NEW: Out of the Ashes (possible SPOILERS) [PG] (DS9, Da, K)
Laura Taylor
episodes of DS9.
TITLE: Out of the Ashes
AUTHOR: Laura Taylor (dre...@roanoke.infi.net)
RATING: PG
SERIES/CODES: DS9
SUMMARY: Includes potential SPOILERS for upcoming episodes. The war is
over, and Cardassia lies in ruins. Can she rebuild?
DISCLAIMER: Paramount owns the Star Trek universe and all that it
encompasses. This story is a work of fan fiction, and as such is not
intended to infringe on any copyrights.
This may be added to the ASC and H&S archives; all others, please ask first!
Any and all comments and critiques welcome, in public or private.
Enjoy!
Laura
*****
"Out of the dusk a shadow,
Then a spark;
Out of the clouds a silence,
Then a lark;
Out of the heart a rapture,
Then a pain;
Out of the dead, cold ashes,
Life again."
John Banister Tabb, "Evolution"
*****
He sat, slouched, among the ruins of the Imperial Palace. Everywhere he
turned, as far as the eye could see, his homeworld smoldered. A
once-great civilization had been reduced to rubble. Unable to contain
his grief any longer, he buried his face in his hands and wept. He wept
for the ruined cities, for the shattered families, for the dead and
missing, for wasted opportunities. When he had wept for all of these,
he shed a few tears for himself and all he had squandered.
The clatter of stone against stone disrupted his uneasy calm, and he
looked up to see a figure moving through the haze of smoke toward him.
Even from this distance her strut was unmistakable, and he wiped the
tears from his face lest she see his weakness. There would be ample
time for grieving later.
After weeks of working side-by-side with her to rid his world of the
Dominion, he would have thought he would have grown used to seeing her
in the gray and black of Starfleet, but in his mind she always wore red.
He understood why she wore the Starfleet uniform, but it did little
good. Maybe it was that strut, maybe it was the hint of red in her
hair, maybe it was the earring or the nose pleats or her temper, but he
would always see her clothed in red. Red, the color of fire and blood
and destruction and renewal and death and birth.
He looked up to see her standing over him, her fists planted against her
hips, her feet shoulder-width apart. By the soul of Cardassia, he hated
her, but he needed her. Like a bitter tonic to cleanse him of poison,
he needed her.
"It's over," she said. "Time to go."
If he squinted just so, he could imagine ridges trailing down the sides
of her plain neck. "Go? Where? There's no place *to* go."
"Back to the beginning." She squatted before him, balancing her elbows
on her knees and folding her hands in front of her. "Time to start over."
He spat in the dust, grimacing at the metallic taste of blood in his
mouth. "Start over? Start over from what? With what? There's nothing here."
"Looks that way, doesn't it?" She pivoted on the balls of her feet,
surveying the desolation surrounding them. "But there will be someday.
All you have to do is rebuild from the ground up."
"No." He stood, wincing at the stiffness in his joints, and
half-heartedly brushed the dust and grime from his trousers. Not that
it mattered; there was no longer anyone around to care about the
condition of his uniform. In a fit of rebellion, he unfastened his
carapace and threw it to the ground, laughing in half-mad delight at the
empty, impotent thud it made, then stretched his unencumbered arms to
the sky and filled his lungs with the stench of dying Cardassia.
"Freedom is a wonderful thing, isn't it?"
Her voice had been so quiet he almost did not hear her. "Freedom? I
wouldn't know what that is."
"You can learn. You've already started." She tossed a rock at the
abandoned shell he had hidden within for so long. "Throw off all your
burdens. No more uniforms, no more wars, no more occupations, no more
Obsidian Order. Just Cardassia. You and Cardassia."
His head hung in sorrow. "Cardassia is dead."
He felt her gentle grip on his shoulder and looked up, into her eyes.
For the first time he saw compassion and understanding there. For the
first time, he was glad to have her with him. "No," she said. "Dukat
is dead. Ziyal is dead. Cardassia is alive. You are alive."
"How do you do it?" he wondered aloud. "How do you carry on, how do
you hold on to hope in the midst of so much death?"
Shaking her head, she said, "I can't answer that for you. You'll have
to find the answer for yourself."
He turned away from her then, to hide the grief rising to the surface.
