Chrysalis, Chapter Two:

"He wanted to protect the innocent... and separate the darkness from the light. But he didn't realize that a light only shines in the dark… and sometimes innocence... is just an excuse for the guilty."

-Mjr. Kira Nerys, "The Darkness and the Light"

-----

There are some words that, once spoken, can never be reclaimed, some promises that, once made, can never be broken. Some know them as blood oaths, others as vows...

But to Jason Madden, they were called a deal with the devil.

He had made the decision to die, had accepted the fact that the end was coming towards him with all of the inevitability of a landslide, but in the end, as he had lain dying on the cold bunk as Rakiin had made his offer, his conviction had wavered. He had chosen to live, no matter the cost.

Now, two Khanate doctors laid his damaged body carefully within the tall glass coffin, lowering the clear lid as they prepared him for his descent into suspended animation. The wound in his chest still burned with an icy flame, but he could feel the sensation begin to fade away as the first wisps of frigid gas entered the casket. Death's icy touch lessened, replaced by the arctic cold of cryonic sleep.

What would Alex think of him now, he wondered? Jason the strong, Jason the Brave, reduced to a pathetic wreck, the next breath more important to him than his own values, his own beliefs, his own friends? He had always been impulsive, the brash shout to Alex's thoughtful whisper. He had never before realized how much he had needed Alex, how much Alex had become the conscience that kept him from crossing the line. They had been two sides of the same coin, twin reflections in the mirror.

To save his own skin, he had betrayed his best friend and he had betrayed the very ideals of the Federation. He was a Commander in Starfleet. He was supposed to be shining and pure, self-sacrificing and wise, a figure that future generations could aspire to.

He was none of those things. He was a failure, complete and absolute.

As the glass panels on the sepulchre frosted over, he could see the world outside dim as it entered a dusk that existed for him and him alone, his eyesight dimming as his mind shut down. And as he watched Rakiin's face vanish behind the forming ice crystals, as his mind struggled to escape the ice that encroached upon it, he felt a new resolve burning inside.

He was alive. And where there's life, there's hope.

If he could have, Jason would have grinned. For one brief instant, he had faltered, he had looked for the easy way out, but the very mistake that had brought him here could be useful. He was onboard the Gilgamesh, about to become the head of Rakiin's guard. In that position, he would have power, the ability to safeguard Alex from the very heart of the hunt for him. Power. That was the answer. Not the power to change the Universe, not the power to control empires, but the power to help a friend. A man could have all the best intentions in the world, but without the power to make them come to pass, he could do nothing but sit and watch the world go by.

Jason had always protected Alex from the world around them, had always stood between him and danger, and now, even in this Universe, Jason would continue to do so.

Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. He had never really understood the saying, having never truly had an enemy. Now though, he understood. He understood perfectly. To save Alex, stay away from him, and stay close to the Khanate.

Keep your enemies close, but keep away from your friends.

And with that thought to guide him in the darkness, Jason Madden closed his eyes.

-----

"Go to, go to; you have known what you should not."

The words sat on the yellowed page, the ancient print indelibly inked onto the brittle and decaying paper, their black forms sharp beneath her long tapered fingers.

"She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that; Heaven knows what she has known."

Alone in her library, her features lit only by the dim light above her desk, Aishwarya reread the lines over and over, her eyes barely moving from the single spot on the page as her fingers traced the words.

"Here's the smell of the blood still; all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh!"

She had read those words thousand of times since she had been a child, absorbing every word that William Shakespeare had written fourteen centuries ago, and yet, for the first time, she truly understood the words. She could feel the blood on her hands, even though not a drop had ever splashed on her skin. She could remember how it had felt to pull the trigger, to snuff out the lives of both of the Jem'Hadar guards. Now, she knew how it felt to be her Brother, how it felt to commit a murder with a smile on her face and a song of joy in her heart. She knew now how it was to wash her hands and know that they would never come clean, that the blood that stained them would stain them forever. She had taken two lives, willingly and without a second thought, and now that it was done, the action haunted her.

But how was the alternative any better? If she had not done what she had done, if she had committed the crime of inaction, three lives would now be gone, instead of only two. Jason Madden. Commander Starfleet. Alexander Carver. Lieutenant Starfleet. Selene Weller. Captain of the Icarus. She repeated the names to herself over and over, unwilling to forget the people that she had tried to save. And yet, at the same time, she struggled to forget the names of the lives she had stolen.

