, okay? Stay with me now." He slowly disentangled himself and reached for the preparations.

Paris met his eyes and gave him a short nod of thanks. "Where?" It was all he could manage. Kim understood.

"In the mountains. We escaped from Renoja and made it out here."

"Chakotay?"

"He's fine. He'll be back in a little while."

Wrapping an arm snugly around his chest, Paris shifted a bit on the crude bedstead. "You... made this?"

"Yeah, we built the whole cabin. Don't worry, we should be safe. It turns out that the Phrama have this taboo against the mountains. They can't grow their crops up here, so they think it's cursed. And they've developed a whole mythology about the creatures that live out here, almost like a 'the world is flat' kind of thing. I think we'll be safe." He pressed green leaves into a wooden cup. "Do... do you remember anything since you've been back with us?"

He squeezed his eyes shut in frustration as well as pain. "It's a blur." Clearing his throat, he tried for a steadier voice. "Mixed up... memories..."

"Don't worry about it, Tom. You need your strength -"

"Kes? Is... is she here? I... remember... what?" Confusion agitated him.

Kim dipped warm water from the pot that hung over the fire. "Uh, you seem to be dreaming about her. You've said her name while you were unconscious." He looked distinctly uncomfortable, unsure how to proceed. This was not the time to chide Paris for forbidden erotic fantasies.

The blue eyes grew wider as he sipped from the cup Kim held. He swallowed and shook his head. He could tell what the blushing ensign was thinking, and it was all wrong. That issue had been settled long ago. "Thought... I saw her."

"Not since Voyager, Tom." A new fear chilled Kim, and he unconsciously gripped his fallen comrade more tightly. The same thought struck Paris as well. Terror shone nakedly on his face.

"My mind?" His breathing quickened and the coughing returned.

Holding his head as the slender frame shook, Kim spoke steadily, far more confident in tone than he felt. "It's all right. You're not losing your mind, Tom. They gave you drugs, they hurt you - you're memory's playing tricks, that's all. You're fighting this really well. Hold on. It's okay."

The fit rode the abused body back into unconsciousness.

Kim stared at him for a long time, holding the cup of herbal tea that cooled uselessly in his hand. Conflicting emotions exhausted him. Eventually, though, he came to a practical conclusion. /He was awake again. He talked. That means he's better than he was. That's what's important. I'll help him straighten out his memories and hallucinations later. The key now is that he's better./

/And I won't rest until he's well./

But the old woman's descriptions of a slow death from the disease haunted him and tainted his hopes. Of course her experience was limited to Phrama victims, who entered the ordeal malnourished and exhausted and then endured abuse after infection. Perhaps Paris's Human physiology, his prior health, his care since the guards returned him to his fellow officers, maybe all of the factors would work in his behalf.

But the fear never quite left Kim, even in the small moments of triumph.

It was one of the many subjects that Kim and Chakotay did not discuss.

"Thought... you were... a vegetarian."

Chakotay shrugged pragmatically. "Survival seemed an attractive alternative. I still honor life." He glared at the navigation officer in mock sternness. "I trust that the keepers of the game agree that yours is worth sustaining. With protein."

"Keepers?" He sipped the stew without aid, propped up in bed. It was a small achievement for which he had fought for some time. It represented a measure of independence.

"My people believe that there are spirits that allow the hunt -"

A long-fingered hand waved away the explanation. "Sorry... I asked." Rolled eyes communicated what the husky voice could not. Chakotay snorted and mumbled something Paris could not understand as he rose from his stump-perch before the fire. His movements were stiff and awkward. Sometimes, after riding for several days, he could scarcely walk when he returned. Reaching for the branch he used as a walking-stick, he wordlessly shuffled into the twilight. The door closed behind him as he went to tend the two wallibeves.

Kim, cross-legged on the floor with his own bowl of stew, shook his head mutely at the two. Their attempts at humor danced on the edge of confrontation. Sometimes he could barely distinguish when words were kind or cruel, interaction wry or angry. At times the three functioned well in their artificially-intimate accommodations, but then there were moments when he could not shake the genuine uncomfortableness that settled on them. He knew that Chakotay sensed it, too. That explained why, when the Amerindian was not away trapping, he often spent his evenings outside, tending to the wallibeves, watching the sunset, doing whatever it was that Chakotay did.

And Kim let him. A sigh of frustration. Kim felt that he should do something, but he could not imagine what it was. The Paris-Chakotay mix was a volatile one, and he sat directly in the middle. Innocent. Bewildered. But an accomplice nonetheless, as he did nothing to ease the situation.

Irritation did not last. Chastening thoughts vanished as he watched Paris set his bowl on the ground and swiftly roll away from it in a fetal position, his face suddenly ashen. Eyes closed, throat forcing difficult swallows, the lieutenant fought the nausea that any food triggered. If he were lucky, his quick breaths would not begin the cycle of coughing again. Ever so quietly, Kim took the abandoned bowl and his own and began to tidy the small cabin, one eye, as always, on Paris.

This wave seemed to last longer than most. Kim cleaned, straightened, and rearranged the contents of the log house several times over while waiting for Paris to straighten and drift into sleep. But the emaciated frame remained tautly curved, slightly trembling. Finally he gave in and circled the small bed to kneel by his friend's face.

His face was twisted. He had shoved his fist over his mouth. His cheeks were wet. Sensing Kim there he opened his eyes and stared.

"Tom?" He thought better of the 'are you okay?' Clearly Paris was not.

"What?" A harsh whisper, seething with unreleased emotion. "What do... you want?" Short breaths through his clenched teeth. "Want me... to say... it'll be fine?" A staccato bark, a pathetic imitation of a laugh. "I don't... think it... will. I... hurt, Harry... You have to... do everything for me." He shuddered, as if thinking about his condition were too dreadful to contemplate. "I can't... get away. Remember... Fear?"

Kim nodded silently. After the computer-generated character Fear had released him as hostage, he had battled terrible nightmares for several nights. Paris had finally dragged him to Sandrine's and coaxed the details from him. He had slept after that cathartic pool session, after telling the lieutenant everything about the encounter. Everything. Even... /I see where he's going with this,/ Kim realized grimly.

"You didn't want... to be old... where you couldn't... take care of... self."

This had to stop. "Tom, this isn't that same thing. Please stop this." His own voice sounded sterner than he had anticipated. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. "You're hurt, but you are getting better. Soon you won't need anything at all. And I'm not a stranger, I'm your friend. I want to help you, I don't have to."

If it were possible, Paris looked even more miserable. "I know... but I... hate being... helpless. I'm stuck... losing my mind." He waved Kim away with his hand, burying his face in his other arm. Muffled words. "I can't... I'm so scared... Please just... give me some... time."

Kim desperately wanted to say something, but he did not dare. Instead he slipped around the bed and to the door.

"But... don't leave me."

The whispered sob acknowledging his contradictory needs for privacy and comfort wrenched Kim's heart. He could hardly keep from crying himself. "I won't leave you, Tom. I'm just outside the door. I'm not going anywhere." At the nod from the arm-encircled head, he stepped outside.

Chakotay sat on a small stack of wood, gazing into the sunset, knuckles digging deep lines into his thighs as his fists rubbed back and forth absently. Kim sank down to the grass beside him. The commander noted his presence but did not speak. Kim found himself feeling a surge of irrational anger at this stoic and silent man. /You don't know what it's like. You don't understand what's happening to him./

Kim sat with Chakotay well into the night.

Just thinking.

"A cheese omelet with green peppers, tomatoes, and sour cream." Kim tilted his head at the familiar sounds outside, knowing they announced Chakotay's return from the hunt. That would mean meat, and skins, and a return to the two-man rotation of night watch and Paris observation. A brief respite for both the ensign and the commander from being the only man performing their respective tasks.

"No, no. Peanut butter and jelly... on white bread."

Kim lay on furs on the floor, his feet propped up on the rock hearth, rag-wrapped toes wiggling before the fire's pleasant heat. On his side in the bed, Paris wagged a knowing finger at him. "No crusts."

The cabin door opened to reveal Chakotay, his hair still dripping from the routine bath he took in the creek to clean away the smells of sweat and blood and wallibeve before entering the small dwelling.

"And that's grape jelly... not strawberry or peach." Paris added raspily.

Kim rolled away to make room for the commander to warm himself. Chakotay knelt before the flames reverently as a believer beholds an altar. "Corn, roasted over an open fire. And mushroom soup." He added his voice to their long-running discussion of most-desired foods without missing a beat. Exhaustion had not dulled his mood.

The ensign was thumbing through their ragged items of clothing, looking for a suitable jacket in which to help with the catch. "How many?"

Chakotay shook his head. "Taken care of. I hung them in the springhouse." Legs stretched tentatively, lifting him shakily to sit on the stump-chair. He rested his walking-stick beside him. "I'll skin them tomorrow morning." Quiet nods. His fingers teased the last drops from his hair, and he played with the ever-longer silver strands distractedly. "How are things here?"

"We sent... the dancing girls... home an hour ago... The scenery was beautiful... wish you'd been here." Wit aside, Paris's voice had regained the harsh, bitter undertone that alternately angered and frightened Kim. His mood, like his health, varied minute by minute. The commander's return had triggered another shift. The sentence ended with a quiet cough.

