REP: Oasis 7/8 [PG-13] (TNG, Q)
Laura Taylor
If only this long road had an end,
And in the track of a hundred thousand years, out of the heart of dust
Hope sprang again, like greenness.
Omar Khayyam
"The Ruba'iyat"
In every direction, the tan and golden desert sands extended beyond the
range of visual acuity until earth and heaven finally embraced like
long-lost lovers on some distant unknown horizon. Q felt the barren
loneliness crying out from deep within the earth's bowels, a mournful
voice rising and falling like the funeral dirge he heard in his dreams,
and he longed to mourn with the earth, to mourn with Fatima. Yet he
remained silent, fearing that his own plaintive cries of remorse and
loneliness would be nothing more than a mockery of their shared
primordial grief.
Instead he turned his thoughts inward and wept silently for them. The
silence was overbearing, flooding his veins as the sun relentlessly
rained down fire and heat upon Q's turbaned head. Even as he was
drowning in his own unshed tears, Q was also suffocating in the fierce
dry heat of the desert sun. He could find relief nowhere. The gentle
zephyr that had earlier accompanied the caravan had fled the sun's
oppressive heat, and even the camels refrained from their usual
grumbling, save the occasional noisy dispute between bulls over a cow in season.
Abu Primus had ordered them to break camp three days ago, bolstered by
Q's quick recovery and eager to reach the oasis Fatima claimed was even
now only four days' journey hence. The journey was brutal: they rose
before dawn, ate a quick meal of fruit, dried meat and bread, traveled
six hours until the sun's heat became too strong for even the camels to
endure, then pitched the tent and rested for six hours. Then, as the sun
began to sink towards the horizon, they broke camp and traveled for
another six hours until the moon had reached its zenith and the cold
night air chilled Q to his bones, and rested again.
The hardship created by the rigorous cycle made conversation extraneous,
and few words were exchanged as they gathered around the hearth each
night. Q found himself lost in his own thoughts and memories as images
and sensations extending eternally beyond the desert horizon reminded
him just how far from home he was. Envisioning the omnipotent fertility
of the Continuum in stark contrast to the impotent desert reawakened his
homesickness, from which there was no refuge.
To Q, everything had become a blur. Hours faded into days, each
featureless dune only led to more of the same, even the moon seemed to
remain in full phase, as if the emptiness and desolation below it held
it captive. What terrified Q most of all about the silence and infinity
was his realization that the desert was a reflection of him; he stood
here, looking inside himself, and all he saw was a vast desert
wasteland, extending infinitely into nothingness. He was as devoid of
life now as he had been overflowing with creative energy in the
Continuum, and his only hope of restoration was a human whose husband he
murdered and her inexplicable faith in an unnamed Saint. For all he
could imagine of it, the Continuum was as remote and unattainable to him
as the oasis towards which they were heading.
On the fifth day, as the caravan crested a dune, Abu came to a sudden
halt and pointed excitedly. "There it is!" he called.
Q and Fatima dismounted and walked towards him. Fatima nodded. "Yes, I
see it now," she said.
Q squinted and peered in the direction Abu indicated. "See what? I can't
see anything but sand, sand, and more sand." He was hot, tired, dusty,
thirsty, and in no mood for false hope.
Fatima looked at him, fully aware of his melancholy and frustration.
"Look right on the edge of the horizon," she instructed. "You should be
able to see a long, low dark spot. That is the mountain range we have to
pass through just before we reach the oasis."
Q strained his eyes to the point she indicated. He thought he began to
see the spot, but it could as well have been a mirage, and he turned his
back on it in anger. Then a slight breeze, the first he had felt in
days, ruffled his caftan, and for just a moment he thought he smelled
water. He inhaled deeply, reveling in the faint but intoxicating
greenness of the aroma.
The scent also encouraged the camels, and several of them lurched to
their feet, growling and snarling like mad dogs. "Come, let's go," urged
Abu. "We should reach the range within a day." It was all the motivation
Q needed to vault into his saddle and take off after the herd.
They pitched the tent at the entrance to a gap that would take them
straight through the range and to the oasis where the shrine was
located. Outside the tent, the mountains loomed large and inviting like
the embrace of a favorite aunt. A small creek that had been steadily
carving the mountain pass for centuries emptied into a sparkling pool of
fresh water near the camp, and they had all enjoyed the pleasure and
relief brought by the crystal clear spring.
