Chakotay,

I can almost hear your objections, but they will not stop me today.

Trust me, it will be nothing to die for you, all of you. It will be easy. And it will be selfish. Even at the age I have reached, it will be easier to die for you than continue to live my life without you, my friend.

I know you don't want me to do this, but I've never lied to you before, and I'm not lying now. Well, there's one thing I've lied about, to you as well as me, but I'm going to correct this with my death. It will be selfish and cowardly, but also honourable on a certain, very personal level. And I do believe you would have done the same for me, maybe you even have, in another time line, way back into our journey, when the slipstream attempt failed.

Do you remember how we sat in my quarters again that night, wondering if you had helped Harry turn back time? Well, it's no different now. Maybe you couldn't live with what you had done, then - I know I can't, now. And maybe you even thought you didn't want to live without me either - I know I don't want to.

Temporal Prime Directive forbids me to tell you anything about what has happened in my life, how I've come to this point. But to hell with Prime Directives, temporal or otherwise, I've already violated them all in the worst possible way by coming here, and besides, no one knows better than you that it's not the first time I've done so, and it most certainly won't be the last. There are no logical reasons behind this, no impartial higher goals, although you might think that beating the Borg is just that. But it's only a justification of my actions in the end. This is about you and me and her. As simple and as complicated as that.

If we had time to have this conversation face to face, and I asked you how you would describe our relationship after all this time, what would you say? I'm not sure how the Kathryn Janeway in your time line would respond to that question, even if she could be honest, and I'm not sure what your answer would be. But I think it's safe to assume that the answer is complicated, even though the reason behind all the ramifications we have never entangled is so remarkably simple. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

You know I never was a good storyteller. Maybe that's why I loved listening to yours so much. Yes, I have always been eloquent with words, a trait that served me well, still does. But I sadly lack and fear the deep emotions and the visions you need to tell a good story. One that may come true, just because you told it to the right person at the right time.

I have my visions, too, that you know. But they are of a different nature, less personal, always aiming for the good of my crew, my family, Starfleet, whatever. Never for me. Perhaps this is why I needed you so much, my friend, and need you still, perhaps that's part of the reason I'm here. You tried to teach me, show me, and maybe now for the first time in my life, I'm going to follow a personal dream, my own vision. And maybe, just maybe it will lead me, the younger me, back to you and your friendship.

Although you are still close. I think I have forgotten how close we were, because for so long it was just too painful to remember. And I can't even recall all that has estranged us so much in my time line. It had to do with my growing obsession to bring us home - something you couldn't share. I never forgot that you would not trade the present for a future that might not happen. But I could not see the truth in it before it was too late. And it had to do with all the unresolved feelings I refused to deal with - something you couldn't understand. And again I did not understand until it was too late.

As I said, it is complicated. Later on it was our love and loss of another woman that kept us apart, sowing sorrow and guilt that neither of us could deal with. Not anymore. And this, too, is part of the reason I'm here, and you're reading this letter. I could deal with my guilt as long as you stood by my side, and you found at least part of the peace you had lost at such an early age. But when we started to drift apart and hold it against each other, we both lost the ability to cope with it, to carry the burden and share its weight.

Maybe you cannot imagine this happening. Maybe you think of the promise you made so many years ago. I could not imagine it to happen either. And maybe that's why it did. We took too many things for granted, held on to what we thought would at least survive, but without care it didn't either, and we never looked under the bandages until it was too late.

Too little, too late. That's what it comes down to in the end. And I am not only willing to take the blame for that, no, I know I am to blame, although I also know you will most certainly disagree with me on that. The you that's reading this letter anyway. The Chakotay in my time line stopped disagreeing with me somewhere along the way. Our relationship, or at least the remains of it, was in serious jeopardy whenever we disagreed about something.

You know how much I wanted to avoid those ramifications, all the personal interferences with our command structure. Well, I succeeded in avoiding them, alright, but what I failed to see, was that in the end it had the same results. I endangered our professional relationship because of it, and I nearly terminated our friendship. I know I terminated our happiness, yours as well as mine.

We remained connected somehow through the last years of our journey, through the last years of your life back on Earth. But it was a connection sustained by sorrow and guilt. Add blame. Oh yes, and don't forget endless regrets and an all consuming shame. We could not cut the ties history had bound us in, and we could not entangle them either, setting things straight, giving both of us the chance for new beginnings.

I used to think of us as Siamese twins, writhing intertwined. Sharing parts that were vital to both of us, yet not strong enough to keep both of us alive forever. At the same time we were both fearing that a segregating surgery might kill one of us in the process. So in the end we just waited. Waited for one of us to die first, knowing very well that the other would follow sooner rather than later. As I said before, the burden has become way to heavy to be carried alone.

The day I heard that you had finally died first - lonely and unhappy, not at peace, I died, too. I died of shame and the knowledge that I was responsible for all of it. And it is ironic but not really surprising that my body once again betrayed me by living on and on. But this ends now. Has already ended when you read this letter. Then I am as dead as I have already been for too many years. As dead as our friendship that was one of the most precious things I've come to know in this life, in this galaxy. And I have seen more of it than most people.

Two lives, no make that three, and a unique and wonderful bond wasted, thrown away, because I was too afraid too deal with the complexity and the consequences of the connections among us. Because you were too unsure of my feelings for you to confront me. Gods, I must have been good at hiding them. I know I was good at pushing you away. Seeing me, the younger me, I can see right through me. But I couldn't see it back then, when I was still in her place, couldn't see it until you fell in love with Seven.

You'll probably frown now, but, yes, you did. Honestly and deeply. I have asked myself over and over again, if at least she had lived, would both of us have been alright? Would we have found a way to reestablish our friendship? But I don't have any answers. I doubt it, though. It's not that I was not happy for you and her. Happy because I saw that she could give you what you had so desperately searched for, what you needed. Where I became less and less attached to anybody in my fanatic quest to bring an end to this journey, Seven, under your guidance, embraced humanity more and more. Eager to explore the emotions I was running away from.

But nothing had prepared me for the pain that came crashing over me, nor the jealousy that was so humiliating, but nevertheless eating me up inside. Nothing had prepared me for the loneliness I felt. All those things we used to do together, you did with Seven. All the things Seven and I used to do, she did them with you. Naturally. You even tried to share your happiness with me, because you both loved me, as I you. But I found I did not have the strength, because I could not forgive myself for what I felt when I had no right to feel it. I could not forgive myself for what I knew I had become and what I could see when you both looked at me. I could not endure the regret and the sadness in both your eyes.

I know all of this has not happened yet in your time. Maybe, hopefully, never will that way. But after thirty years I still feel the shame burning deep inside, and although I know I should not be telling you any of it, it is my last wish in this life to ask your forgiveness, as I have already done by your grave. To make you understand that the main reason for what I'm doing is my attempt at recuperation. To make good on what I did to you and Seven. And whatever the change in time will bring, I pray that it will keep Seven alive, that it will see you happy and at peace.

As for the younger me - she will have to live her own life, she would not take any council anyway. I hope she will not make the same mistakes I made, but I wouldn't count on it. I'll just take away one large part of the burden I carried with me, so if she ends up alone after all, she'll be able to live with it and you'll be free to leave and let her go, knowing she can carry it.

Please don't mourn me. It was my life and my responsibility. And I know that today is a good day to die.

Look upon me with compassion if you can,
and I hope your time will let me stay a friend,

Kathryn