Hal'Toran. Fifth. Third Regiment. Assigned to the Personal Guard of Shade, Changeling Inquisitor to Lord Rakiin.

Ton'Moral. Sixth. Third Regiment. Assigned to the Personal Guard of Shade, Changeling Inquisitor to Lord Rakiin.

With a soft sigh, she closed the book, running her hands across the leather bound tome one last time, feeling the sensation of rough leather beneath her fingertips. For the first time she could ever remember, her books were bringing her no comfort. Every word she read, every page she turned, every book she opened only reminded her of those two Jem'Hadar guards, of the sounds that their bodies made as they fell to the deck, of the feel of the plasma rifle recoiling in her hands.

Their eyes haunted her, the shock and surprise etched in them as they had watched the sister of their Lord cold-bloodedly end their lives. Two sentient beings, dead by her hand.

She was a murderer.

Without a sound, she stood and replaced her copy of MacBeth on the shelf, her hand brushing over the covers of it's sister volumes. Hamlet, prince of Denmark. The story of a man consumed by the need to avenge his father. Julius Caesar. The story of betrayal.

With an annoyed sigh, she turned from the bookshelf. There would be no solace in words today.

Sitting down in one of the high-backed chairs, she stared into the darkness of her library, contemplating the list of crimes she was guilty of. Allowing a murderer to go free. Rakiin had murdered their father, this was a fact, an unshakable reality. Yet had she made him pay, had she avenged her father's murder? No. Was she guilty? Yes.

Murder. Two lives taken by her hands. Was she guilty? Yes.

Attempted murder. The Changeling, Shade, was still recovering from her attack. She had not killed him, but that had been incidental. When she had fired her weapon at him, it had been her purpose to kill. Was she guilty? Yes.

Failure to take responsibility for her actions. Herma'Taklan, while hardly an innocent, would be made to pay for her crimes. With a single word, she could admit her treason, but would that save the Jem'Hadar Commander? No. Rakiin would still punish him for no other reason than to see it done. Was she guilty? Yes.

And what had all of her crimes gained her? What prize had she won? Jason Madden, who she had endeavoured to save, was trapped even now in suspended animation, his ruined body frozen at the brink of death by the order of her brother. She knew what Rakiin would do to him. Jason Madden would lose himself, would be recreated as a weapon, a creature whose only purpose was to kill. In her mind's eye, she could see him sitting across from her, his eyes gazing beyond the hull of the Gilgamesh, concern for his friend etched on his features. To Rakiin, Madden was simply a tool, a sword to be wielded as he wished, but to Aishwarya, Jason Madden was a man, take him for all in all, and she had never before met his like. He was kind and honourable, and Rakiin would take that from him. He would become cold and callous, more like Rakiin, more like the Jem'Hadar.

She could prevent it. She could stop it all before it was even given a chance to begin. Looking down, she stared at the knife she always kept, her dark eyes hard. Yes. She could end it.

Standing, she made to leave the library. There were enough crimes laid at her feet, she would be found guilty of inaction once again.

-----

Rakiin sat in darkness, staring at the fingers of his new hand as he clenched and unclenched his fist, watching the hesitation in the muscles and tendons, cursing the weakness he felt. Genetically, the hand was no different from his real one, a prosthetic grown from his own cell samples. It was perfect, not even so much as a scar where it had been attached, but he felt as though it were a failure, as though he would take more comfort if his body would reject the hand, watching it wither away into a gangrenous stump.

Tearing his eyes away from the prosthetic, he fixed his gaze on the floor of his observation room, watching the swirling currents of Transwarp dance beneath him, but even that sight could not hold his gaze. His dark eyes found themselves consistently drawn back to a single spot on the floor, his feet leading him back to that horrific memory of failure.

He could see Kordath beneath him, the ancient Klingon's chest bleeding from the long wound that Rakiin himself had inflicted. He could feel himself raising his own blade, readying for the killing stroke that would rid him of the Klingon forever.

Control. That was the first lesson you taught me.

The phantom's eyes lifted to meet his own, it's insubstantial gaze filled with hatred and contempt.

But it was not the last.