Q had been the first to dive into the pool, diving and splashing in the
blissfully cold water as he washed away the dust and aches of the long
road that now lay behind him. Then, when he felt refreshed and stretched
out in a hammock strung between two date-palm trees, Fatima removed her
tunic and leggings and waded in up to her waist, scooping the water with
her hands to wash her face and upper body. Q gallantly offered to go
into the tent so she could have some privacy, but Fatima declined and
continued as if he were not there. She never bared her head or removed
her shift, though she did eventually duck her head underwater, wringing
the excess water from her hair by twisting it into a loose braid.
Q swung lazily, watching her through partially lowered eyelids, admiring
her simple modesty that was free of all shame or embarrassment. He felt
desire, but the feeling did not spring forth from his libido; something
in her evoked an unquenchable yearning in him that was, and was not,
like love. He had often caught himself watching her surreptitiously, and
wondered at the ache he felt when she was out of sight. Q was familiar
with the astonishing range of human emotions and had allowed himself, at
several times in his immortal lifespan, to experience most of them,
though in general he found emotions to be dreadfully inadequate,
irrational and inconvenient. The sensations Fatima evoked, however, were
like no emotion he had ever experienced, and as he lay in the hammock
watching her, he tried to remember all that he had once known about
human relationships before dozing off in the cool shade, a soft breeze
kissing his face.
Late that night as they gathered around the hearth, there was a palpable
aura of excitement and barely restrained joy in the air. Abu's eyes
shone with renewed liveliness, and Fatima smiled and laughed for the
first time in a week as she stitched together a new garment made from a
length of brilliant white cloth. Even Q was less morose and prone to
self-examination than he had been for the past several days as he
reclined against a large cushion and savored a cup of potent, steaming
coffee. The first time he had tasted the thick, viscous liquid,
distilled from crushed roasted beans boiled over the fire, he had nearly
choked on its bitterness. Tonight, however, it was a welcome end to an
exhausting day as he swirled it around his tongue before swallowing.
His spirit refreshed and his hunger sated, Q felt a peace and a
camaraderie he had not felt before. The worst is over, he thought. I
will soon be home.
*************************
Fatima sensed Q's longing and knew her death was imminent. Abu Primus
had warned her that, as they neared the oasis, her spirit would begin to
merge with Q's, bringing them closer together until their bond would be
as inviolable as love between a man and a woman. When he first explained
what would happen, she was afraid, thinking that perhaps she would
become involuntarily unfaithful to Ali, but Abu reassured her,
explaining that her bond with Q would be one of existence, whereas her
bond with Ali, rooted in eternal love, transcended even death. Her
undying love for Ali, he added, would secure her metaphysical union with Q.
"It is like a flame," he had said. "A flame can be divided an infinite
number of times without material harm, but with each division the flame
loses some of its potency. As the flames merge together, it grows
brighter, stronger, more alive. You and Ali share a single soul, bound
in love. Soon you and Q will also share one soul, bound together by
death because of your love for Ali." Fatima only nodded, recognizing the
logic in his argument, but not entirely sure she understood. She knew
what was expected of her, she understood the choice she had made, and
she was prepared to face whatever consequences that choice brought. It
was that persistence of vision that sustained her.
With each passing day, Fatima felt herself inexorably drawn to Q like a
moth to a flame. She had first become aware of the sensation the night
of their shared dream, as if the dream itself had served as a watershed,
forcing her subconscious mind to accept the reality of her sacrifice.
What she neglected to tell Q, however, was that their shared dream was
not identical. Like Q, she had stood before the herm, but she had chosen
to turn west, away from the sun. The road entered a forest, where she
met Anubis, although in her dream he was accompanied by Osiris. There
they instructed her to look for an eagle, but before they could finish,
she was awakened by the terrifying hiss of a cobra.
That night, as she tended Q's wound, she was overcome with tenderness,
like a mother caring for a sick child. She longed to remain by his side
as his memory returned to him, to comfort him, to forgive him for what
happened long ago, but Abu pulled her away, insisting that Q face the
paradox of his responsibility for Ali's death and his impending debt to
her alone.