Chakotay seemed to note the subtle change, the edge of submerged desperation. He did not rise to the bait. He merely snorted and continued to stare at the fire. The muscles in Kim's stomach tightened instinctively.

"Hot tea?" Chakotay nodded and accepted a steaming wooden cupful, sniffing the bitterroot concoction appreciatively.

"You've done wonders finding the tasty local plant life." The drink burned his tongue and he gulped a mouthful of air to cool it. Then he ducked out of the blanket-pouch strapped to his back and withdrew a bundle of smooth skins. Disentangling the folds of soft hide, Chakotay sought Kim's eyes and, once meeting them, held them with deliberate determination. /Stand with me on this one. Help me. You struggle with this every hour, and I know you think I've escaped dealing with it, but I recognize the problem. I am trying to make things better./

His head still turned toward Kim, away from Paris, he spoke with concentrated casualness. "So, Mister Paris, I've been thinking. We need a record of what has happened, what is happening. To keep track of the days, to trace our steps, to make our report when we return to Voyager." Kim's eyes widened. This was the first time he had heard the commander mention their ship since they had escaped Renoja. Chakotay had silently tried to balance an implied faith in their future rescue with a practical dedication to easing their lives in the present. This departure was a planned, calculated attempt to help Paris's peace of mind. "So I made a notebook of sorts. Of skin. The berry-dye can serve as ink. It may be crude, but I think you can handwrite a useful log." He turned, half-rose, and handed his handiwork to the lieutenant. "You can start tomorrow."

The cabin fell silent. Kim's mind raced, appreciating the thought this move reflected. /Yes, this gives him something to do, a tangible contribution he can work on at his own pace./ He looked at his commander with a sheepish sense of awe, and a degree of regret for underestimating Chakotay's sensitivity and understanding.

"Great," Paris whispered. He started to laugh, then coughed sharply. Clearing his throat, his smile twisted into something ugly. "Keep me occupied... I'll be less of a pain, then... huh?" He pulled at his beard, his emaciated frame wound up with furious emotion. "Do you think... I'm so sick I don't... don't see? I mean... what's the point?" Wild eyes shot from Chakotay to Kim, as if he blamed his friend for his tacit consent to the order. "We're never getting back." The commander opened his mouth to speak but Paris drowned his attempt. "Don't... patronize me, Chakotay... I don't want your pity." The words left him breathless. A fist began rubbing his chest again jerkily, a subconscious return to the wounded reflex of weeks earlier. Kim held his breath.

Turned fully toward the lieutenant now, Chakotay met his eyes and shocked Paris with the gentleness of his voice. "What do you want?" His arms spread questioningly.

The blue eyes seemed confused, as if the soul behind them had not asked that particular question in some time. But the sharp tongue beat the mind to an answer. "For you to... leave me alone." Kim expelled the breath he had held in a low moan. But he stood paralyzed, unable to enter the tragic scene the commander and lieutenant were performing.

In painfully slow motion, Chakotay rose to his feet. As he stumbled around the stump awkwardly with his walking-stick, a small pouch fell from his jacket to the floor. He bent to pick it up and stared at it as if seeing it for the first time. Then it dawned on him, and he grunted in acknowledgment. Eyes focused self-consciously on the floor, he held it out to Kim behind him. "My father taught me to make them, not play them. I thought you might figure it out. It has a beautiful sound... and I heard you were good."

Without waiting for Kim's response he lumbered to the door. Mumbled words about the need for skinning animals died on the wind that entered as he left.

Paris watched him go, curiously detached from the exit. Still silent, shocked by his own words, he turned to his friend in disorientation.

Kim was on his knees before the fire, holding in his hands a beautifully carved wooden recorder. He looked up, his eyes bright and swimming, and his shoulders sagged.

Then he turned his face away.

Neelix served one last piece of quiche before untying his apron. He worried when Kes did not come to the mess hall for breakfast. They did not talk like they did before the landing party left, to be sure, but even when she seemed faraway and preoccupied, she still came. The gesture was not an empty one. Each quiet meal reminded him that she remembered him. Each visit contained a promise that, one day, their life together would resume normalcy. The morale officer was trying to cope with being, at times, a mere habit. He wrung every bit of hope from it that he could. But now breakfast had passed and Kes was nowhere to be found. He trotted past crew members, dodging those standing with drinks and plates, and headed off to find her. Fear of what he would find swelled in his throat.

Her quarters were locked and no one answered his chime. He whispered the security code and the doors slid open. Music, beautiful, alien music, poured out into the hallway. And there, in the middle of her quarters, stood Kes, slender back to the door. Neelix crept in and stood there, watching her.

It took him a minute to figure out what she was doing. She swayed with the music as if she herself were its conduit, with fluid swings and fervent slices of the air. Somewhere, in front of her, in her mind, was an imagined orchestra. She was its conductor. Her outstretched fingers groped for notes and begged for volume and slammed staccatos in precise order. She looked wildly from one phantom section to the next as she nursed melody and harmony from them. She had given herself over to it completely.

He stood there for almost half an hour until the movement ended and she wilted to the floor. She drew her knees up to her forehead and cried out in the silence like an abandoned child. Speaking softly to her, Neelix knelt beside her and wrapped his arms around her. "It... always makes me... feel better. But... not now... there's so much hurt... I want to hope... but then it all... crashes down... I want to make it work... I know I can... Why don't I feel better?" He stroked her while she sobbed in broken sentences, holding her tightly until she calmed.

"Kes? Do you want to talk about it?" He breathed the words into her hair softly.

"What was it, Neelix?"

"What was what, sweetie?"

"The music?"

"You don't know? But you just said it always made you feel better. You had every note memorized...."

"No. I had never heard it before, Neelix. Computer, what was the music just played?"

"'MATRIARCH REWOVEN,' FOURTH AND SEVENTH MOVEMENTS, BY BALSUNNI."

She shrugged in his arms. "I don't know it. But there, for a little while, it seemed like an old friend." She sighed. "I'm all right, Neelix. Thanks for checking on me." Delicately, she disentangled herself from his embrace. "I think I'll take a shower now. See you for dinner."

He rose to his feet, stunned, and waited until he heard the water running. He kept expecting her to run to him, ask him for help, and let him inside the world she was seeing, but she never did. So he stumbled from her quarters, perplexed with worry and unanswered questions.

Back in her room, Kes peeked her head through the bathroom archway, assuring herself he was gone. Satisfied that she was alone, she jumped into the furthest edge of her bed where the walls formed a corner and huddled there, trembling, desolated.

Chakotay left the morning after the logbook incident for another round of hunting and trapping. There was no need; they had plenty to sustain them for a while. But the commander had observed that it could not hurt to stock up on food supplies, now that they had the springhouse in which they could preserve the meat. It was a transparent excuse, but no one stopped him.

Kim spent more time than usual outdoors. He always stayed close enough to guard the cabin and routinely check on Paris. But he threw the heartsick sadness he felt into playing with the recorder Chakotay had made. Music had always been his companion. It took Chakotay to show him how much it could heal him. Once again, he had underestimated his aloof superior. Not again. Never again.

In a self-important way, perhaps Kim also saw his own retreat from the cabin as a subtle punishment for Paris for his cruel treatment of Chakotay. He did not understand why his ailing friend seemed to sabotage his own future so routinely. This was, of course, a pattern that predated his torture. But since Renoja had returned him Paris had cycled through improvements and reversals in mind-spinning speed.

He did not know how he should feel. But the ensign felt an urgency about resolving the issue. Chakotay had built a cabin in which he could not live, and Paris seemed to be fighting his own recovery and all who would help him. The tension was tearing Kim apart. And the changing of the leaves, the possibility of truth in Paris's warning that help would never arrive, the physical changes he saw in himself and the others - it all pointed to the necessity of solving the situation. Of easing it. Of helping it somehow. Or at least of not adding to it. Kim's goals grew increasingly modest as the complexity of their planetbound existence overwhelmed him.

Inside the little cabin, Paris shuddered in his own private hell. The smooth hide pages of the logbook lay open on his lap. A sharpened stick protruded from a wooden bowl beside him. Counting the days, explaining their actions, meant reliving Nett Renoja's cruelties. The solitary cube. Burning, freezing, gasping. The beatings. Worst of all, the injection. Screaming, writhing, humiliating himself. He had thought he was a new Tom Paris. He had thought he had wrestled some dignity from life. But nothing had changed. His father was right. He was a failure.

He had hurt Chakotay badly. And pushed Kim away.

Bare chested, sweating, he wrapped skinny arms around his sore sides. He was so scared.

A cough. A sip of tepid tea, made with the pain-dulling leaves. A deep breath that sent sparks of agony through his once-athletic frame.

He picked up the stick in a trembling fist, paused, and then stabbed at the skin as if he could blot out a lifetime in a pool of berry dye.

Chakotay's entrance was tentative, reflecting his uncertainty of what he would find. Kim welcomed him meekly, offering him tea and kicking the stump-stool before the fire for him. The two officers listened as the commander told of his catch. The room settled back into silence as Chakotay hungrily devoured Kim's stew. After he finished he positioned himself against the log wall on his sleeping pallet, half-sitting, as was his custom, to spend the night. Kim curled on the floor atop the furs in front of the fire as usual.