Angrily, Rakiin spun from the spot where he had lost his hand, again flexing the fingers of the prosthetic replacement. Control. Fighting Kordath, he had been overconfident, certain that he had defeated the Klingon. He had believed himself to be in control of the battle, pushing Kordath to where he had wished him to be, goading his old teacher to his death, when, in fact, it had been Kordath commanding the ebb and flow of their fight.

His feet led him to another spot, where the floor was still stained with milky white blood. A ghostly Jem'Hadar knelt before him, blood dripping from the wound that Rakiin had cut into it's face. The features of the former Jem'Hadar commander were emotionless as it swore to capture the humans or die trying.

You are dead!

Scowling, Rakiin turned away from Herma'Taklan's ghostly form, remembering the rage that had filled him as he had attacked the Jem'Hadar. Yet another loss of control, another failure.

I like control, Commander, and you have taken some of that away from me.

His own words to Jason Madden haunted him. This room haunted him. The entire journey to Earth had been a monumental failure, both as a commander and as a man. He had always prided himself on control, but now... He had lost a battle to an overaged, lightly-armed cargo ship. He had lost a battle to an old man, who, while skilled, should have been an easy death. And finally, he had lost the battle with himself. He had become obsessive, his entire vision focusing on the deaths of the crew of the cargo ship, and it had cost him.

Long ago, he had studied the death of Khan, watching the data stolen from Starfleet centuries before, observing as the cameras aboard both the Enterprise and the Reliant had captured every moment of the great Khan's downfall. He had watched, transfixed, as the greatest leader the Khanate people had ever known had descended into madness and obsession. Khan Noonien Singh had lost control over himself, and the cost had been his own life, while his enemy had escaped.

Rakiin glanced down at his clenched fist. His cost had been smaller, but no less terrible. He had been maimed, and his enemy had escaped. He had proven to himself that his control was lacking.

Perhaps it was time to do something about that.

-----

Hatred burned in Herma'Taklan's dead heart, rage threatening to consume him as he knelt on the floor of his cell, his arms stretched out to his sides, his chains holding him to the bulkheads. The manacles he wore on his wrists and ankles were tight, their metallic surfaces biting deep into his skin with any movement he made, and so he remained still, the only sign that he still breathed the rise and fall of his chest.

His armour had been stripped from him, leaving him bare-chested in the cold cell, his pale white skin crisscrossed with scars and newer, fresher wounds. Each wound told a tale, each scar a tactile souvenir of a memory. A circular scar directly in the middle of his chest, where he had been shot with an ancient projectile weapon. Three long claw marks that raked across his abdomen, the gift from a long dead Romulan Raptor. The thin round wound that nearly bisected his right arm, a training accident as a child. His first and last. All of these were old wounds, faded to a slightly paler white than his own ivory skin, but it was the newest that had killed him.

A long, jagged knife wound that ran across his face, recent and still raw, inflicted on him by his own Lord and Master as penance for his failure. It was a mark of his disgrace, of his dishonour. A Jem'Hadar gave up his life before battle, reclaiming it only when he returned with victory in hand. His Lord Rakiin had given him an order, to capture the Human, Carver, and Herma'Taklan had failed, had returned with the battle lost. His life, such as it was, was forfeit. He was no longer worthy to serve, and a Jem'Hadar who could not serve was dead.

He had been prepared for the execution, had been ready to welcome it as a release from the living death which he had endured since failing to capture Carver. The blade would fall, ending his body's life, allowing his soul to be reborn, free of the taint of failure, free to serve again.

But the expected blow did not come. He had knelt, chained in this cell, as his penance had been read to him. He would not be allowed to die. He would be forced to remain in this state, his soul trapped, his body alive, without a master to serve. He would become a pariah in Jem'Hadar society, his entire culture denouncing him as the living dead. To a Jem'Hadar warrior, this was a fate worse than death. This was the very imprisonment of his soul, forcing his body to grow old and die as his soul withered away and faded into nothingness. He would not be reborn. He would not be allowed to serve in the next life, because, for him, there would be no next life.

Herma'Taklan was a warrior, a killer. He had fought in battles that would make most men tremble with horror. He had made the application of violence an art unto itself. But the thought of losing his soul, of not being reborn, of never being allowed to serve again...

It filled him with a terror he had never known.