Hearing Q's muffled sobs that night, Fatima had not been able to sleep.
The journey across the desert had been especially difficult for her; as
Q grew stronger, she became weak. She had lagged behind the rest of the
caravan, unable to maintain the blistering pace Abu set, struggling to
remain on her mount. When they stopped at midday and at night, she
collapsed on her bed into a dreamless slumber, and awoke more exhausted
than before.
She was relieved when they reached the mountain range, with its cool,
clear spring, and could barely contain herself from indulging her
fatigue and her thirst before Q had had his fill. Under normal
circumstances, she would never have bathed in another man's presence,
but this time she did not shy away from Q's penetrating gaze. She
luxuriated in it, letting his unfulfilled yearning wash over her like an
exquisite perfume.
That night, after praying for the first time in a week, she began
preparing her funeral robes. The end is near, she thought. I will soon
be with Ali.
*************************
It took them two days to reach the oasis as they traveled from dawn to
dusk, stopping only for a midday siesta.
The path was narrow and occasionally treacherous as it wound through the
range, bordered by the stream on one side and a sheer rock face on the
other, but Abu led the caravan at a nerve-wracking pace, pressed by an
urgency only he knew. Throughout the entire journey he had remained on
foot, the caravan following behind at a steady pace in single file, but
as he led them through the mountains even the camels had to jog to keep
up with him. Q turned in his seat to look at Fatima behind him,
wondering at the speed with which they were traveling, but her face
remained a stony mask, not even acknowledging his unspoken question. He
knew she had stayed awake the entire night, working on the garment. Q
wondered if it had something to do with the shrine they were visiting.
On the second day, the path widened enough for them to pass two abreast,
and Q and Fatima rode side-by-side in silence. It had finally occurred
to him that the impending anniversary of her husband's death was what
quieted her, and the memory of his role in Ali's death kept him quiet.
At one point he considered remaining behind, out of respect, but then
Fatima turned to him, as if she had read his thoughts, and said, "The
Saint will be able to help you get home."
By mid-afternoon on the second day, Q spotted a round white dome in the
near distance and rightly guessed it to be the shrine. Next to the domed
building stood a slender tower — a minaret, he supposed — and as the
building grew larger he saw a magnificent eagle land on the golden
crescent moon that stood atop the minaret and let loose with an
ear-shattering scream, calling to its mate much like a muezzin would
call the faithful to prayer.
Fatima gasped loudly, startling Q from his reverie. He looked at her,
puzzled by her reaction, and for the first time noticed just how pale
and drawn she had become since their journey began. Her cheeks were
hollow, and dark circles accented the omnipresent haunted look in her
eyes. Her once-lustrous hair hung limp down her back and she moved with
the fragility of a woman decades older. Her lips were thin and colorless.
Sensing Q's eyes on her, Fatima turned to face him. The dark, brooding
passion in his eyes that she remembered from the Enterprise logs but had
never seen herself until now caused her to blush involuntarily. She
slowly reached out her hand and placed it over his. "I'm all right," she
murmured. "It's just been a long day."
Q swallowed and closed his eyes. Her hand was as light as a feather, yet
the contact left him with a burning ache that both terrified and
invigorated him. He carefully pulled his hands away and spurred his
mount forward just enough to reach out and grab the bridle on Fatima's
camel. Halting both animals, he leaped down, then coaxed Fatima's mount
to its knees. In a single fluid motion, he grabbed the reins and sprang
up behind Fatima as the camel lurched to its feet, bellowing at the
additional weight, and securely wrapped his arms around Fatima's waist.
When she turned to look at him, puzzled, he merely said, "You look tired
enough to fall off. Why don't you rest while I take the reins." She
stiffened momentarily at his closeness, but exhaustion quickly usurped
any residual feelings of distrust and modesty and she nestled into his embrace.
Entwined like two trees growing from a single root system, Q and Fatima
rode the rest of the way in comfortable, intimate silence. As the dome
loomed larger, Q noticed the tops of trees swaying in the breeze,
bedecked with the plumage of a thousand species of birds chirping and
twittering with delight. The eagle he saw earlier had been joined by its
mate, and the two graceful birds perched atop the minaret like monarchs
surveying a kingdom, occasionally turning to each other to rub beaks in
a tender avian kiss.
