Mon coeur, lasse de tout, meme de l'esperance, N'ira plus de ses voeux importuner le sort; Pretez-moi seulement, vallon de mon enfance, Un asile d'un jour pour attendre la mort.

Le Vallon - Alphonse de LaMartine

Rough translation:

My heart, tired of everything, even of hope, Will no more harass fate with its wishes; Lend me only, valley of my childhood, Asylum for a day, so I may await death.

I knew coming back would be hell. Maybe harder than the ordeal itself, though I very much doubt it. I can't really remember it, now that I think about it -- now that I allow myself to think about it. I've given myself enough neural suppressers since the nightmare that I don't remember much of anything, even as a whole. Only bits and pieces. The heavy weight of those god-awful cuffs. The leash, the humiliation, the abuse ... But don't ask me details. I can't remember those. Just as well, I suppose. I'm sure my sessions with Miril will bring it all back.

Lucky me.

The station looks colder, meaner and darker as I walk the distance from the airlock to Ops. Even the wide Operation's centre, which I recall looked much brighter and full of colour before my leaving, seems dull and lifeless. Did it really change, or is it just me?

There's Dax and Kira, and the Chief. Gods, make those looks go away. I've had just about enough sympathy in the last few days that I can take. So who fucking cares if I was mistreated? It's not as if you'll get to see the whole thing if you stare at my body long enough. I'm not a fucking monitor. Though perhaps my scars will tell you more about what I suffered through than even I can. But I'll be damned if I'll let any of you fuckers see them. I refuse to become the station's freak.

Now it's Sisko's turn. Sitting there in his office, eyes slanted in sorrow. For me? What gives him the God-given right to have sympathy for me? He didn't have to live through it. Didn't have to listen to them torment him over and over, bruise his skin and ...

"Welcome back, Doctor," he says, and I snap my attention to him. I suddenly don't like him. Why? Because he's my superior? Or because I know the reason why he's asked me here, on my first day back on the station? And why the hell am I asking myself these questions? I don't like him, fine. I don't have to find myself excuses over that. Even when I know my own hatred is unjustified.

Or is it?

I'll drown in these fucking questions! Just ... not think. Stop thinking. Yes. Numb. I have to remember to give myself another neural suppresser when I get back to my quarters. If I get back to my quarters. Allah help me, if I get stopped for another one of their fucking apologies, I'll scream.

"We're all very sorry for what happened."

There it is. Can't really stop it, can I? Sure Captain. Thank you for your generous apology. That really helps me. You know, helps me accept what was done to me - the torture which you can't possibly imagine. Sure, no problem. Thank you.

"It was inevitable," I find myself saying, numbly, without emotion. What does he expect? Enthusiasm?

He's hesitant again. "Do you know if they were ... arrest--"

No, no no no NO! I do NOT want to talk about it damn you, and why the fuck didn't you ask me before?

"If you don't mind, Captain," I interject before he can frame the rest of his sentence. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't know if they were arrested or not, and frankly, at the moment, I couldn't care less. All I want is to have things return to normal. Is that too much to ask?"

Damn. Too harsh. I can't be harsh with him, he's my superior. He holds the cards. Everybody does, don't they? I only get to hold the cards for my patients, but everyone else gets to have their way with me. Julian Bashir, medical officer but naive innocent fool who can rightly be flung from one person to the next. Used and mistreated for no justified reason and dropped for the same rationale.

Garak. An image of my friend forms in my mind. Why do I think of him? Because he's done it too? Or is it because he is the only one I've done it to? These questions again! I don't want to think!

"I understand what you must be feeling right now ..."

Understand! Unless you've been raped and tortured and tormented by a bunch of insane men, then I doubt you do Captain!

"... but I think you and I both know why you I've asked you here. I'm sorry Doctor," he says, and shakes his head.

I know why he's doing it too. He's guilty. Doesn't want me out of there, but he has too. And dammit Jules, get it through your own skull. You encouraged it when it was O'Brien. Accept it!

But I can't.

"Sir ..." I hate my own voice. Thick and used, my throat scratchy by weeks of screaming ... I'll never have my old voice back. I'm a doctor. I know. "My profession is all I have right now to keep my mind active ..." I feel helpless.

