Chapter 7. Redemption
Several lines in this chapter are borrowed or modified from the episodes "Shattered" by Michael Taylor and "Year of Hell" and "Scorpion" by Brannon Braga and Joe Menosky, and the novel _Mosaic_, by Jeri Taylor.
Chakotay stood motionless but for his heaving chest, feeling a numb and distant gratitude that B'Elanna hadn't stayed, hadn't tried to make him talk about what he'd done, what they'd both felt. He picked up his tumbler, swirled the last fragment of melting ice around once, then gulped it and the rest of the liquor down. Perhaps if he kept drinking he could find a way to float above the memories of times he'd only lately come to think of as happier - the years on Voyager, even the years he'd spent in open warfare knowing any given day could be his last.
An image rose to mind of the girl B'Elanna had been then, swearing at the Val Jean's systems almost as hotly as she cursed Cardassians and Starfleet alike. She had been such a bright spot in his dark and angry life. What had happened to her fire? Now her defining anger held more bitterness than spark. He'd made a careful and conscious decision, back on Voyager, to entrust her to Tom Paris. They'd been good together for a long time. What had happened to them?
He felt shame on several levels for his actions this evening, and more shame at feeling relief that, whatever damage he'd done to his friendship with B'Elanna, he hadn't been the cause of her and Tom's troubles.
Hours and still more whiskey later, he slept, fully dressed, in bedding smudged with ash. His last thought as he drifted under, as it had been every night for a year, nearly every night for a quarter century, was of Kathryn.
This time, she answered his call.
He knew that he was dreaming, that he slept alone in a bed in a house on Dorvan. At the same time, he knew himself to be on Earth, at the crossroads half a mile from the old Janeway farm in Indiana, where two county roads met at right angles. It was a long way for his spirit to have walked unaided, and so he knew he'd been summoned. The roads and sky were empty, the sun high overhead. The corn was tall in all directions, and the noise of locusts rose and fell in waves in the heavy warm air.
He was pulled to face north like the needle in a compass. He saw her walking towards him, in the middle of the silent roadway, coming from a distance at a sure and steady pace. Red command uniform, perfect posture, hair in that bun she'd worn when they met. She came just close enough for her firm and husky voice to carry, then stopped and said, "There are some barriers we never cross."
He was compelled now to turn away. He fought it, fought to keep his eyes on Kathryn's perfect face, groaned as his line of sight was dragged beyond her figure. Found himself facing south, and a Kathryn he'd never seen, quite. Her hair was still dark, but short, barely reaching her chin. Her body was frighteningly thin, arms bare in a gray tank top, face badly scarred and smudged with dirt, eyes hollow with privation and despair. He knew he was well fed and housed in comfort as she suffered, and a soundless wail rose from his throat.
Her grim mouth didn't move, but he heard her voice say clearly, "I'm not going to stand here while you rationalize yet another brush with death." She raised an arm, not reaching but pointing towards him, and declared, "Time's up!"
He spun abruptly to the right, facing west, and there was his Kathryn, his cherished wife, the stern admiral with blue eyes that glinted warm just for him. He opened his mouth to call her name, to tell her how much he had missed her, how desperately he still loved her, how utterly remorseful he was … but before he could speak, she gave him the crooked half-smile that had been their special signal, and told him, "Do your best, but don't be unnecessarily heroic."
Overwhelmed with emotion, needing her in his arms more than he needed air, he coiled every muscle and flung himself towards her. All he accomplished was to spin in place like a weathervane, until at last he was facing east.
As he stood, waiting, the light gradually dimmed. The whirring of the locusts slowed and faded as an odd twilight descended, and in its place the birdsong of evening emerged, faint and tentative. As stars emerged on the horizon, he looked up, baffled, and saw a ring of fire surrounding the blackened disc of the full moon.
He stood, entranced, mouth open in awe. He had seen every astronomical wonder from Dorvan to the far end of the Delta Quadrant, but never had he stood on the soil of his species' homeworld under the sun in total eclipse.
He looked down, to the east again, and saw Kathryn, what he knew to be her spirit, as she was now, as she had ever been. She glowed, brilliant and terrible in perfect nakedness, all spirit, all heart, all flesh, all mind. He fell on his face, as one must in the presence of the holy.
"You're not alone, Chakotay." With his face in the dust and his eyes screwed shut, he nonetheless saw her radiant face as she spoke. Then, though she faded from his sight, her voice continued in his mind. "You've never been alone … no more than I was."
After a long, long time of rushing darkness and a terrifying sense of disorientation, he opened his eyes. He felt his heart beating strong and steady under the dragonfly, knew the life force driving his pulse was not entirely his own, that he carried her within and upon him. Never alone. The bedroom was still dark, but he sensed it was near dawn. As he breathed, remembering, feeling, he understood what he needed to do. He rose, untroubled by the bodily complaints of too much alcohol and too little sleep, hastily washed, and put on yesterday's blue shirt.
Approaching the guest room door, he paused, thought of knocking, but couldn't bring himself to ask more of B'Elanna, and couldn't wait for her to wake. As he was turning away from her door, however, it opened, and she stood in the doorway, dressed, the bed behind her made up with her bag filled and closed upon it.
They stood looking at each other for a long moment, and then Chakotay said, "'Lanna, I'm sorry. I was an ass to you all day yesterday, and my conduct after dinner was deplorable. I'm sorry that you came all this way just to see me at my worst."
She raised an eyebrow and replied, "Impressive. Apology accepted." Then, looking him up and down, she added, "You look like you're going somewhere. Another dawn ritual?"
Bashfully, he looked down, smiling, and said, "Actually, yes. But a lot simpler and closer to home this time. Would you like to help?" She straightened, motioned him to proceed, and walked after him.
When he collected the whiskey bottle from the cupboard, she began to protest, but he raised his hand and said, "Not that, not this time. Trust me." For some reason, she did. He put the bottle down in the middle of the main room, equidistant between the two doors, front and back.
Chakotay opened both doors, then returned to the bottle on the floor. Picking it up, he opened it and pocketed the cap. Glancing at B'Elanna, he said, "This way first," and they walked out the front door, north. Stopping near the road, Chakotay asked his ancestors to aid him in his path forward, and then poured some whiskey onto the ground, saying, "Some barriers cannot be crossed."
They walked back into and through the house, going some distance toward the cultivated field behind his place. He promised his mother's spirit, "No more brushes with death," and poured more whiskey on the ground.
Leading B'Elanna carefully through the still-shadowed twilight before dawn, he went around to the west end of the building. The neighbor's dog barked, but no one else was out yet. He reached out with his heart to his father's spirit and said, "I'm doing my best. I know you did too." More whiskey splashed into the soil.
Handing the bottle to B'Elanna, he motioned for her to lead the way eastward. The sky was growing light as they rounded the house and found themselves overlooking more fields, with birdsong rising from the trees beyond. He shuddered, recalling his vision of the eclipse, and knew he had to embrace the earth fully now. He sank gracelessly to his hands and knees, then went down on his stomach, limbs spread wide, chin in the dirt. He closed his eyes, felt Kathryn's love swell within him, and recited the last line: "No one is alone." Turning his face to the ground, he muttered, "Pour, B'Elanna." She upended the bottle a few feet beyond his head.