Then the caravan rounded a large boulder, and Q was awestruck at the
splendid panorama that lay before him. He did not know what the oasis
more closely resembled — the Garden of Eden, the Elysian Fields, or the
Hanging Gardens of Babylon. What he did know for certain was that he was
at the very edge of Paradise.
His strongest impression was of the sheer greenness of the place. A
thick canopy of trees surrounded the shrine, and the aftenoon sun
intensified the reflections of foliage on the white dome, giving it a
warm green glow like a spring meadow. Within the forest Q could see oak,
maple, ebony, cedar, locust, poplar, cypress, sandalwood — trees that
never grew together in nature — all in full foliage. The birds that Q
had heard and seen earlier continued their joyous singing, undisturbed
by the humans or the eagles perched nearby. The western edge of the
forest was bounded by a wide river as blue as lapis lazuli, and Q could
see elephants, zebras and lions gathered by the sandy banks. As the
caravan entered the forest, monkeys chattered their friendly greetings
and gazelles bounded shyly away, turning at a safe distance to peek at
the newcomers. Q was startled to recognize the forest from his dream,
and his arms tightened unconsciously around Fatima.
The trees soon thinned into a large clearing where the shrine sat, and Q
was once again rendered speechless by the beauty that defied his
infinite knowledge. The shrine was perfectly square, bounded on each
side by four graceful columns topped with Corinthian capitals painted to
resemble locust trees. The columns themselves were painted a bright
yellow and decorated with intricate blue script Q recognized as Arabic.
Inscribed in gold over the door was the shahada, and Q found himself
reciting the creed as he gazed in wonder.
He dismounted, intending to explore the interior of the shrine, but Abu
Primus stopped him from entering. "No," he commanded. "It is not yet
time. When it is appropriate, then you may enter." Q hesitated,
curiosity waging war with obedience, but unwillingly acquiesced.
He turned to assist Fatima with her dismount. "Thank you," she said, and
took Q's hand and led him over to the shrine. Pointing to the two
columns to Q's left on the front of the building, she said, "Those tell
the story of Fatima and Ali, the daughter and son-in-law of the Prophet.
Ali was supposed to be the fourth Caliph, but he was brutally murdered
by his enemies. Those columns," she continued, indicating the two to Q's
right, "tell the story of the Saint who is buried in this shrine. He,
too, was a martyr." She looked at Q. "His name was also Ali."
Q did not move a muscle as he held Fatima's gaze for what seemed to be
an eternity. At first, he did not know what words he should say, what
words he could say, to ease her pain and beg her forgiveness. Then, as
he saw the tears coursing down her face, words ceased to matter and he
pulled her into his arms with an anguished sob, burying his face in her
shoulder. His chest heaving, he managed to pull himself away and take
her tiny face in his hands, bending down until their foreheads touched.
"Forgive me," was all he could say.
Fatima closed her eyes and smiled. "We are beyond forgiveness, Q," she
said. "Guilt and pain and death have all been washed away. Here there is
only reconciliation and redemption." She reached up and gently wiped the
tears from Q's face. "Ali forgave you even as he died. Now you must
forgive yourself." With that, she removed herself from Q's arms and
began unpacking the tent.
*************************
They pitched the tent on the eastern side of the shrine, near a warm
mineral spring that bubbled up from a subterranean source. Above the
tent, the stars twinkled like a million tiny candles, and Q gazed fondly
at them, remembering the joy he once felt dancing among them like the
firefly that danced above his face.
That night, for the first time, Abu Primus dined with Q and Fatima.
Their meal had been unusually simple — a small loaf of hard, unleavened
bread and a chalice of wine they passed back and forth between
themselves — but Q felt as if he had dined at the palace of a king.
After dinner, Abu explained the ritual they would undertake at dawn the
next day.
"First," he said, "we must fast. Our bodies must be cleansed of
pollutants, so tonight we have eaten this simple meal, to ease us into
slumber, but it will be our last meal. As soon as the sun is completely
above the horizon, we pray. Then I will go and prepare the shrine for
the rites while you go down to the river." At this, Fatima rose and
handed Q a white bundle. "You must wear these garments into the River of
Life as you wash away your sins and purify your spirit. Only then may
you enter the shrine and plead your case before the Saint."