Sisko again shakes his head, and I run out of air. I'm on the verge of hyperventilating, I know it. I have to sit down, take a glass of water. Yes. Water always helped me during those childhood panic attacks. There's another one coming. Calm down Jules. Breathe. Slow, steady, good. Don't give him more fodder to use against you.

Sisko seems oblivious to my condition though, even when I sit down heavily in his chair. "No matter what you say," he says, more concerned with how he deals with the subject of conversation than he does with me. "I simply cannot put you back into that infirmary." When he looks up, he shows me his helplessness at the matter, but I scoff him with my eyes.

I hate him.

"You can't do that," I say curtly, hearing my own accent turning more pronounced. My fists are clenched tightly, and I hide them over my lap, beneath the desk. It seems as though every part of me is stiff with tension. I can't relax, even when I consciously order my body to do so. "Captain, you can't take my work away. It's the only thing I have right now."

"Nonsense." I know he's trying to come off gentle, but I'm nevertheless stiffened with attention. "You have friends, hobbies ... and then you have your daily consultations with Counsellor Mir--"

"Yes, I'm quite aware of my daily sessions with the good Counsellor. No need to remind me, Captain." He stops, and I know I've crossed the line. Or at least stepped over it. I know what he's thinking too. He's wondering if a month would truly have changed his mild-mannered doctor so much. Well I'm living proof of the positive. Living, walking proof. Alive. Five days ago, I was sure I wouldn't live long enough to see another day. Shouldn't I be grateful to see his face? To see the station? To be alive? I sigh and try to sound more reasonable. "I know full well that I have to see him every day until he gives me the all-clear, but that's no reason to relieve me of duty. I'm still a capable doctor."

There. Surely he can see the logic in that. He spares a thin smile, and instantly I know that he doesn't.

Foolish captain. I hate him.

"I'm sure you are Doctor," he says ingratiatingly. Revoltingly polite. Like ... yes Jules, say it. Like him. Always polite, always courteous. Not quite like some of his species you've met, is he? "But please look at this reasonably," he begs, and I close my eyes for a moment. It's not begging. He's just asking. Why did I think of begging? Because I've done only that in a month? Continuously begging? Imploring, on my knees, giving myself over and over without ever satisfying ... Allah I need a suppresser, it's coming back too quickly.

"If you think about it ... " he tries, but I shake my head.

"I don't care spending more time than necessary on the musing of things anymore, but thank you for the advice." I know my eyes are dark with unfocused anger. Misplaced surely, because I know Sisko has never done anything to harm me or mistreat me.

"Then think of it as a holiday," he says with a tentative smile. "A well-deserved vacation; a time to settle back and relax."

I utter an impolite noise and rise. I turn my tense back to him, and from where I am I can see Ops very clearly, including the five or so pairs of eyes glancing in my direction. Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! After a moment of studying the activity at Ops, I duck my head and breathe a long, slow sigh. "There is really no way out of this, is there?" I ask, my voice softer but still raspy. I really need some water and I can't wait to be in my quarters so I can order a tall glass of it. Astonishingly enough, it's the only thing at the moment that prevents me from arguing the matter any further. Perhaps that and exhaustion. Allah I'm tired ...

"I'm afraid not," Sisko breathes from behind me.

"Fine. I'll be in my quarters." I glance over my shoulder, directing all my bitterness and rage into my gaze. I want him to hurt like I did. Shamefully, I realise that I want all of them to hurt. "Alone," I add. "I don't want to see anyone. See that everyone is apprised of that."

In a breath he is gone, and through the window I can see him raise a dismissing hand at Dax when the Old Man tries to talk to him. I only hope a few weeks off will bring him up to par. Though ... after the experience he's suffered through, I doubt that very much.

I realise I'm still standing and go to sit down when Dax appears at my door. I gesture my friend in, finally taking comfortable seat in my chair. I look up. She's worried, and I don't blame her.

"How is he?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper. She's kneading her hands nervously, unconsciously. Damn. Haven't seen him do that in ages. Nothing ever bothers him so much.

"Angry," I'm saying, and I scoff at my own choice of words. Of course he's angry. Did I ever doubt he wouldn't be? "But that's understandable. He doesn't want to see anybody."