"Could I ask you two... some questions?" Paris spoke quietly. Exchanging veiled looks, Chakotay and Kim both nodded. /Here we go,/ Kim thought wretchedly. /This is what I get for not confronting him while Chakotay was gone./

The lieutenant extended a one-armed reach beneath his bed frame and withdrew the bundled logbook as if nothing had ever happened. He flipped it open and thumbed through dye-covered pages, studiously oblivious of the surprised expressions on the faces of his audience. When he found his place, he glanced to them matter-of-factly.

"I am a little foggy... on the details of our escape... What happened?... How did you manage to... distract Renoja and the goon squad?"

This was his apology. Kim shook his head and chuckled quietly beneath his breath. /Will he never cease to amaze me?/

Dimples appeared in Chakotay's shadow-lined visage.

Kim was the first to speak. "The escape is a great story. We needed mounts and tools, as well as a distraction. Chakotay figured out that we could set fire to the stables, you know the ones next to the labor village, and -"

"You... killed the wallibeves?"

"No, I opened the gates. But that meant that the guards had to put out the blaze and catch all the wallibeves that were running all over the fiefdom." Kim smiled at the memory. "That kept them going for a while."

Chakotay took up the explanation where Kim had ended. "It wasn't guarded, 'cause the workers would never have tried such a thing. Where would they go? If they rode to another fiefdom they'd be returned for a reward. And they wouldn't go to the mountains -"

"Yeah, Harry filled me in on that superstitious stuff - "

"Right. On top of all that, they were in the middle of the final harvest of the season. They couldn't afford to drop everything for a thorough search. So it seemed to be the best plan."

Paris nodded thoughtfully. "Makes sense... Thanks."

The dusk bled into night as the three recreated the days, speaking frankly about their flight and the eventual homesteading in the mountains. Eventually an exhausted Chakotay drew blankets around him and dozed. Paris followed soon after. When Chakotay was home, Kim would maintain a quiet watch into the night, then wake the commander before dawn and sleep himself. Following this tradition, Kim settled himself down for a relaxing few hours of contemplative silence. It was not long, however, before he availed himself of the log.

He read Paris's critical, detailed account of his own torture.

He had never asked. Paris had never offered to tell.

He replaced the book silently.

And when dawn came, he woke Chakotay and slept.

He never spoke of reading the account.

Neither did Chakotay.

"Could I see you out here for a minute?"

Chakotay had been outside for seemingly hours after eating stew late that afternoon with Kim and Paris. Paris did not know what he was doing, but he figured it was something deep, sober, and introspective - in short, something he wanted no part of. But the commander's summons of Kim from the cabin rankled the lieutenant. He felt like a small child forced to go to bed while the adults entertained a party. Excluded. Forgotten. Curious.

It was not that he was idle. After his long, hard work on the log updating it to the present, he was rewarded with more long, hard work. But as much as he complained about being drafted as the landing party's tailor, he had to admit that the more he kept busy the better he felt. He remained in the sturdy little bed. But he could take small steps in the cabin unaided now, and required fewer catnaps during the day to maintain his strength. The pain still stabbed him with every breath, but the simple tasks served as distractions. Propped up and wrapped in fur, he forced himself to continue weaving the bone needle Kim had made in and out of the smooth skin Chakotay had cut. Soon they would all three appear like the buckskinned pioneers of old. An open shirt for Kim, that he could unlace and open in the daytime heat. Wide leggings for Chakotay to move with him as he rode. Even a vest for himself, still furred, to insulate his vulnerable chest.

Minutes later Kim returned, a small, strange grin on his broad face. "Hey, uh, how're you feeling?"
Paris narrowed his eyes. Despite his life-threatening, agonizing condition - or perhaps because of it - that was a question Kim and Chakotay never asked him. Something was definitely afoot. "What's up, Harry?"

"Would you like to take a little walk?"

That floored Paris. He had not stepped outside the cabin door since Chakotay had first carried him inside its walls. Shuffling around the place a bit was the extent of his freedom. He had endured the many humiliating implications of his invalid status, although Kim had always tried to offer him every dignity possible. The empathetic ensign would never be cruel. The question, the invitation, was a serious one.

He answered by swinging spindly legs onto the floor. Smiling broadly now, Kim helped to wrap him thickly in furs. Paris hurried in silence, afraid that any hesitation or query would break this marvelous spell, this promise of activity and experience. When he was finally bundled, Kim slipped behind him and gently grasped both elbows, signaling that he would help support Paris when he grew tired. Together the two friends opened the cabin door and Paris took his first trembling, small steps outside.

There in the clearing, beneath an impossibly clear sky, sat Chakotay. He had kindled a roaring fire and surrounded it with three pallets. Paris smiled at the inviting scene.

"We thought you might like to see this," Kim whispered in his ear, and nodded upward. Paris tilted back his head, swaying in Kim's firm hold. The black night sky was streaked with stars, like a glowing watercolor running across space.

"Wha... what?"

"Meteor shower."

His throat worked, and tears welled up in his pale eyes. "Aw, Harry..."

"I know," Kim agreed, and released his hold on Paris's elbow long enough to pat him gently on the back.

They stood that way for several seconds, looking up at the sky, until Kim grew aware of Paris shivering against him. "Let's get you over there next to the fire, okay?" The lieutenant seemed to return to reality and nodded. Together the two walked him over to the nearest pallet. As Kim eased him to the ground, Chakotay produced a heavy fur to cover him. Paris reclined there, warmed by the fire, and stared up at the sky.

"Thank you... it's incredible." He turned to meet the eyes of the commander and ensign in turn. "Thank you."

They both nodded happily and then returned to gazing themselves. It was an intimate experience to share, as these three stranded starmen looked up to the space where they belonged. The majesty, the beauty of it all, overwhelmed them. Kim eventually picked up the recorder and played. A shy grin communicated Chakotay's surprise and pleasure at the music, and after a while the commander closed his eyes and pressed his palms to the ground in meditation. Paris lay quietly, listening to Kim's melodies and the fire's steady crackle. The meteors seemed to dance for his entertainment, making him in turn feel incredibly powerful and devastatingly small, hopeful and bereaved.

The three solitary figures remained around the fire for several hours. They were together in peace, but they were also quite alone - Chakotay with his thoughts, Kim with his music, and Paris with the sky.

The three assembled in sickbay were unlikely allies. Nonetheless, the Doctor, Neelix, and Tuvok were united by their concern for the beautiful young Ocampa who had changed each of their lives. There was a guilt, a secrecy, an underground feeling to their meeting, since they knew that Kes had made up her mind to pursue the telepathic link with the landing party and Janeway had backed her decision. It was this choice that they questioned.

"It's getting worse." Neelix began frantically. "Sometimes she does things as if she's in a trance, and loses all sense of time. And it's one of their activities, not hers. She does things she's never done before like she's done them all her life. I don't understand -"

"I fear that she will lose her sense of self. The longer she is immersed in this link, the harder it will be to reestablish her own identity. She may become lost in the sea of telepathic input, without the anchor of self-awareness." The Doctor leaned over a nearby console, stricken.

Neelix practically danced on the balls of his feet, propelled by nervous energy. "And, and what would happen then? Mister Vulcan, what would happen if what he says is true?"

"I cannot say. It is possible, however, that her sanity might be compromised."

"What does that mean? That she would lose her mind?"

Tuvok merely laced his fingers together and steepled his index fingers in thought.

"Well, what can we do then? The captain is adamant that we respect Kes's decision. If she didn't realize -"

"The captain was aware of the situation." Tuvok's voice was unemotional as only a Vulcan's could be.

"And? You let her go ahead -"

"I did not 'let' the captain do anything. Captain Janeway makes her own decisions. She is an admirable captain and I respect her abilities."

"But obviously you don't agree with this decision..." The Talaxian prompted.

"I do not."

The admission pried from Tuvok silenced them all for a time. Then Neelix tried once more. "Doctor, isn't there something you can do to override them?"

He scowled in indignation. "Mister Neelix, if there were something I could do, I would not be here listening to you. I would be doing it. But I have voiced and logged my reservations regarding this course of events. That is all I can do at present."

"So where does that leave us?"

"Waiting."

Paris was worse. There was blood when he coughed and an unmistakable gurgling gasp accompanying each breath. He stayed still now, desperately trying not to aggravate the sickness that tore apart his lungs. At times he could stomach little food. The pain stole his sleep. His weakness grew with each hour, even as he felt his sanity threatening to desert him. Wrapped in furs on the bed of the darkened cabin, he awoke once in panic, believing he was again in Llilegrough's solitary cube. It was all Kim could do to calm him and then brace him as he rode out the resulting fit of smothering coughs. And, again, the ensign discreetly overlooked the tears of helplessness and frustration that Paris quietly shed, pale face turned toward the log walls.

