What banter, to consider this harsh architecture. It was the apex of symmetry, the pinnacle of harmonious order and beauty. And yet ... still the half-witted share of Bajorans who demurred the Occupation found it in their pitiful souls to consider the rectilinear elegance of their architectural style as garish and obscure.

What garishness? he mused thoughtfully, embracing his chamber with a lover's eyes. It is splendour ... it is charm and harmony working together; an awe to behold. He traced the contours of his apartment languidly, his eyes heavy with admiration, the serene blue dancing with a thousand fires in the crepuscular of candles. In his palm he held a delicate natel, already forgotten through his reflective pause.

Recan'Tha province. He sighed wistfully. He remembered it vividly; more so than any capricious holosuite could ever hope to offer in detail and realism. Perhaps the most vivid detail of all could not be conceptualised within the confines of even the most sophisticated of programs; the fragrance of water blooms; natels, wafting pleasantly across the lavish gardens of Leca'Tha House, where he had lived so many years ago. In Bajoran, 'recan' meant beauty, and 'tha' suggested that which is. Leca was a direct synonym for 'power'.

He sighed again and sank more deeply into his plush chair, surveying his House of Power under a lazy, nostalgic eye. He had endured many aches in this home ... heartaches, headaches ... but many fond memories intrinsically recreated it into a palace of delight, a haven of silent solitude ... a realm of tranquillity. The wars had raged at the sill of his door, but every evening Gul Elim Garak had been able, without fail, to expect complete separation from the utter misery drifting over the destitute streets and penurious pleas for salvation in the eyes of the ever-watchful Prophets.

Perhaps it had been his greatest fault. To forget all within the confines of his asylum. To strip languidly within a temperate decor and enjoy a hot, balmy bath while outside children he himself had collared during the day were rounded up for a merciless execution. Perhaps if he had taken the time and found the will to stare into those insolvent young Bajorans in the eye at the moment their life ceased ... he would not have found such comfort in taking a bath after all.

But the will had never been there. Only the aches in his back from pacing all day, and the chill imbedded in his skin from the temperature ruling the neglected interrogation chambers the Order often offered as his place of work. The location never mattered. Only the inquisitor ... and he had been a prised one in those years.

A smile crept along his lips, and he sighed softly, a hint of contradicting sorrow underlining the breath. All that remained now were illusions and dreams. Seducing him into the past, rendering the present so much more tiresome. He longed for those years again. He longed for the work, the accolade ... but most of all he yearned for the power. Ah yes ... he inhaled deeply, his fingers denting the silken armrests as he closed his eyes.

To be a Gul once again.

She supposed it was curiosity above all that drove her to override the holosuite doors. Or perhaps the lingering hate for the occupant whose privacy she was now invading. She would never know what did it. Perhaps, in all perspectives, it was the innocent, tender image of a young Bajoran crossbreed that goaded her into uncovering just what program the insidious tailor had concocted for himself.

She knew right away where and in what House she stepped into when the door closed and vanished behind her. She withheld a sigh as she glanced sideways to the looming glass wall that opened onto an ornate garden, filled with jevonite arches and exotic flora. Beyond the flowing bushes lush with wreaths of synathrels and spring sloya, she could detect the faint, misty contour of the great Recan'Tha mountain ridge. Then all too suddenly, the memory of being constrained by bloodthirsty Cardassians to seek asylum in the few and precious recesses carved into the mountains forced her to snap her head away and focus on the dim half-light that flickered from an adjacent room with retaliative anger.

The door was ajar, though barely as Kira Nerys made her silent approach. Her mind raced furiously to anticipate the grisly scene being playacted within those confines, her own experiences firing her blood.

That day on Deep Space Nine when she had inadvertently bumped into the plain and simple tailor ... it had not been the first meeting she had encountered with the infamous Gul Garak. She swallowed back her tears and tried to set her mind into the present.

She arrived at the door, and pushed.

Her hair had always been braided into the convoluted, arcane style the Kira women had always bore, but now it flowed freely over her naked shoulders. She shivered violently and wished for the Prophets to steal her life away and allow her Pah within the blissful regions of the Celestial Temple.

She was also crying.

At twelve she had learned to hate Cardassians. To regard the cold, dispassionate grey face as a cruel and senseless monster who took pleasure in the torture of her people. At seventeen, that hate very nearly cost her her life. Instead, it had dissolved her most precious and valued assets; herself.

Leca'Tha House had been one of the few opulent residences of Recan'Tha Province to have survived the disarray of terrorism. Still standing proudly over the slight hill the street created, the house was more popularly known for the denizen it protected than its simple existence. The revered Gul Garak. Of course next to the home of Gul Dukat, the interrogator's dwelling was not all that impressive. Small even. But the rumours provided enough of a terrorising effect on the young, slender Bajoran who was hauled through the large arcing door.

They had stripped her efficiently, without a wavering in their task as they swept the heavy cloak to the floor, tore the tan tunic from her lithe body with ruthless claws and peeled the gauzy undergarments without a pause. She was dragged to a room, left to stand with her tears and humiliation even as they vacated the premises with silent speed.

Not a moment passed before her host made his appearance. He was languid. Ominous. Charming. He was a walking contradiction. To her young mind, the man who stood before her was a menace in its sharpest of senses. Rumours were all she had within the trivial network of friends she had made in her short life as a rebel. But those alone had been enough for her to disregard her own convictions and break into tears at the mention of his name. All who were summoned to Leca'Tha house were either never to be seen again, or released to the overseers on Terok Nor, forever changed. Leca'Tha house, for the Bajorans, had been nicknamed Seron'Tha ... that which is death.