"I don't blame him," she says, relaxing into a chair. "Did he mention anything about it ...?"

"No. And I didn't see the sense in asking about it. He'll have his share of talking about it to Counsellor Miril." And maybe that's part of the problem. Will it really be therapeutic for him to relive that sort of nightmare? I try to place myself in his situation. I try to imagine the after-effects it would create in my life, but I can't. All I know is that I'm sure I'd be as adamant to return to work as he is.

But dammit, I don't make the rules ...

Dax had been considering the matter for a silent moment, then says, "Someone should warn Garak away."

Garak? How did Garak manage to get into our conversation? She lifts her gaze to meet mine, and she instantly sees my confusion. She takes a breath and explains, "Right now, considering what's happened, I think he's the last person Julian wants to see at the moment. In fact, I don't think it'd even be -safe- for Garak to see Julian."

I think about her suggestion for a moment and eventually see the logic in it. Of course Garak wouldn't be at all the first person Julian would choose to associate with. Very reasonable. But also premature. Would Julian be so prejudiced now ...? "Garak and Julian are both big boys," I find myself saying. "I'm sure whatever happens, they'll deal with it accordingly. Personally, I don't want to get involved. If Julian sinks as low as attack Garak, I'm certain our good tailor will be able to defend himself adequately."

Dax rises smoothly from her chair, her face suddenly unreadable. He's retreated inwardly again. The person that rises is the cool professional face of Jadzia. Who is more concerned for him I wonder? Dax or Jadzia? "I'm sure you're right Benjamin. I just hope nothing goes wrong in the next few weeks."

As she walks out of my office, I wish the same. Though a little voice in the back of my mind scoffs at the utter flippancy of such a wish. He was broken. And mending him won't be such a smooth operation.

I look up from my console and see her stepping down the small flight of stairs leading to Sisko's office. She looks preoccupied. Then I wonder what she knows. Obviously, I know what's happened ... too well. Julian may have been an arrogant son of a bitch, but he was always innocent and unstained. He wanted the frontier life, the adventure, the bumpy ride, and he unfortunately got one. I'm not so sure he finds the life so romantic after all. And no matter how much I try to convince myself that maybe it was for his own good, I can't. No one deserves that. Not Julian, not Dax, not the lowest form of scum Odo can find huddling in the shadows of this forsaken station. I know only too well how Cardassians can act. I've tried to warn him, but he wouldn't listen. He just kept spending more time with that ... tailor. What, he thinks a few smiles and polite words is enough to convince me he's an honest man? No Cardassian is honest. And Julian got the proof of it, didn't he?

I wish I could say I didn't care. He suffered only a hint of what I went through after all. He didn't witness his relatives being slowly tortured to death, forced to watch and shamefully imploring the Prophets to take their lives right away. It's a torture much worst than that which is conducted on one's own body. But he will never know that, because his family is safely tucked away on Earth, away from the atrocities of war and rebellion. Well my dear Doctor ... welcome to the life. Perhaps not the initiation you wanted, but one which nonetheless changes you. Forever. Like it did me, a time so long ago I can't even remember. Maybe I was changed before I was even born.

Bloody Cardie. I wish they would all rot in their bloody own Nine Hells! Poor boy ... he tries to conceal his pain. He shoves it behind anger and bitterness and rage, but I can see through him. I've not been friends with him long, but I know that face. They changed him. Maybe permanently, I don't know. I'm not a psychologist. But his perspective will be changed forever, that is to be sure. No one suffers a torture session with a Cardie and gets away with an intact soul. It burns you to your core, twists your insides so well and so thoroughly you don't even remember what was there before.

I wish I could understand. I can certainly sympathise. I've had friends and colleagues suffer under the Cardie's hands. My own Captain, not so long ago, suffered a Madred inquisition. But I wish I could understand. Talk to him, drink with him, try and make him forget. But he will have to face it. He can't run away from his fears any more than he can walk out of an airlock.

And dammit Julian, I promise to help you in any way I can. You helped me, not so long ago, when I was suffering. You helped me through my own nightmare, and now it's your turn. I understand your anger, your bitterness, your estrangement. But don't turn us away Julian. We're the only family you have right now, and turning away from us would only isolate you. And that, my friend, would be the greatest torture of all. Solitude.