This morning Kim worked about quietly, trying not to disturb his friend. Chakotay had been hunting for two days and might not be back for several more. Although the ensign and commander did not often talk a great deal, at least he was company, staring intensely into the fire next to his officers or feeding it with great frost-kissed logs. The last few days weighed heavily on Kim. He feared for Paris. The loneliness of the monotonous hours, listening only to the painful breaths and whistling wind, wore on his nerves. Over and over again he looked at the expressive face framed in fur, twisted in misery both in sleep and in consciousness. He fought with his doubts and his fears for his friend, for their future. Luckily there were enough chores to finish and needs to anticipate to keep him occupied, physically at least, during the daylight hours.

As he brought in an armful of wood, hastily shutting the door against the chilling draft, Paris spoke. Had the fire crackled or an animal howled at that instant, Kim would not have heard the faint whisper. But he did.

"Talk to me... Harry." Paris seemed exhausted by the effort. His eyes pleaded with his friend, fixed on him like the one chance at survival that he truly was.

"Sure thing!" Adding the logs to the blaze, he brought a cup of water to Paris and slipped an arm beneath the slender shoulders to support him while he drank. Easing him back into the furs, Kim then seated himself on the stump beside the fire. Now that Paris was awake and lucid, Kim drew a blank. He asked sheepishly, "What do you want me talk about?"

Paris forced a smile, an anemic shadow of his old cavalier cockiness. "You never told me... about when you... saw Earth again... Mysterious." Rapid breaths, recovering from the exertion. Keen eyes cutting through the haze of pain.

Kim was taken off guard. He thought for a moment. Then it registered. "You mean the alternate timeline?" Paris nodded. "Okay, but you have to try a little soup. Do we have a deal?" The lieutenant shook his head uncertainly. "Tom, you've got to try to eat something. You have to keep up your strength so you can fight this. C'mon, just a little." His trump card. "For me?"

Paris rolled his eyes. "For you." He sighed the words to his crewmate, hands half-raised in defeat.
"That's more like it." Kim turned to place the iron pot on the wooden arm above the fire. "It'll take it a minute to get good and hot." He swiveled back to face Paris and sighed. "I didn't mean to keep the whole thing a mystery. It was so incredible. I'd never been on Voyager - neither had you. It was as if life had just kept on, like it would have if we hadn't gone on this mission. I was going to marry Libby." He looked away from Paris, focusing on some scene only he could see. "Just to see her again, touch her, hear her voice... in one sense it let me say good-bye but, in another... it made her even closer to me. And so strange to know what I could've had. What I was missing... " He shook himself in a chastising way. /This isn't what Tom needs./ He let the silence stretch for a moment and distance the two of them from his words as he grasped the pot with rag-clothed hands and set it down to cool. He chose a bowl and poured Paris's soup. Kicking the stump alongside the bed, he gently helped Paris sit up and rearranged the supporting furs around him. "You okay there?" Paris shifted slightly and appeared to relax, nodding.

"Sorry, Harry," he whispered. The ensign lifted his eyebrow questioningly. Paris swallowed and tried again. "'Bout Libby."

"Oh, I didn't mean to spill all that. I'm okay, really. " He lifted the bowl to Paris's lips. The lieutenant raised his hands to balance it and took a sip. He closed his eyes, savoring the feeling of warmth as it trailed down his ravaged throat. He made a pleased sound, a low moan of satisfaction. Kim smiled.

"Anyway, you were there. I found you. You saved my life. More than once. You were my friend in that timeline, too." Another swallow and a grateful smile.

"I was... released?"

"Yeah, you'd been out of the penal colony for a while. Playing pool mostly, it seemed like. You looked pretty... casual. Not as much of a beard as you have now, though."

Paris chuckled at the jab and fingered his ginger beard, its thickness another testament to the time that had passed on this planet. The realization sent him again into silence.

A sip of soup. Observing his mood, desperate not to let it sink any further because of his own inept comments, Kim started again. "I stuck out like such a sore thumb. I didn't quite fit in with your, um... scene." Kim shook his head at the memory. "Let's just say you weren't instantly convinced of my situation." Another swallow.

Instantly Paris's calm face, blushed with the first color to enter the sunken cheeks in days, grimaced in unexpected agony. He clutched Kim's arm with desperate strength. The bowl fell to the floor and Kim grabbed Paris, instinctively helping him as he lurched toward the side of the bed. Leaning his head over its edge Paris retched and heaved. Kim could hardly hold him as his light frame shuddered and spasmed. Then the coughing followed. Kim reached for one of the many rags, tattered remnants of the shirt Chakotay wore in the labor camp, and held it to Paris's lips. It grew wet and crimson with each cough.

"Easy, easy. I've got you. It's okay, Tom. Easy now." Quiet words, mingling with ragged sobs. The fit lasted for several minutes, a lifetime in Kim's estimation. He gently rubbed the back that ached so cruelly and rocked the body he held, trying to calm his friend. Each moment brought only the slightest relief. As the breaths slowed he turned Paris and carefully lowered him into the furs. Paris's eyes were squeezed shut. He concentrated on breathing. Finally certain that the fit had passed, Kim quietly began cleaning the spilled soup and vomit from the floor. His heart ached. Paris had weathered so many bad turns - he had even survived their flight so soon after his torture - and had seemed to be growing stronger each day. All of that progress, now lost with the season. The night in the valley watching the meteor shower appeared like the most fanciful imagination.

"S... sorry." The quiet syllables shocked Kim from his thoughts. Paris, unmoving, his features wreathed with lines that mocked his age, watched him with infinitely sad eyes. He dropped them to the floor where Kim knelt. "Mess."

Kim shook his head vehemently. "No! You didn't want to eat. I shouldn't have forced you to. I'm sorry, Tom." Paris close his eyes and nodded once, acknowledging the younger man, thanking him. Silence, save for Paris's short, shallow breaths, settled on the cabin. Minutes passed.

Staring again into his own private vision, Kim spoke. "I haven't told you this before now. It just seemed... I don't know, weird. Back when I was on Earth, you gave your life so that I could return to this timeline. Your shuttle was destroyed, and you knew it would be. I didn't mean for it to happen. But you did it anyway." He thought of the infinite relief he felt, seeing Paris at the helm when he beamed back aboard Voyager after that experience. His voice changed, growing more forceful, fueled by the frustration welling up inside him. "I won't let you do it this time, Tom. I'm gonna be there every step of the way. I know you think of me as some kid brother that always needs protection, but I'm an adult. And I'm strong. I'll help you fight this any way I know how. You've saved me before. Well, I can take care of you, too." He trembled with the force of his conviction, running his fingers through his long hair. "Just hold on. I won't let you leave me again." Pulling himself back to the situation at hand, he refocused on the cabin, the fire, the floor. He turned to Paris.

The lieutenant was sleeping.

Kes was in the mess hall, staring dully into nothingness as her hot tea grew tepid, when she slumped forward. The supper rush had already passed, and few crew members still remained to talk and snack. No one was near enough to catch the tiny frame as it slid forward and then sideways, inertly to the floor. Hearing his name called, Neelix emerged from his pot-scouring to find a small huddle around his unconscious companion. In moments he had scooped her into his arms and was trotting down the hall toward sickbay.

The prognosis was exhaustion. The Doctor eventually indulged her request and allowed her to return to her quarters to rest. But there were few concrete changes to make; she had already relinquished her work in the sickbay and her various tasks on board. There was nothing else, nothing physical, to do to lighten her load.

And despite the concern from Neelix, the Doctor, and Tuvok, she would not relinquish the precious pain of Tom Paris.

The easy autumn they had known erupted into winter with little warning. Ominous frosts and foreboding winds changed the landscape, making even the wearily familiar seem threatening. They could not escape the upcoming changes, as clearly as the cabin drafts shrieked in the night. Chakotay felt a new sense of urgency as he skinned, drew and quartered. In a short while the hunt would be impossible to continue. The more he could set aside for that lean time, the better.

Fur pulled close around his neck, hair whipping against his face, Chakotay squinted as his eyes surveyed the mountainside. He stretched occasionally and dug his knuckles into the thick, misshapen muscles along his legs that spoke to the hours he had spent riding. The water holes, the grazing grounds, he knew them all now. And he spoke words of respect and thanks to the keepers of the game, the spirits that allowed him the needed kill, each time he took a life.

This day was one like any other. He climbed to a natural overlook to scout the valley for game. But as the rider and mount turned the usual bend of the ledge, Chakotay's wallibeve faltered on a semi-frozen patch of damp rock. Reacting with the surety of experience, he held tightly with his thighs and leaned into the animal, trying to stabilize its center of gravity and calm it. The beast panicked and whirled in disorientation. He urged it away from the edge of the narrow cliff and spoke softly. With several jerky turns and awkward hops, the wallibeve finally came to a breathless standstill. Sighing heavily, Chakotay patted its thick neck. "You had me going there, friend. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all, huh?"

Nudging the wallibeve easily with his heels, he tugged on the reins to signal his intention of retreating from the ledge. The animal backed and turned. As it shuffled sideways it encountered another slick spot. It leaped forward, trying to regain its balance, turning in mid-air, twisting Chakotay away from the cliff wall and toward the edge. All he could do was hold onto the beast and swivel with it, loosing all sense of direction in the process.