-----

Aishwarya strode through the corridors of the Gilgamesh, her long skirts brushing the floors as she walked. The knife hidden in her belt was heavy, it's tiny form weighing her down with every step. Never before had she noticed how many people lived aboard the cruiser, but today, she took note of every Jem'Hadar who stood at attention, of every Khanate who bowed as she crossed their paths. Her face was locked in an expression of mixed anger and resignation, a carefully preserved mask to match her carefully maintained heart rate. She forced herself to remain calm, to think of what she was about to do as a mercy, a sign that she was better than Rakiin, that she, at least, was more humane, if not Human.

But try as she might, she found that she could not lie to herself. She tried to focus on what Jason Madden would become, rather than on what he had been. Rakiin would train him like he would a dog, leaving Jason Madden a broken shell, capable only of obeying orders. The humanity that had so enchanted Aishwarya would be gone, lost forever beneath the stone visage of a killer. He would hunt down the friend that he had sacrificed everything for, simply because he was told to do it. He would be more monster than man. But every time she thought of what he would be, she considered what he was. Kind and honourable, selfless, willing to sacrifice himself for his friends. He was proof of what Humanity could become if they were given a chance. He was proof that her beliefs were true, that simply because a person's genes were unmodified, it did not mean that they were inferior.

However, Madden now only had two paths before him. To die as Jason Madden, the Starfleet Commander, or to live as Jason Madden, servant of the Khanate.

What right did she have to choose for him?

As she approached the medical ward, she paused. Like Madden, Aishwarya found that she too had only two paths to choose from. To kill him, or to allow him to live. If she killed him, she would be killed in turn, but she would die knowing that Madden had been freed. If she allowed him to live, his future actions could escalate the war, resulting in nothing but death. In the end, it was reduced to simple numbers.

Two lives.

To save billions.

She reached for her knife.

-----

The urge to scream, to tear free of these restraints and to simply kill was growing to an almost overwhelming state, but still Herma'Taklan knelt, bound to the walls. A near infinite number of scenarios played through his mind, each one growing increasingly violent. To tear the chains from the walls and charge would end in his death. To slip free and hide throughout the ship, killing anyone that crossed his path, would eventually lead to his death. Every single plan ended in death, ending in the release of his soul.

But still he knelt, his expression unchanging.

The life of a Jem'Hadar warrior was spent in service, eternal and unending. Like the ancient Jem'Hadar who had come before him, Herma'Taklan existed only to live and die in the service of his Lord, to follow his Lord's commands, to bring the galaxy itself bowing to his Lord's feet. Never before had he been required to make a decision to affect his own fate. Everything he had ever done had been to serve the Khanate, or Lord Rakiin. He was a living weapon, a juggernaut that killed anything in its path. As the Commander of Lord Rakiin's Personal Guard, he had been a sword, forged in battle, intended for the use of the Great Khanate, striking down his enemies wherever they stood.

Now, that sword was broken, it's shards cast aside. For what use were the broken remnants of a sword that had failed to protect it's master? None at all.

And so Herma'Taklan knelt, struggling with the rage and fear that threatened to consume him. His Lord wished for him to live, and so Herma'Taklan would live, would live with the shame, the guilt, and the knowledge that his soul would not be reborn. He had failed his Lord once, he would not fail again by denying his Lord's wishes.

Yet, deep within, wrapping itself around his mind like a poisonous serpent, a thought occurred to him. A hope. Perhaps, someday, he would be allowed to reclaim his life. Would be allowed to die with dignity and honour, the mission given to him by his Lord completed. The Humans, Alexander Carver and Selene Weller, still lived. The possibility of victory had not been extinguished yet. He would find them, and once he had done that, he would bring them before his Lord. And perhaps, perhaps, he would then be allowed to die.

Yes. He would find them, and he would make them suffer for every humiliation he himself had been forced to endure. That was now his goal.

His Lord would no doubt appoint a new Commander, and assign him to hunt down and capture the Humans, but Herma'Taklan, beaten, dressed in rags, an exile to his own people, had an edge that not even his replacement could overcome.

His soul hung in the balance.

I am dead. I go into battle to reclaim my life. This I do gladly, for I am Jem'Hadar.

He was dead, and a dead man struggling for life was the most dangerous kind.

Alone in his cell, unmoving, a prisoner of those he gladly served, Herma'Taklan smiled.