A glint of light against metal caught his attention, however, and he
bent down to retrieve the object. It was his legate badge; it must
have disengaged from his uniform when he threw it off. He studied the
emblem, the symbol of all he had never wanted to be, his thumb caressing
the raised markings. Then, with a loud cry, he hurled the badge as far
as he could. Somehow, that rejection made him feel better. Freedom,
she had said. Such an alien concept.
She was still there when he turned back, watching him, waiting for him
to make a decision. If anyone understood, it was her. "Start at the
beginning, you said?" She nodded. "Start at the beginning."
Bending down, she scooped a handful of dirt and rubble and spat into it,
then extended her palm toward him. He mimicked her, then watched in
fascination as she swirled her finger through the mixture, intermingling
the dirt with their saliva. When she was done, she again extended her
palm toward him. Unsure of what was expected of him, he gently pressed
his palm over hers, but when her fingers gripped his hand he squeezed
back, feeling the newly-formed mud compress between them.
"The new Cardassia," she said.
He nodded in understanding. "Cardassia reborn."
"Out of the ashes."
"Out of the dust."
"Just like Bajor."
"Just like Bajor."
Neither of them were willing to let go of this new thing that had been
born between them. Hope, forgiveness, new life--they both clung to it
with the tenacity of shared desperation and grief. He looked around him
again, and for the first time he saw potential in the midst of so much
ruin. "I will build a new city here," he declared. "A new city on the
ruins of the old. A city of hope and peace. A city of new beginnings,
new dreams, new --" he stared hard at her "-- friendships."
"Bajor will help," she promised.
Her promise was insufficient, however, and he shook his head. "No," he
said. "Not Bajor. You--you, Nerys, will stay and help me build this city."
Her shoulders stiffened at his use of her personal name, but still she
did not let go. Finally, she nodded. "Agreed...Damar."
No matter what she wore, he would always see her clothed in red. Red,
the color of hope and renewal and life and birth. Red, the color of the
new Cardassia, the Cardassia born from its own ashes.
--
=====
"My goodness, Agnes--you *do* have a bust. Where on earth have you been
hiding it all these months?"
from "Auntie Mame"
Pamela
I should have known who it was, but I was fooled all the way to the end. I should read the headers more carefully, but all I saw was your name and I knew I had to read it.
Most enjoyable.
Thank you!!
Pam
Laura Taylor
>
> Ya know, Laura, that's what I like about your writing. It flows, it pours over you, washing away expectation and then it crashes on to the shores of your consciousness in a whole new light.
Wow...now that's a compliment I can thrive on for the next few months or so.
>
> I should have known who it was, but I was fooled all the way to the end. I should read the headers more carefully, but all I saw was your name and I knew I had to read it.
<chuckle> I guess notoriety has its benefits after all. Thanks for
reading, and thanks even more for enjoying!
Laura
Trillseekr
<dre...@roanoke.infi.net> writes:
>Her promise was insufficient, however, and he shook his head. "No," he
>said. "Not Bajor. You--you, Nerys, will stay and help me build this city."
>
>Her shoulders stiffened at his use of her personal name, but still she
>did not let go. Finally, she nodded. "Agreed...Damar."
Beautiful work, Laura...I'm not sure I could be as forgiving as Kira,
considering Damar killed Ziyal, but the story is definitely inspiring.
Trilly-collector of subtext and smarm
Laura Taylor
>
> In article <371CB732...@roanoke.infi.net>, Laura Taylor
> <dre...@roanoke.infi.net> writes:
>
> >said. "Not Bajor. You--you, Nerys, will stay and help me build this city."
> >
> >Her shoulders stiffened at his use of her personal name, but still she
> >did not let go. Finally, she nodded. "Agreed...Damar."
>
> considering Damar killed Ziyal, but the story is definitely inspiring.
Thank you very much, Trilly.
I gotta say, for the longest time I agree with you--I did *not* like
Damar, not only because he killed Ziyal (and thereby destroyed any
chance of Dukat ever being redeemed), but also because he was such an
unlikeable character. Since the finale arc started, however, I'm finding
myself not only reconsidering my opinion of him, but actually cheering
him on (btw, I haven't yet seen "Strange Bedfellows," but I've heard all
about it and can't wait!). I think many viewers are going to be seeing
Damar in a whole new light soon, and I, for one, am looking forward to it.
Laura