They landed hard. Chakotay could not distinguish the pain of hitting the cold stone from the pain of the heavy wallibeve falling on top of him. A dull, distant crack echoed in his ears. The sudden agony of his leg breaking stole his breath, then dulled to a pain he had endured before. Not good, but he could manage. He could ride, even crawl if he had to, with a broken leg. Another obstacle, not insurmountable. Unfortunate. Survivable.

The real question was the wallibeve. With his free arm Chakotay stroked the heaving side and cooed soothingly. He tried to lean forward and see for himself, but he was pinned under the massive weight. Sinking back against the wet rock, he tried to relax his tense muscles as much as possible, still patting the beast sympathetically. /What to do now?/

The wallibeve was quiet while stunned, but its panic soon resurfaced with its awareness. Bellowing with the pain of its own injuries, it began to thrash wildly. Chakotay clawed with his free hand, digging his fingers into unyielding stone, as the animal's movements jarred the broken leg. When it had exhausted itself and Chakotay had caught his breath, he resumed his rhythmic stroking. "Please, please, don't do that again," he whispered shakily. "Rest easy now."

The respite was short-lived. The animal, calmer now, instinctively tried to rise to it is feet. It rocked slowly, rolling across the helpless commander, fighting fruitlessly to right itself. Meeting no success, it shifted its weight and tried again. And again. Beneath the wallibeve, Chakotay retched dryly as the broken bones in his leg shifted. When the beast made its last attempt, the injured man registered its changing position. There was nothing he could do. His stomach tightened and his nails left bloody trails on the surface beside him. /Oh father.../

Chakotay cried out as the fallen animal's sturdy frame crushed his knee and then rocked back across the damage it had inflicted. When the wallibeve grew still he carefully curled over on himself, wrapped his arm over his face, and screamed again.

B'Elanna Torres threw the datapadd against the wall, listening with satisfaction to the sound of various breaking objects. The padd would survive intact, of course. They always did. Torres knew. She had thrown many a datapadd in the last few months.

She was spending her offshift - more appropriately, her sleeping period - as she had ever since Tuvok and Kes had sent the data on the atmosphere. She might as well run simulations. She could not sleep more than two hours or so a night, and only then when her body demanded it and fought off the angry, helpless nightmares. The simulations were still not successful. She was yet to devise an effective means of obtaining sensor readings once a rescue shuttle landed. Trace elements would still render the portable, hand-held tricorders ineffective. To make things worse, she was missing the officer with whom she usually worked on such projects, Harry Kim. She rubbed her bloodshot eyes and moved across her quarters, experience leading her to the usual datapadd crash sight. Without looking down to confirm that it was there, she kicked out. She smiled grimly. A rewarding thump.

She jumped when her communicator whistled. Anyone would expect that she would be asleep. Leaping to her cabinet, she slapped the receiver and barked, "Torres!" /Is there word? Any news?/

"B'Elanna?" The tentative whisper was eerily soft.

"Kes? Is that you?" No answer. Torres was already wrapping herself in her robe and attaching the transmitter. "Kes, can you hear me? Stay there - I'm on my way." She sprinted out the door to the Ocampa's quarters.

Kes was sitting cross-legged, her palms to the floor, beside the bed from which she had evidently tumbled hurriedly. Torres dropped to her knees in front of her, and reached out to cover her hands in her own. The engineer knew that pose. She feared what it meant. In a husky voice she asked, "Kes? Is it Chakotay?"

A silent nod, eyes still closed.

/What has happened? Is he alive? Can you sense him? What's happening, Kes?/ "What can I do?"

"I need your strength. I need you. Help me..."

Torres sensed the urgency without knowing the cause. "Can you walk?"

Blue eyes opened, blinked, focused. In one quick and graceful move she was on her feet. "Take me."

Torres led Kes to Chakotay's quarters and let the two of them inside. With deftness borne of familiarity, she gathered his collection of carved stones. She then knelt with Kes and offered the Ocampa her precious armload. The engineer held her breath, watching Kes resume Chakotay's posture and hold his personal effects.

"He is trapped and badly hurt. He thinks he may die. He's not afraid..." She swallowed and looked Torres in the eye. "He's not afraid of dying, B'Elanna. I don't know what to do. Tom was scared, so scared. He fought. Chakotay is trying to fight, but he isn't afraid." Her eyes, if possible, grew wider. "This is the closest I have ever felt to him. I want to hold on. I can't let him go. I can't let him leave me." She doubled over on herself, eyes squeezed shut, trembling with effort. "No, no, I can't let him -"

Torres knew this was a new step, pushing Kes from merely experiencing events to actually changing them. Could she communicate to them, even influence them on the planet below? Torres's voice was throaty with desperation. "You're right. Don't let him. Don't let him, Kes. He's a fighter. Make him fight."

She nodded and closed her eyes again. Her fingers clenched in fists on the floor. It was almost more than Torres could stand, sitting in Chakotay's quarters, the symbols, the art, the sandalwood musk of a Maquis Captain and a Starfleet First Officer surrounding her, mocking her with his absence. /I'm a fighter, and I can't fight now. The man who means more to me than my own father is dying, slowly, in pain, and I cannot fight./ She could not sit here like this. Turning her back to Kes, she moved to Chakotay's wall. Her fingers traced the paths of the medicine wheel. It was not the first time she had moved the stones across the sacred circle in Chakotay's name.

"Live, Chakotay. Live." The words sounded breathily in a constant rhythm, over and over.

Stinging sleet. Cold rock. Ice formed around Chakotay where he lay, pinned by the carcass of the wallibeve. How long ago had it died? Minutes? Hours? Days? Time had little meaning now to the shivering man. With his free arm he tugged at his fur cloak, trying to tuck it more tightly around himself. Then he draped his arm across his eyes to shield them from the frozen rain.

It was up to him. He had instructed Kim not to look for him, if he should fail to return from a hunting trip. If he were alive, he would find a way back. If not, there would be nothing Kim could do anyway. At least he would know that Kim and Paris were safe. Now, in retrospect, his choice pleased him. The thought was very comforting, indeed.

Images, fragments of ideas, flashed beneath his squeezed eyelids. If he could dismember the animal, he could move it piece by piece until he was free. /I cannot reach my knife, and, even if I could, such a project one-armed would take... longer than I have./ He could sever his own mutilated leg and, using it as leverage against the animal's weight, free his arm. /Without a knife, without a fire to cauterize the wound... besides, that is macabre./ His people had no taboos against suicide, if it were done honorably, and not to avoid shame. /I don't want to die here, slowly, of exposure... but I have no means of taking my own life while I am still strong. Anyway, I am not ready to give up. Not just yet./ His mind churned hundreds of plans, none of which seemed plausible. After some time he grew afraid that his own senses might be slipping, and with them the ability to reach any decision at all. Dying helplessly in irrational panic frightened him the most. He wanted his honor. He wanted his mind.

So he breathed slowly, cleared his thoughts, and searched for his animal spirit guide. Where, in this dismal, frozen scene, was his oasis? Yes. A sheltered glen. Thick grass. Green trees. And there, before him, the dark-eyed timber wolf, drinking from the brook.

And there, beside the familiar creature, drank a golden-haired Ocampa.

The wolf looked up, directly toward Chakotay. It radiated concern.

And Kes looked up, her face creased with worry.

She seemed as if she belonged in the scene, as if she had always been there, as pure and primal and powerful as the rest of his vision.

But she was not supposed to be there.

He opened his eyes to the sleet, flailing his arm in terrible horror. His worst fears seemed to be confirmed. /I am losing my mind, I am tainting my visions with insane hallucinations, I am lost.../

In anguish he twisted, kicking at the dead wallibeve with his one free leg, kicking, kicking, kicking.

Pinned as he was, Chakotay had no idea how he was positioned in relation to the cliff's edge. He could not know that the wallibeve's body, after its death throes, had perched precariously on the ledge's lip. He kicked with all of his strength, in anguish at his own perceived failure, simply lashing out in the only way he could.

His frantic blows sent the heavy carcass tumbling.

He was free.

Kim lumbered into the cabin, chilling drizzle following him. He carried the mud-crusted and bloody form of Chakotay over his shoulder. As he moved toward the fire he caught every blanket in arm's length and dragged it along. Paris immediately sat and kicked his feet over the edge of the bed, wrapping himself in fur and easing himself over by the fire. "Harry?" He knew his friend would understand the question.

"It's bad," was the thin reply, reflecting Kim's concern more than the strain of his burden. Paris was on his knees before the fire first, spreading the furs and making room for the injured Amerindian. Stooping forward himself, wincing at the stifled moan from Chakotay, Kim leaned the commander back onto the pallets and immediately covered him with the blankets. He trembled with cold. His eyes were squeezed shut.

"Chakotay, it's Tom Paris... You're safe in the cabin now." Despite the frailty of the lieutenant's own voice, he sounded calm and competent. Chakotay did not open his eyes, did not respond in any way. Kim gently lifted the rain and sweat-soaked head and helped him drink. Then he poured some more of the water onto a rag and wiped the burning forehead.

"Harry... have you checked him out?"

"I know his leg's hurt. I don't know what else. He's been out there a long time."