-----

The medical ward was dark as Aishwarya entered the room, the only illumination coming from the stasis chamber that held Jason Madden's body frozen in suspended animation. The pale blue glow filtered through the room, casting a cold aura on everything it touched. As the door behind her sealed, Aishwarya stepped forward, her knife in her hand, and approached the casket.

The wound in Madden's chest was even more horrific now, frozen in sheer gruesome beauty, every detail of the charred and blackened flesh unchanging. The Commander's face was cast in a rictus of pain and agony, as though he were suffering, even when his body was frozen.

Aishwarya was no stranger to death. She had watched her father die in front of her eyes. She had spent her entire life surrounded by violence, and until recently, she had never let it touch her, never let it infect her.

Then she had killed two men.

And so, the sight of Jason Madden before her, his body mangled, the knowledge of what Rakiin would do to him, should not have swayed her. She had killed already, what was one more life on the scale? She could feel the weight of her knife in her hand, she knew the rightness of what she was about to do.

And yet, she hesitated.

Her mind was at war with itself, her mind screaming that it was better to die free than live as a slave. But her heart was whispering that she had already killed two men, what right did she have to choose the fate of another? What right did she have to decide when Jason Madden died?

She stood there for a time, silent, staring at his face, her own soul screaming at her. After a time, she rested a hand on the release latch for the chamber. All it would take would be a quick twist of her fingers. The door would open, she would plunge her knife into his heart, and she would end it. It would be a mercy.

It would be murder.

The knife fell from nerveless fingers, clattering on the cold ground seconds before she fell to her knees, her head resting on the cold glass, her tear-streaked face inches from Madden's body.

"I can't… I can't…" She gasped out the words between hacking sobs, her heart breaking under the feeling of failure. "I'm sorry, Commander…

"I can't do it…"

She remained there for a long time, trembling on the floor, the only sound in the room the sound of her tears.

-----

There are levels to unconsciousness. In the deepest, darkest pits, there is nothing. No colour. No light. No thought. It is, in a way, the lightest touch of oblivion. Then, one becomes aware that they are surrounded by a murky haze as the mind begins to stir, rising uneasily from the depths, knowing nothing that is before or after, existing only in the moment. Memories slowly begin to trickle into primitive thought, thin shafts of light cutting through the haze as consciousness approaches, a drowning man struggling for the surface of the water, desperate for that first gasp of oxygen that waits at the destination.

The Changeling slept, surrounded by a sea of nothingness, his mind locked away from his body, trapped in an endless circle as it repeated the final moment before oblivion. The sea of memories surrounding him, the storm, a representation of the neural block in Alexander Carver's mind, raging just before his eyes. He drank in the memories like a tonic, absorbing every detail of Carver's life, his secrets, his lies, his hopes, his dreams. Everything became a part of Shade.

He had never seen the blow, recognizing it for what it was only when he collapsed into the waters around him, looking up to see Carver, his chest heaving with fury. Confusion had settled in at the sight, confusion that had struggled to make way for self-preservation as Carver had launched his attack, striking blow after blow as they approached the storm. And then...

Then he had awakened in his own body, unable to control himself as he had lashed out at the Jem'Hadar guards beside him, feeling the shocks as plasma had rained down on him, driving him into the darkness.

And yet... and yet even in the darkness, Shade knew instinctively that there was something different, something fundamentally wrong with his condition. Changelings... Founders... were not sentient in the same way as Solids. Their minds, while separate and distinct, had been linked together even before Augustus Raine had given them the ability to evolve into telepaths. The Founder race was a single entity, each separate member like a cell, each one a part that created the whole. They were each simply different aspects of a solitary mind, different facets of it's personality. Even in unconsciousness, Shade should have felt a connection to the rest of the Great Link.

But there was nothing except the darkness.

No. He was wrong. There was something else in the night, something that was beginning to stir, something that filled Shade with a sense of weariness, a sense of immense age, a sense of purpose...

And then it was gone, a whisper in the wind.

And so, Shade slept, surrounded by a nothingness that was no longer as complete as it had been before.

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Author's Notes:

And we're back! Sorry it took so long everybody, but this chapter didn't want to come into being for some reason. Darn you, Jason Madden, for being so dang stubborn!

Anyway, rest assured that the next part of the story, Homefires, is already well underway. Six pages written so far. (Yay!) So it shouldn't be too long. Oh, I hope I didn't just jinx myself.

See ya in the black!