He is back. I sense it. Not only do I know from the reports, but I know it in my heart. Foolish sentiment, but it's there. I feel it in my bones. I cannot chase it away.

I'm restless. I don't know what to do. For the first time in my life, I don't know what to do. Do I go see him? Stay here and torment myself with self-concocted fears? Is he asleep? Crying? Working? I will go insane if I do not see him. Yet if I confront him, I know he will reject me.

Great Gul Julian, what have they done to you? I will go mad with my own imaginings. But then, the worst of my fears isn't quite purely imagined, is it? I've lived the life. I know how far my own people would go with a beauty such as yourself Julian. I dream it myself, though try every morning to forget the nightmares ... try to persuade myself they -were- nightmares and not some dark, twisted wish. But for all my foolish fantasies, I would sooner kill them than have this repeated my sweet. You don't deserve such harsh punishment. That beautiful skin ... it doesn't deserve to be broken by so many hands ... stranger's hands ... oh how you must have been mortified!

I cannot wait. I will do this, risk his rejection and estrangement. I simply cannot stand around, useless, knowing he is suffering. A year ago I would have. But I am not ... myself anymore. I am soft, broken, You have melted the ice over my heart Julian. Such deed deserves love and warmth. Perhaps I am not the one to adequately provide it, but I will try.

I can't even recognise my quarters. They are dark, impersonal. Like that room. That filthy sombre room where they kept me. Hung, my wrists shafting ... No NO!

I'm fumbling now, looking for that neural suppresser I know is here. Where is it? Where IS it? I empty the drawers, throw things to the floor. I know I shouldn't, but I don't care. I'm desperate now. I abandon the drawers, move to the medical cabinets, my trembling fingers dropping the key card twice on the floor before I manage to unlock the doors . Not there either.

Then it hits me. I'd given it back to Jarelle for safe keeping inside the infirmary. DAMMIT! And now I can't go back there and ask for it! They will deny me. Deny my salvation, even if not for a precious hour or two ... locked out from my own haven.

I feel lost. The door chimes, but I scarcely acknowledge it.

He does not answer. Is he injured? Should I call security or foolishly attempt to redeem the situation myself? I was never good at handling emergencies. I ring the chime again, and relief floods through me when he finally answers my beckon. Though relief is quickly replaced with pity, for I cannot recognise my poor Julian. He is frail, shaking. Yet unmistakable fire burns in his eyes, almost feverish passion. Gul, Julian, such passion, such emotion ... I only wish your fire burnt for me.

"Doctor ... I thought you could use a bit of company," I say as low and serious as I can manage while I self-consciously leave my arms limp at my side, feet fidgeting. I was never one to fidget. Why do I start now?

He nods absently, and as soon as it had erupted, the fire is gone. His eyes turns dull, distant, grey, and he ducks his head. He moves into his quarters - a silent, unassuming invitation into his personal space. Quarters I have seen on only one occasion. I step inside, and right away I notice the state of disarray. Anger? Has anger pushed him to vandalise his quarters?

I tiptoe around the mess, making no comment, and watch him as he orders some tea from the replicator. I stay silent, quietly moving to sit on his sofa, one of few furniture uncluttered by accessories. Then I wonder what I am doing here. I wanted to see him. I have. Why linger? What does he expect from me? What do I expect from myself?

He comes back with his tea, and I hear the chatter of ceramic against ceramic - the tell tale sign that he is trembling. He sits by me, his eyes still unfocused as he blows on the steaming vapours. I remain quiet, watching him. After a moment, he takes a cautious sip then says, "I really didn't want any company today, you know."

My back stiffens, and I feel my stomach clench with ... with what? A different feeling that I've never experienced before. Guilt? Sorrow? What? Help me, I am not familiar with these feelings!

He goes to take another sip but falters. The cup chatters loudly against its saucer and some liquid is spilt to his lap. Finally given something to focus my attention on, I reach for him.

"Careful Doctor," I murmur, catching hold of the quivering cup. I gently place it on the table then turn back to lightly rub my fingers over the stain. "You should get this cleaned ..." I whisper, my own advice trailing off as I lift my gaze to Julian. Then it hits me like cold water.