Q was confused. "Plead my case? But you've assured me all along that the
Saint could help me, that he *would* help me. Now you seem to be
suggesting that he won't help me."
Abu's brow knitted, making his bushy eyebrows seem even more so. "He
will help you, no doubt. Whether or not you accept his help on his
terms, however, is another matter."
"His terms?"
"He will put you to a challenge, much like the figures in your dream.
How you face that challenge will determine the final outcome."
"So are you saying that there's still a chance I won't get home?" Q's
voice was rising with his panic. How could he have come so far, only to
fail? He had trusted them! He looked to Fatima, imploring her with his
eyes to help him. She briefly returned his gaze, her eyes full of warmth
and compassion, then dropped her gaze to the ground with a small sigh. Q
shifted his eyes to Abu, who remained infuriatingly silent. Unable to
contain his anger any longer, Q stood and stalked outside.
He flopped down on his back by the bubbling spring and laced his fingers
over his chest. High above him, an owl hooted, but there was no other
sound. Q looked up at the stars, calling each of them by name. He longed
to be among them again, skipping across them like a stone across the
water. He closed his eyes and imagined himself back home in the
Continuum, free to roam the galaxy to his heart's content. For all its
faults, the Continuum was his home, and he missed it, he missed his
brothers and sisters, he missed his son. He even missed that
stick-in-the-mud Picard. Come hell or high water, he thought, I will get
back home, challenges be damned.
At that last thought, Q grinned. He was definitely feeling more like himself.
*************************
Fatima slept better that night than she had in the previous seven nights
combined. When the first glimmer of morning light reached her face, she
rose quickly and dressed in the funeral robes she had finished the night
before. As she was braiding her hair, she heard Q step around the
partition separating her chamber from the rest of the tent, and turned
to greet him. Like her, he was dressed in white from head to toe; like
her, he looked rested, composed, expectant.
"Abu sent me to tell you to hurry up," he said, somewhat bashfully.
"I'll be right there," was her reply. She glanced at Q, and smiled,
reading his discomfort at the idea of praying. "It won't be that bad.
It's really for my benefit more than yours; I was raised by people who
prayed five times a day. There's nothing quite like trying to figure out
what direction Mecca is in when you're way out in space somewhere." Q's
eyebrow lifted. "Even the Bajorans thought I was nuts sometimes." He
stifled a laugh as she rose. "Come on," she said, tugging at his arm.
"I'll walk you through it."
The prayer ritual went smoothly, and even though Q knew it was meant for
Fatima's benefit, something about the rite resonated within him. He had
always been fascinated by human liturgies, and loved to watch them,
unseen, as the participants struggled through their pitiful attempts at
communion with the sacred. What was even more fun, he remembered, was
spicing the rituals with a little 'deus ex machina' from time to time.
It had been a long time since he tried that though; the last he could
recall, the Oracle at Delphi had fallen off her tripod and broken her leg.
He did not mock Fatima's prayer ritual, although there was a certain
incongruity in one immortal being speaking in human sacred language to
another. He was glad when it was over.
As they walked silently through the forest on their way to the river, Q
noticed that the cacophony of birds he heard yesterday was strangely
absent, and even the wildlife he had seen had disappeared from view. It
was an eerie sensation, such utter silence after the joyful noise and
liveliness of the day before, and it reminded Q of the proverbial 'calm
before the storm'. He thought to ask Fatima her opinion, but she seemed
to be lost in thought, a wistful smile on her face.
The silence was stifling as the trees gave way to a narrow sandy strip
on the banks of the river, and Q became increasingly nervous. He reached
for Fatima's hand and gave it a squeeze to reassure himself of her
presence, because she seemed to be thousands of miles away. She squeezed
back, but continued walking towards the river, not even looking back at
him. He dropped her hand and stopped. "Wait," he insisted.
She stopped but refused to turn and face him. "What is it, Q?" she
asked, a subtle note of impatience evident in her voice.
"Something's not right. I can't explain what. It's — oh, I don't know.
It's not real. What happened to all the birds and animals? Doesn't it
seem unusually quiet to you?"
Fatima spun around, alarmed. "What are you talking about? The trees are
filled with birds. Can't you see those lions on the other bank?"