Paris nodded and lifted back the blankets, exposing Chakotay's leg. His breath caught in his throat and he almost gagged. Swallowing hard, he stretched over the limb to the other one, running his hands over it in exploration. He repeated the process along the rest of the unmoving body, opening layers of jackets in the process. When he was finished he turned to Kim. "He's cut up in a lot of places... His hands are a mess... But it looks like the leg may be the worst injury."

"It's broken... and the knee is crushed." They both jumped as Chakotay spoke with painstaking clarity, never opening his eyes. Paris could hardly believe that he was conscious, since he had been so still and unresponsive as the younger man had assessed his injuries. Kim lifted his head and slid his knees beneath it, trying to make him more comfortable. The two friends looked at each other expectantly.

"Okay, then, we need to clean you up... and get this leg into a better position -"

"I lost it."

They were both bewildered. Paris asked, "What? You lost what?"

He drew a deep breath. "The animal... the, the wallibeve." The words were excruciatingly slow, as if it took all of his strength to form words, to control his voice, to keep from screaming in pain instead of speaking. "It is dead." He opened his eyes to slivers, just enough to make out the figures at his head and feet. "I'm sorry for... for losing it." He closed his eyes again and swallowed back the cries that filled his throat.

They had no idea what to say. Kim helped him drink once more, and finally stumbled through a response. "It's okay... really." He shrugged theatrically to Paris, who returned the gesture. /How can Chakotay think of wallibeves at a time like this? We almost lost him, too./

Paris thought furiously. He finally relied on his ever-present sarcastic wit. "Yeah, Chakotay... we held a popularity test and... believe it or not... you had more votes than the wallibeve... So it's best that you're the one that came back."

Something that might have been a smile twisted the tightly-pressed lips. "I... demand... a recount."

Relieved glances passed between Paris and Kim.

They washed him quickly, unwilling to let any part of his shivering body grow more chilled. They removed or cut away as much of the soiled clothes as possible and wrapped him warmly in furs and blankets. When the lacerations had been cleaned and the torn hands bandaged, they faced each other again. All that was left was the leg.

"Tom, are you doing all right?"

Slender face creased in concentration, Paris knelt on the floor beside the fire and the fallen officer, rubbing his own aching chest absently. It was more physical activity than he had known in some while, but he was moving slowly and carefully. He nodded. He did not have the luxury of resting yet.

"I'll work on his leg... I'll need you to hold him."

Kim looked to the still form and raised his eyebrow questioningly. The commander hardly seemed able to fight their ministrations.

"Trust me. Just... hold him, okay?" Kim moved to obey, placing Chakotay's head again on his lap and leaning over him, resting his hands on the broad shoulders.

Startling them once again, Chakotay spoke abruptly. "I want... to keep it." The sentence was definitely a statement, but his tone conveyed a question to his two officers.

It was then that Paris realized how utterly defenseless Chakotay felt. The commander, in his own way, was pleading with them not to amputate his wounded leg. At least not now. If possible. Stoic. Proud. Stubborn. /Please, at least let me try to stay whole./

The low, raspy voice - the voice of Paris's illness, accentuated by the recent reversal from which he was still recovering - whispered agreement and warned the reclining man of his impending touch. Then Paris cut away the last shreds of the leggings, careful to move the leg as little as possible. He touched the damp rag to it, trying to remove the worst of the blood and dirt. Chakotay did not move, did not react, did not watch. His jaw was clenched tightly and his white-knuckled hands squeezed fistfuls of fur. Kim maintained a supportive silence, alternately observing Paris's work and looking away from the maimed body.

The swollen, torn, in places unrecognizable limb rested in an unnatural angle, both from the break and the lack of a functional knee joint. Paris fidgeted and cleared his throat. "I'm gonna have to... move it now, Chakotay." A short nod communicated the commander's understanding. Paris shot a quick glance to Kim and mouthed, "Hold him." The ensign kept his hands on Chakotay's shoulders.

Biting his lip, Paris lifted the leg and tried to realign it, feeling for the ends of the broken bone. Immediately Chakotay arched his back, pulling a stunned Kim off his knees. They struggled, the younger man twining his arms through the commander's, fighting the reflexive responses that made the wounded man buck and heave so violently. He was strong even after his ordeal, moreso than Kim had anticipated. His face twisted in a mask of agony, his mouth open in a scream that had no voice. He held his breath, fighting for some dignity in the midst of overwhelming pain. As they embraced and struggled, Paris adjusted the leg in his best approximation of its proper position. The unnatural feel of the knee - like small marbles beneath smooth leather - made his stomach lurch. He finally drew away, himself trembling and sweat-soaked.

"I'll have to splint this... and wrap the knee." He whispered, scooting away on his knees to locate the appropriate materials. Kim started to disentangle himself from Chakotay and help, but Paris waved at him to remain in place. "Stay there... I can handle it." Both Kim and Chakotay sank back wearily and sipped water from the bowl within Kim's reach.

When Paris was ready to begin again, Kim linked arms with Chakotay once more. The commander could not help his desperate flailings as Paris moved the mutilated limb. When Paris began with the knee, Kim could hardly hold him.

"C'mon, Chakotay," Paris hissed fiercely, himself intensely pained by the mute grimace on the flushed face. "You don't have to... prove anything to us... Scream all you like."

There was no reply. But when Paris tightened the bandages around the knee, Chakotay cried out mindlessly, deep, guttural, dry sobs. Once he began it was difficult to stop. His throat was raw before Paris finished with the knee. When the lieutenant was through, all three men sagged in exhaustion. Chakotay turned his face toward the fire, away from the officers, gasping for breath. Paris shook his head. /I don't know how the man stays conscious through all this./

"Just the splint now," he sighed, coughing quietly. Kim ached to help his frail friend with this work, but he knew Paris could not hold Chakotay if they traded tasks. So he obediently tightened his grasp and, with a reassuring squeeze to Chakotay, steeled himself to weather this last storm.

It was a makeshift effort, but it was all any of them could handle. They could construct a sturdier brace later. They had set the leg. That was the important thing. Keeping Chakotay warm and giving him water, slowly strengthening him, would occupy the next few hours. Or days. Kim disentangled himself and pillowed Chakotay's head with rolled furs. As easily as Paris had stepped forward to choreograph their medical efforts, Kim now took the lead. Quietly, he slipped over to the drooping Paris and washed his blood-streaked arms and hands. Then he then guided the lieutenant, now coughing harshly, to his bed. The spent navigation officer nodded his thanks and curled himself around the covers, holding still until his breathing eased. "I'll keep an eye on him," Kim whispered, and Paris smiled gratefully before fading into shallow sleep.

Kim then leaned over the commander and added a log to the fire, poking and prodding and stirring the embers into a blaze. Chakotay still shivered as his body fought its injuries and remembered its exposure. He clearly had a fever, but he had not shown any signs of delirium. Kim arranged the coverings around him, leaving the wads of fur again squeezed in each fist undisturbed. Then he straightened, sighing softly, considering his next move. /Water. Yes, we'll need more of that./ He gathered the biggest bowls together. As he stepped to the door he turned, considering the sleeping lieutenant and the silently suffering commander. His two patients. His responsibilities.

From beneath flickering eyelids Chakotay watched the ensign as he worked around the cabin. They had managed well, the two of them, dividing the labor and making a life. Now he was lame, flat on his back, and their every need fell to Kim. It wasn't right that the gentle man, the youngest, least experienced of the three, should have to pull their combined weight alone. Kim turned at the doorway and glanced at each of them in turn. Then he opened the door and faced the night with determination, squaring his shoulders before dissolving into the darkness. The subtle transformation was not lost on Chakotay. Kim knew what this all meant. He understood that the very fabric of their lives here would have to be rewoven. He would take care of them. He would provide. He would hold all three of them together.

It broke Chakotay's heart.

In the next days, the only way Paris could tell if Chakotay were awake or unconscious was the color of his clenched knuckles. The fists that held his covers never opened, but they relaxed enough to allow circulation when he was unconscious. When he was awake, they became a bloodless white. Paris did not force him to talk. When Kim was busy, Paris saw to it that the commander had water close at hand. But he would not take food, not yet. Fever still beaded his brow with sweat, and pain still creased his features.

Finally, on the third day since Kim had found him, Chakotay woke Paris with the sound of movement. He was half-sitting on his pallet by the fire, trying to open the wrappings around his leg. His movements were clumsy and his face was twisted in concentration as he fought for energy for what seemed to be a mammoth task. Paris shifted silently so he could observe Chakotay through narrowed eyes. He knew better than to interrupt the commander's efforts. If the stubborn Amerindian wanted help, he would ask for it. Nevertheless, the lieutenant kept an eye on the older man, just to be sure.

He shook with weakness and with the fever that refused to break. But eventually he laid the maimed limb bare save for the splint. As he unwrapped the knee he failed to bite back the quiet whimpers that filled his throat. Then he turned toward the fire. The light of the glowing embers reflected on the surface of a knife blade.

Before he could think, Paris was beside him, white, slender, blue-veined hand closing over the trembling, burning almond arm. "Whaddya think you're doin'?" He whispered harshly.