Foolish foolish old man! I am touching him, and that is why he is quivering. Not because of cold, or fatigue, but of fright. Of me! Why did I ever come? My dear precious Julian, what have they done to you?

I remove my hand as though it's been burned. "I'm sorry," I whisper and look away. His eyes are tormented. It pains me to even look at them now. I fear I would simply take him in my arms and never ever let go. But he would cower and shy away from--

A quiet sob makes me look back. He is trembling, leaning toward me. "Garak," he weeps. "Please, hold me ..."

My arms open helplessly and I welcome him to me, my heart breaking at how he simply melts into me, crying over and over, clutching at my clothes with desperation. All I can do is tighten my embrace, rock with him, whisper soothingly to him, brush his hair back. When have I known these insignificant human gestures? When have I become sensitive to his pain and sorrow? He makes me disregard my own greed. He cuts through me like a knife, straight to my heart. He has ensnared it, and I am afraid. Never have I felt this way, and I fear the unknown. Where am I going? Into darkness, or light? Will I ever be able to crawl back out? Will I ever want to?

Oh yes, Allah, I need this. Who else can provide it? My friend, my love, Garak ... you were the only one to come. You care, I see that now. Allah, I feel safe with you, your scent, your clothes, I feel all this hit me like a ton of bricks. I'm in your arms. Your arms are embracing me, around me, protecting me. Why have I never longed for this more strongly? You give me strength, Garak. You love me, I know it. From afar. And I did the same. I hate your people, but I love you because you are alone. Exiled, outcast by such a ruthless people, I can only surmise you have good in your soul. I want to cry my confession to you, rock with you ... Garak, love me, want me ... I need you. You ... you make ... me ... safe ...

He relaxes more into me, slumping limply before I realise he has fallen asleep. I dimly wonder how much sleep he's managed to procure after his ordeal, but I chase the thought away. Pushed by a strength I did not know I had, I pull him effortlessly up without waking him, cradling him into my arms before stepping lightly into the bedroom. I whisper the command to close all lights and silently, I bed him, with me at his side and my arms around him.

Awaiting sleep, I glance sideways to where his porthole is and I am struck with faint envy at how much luxury he owns. As I follow the stream of starlight bathing the room in a pale white streak, I think of how much he owns. Not material-wise. I have never been one to care much for material things. What use are they compared to the wealth this young man in my arms possess? Friends, family, honour, reputation. All which I've once owned and lost. And what can I offer him? Conversation? A withered old face to keep him company while he taps his foot impatiently, waiting no doubt for another, more suitable companion? It shames me to crave his company, but I cannot live without it. It is the only possession I have. The only thing I would ever care to cling to with my own life if necessary.

I rock with him a few moments, uncaring of the stiff headboard bruising my back. As long as he is comfortable, my heart is comfortable. I am at ease, knowing he is under my protection. And I swear Julian, as the Great Gul is my witness, I shall uncover each and everyone of your tormentors and personally torture them to slow death. I hate what they have turned you into. I hate that it is my own kind which have caused this.

I hate that it could have been me, among them, hurting you.

They're hurting me again. Their arms around me, steadying me for the whips crashing over my back. I'm sobbing I know, but all I feel is the wetness on my cheeks. When I reach up to wipe it off, I spy blood trickling down my fingers.

I panic, and struggle, pleading, sobbing, my voice mingling with their rusty laughs, scoffing me, chortling at my weakness. But all I can see is the floor, my body bent over harshly by two pairs of scaly arms twisting my hands, distorting me into an unnatural position.

I cry again, see the blood drip down to the unclean metallic floor. Struggling now would be useless in my precarious position, but I do so anyway, crying and screaming as I feel myself being penetrated over and over, the tearing of muscles loud in my ears.

Hands, cold and clammy, are probing my chest, caressing in almost a soothing manner that I would most probably find erotic in some other instance. I bear my teeth and try to bite fiercely into the arm most accessible to me. I hear a grunt, then laughter, and I realise it has probably excited my captor.

Dimly I feel my legs spread and quickly lifted, and I know I'm no longer touching the floor. I clutch at a piece of uniform, an arm, anything as I try not to fall while someone jolts me forward on and on again. Sobbing, crying, I can't stop. My lungs are used, tired, I can't breathed. The puddle of blood grows larger on the floor and still I weep, foolishly hoping that the torment would end.