No words had been spoken since the Gul's entrance, and Kira began to fidget. She brushed her fingers repeatedly against her naked thighs, fluttering nervously as Garak made a slow circle around her, studying her with clear, icy blue eyes. When he disappeared behind her she froze suddenly, her throat moving with a hard swallow as she felt his cool fingers brush against her nape, caressing, exploring until finally he pulled at her hair.

She screamed.

"My my, you are a nervous creature aren't you?" his voice finally wafted to her ears as she forced herself to relax. All he had done was untie her hair, but the abrupt gesture had nearly startled her into an early death.

And now she stood for him, nothing but her pride and tears to cover her naked skin.

He leered at her smooth back.

She found him sleeping. Nothing else to break the soothing, shimmering light of candles etched on the hearth's mantle, or the warm temperature enveloping her like a blanket. No blood being spilled, no whips slicing the air with atrocious whistles. Just a sleeping Cardassian, head resting against a plush cushion of an equally velvety chair, a natel withering on the floor beneath the hand which had held it.

She swallowed nervously and simply stared at her once ago lover. A lover she had loathed for as long as she could recall.

"What is your name my lovely young dear?"

Kira delayed a sob long enough to breathe her name unsteadily between her lips. "Kira Nerys."

"Now Kira Nerys," he said deliberately, taking seat in a plush chair to regard her from a position directly in front of her. "It has come to my recent ... attention, that you may be linked with some very distasteful ... organisation, shall we say. In fact, I'm quite certain that you are. Would you care to refute that affirmation my dear Nerys?"

She shivered again, hating her position, loathing how she felt such intimidation by this simple act of debasement. She struggled with herself to keep her hands at her sides and she said with a slight levering of the chin, "Sir, I can assure you that I am in no way associated with any organisation that the ... Prefect, or any other Cardassian, might view as distasteful."

"Really?" The Gul's tone was one of wonder. "Now that is a shame. And I used to put so much value into the Obsidian Order's network of informants. But then, who am I to discredit a simple Bajoran girl?" he said lightly, the sarcasm just barely present. "How old are you child?" he asked, climbing leisurely to his feet.

She forced herself to keep her tone steady. "Seventeen."

"Seventeen ..." he breathed in feigned shock as he approached her. "Such a young age for one with such ..." he looked down at her, tracing the creamy ivory contours of her body with his piercing eyes before sighing, "... mature beauty."

She wanted to scream. Cry. Kill him. Anything but suffer this humiliating treatment. She judged him to be nearing his thirties, and she was no fool to believe that he couldn't hurt her even if he decided to be gentle with her.

Tears welled in her eyes.

She wiped them away with an angry sweep of the palm, and turned her back to him. She stalked to the door, incensed at the memories he invoked, despising the man she could so easily kill had she nothing but her freedom to lose.

"Reminiscing?" a familiar voice asked, and she turned angrily. Garak was rubbing his eyes with a yawn.

"How dare you?" she hissed. "How dare you come in here and relive it as though nothing ever happened. Don't you feel anything when you're in here Garak?" she bawled. "Any remorse at all for the innocent young girls and boys you abused and raped?"

He fixed her with a cold stare. "I never abused children, Major. Only once." He broke into faint chuckles. "Ironic, if you think about it."

"I don't see anything funny about this, you bastard!" she cried, swinging around to face him. "I hate you. I hate you for being under asylum. I hate for you for living. But most of all, I hate your people for not finding a way to dispose of you."

His smile vanished as though it had never graced his lips - and in fact it never had - and he turned his gaze to the hearth, pensive. "Don't worry about that Major. It's only a matter of time." He sighed and lifted himself from the chair, his eyes finding the closed natel resting primly on the black obsidian carpet. "And a matter of will ..." he thought, his mind drifting to the solitary jevonite knife gleaming in its glass case in his drawer.

The carpet was abrading her back, and she cried out from the fire that ignited her skin. She tried to forget the sizzling pain lancing the entire length of her body, but whenever she did he twisted around and made her feel it more. He pulled at her long hair, steadying her head as he swooped down for a bruising kiss. And all over she felt his scales bristle with heat and arousal, conspiring to the irritations on her sensitive skin. She cried out in anger again, vowing a thousand deaths on him and his people, cursing him, her very nature metamorphosing throughout the thoughtless invasion of her body.

She swallowed down air and felt the ridged cock slam into her again and again, touching her deeply, opening her, tearing her. Whatever she did afterward, she would never regain that which Gul Garak had stolen from her. The precious gift she had hoped to give her Bonded one day ... the only property that had been hers alone before it was ruthlessly snatched away.

When Garak froze over her and spilled his essence into her, her mind was gone.

It was already plotting the deliberation of her people.

"And in all those years, my dear tailor, I hated you." She advanced on him and faced him equally, her lips set in determination. "And one day, I hope to be by your side when you die. To watch your life fade away would give me a satisfaction you cannot possibly imagine."

Garak stared at the natel, still in thought, before he murmured, "Then Major ..." He looked up at her and walked forward, trampling over the flower deliberately. He walked to her, then just as he passed her he said, "Come by my quarters tonight."

He left her to stare at the broken petals without a word; gone to organise his affairs. Gone also to say goodbye to a very special friend

The End