Chakotay flinched, clearly startled by the lieutenant's appearance. He did not let the knife fall, but he did not wrench away or fight, as the lieutenant had expected. It dawned on Paris that Chakotay was now too weak to struggle against even him. Instead of reacting in anger, he bent his head over until it was resting against Paris's shoulder. Thus steadying himself, he spoke in jerky fragments so quietly that the blond head had to bow beside the grey-streaked one in order to understand.

"My leg... Fever... Gotta burn... Infection... Feel so strange... Gotta fix before... While I'm still... Got my senses." He sagged against the younger man, despondent over his own lack of clarity, his own inability to control himself. Then, just as quickly as he had given in to the despair, he pulled away feebly, tugging at his imprisoned arm, impatient.

"Easy, easy." Paris disarmed him, wincing at the desperate moan the move evoked, and pressed him back into the furs.

Chakotay squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself to speak. "Don't.... stop.... me," he growled through his teeth. /Don't try to play hero now, Paris, you don't understand. Can't you see that I'm fighting for my life? I am not trying to hurt myself, you idiot, I am trying to save myself! Why do you even care, anyway?/ "Don't ... stop..."

"Shhh. I am not... trying to stop you, ya big idiot... I'm trying to help you." He coughed into his sleeve, reluctantly turned to look at the leg, then faced Chakotay again. "You're right, it looks infected... And your fever hasn't broken... You think that," he swallowed convulsively, "lancing the wound with a hot knife... will help it. That's what you were trying to tell me... Am I getting the gist here?"

Chakotay nodded slowly, relief easing the lines that seemed permanently drawn on the swarthy face. He lifted his shaking, bandaged palm, open, as if to ask for the knife's return.

"What do you think... you're gonna do in your condition?"

Chakotay's eyes narrowed angrily. /Try. I think I am going to try./

Paris sighed. "I'd ask you if... if you trusted me... but I don't wanna know." He thrust the blade into the glowing embers himself. "Rest easy... It'll be okay." Chakotay's brown eyes stared at him for a moment, and grew wider when Paris placed a gentle hand on the broad shoulder. It shattered the carefully cultivated space between them. Paris froze as he was, holding his breath. Moments passed. Then Chakotay closed his eyes in compliance. In trust.

It was a gift Paris truly did not expect.

She stepped to the podium matter-of-factly, with little word of introduction. "Let's get this underway, shall we? I know all of you have been very concerned about Commander Chakotay, Lieutenant Paris, and Ensign Kim. You know that we have reason to believe that they are alive on the surface, where they crash-landed weeks ago. You also know that we have reason to believe that their shuttle is unable to break free of the atmosphere of the planet. Furthermore, Lieutenant Torres and her engineering team have devised a means of penetrating this atmosphere and escaping from it successfully."

"Lieutenant Torres and Kes were forced to abort their rescue attempt, however, due to an unforeseen situation. It seems that the continent side of the planet is entering a deep winter, one which will become far worse before it gets better. This would make a search almost impossible."

"After a great deal of deliberation, I have ordered Voyager to maintain a stationary orbit around the planet until we can launch a rescue team. There have been questions regarding my order, which is why I speak to you know. This was not an easy decision. This will take months away from our journey, particularly when we consider that we do not know how long a search effort will take. As we find ourselves in a relatively resource-dry system, this will also mean that we will deplete our stocks. But I will not leave those men. If we find ourselves judging such situations by convenience, well, when we will return to the Alpha Quadrant we'll be lucky to have a skeleton crew aboard. We must remain committed to each other if we are to survive. I am dedicated to returning those three officers to their posts before we leave this system."

"I appreciate the fact that this is a strain on us all. We miss our friends and crewmates. We feel helpless. But we are not. We are doing, and we will do, our best to resolve this situation as soon as possible. Until that time, I appreciate your patience and your support."

The sea of faces did not completely mirror her feigned confidence.

One crewman's voice in particular rose above the dull roar of whispers. Gesturing wildly, he turned his back on Janeway to speak to those behind him. He shook his head exaggeratedly.

"Do you have an insight to offer, Crewman?"

He whirled and swallowed, uncertain.

"Do you?" she repeated.

"We're twiddling our thumbs for months so we can send one shuttle to save the day? Without communication? While we wait again? Vulnerable to who knows what in the meantime?"

"That's what I said."

The crewman glanced around the hall and grew bolder as he registered scattered looks of support. "You're taking quite a risk!"

"So are you, Mister." Her voice was threateningly soft.

No one spoke.

"This is not a subject for debate. The decision is made. Dismissed."

She turned on her heel and left.

The chime sounded.

Kathryn Janeway did not move.

"Captain, it is Tuvok." The voice was muffled but the words were clear.

"Come." The door slid open and the Vulcan entered. The captain remained as she was, half curled on the sofa, one hand clamped across her eyes.

"You've come to stick pins?" Her voice drawled, slurred with fatigue. She knew without looking the cocked head and the drawn brows, lips pursed to question her obtuse query. With her other hand she waved away his response. "Forget it."

He stood silently, waiting for some sign from her. "Stand by me, Tuvok." The plea was a whisper.
"Always."

She jerked toward him, eyes suddenly narrowed suspiciously, pouncing on what she thought was a poorly-timed jest. But her reflexive retort stuck in her throat. Tuvok was not making a not-so-Vulcan attempt at humor. He was stating a fact. A fact she desperately needed to hear.

She gasped with the comprehension of what he was saying. Her eyes filled with tears. Before she melted completely she returned her eyes to the safe shield of her hand. "So... what brings you here, Tuvok?"

"You require rest."

A harsh, throaty laugh. "Thanks for the obvious. I'll wager even you need rest by now. But you can't distract me so easily, old friend. What's on your mind?"

"Certain members of the crew disagree with your actions regarding the landing party-"

"I know."

"Some are saying that the wait is too long and that Voyager should return to its primary objective of returning home. Conversely, others want to take more steps to help the Away Team. They claim that abandoning the men to the winter surface is a death sentence."

She was still nodding. "I know, Tuvok."

"From both camps, I detect a distinct unease about Kes and her abilities."

/This is new./ "Fear of her or fear for her?"

"Both, depending on how well each person knows her."

/What are you saying to me, Tuvok? What's the subtext here? I've known you too long... I'm not so tired that I'm oblivious to your subtleties./ "I sound like some continual loop, but I'll say it again. Kes has made her choice and I will defend it." She was speaking into her own arm, eyes still covered, as if reciting the words of a familiar script. "The Doctor and Neelix agree with you, don't they?" Nonchalant. Calculated.

"I was not merely discussing the three of us -"

"They agree with you, don't they? Where are they now?" /Oh, I've got you./

A pause. "I would expect to find them both in the sickbay."

"Where you left them." /Gotcha./

"Yes."

Uncurling legs and arms she slapped the monitor before her. "Janeway to sickbay."

"Well, hello, Captain, what can I -"

"Listen to me. All three of you." Her voice was low, far more intimidating than the harshest scream. Neelix's startled face appeared beside the Doctor's in the viewscreen. Beside Janeway, Tuvok's eyes never left hers. "I know you care about Kes a great deal. You fear for her health and her stability. But did you ever stop to think that your constant interjections, your second-guessing and disapproval, they have added more stress onto her shoulders than anything else? She admires all of you, and your combined pressure pulls her in the opposite direction of what she's experiencing. You're tearing her apart!"

Tuvok stiffened. The Doctor frowned. Neelix blustered. Janeway continued. "You are so terrified of her attention being elsewhere, that you can't see what you are doing to her. If you cared for her, you would respect her decision to pursue this link. You would encourage and support her. You would... act like adults."

She sank against the table, spent with anger. "Please, please either help her... or just let her be. Janeway out." She terminated the link before either voice from sickbay could be heard. Then, guiltily, she faced Tuvok. "Diplomatic, aren't I?"

"As I said before, you require rest."

She smiled sadly.

"I didn't mean to come across harshly. It's not my place to be so judgmental. But you of all people should appreciate what I am trying to say." Turning on her heel, she stretched and sighed. "Where is logic in all this?"

"Captain, I require... further time for thought. It appears my logic falters..." He found no more words.

"Goodnight, Tuvok." She folded back into the couch and wrapped her arms around herself, facing away from him. She was too tired for any more dramatics tonight.

He paused at the door and looked over his shoulder. She waited, unmoving, for him to speak. But he did not. He just turned and left.

The night was still young, but the three men snowed inside the little cabin had no means of knowing it. They were wrapped in darkness, insulated by snow that fell from a sunless sky. But they had planned for such a situation and could survive for some time. The hours fell into cycles of camaraderie and quiet.

Paris had been working on the written log by the firelight, but had almost exhausted every possibly noteworthy detail. It was hard to concentrate, anyway, since Kim was experimenting with the recorder. The tune escaped Paris. It was vaguely familiar, irritatingly so.

"What is that, Harry?" He finally blurted his question, underestimating the volume of his exasperated query. Both Kim and his audience, a quiet, thoughtful Chakotay, jumped at the loud words. The voice grew stronger every day, the speech less winded and interrupted with coughs.

"Balsunni. Why?"

"I couldn't place it and it was driving me crazy."