And it does. Miraculously it does, for from a distance, I can hear a voice. A voice is rousing me, over and over, soothing, gentle ...

But when I open my eyes, I scream.

I wake with the sensation of pain. Opening my eyes harshly and grunting, I look down and see my precious charge sinking his teeth into my arm. When he stops the pressure, I untangle myself from him and try to wake him from his nightmare. "Julian, please, wake up, it's over ..." I repeat myself over and over until finally he does wake up, and screams.

"Get the hell away from me!" he cries, his voice an ugly parody of what it once was. That beautiful voice, now used by torment and tears.

"Julian, it's all right, it's me, it's Garak," I say desperately, and I quickly realise that he is not seeing me for who I am, but what I represent. I am Cardassian, and I curse it, wish that I could hide my face and comfort him from afar. But I cannot run and hide now. My precious needs me.

"You're one of them! Bloody Cardassian," he cries, and hides his face in his hands. "Leave me alone."

"I would never hurt you," I whisper, and he slowly reveals his face. Before I can prevent it, he has sunk down to his knees. I quickly scramble to him, though I am careful once I am within his personal space. I offer my arms, and after some hesitation, he accepts the embrace.

"I hate them," he hisses, and I can only respond with "I know". I hate my own helplessness. I can do nothing but soothe him with superfluous words, coax him through this nightmare I wish I could transfer to myself in the hope to let him rest. My rage grows for my own kind, knowing how easily I would have yielded to the temptations this young man weeping in my arms would have offered had I been there ... helpless, bound, bending under my touch ...

No! Drive these thoughts away tailor - they are not for you. Not anymore. A life of long ago which belongs to another. A stranger. A man named Elim long dead. Think of Julian. Think for another for once in your life. It is time you repented.

"I'm here Julian," I whisper, pressing my chin over the dark inviting curls of his hair. Soft, and delightfully scented. I take a moment to nuzzle against them before adding, "I'm not going anywhere."

He convulses suddenly in my arms. I frown and look down and he clutches at me with the strength of desperation. "Please ... Garak ... shower," he mumbles.

I am overwhelmed with blind need to help him. I don't think twice. I gather him into my arms and quickly carry him to the washroom where I command the computer to emit a broad spray of warm water. I strip him without thinking, and he shivers violently. When I reach his underwear, he cowers back. "Julian ..."

His eyes are glowing, tears overflowing. "Promise me ..." he says, and I recognise the signs of delirium. "P-promise me you w-w-won't ... you won't h-hurt me Garak, please ..." Again I take him in my arms, and I hear his voice become distant, absent. "Promise me ... promise me," he murmurs, and I ache to have his arms return the embrace. But he lets them lay limp at his sides, accepting the embrace with no more enthusiasm than an indifferent child.

Still with my arms around him I lead him to the shower, and when I carefully pry myself away to allow him leave of movement, he suddenly grabs me and focus his wide expressive eyes on me. "Don't leave me," he asks, bringing me down with him so much he clings to me. Pushed by some unseen desire, some unknown force which destroys all barriers of mind and body which I so valued once, I keep him close to me and enter the shower stall, clothed, uncaring how drenched I become while I sit down amidst the fresh water, caressing the tense muscles of my charge. When I look down, he has retreated inward again, clearing the water from his eyes with nothing more than reflexive blinks.

The liquid caress of water wakes me. Or draws me out of my daze, for I haven't really been asleep have I?

I stir, feeling heavy, soaked clothing beneath me. I turn faintly and see the golden tunic of my friend, usually pale and stylish, now dark and heavy with water. My hands are curled into it, the cloth ruthlessly twisted by my own grip. When I open my eyes, I can feel an annoying headache focused just above the bridge of my nose, pounding, throbbing, making me want to scream. Will pain ever go away? I'm so tired of it. Even curled in these comforting arms, I doubt I'll ever feel comfort and pleasure ever again.

"Garak?" I ask tentatively, shifting. The disgusting feel of wet clothing makes me glance downward, and I realise he has left my underwear on. What use is it? You can perfectly make the outline of my body beneath it, even the faint colour of skin peering through. Self-consciously, I draw my knees up.

"Yes Doctor," he replies softly, and I shiver. His voice. That voice I've heard a thousand times teasing and argumenting, so unnatural in the present circumstances. Is he truly with me? Is he really inside this stall getting wet and uncomfortable in water which is too cold to him simply for me?

"I ... I think I'm all right now." I say this, and I almost laugh at myself. Right. Of course, A little shower was all I needed to get me back on my feet. I say the words, but I don't move. I'm paralysed. I don't want him to leave me. If I move, he will leave me. "Stay with me, won't you Garak?" I ask, desperate for his company.

"Of course Doctor ... Julian," he corrects, and I feel a bolt of unexpected pleasure. "Whatever you want, I shall give it to you. May I leave you to your dressing?" he asks, nudging me gently. "I will go prepare us a meal. You have not eaten since your return, have you?"

I shake my head and he lightly scolds me with his eyes. Such beautiful eyes. Eyes I could never bring myself to stare at too directly during lunch. But I do so now. I offer him my gratitude and thanks by staring back, delving into his soul as he goes into mine. An unconscious shiver shakes my body and I pull myself up. "I'll be all right," I assure him, and he nods. He looks down at himself and I step out of the stall, placing a towel over me as I discard my soaked briefs beneath.

"Julian, I'll leave," he reassures me. "I just have to ..."

"It's all right," I say and I actually smile. I feel like smiling. He's staying. For me. "I have a robe you can put on," I tell him, and when my briefs are discarded into the chute, I tighten the towel around my waist while I pad into the main room. Behind me, I hear a faint gasp but ignore it.

The scars! Why did I not see them when I undressed him? It is ... revolting! My own people has done this to him! These ugly scars that will never fade into smooth golden skin - there to forever remind him of his ordeal. I shall kill them all! What pain you must have suffered through to acquire such marks my dear Julian ... I don't want to think, but I can't help myself. I see it all so clearly. The whips, the birches, the knotted strands that would cut even my own skin open.

My heart aches. For the first time it aches for something else than my own pitiful life. You've done this to me Julian. You've changed me. A year ago I couldn't trust. Now I can love.

Standing inside this small stall, dripping wet, my hair plastered on my head and feeling the uncomfortable heaviness of wet clothes, I realise I can finally love.

I look at the mess and remember. I remember my desperation, my need to erase those memories from my mind. I cannot believe that in my haste I have done this.

A sob escapes my lips. My mother's portrait, shattered on the floor. I drop the robe I had in my hands and rush to it, kneeling and picking up the shards of glass. The picture itself is all right, but the beautiful frame ... the one she'd done herself. Broken. Gone. Allah forgive me Mother. I have but this picture of you left now.

"Julian?"

He's in the den, soaking the carpet and uncaring of the fact as he walks toward me. I see his bare feet pause in front of me. I don't look up. I keep staring at her. Her gentle long face, smiling - always smiling. Dark eyes never scolding, long raven hair always shining. I remember her ... young, beautiful. As she was when she left us. Left us to die on her own, long away from home. Far enough for me to mourn her alone.

The grey feet - lined, as I note with absent fascination, with thin patterns of scales - disappears behind dark gold covered knees. He is now kneeling, studying the mess before me.

"Your sister?" he ventures, and I choke back a laugh. It sounds like a sob.

It is.

"Mother," I say, brushing my fingers longingly across her dark face.

We pass another moment in silence, and then again I hear him. "I'm sorry." I look up to him, and I see the sorrow in his eyes. He knows. How can he? I've never told him. Why is he sympathetic when he knows nothing of my family?

But I'm too tired to ask. Too tired to even ask myself these question. I sigh and rise to my feet, rubbing away the foolish tears. "It was long ago," I dismiss and place her picture across my shelf. "I'll get you that robe," I say, giving myself something to do. He smiles gratefully, but I don't acknowledge it. Instead I bend down to grasp the robe, and again I am assaulted.

I watch him warily, watch him as he saunters to the crumpled robe on the floor. I begin to unfasten my own tunic, when he falters and simply straightens up abruptly. I forget my task and run to him.