Kim shrugged. "It's classic. I'm sure you've heard it around. Maybe you even had it in the music appreciation course at the Academy."

Chakotay groaned eloquently.

"What?" The smile on Kim's face contrasted with the confrontational tone of his question.

He shifted in the chair Kim had made for him, which was covered in thick fur and complete with an attached half-stool for his immobile leg. "I don't want to revisit that. I made the mistake of opting out of the general course in favor of one of the elective special studies. But the one I wanted filled up and I ended up stuck in 'The Andorian Opera'." Shaking his head, he flashed a rare smile. "The only good thing about Andorian opera is that all the characters die in the finale."

"I opted out, too, but I got 'Bob Dylan as Poetry'." Paris punctuated his words with a thumbs-up sign.

"They teach a whole course on one songwriter?" Kim was amazed.

"This is back when Crawford was a prof -"

"I heard about her. Eccentric." Chakotay nodded his understanding.

"Yeah, she usually got her way. And she loved Dylan. Could she teach. Sometimes she even sang along. It was a great course." He leaned forward, folding the journal and storing it under the bed. He coughed quietly. "And I have always been partial to mid-twentieth century Western music."

"Well, don't expect me to play requests. A little Rogers and Hammerstein, a little Andrew Lloyd Webber, and that does it for me." Kim resumed his Balsunni.

"Oh, come on, we're all Humans here. At least play some Earth tunes!" Paris's voice became low and coaxing, still gravelly, yet reminiscent of his earlier self. "And an accomplished musician like you should know some of the greats of rock and roll, don't you think?"

Kim lowered his recorder and glared.

"I'm serious! The stuff's great. And addictive!"

"Since when did you study early rock music?" Chakotay asked, bemused.

"It was a natural extension of my love of early automobiles. They had radios, you know. When I started making holosuite programs with the old cars, it only seemed right to have them playing period music. Late 1950s, early '60s stuff. When rock was born."

"For example?" Kim prompted him.

"Uh, let's see. The best was Buddy Holly... " He paused, waiting for reaction.

Kim shook his head. "Nope." Chakotay shrugged.

"Oh, come on! Talk about classic! I'm sure you have heard of him. How about 'That'll Be The Day'? 'Maybe Baby'? 'It's So Easy'?" His eyes darted back and forth at the two as they stared back blankly at him. He sighed in frustration, running his fingers through his long hair.

He tried again. "'Not Fade Away'?" No response. He groaned.

And suddenly came alive.

"I'm a gonna tell you how it's gonna be,
Bop, bop, bop-bop."

Kim and Chakotay exchanged stunned looks and then stared speechlessly at the finger-snapping Lieutenant with the wavering tenor.

"You're gonna give your love to me,
Bop, bop, bop-bop."

Kim couldn't keep from snickering. Paris was not deterred.

"I'm gonna love you night and day,
Bop, bop, bop-bop.
You know my lovin' not fade away."

Chakotay was grinning now, his dimples obvious in his weathered face. Kim was laughing outright.

"You know my lovin' not fade away."

He ended his concert breathlessly, pointing both index fingers at Kim, now lying on his side on the floor, hysterical. Chakotay clapped grudgingly.

"Nice snapping technique and thoughtful hand choreography. But don't quit your day job, Lieutenant."

Kim finally caught his breath. "You're a man of many talents, Tom. But I still say I'd never heard of this Buddy before."

"Buddy Holly, Harry. And that's a defect of your education that, thankfully, I can remedy." He smiled animatedly, coughing into his sleeve, clearly enjoying himself. "What about the Big Bopper?"

Kim dissolved into laughter again. "You gotta be kidding! Big Bopper?!?!?"

Laughing, too, Paris waved away that discussion. "Ritchie Valens?"

"What did he do?"

"A great dance song called 'La Bamba'."

"La what?"

"'La Bamba'. It was about.... uh, I'm not sure what it was about." His brow wrinkled in thought, and he scratched at his beard. "Something about a 'soy captain'." He coughed quietly and cleared his throat.

"A soy captain? What's that?" Kim registered Paris's confusion and turned to Chakotay.

"Hmm... the twentieth century saw new breakthroughs in non-meat-based forms of protein. Wasn't soy one of those sources? Soybeans and soy oil? Maybe this captain harvested or shipped it... " Even as he spoke, his face reflected the fact that Chakotay did not buy his own theory.

"So let me see if I have this straight. This wild and crazy dance song is about a guy who harvests vegetarian protein supplements?" Paris narrowed his eyes in disapproval as Kim rolled on the floor, laughing. But soon all three of them succumbed to the humor of the moment. It struck Kim that he had not seen Paris look so happy - or so well - in months. Talking about the music he loved clearly made him feel better.

When they finally settled down, Kim agreed to learn a few early rock ballads on the recorder. Paris would hum hoarsely and Kim would copy the tune.

His "True Love Ways" was quite good.

[ From "Not Fade Away," written by Hardin-Petty and first performed by Buddy Holly.

This refers to "La Bamba," traditional folk song. Best known as performed by Ritchie Valens.]

She was still in uniform. It did not matter. Fewer and fewer things did these days. Her mind remained dizzyingly preoccupied, overwhelmed by fears she seemed powerless to combat. Kes and her sanity. The crew and mutiny. She had tried to hold it all together, to show a decisive, professional, unswerving face. Now she wondered if, instead, she had not made herself into an aloof, ineffective figurehead, inspiring neither trust nor loyalty. Paralyzed. And it all paled in comparison to the aching need she had inside to find her three lost officers.

The holonovel, so long unused, now was forwarded to the end. It was raining. She shivered with cold. With a few weary gestures Janeway released her hair to fall to her shoulders. She stood there, the water soaking her. A fist closed around her communicator, seized it, and let it fall to the deck.

The unkempt, grey manor house before her hid behind an opaque, chilled dusk.

"'Quite a desolate spot'." She quoted Bronte under her breath and sighed. "Yes, old gal, I'd say so. That's exactly where I am." /And I'm not thinking about Ferndean, either./ A long-silent part of her mind reminded her of the next line. It was mockingly appropriate on so many levels. The irony jarred her as she spoke.

"Can there be life here?"

On cue the narrow front-door creaked open and a shadowed figure emerged. He stretched out a hand to check the weather. The bare-headed form felt the rain but stepped forwarded nonetheless. Groping, shuffling uncertainly, the proud, maimed man made his way onto the grass. His tucked his mutilated arm to his chest. His sightless eyes stared broodingly into blackness.

Rochester represented everything that was lost to Janeway. The broad, dark frame with the mane of blue-black hair. The vulnerability of a fallen soul. The promise of innocence and ability. He was dear. He was hurt. He was in need.

The program meant nothing. She disregarded the story she had loved for so long. She took him in her arms. This lost, wounded man she could save and soothe and salve. He was a Chakotay-Paris-Kim amalgam waiting for her to find him. To show him her strength and care. Things she could give. She had been waiting to give. She had to give.

"Who is it? What is it?" The brusque voice demanded.

"Computer, delete audio."

The character remained, standing in the rain. After a moment he leaned into her strong arms as would a small child. She whispered many things to him. Promises. Praise. He would be well and whole and happy. Her sound body and her full heart and her sharp mind would lead him from desolation and deliver him from danger. She was not helpless, no, not anymore. She could feel his heartbeat. This rescue was real.

/No more pain for you, no more pain for you.../

It was a sacred thing, there in the dark and cold and rain. She closed her eyes and rocked him.

When words failed her, she simply cried.

Across the ship, in the mess hall, tempers flared. Crew members grew restless and worried. Arguments erupted. Plans formed. And yet agitators who did not agree could still joke in anger together that Janeway was nowhere to be found. As they fought over their fate, they saw no evidence of sleeplessness from the captain. That was her problem. The woman of stone had no heart. She talked about sticking together, but where was she?

They had prepared well. Before the first snow fell stacks of firewood lined the interior cabin walls, and dried herbs and wild vegetables hung from the overhead beams. Dried meat also hung from above and filled woven sacks. They were stocked to weather harsh winter days.

But there was a limit to what they could do to compensate for limited resources and mobility. All three of them recognized that constant time without privacy and movement outdoors would be difficult. Chakotay was recovering, trying to regain a measure of independence, testing the limits of his crippled leg. Paris was always aware that his troubled breaths and frequent coughing punctuated the night and rattled already frayed nerves. He maintained the log book and strained to find anything to arrest his frantic attention.

And Kim cared for both of them, acting the nurse and the peacemaker and a thousand other gentle roles. He performed the necessary chores, braved the obstacles they could not physically face, and provided the buffer personality between the two powerful personas. And daily he tried to respect the walls erected by his commanding officer and by his friend. As one officer strove for soundness and the other for self-respect, he helped them most by what he did not say and did not do.

And he came to discover that people could be loneliest of all when they were not alone.

All of his good intentions could not smother the fires that occasionally blazed between them. And all of his good intentions could not change the fact that their precious stores grew increasingly, alarmingly depleted. They rationed fuel. They rationed food. And the snow remained.

Every ballad he could play, combined, could not feed them or keep them warm.

END OF CHAPTER TWO