Hands are grasping me, fondling my body. I can't see through the blindfold they've put over my eyes, but I know how many of them there are, and I plead with my captors to release me. Endless laughter burns me to the core ... laughing, over and over ...

"Over and over ..."

"Julian!" I cry, shaking his thin shoulders. So thin, so frail. He's delirious and I yearn to call someone. Dammit, give me strength! Do something tailor!

He blinks away his ghosts and looks up to me. "Are you here to hurt me too Garak?" he asks quietly, earnestly. I can't help but let out a sob at this, and I pull his unresisting body to me. All I seem to do is embrace him, but my own inability renders me useless. All I can do is hold him tightly, convey to him through my body that I would sooner kill myself than bring him harm. Even in my darkest fantasies Julian, I would never harm you.

His fever breaks at dawn. Again I realise I have dosed off, and when I wake and look down, I see him tightly wound around me, his slender arms clutched around my waist as he sleeps peacefully. I'm against the wall where I've rested against with him still crying the night before, and my body aches with loss of circulation and discomfort.

I do not care. He stirs and mumbles happily, smiling slightly as he nuzzles into the folds of my robe.

His robe, I correct. It is his scent clinging to me - the one which lulled me to sleep the night before despite the uncomfortable position. I don't know how fast I had managed to discard the damp clothes to slip into the robe, but here I am, draped in his clothing. As he nuzzles more, he reaches into the opening and lightly touches my chest. I inhale sharply, incongruously amazed at the bolt of pleasure lancing my body at his touch.

Stop this.

He caresses more boldly now, using his mouth as well to follow the path his fingers traces.

Stop it now, while he can still forget.

I press my head so hard against the wall it spears my head with pain. I bring my teeth over my lips to prevent the pleasure from turning vocal, but still I whimper under his touch. I've waited years for this. I've longed for it. I can't stop it ...

You have to. He will hate you if you don't.

I can't ... Sacred Great Gul, give me strength to stop it now, please!

"Julian ..." I wail, and the sound sounds needy to my own ears. "Please, stop!" I cry and I wrest myself from his arms. He bolts upright, surprised, startled, as do I.

"What is it?" he says out of breath.

I try to catch my own. So close .. I was so close to take him. My beautiful young man, whom I would have made love to beyond reason. As I look up at him, I realise I can never have that. Not because I am a foolish exile with even more foolish expectations. But because of my nature. Because even though he may have the love I dearly wish he has for me, he will never be able to forget my heritage. My ridges. My skin colour. My whole body is a canvas to his nightmare, an ugly painting of crimson and black. Something he would rather forget.

He whimpers slightly. "Garak, what did I do wrong?"

I gape in shock. "Julian! You have done -nothing- wrong! But ... did you realise what you were doing to me? Julian ... you are not ready for--"

He cuts me off with a smile. "I don't care what you are Garak, if that's what you're worried about."

With dumb surprise, I realise he -did- know what he was doing.

He frowns. "...I also know it'll take me some time to adjust. To get used to ... this," he gestures the space between us helplessly.

"Julian ..." I whisper.

"... I'll understand if you don't want this. I am here merely to comfort you. To help you. I never expected--"

He looks suddenly so vulnerable, and I want to cry. This beautiful man - this man who has done all for me during these difficult hours - is feeling remorse for my own actions. Allah, Garak, I don't know what to say. What do you want me to do to prove to you I want this?

"I thought ..." I take a breath. I want him to understand. "I thought I would be afraid." He is suddenly very intent. Has he ever been otherwise? "I thought I would see you and shy away. But it's not like that at all Garak. I've always looked beyond your heritage, your race. All these years I've been fascinated week after week by this beautiful man whose mind I thirst for, whose companionship has been the only possession I've ever really valued, out here, alone. And it has not changed my friend." I walk to him and take his hands in mine. They are cold, clammy, and I surpress a shiver. This is Garak. He will never hurt me. In my mind I picture him bolting through the door and killing my tormentors. I see him lowering me into his arms, coaxing me, healing me. "I still cherish your company, more so now than ever," I whisper. "You, of all people, understand. Perhaps even better than I do." I melt into his arms and close my eyes, inhaling his presence. I drown in his strength, knowing that whenever he is around, I shall always be safe.

I shall never leave your side Elim. Never.

Love me.

I love you.

The End