Q took a step forward. "No, I don't," he replied, stressing each word
separately. "As far as I can see, you and I are --"
Fatima held up a hand, momentarily silencing him. "Sh. Do you hear that?"
Q strained his ears. "Hear what?"
"That rumbling sound. Like a stampede or something."
"Where is it coming from?"
She looked around nervously. "I can't tell. I'm not even sure I'm
actually hearing it. I can feel the ground shaking."
Q froze, directing his attention to his feet. A muffled bellow, barely
perceptible to his heightened senses, rose up from deep within the
earth. As he strained to identify the sound and determine its source,
the volume increased, shaking the ground beneath his feet with a dull
pounding rhythm and driving water over the river's natural banks. He
grabbed Fatima's arm and tugged her back towards the forest. "Come on,"
he urged. "Let's get out of here."
Fatima resisted, wrenching herself free of his grasp and turning back to
the river. "But the ritual --"
"The ritual can wait. Something is very wrong here, and I'm leaving with
or without you." He moved towards the relative safety of the trees, his
long legs carrying him across the sandy beach in three strides.
With his back to the river, Q did not see what transpired next.
A monstrous black bull emerged from the river with a thundering roar and
charged straight for Q, its head held low, its long curved horns aimed
menacingly at his back. In less time than it took for Q to turn in
horror at the terrible sound, Fatima had unsheathed her dagger and
hurled it, embedding the blade deeply between the beast's eyes. Blinded
by blood, pain and fury, the bull turned towards Fatima's scent and
charged. She stood her ground, intending to step aside at the last
minute and let the animal run past, but a treacherous root snagged her
foot and she fell to the ground with a cry of alarm. Before Q could
react, the bull had gored Fatima and tossed her in the air like a rag
doll, then flung her to the ground and trampled her, sending particles
of sand mixed with blood and sweat flying.
"No!" Q screamed with a voice torn from the very heart of the Continuum.
Without thinking about his own safety, Q raced to Fatima. The bull,
sensing Q's presence, turned its attention away from Fatima's broken,
bloodied form and snorted at Q, pawing the ground with a mighty hoof,
daring him to come closer. Q slowly reached down to pick up a stick — a
woefully inadequate weapon, he realized — and brandished it as he edged
between Fatima and the bull. With a sickening sense of relief he heard
Fatima moan and stepped bravely foward, swinging the stick back and
forth in an attempt to confuse the animal. He could feel its hot breath,
rank with pain and hatred, on his face. The bull bellowed, gathering its
powerful muscles in preparation to charge, but just as suddenly dropped
to its knees with a groan and toppled over, dead before it hit the ground.
Q stood there dazed, his mind reeling, his chest heaving as he struggled
to regain his composure. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flutter
of movement, and remembered Fatima.
Her once pristine garment was covered with blood, dust and grass and her
hair was matted with blood pouring from a cut above her left ear. There
was a horrific gash across her torso where the bull had gored her, and
Fatima pressed her hands to the wound to keep her intestines from
spilling out. On her back a giant cloven hoofprint gave testimony to the
trampling she received, echoed by the dozens of scrapes and bruises that
decorated her sickly pale flesh. She was alive, but barely.
Q knelt down by her side and with infinite tenderness lifted her in his
arms. Even in the fullness of life she was a mere slip of a girl, but
now she was virtually weightless. As Q stood she moaned again, bringing
a brief rush of color to her cheeks, but Q could tell by her pallor that
death was near. His only thought was of getting her to the shrine, where
Abu Primus, or pehaps even the Saint, might be able to help her.
Drawing strength from his determination, Q carried Fatima into the forest.
*************************
Abu was waiting for them at the entrance to the shrine and seemed to Q
to be curiously unsurprised by the sight of the bloodied figure draped
over Q's arms. He beckoned Q inside.
The interior of the shrine was as simple as the exterior was ornate. The
four walls were freshly whitewashed, bare of any decoration except a
small niche in the eastern wall indicating the direction of Mecca. In
the center of the shrine was a long, low table covered with a white
cloth, on top of which rested a gold chalice. At each end of the table
were two candles, providing the only light inside the shrine. Abu
instructed Q to lay Fatima on the table.
Abu produced from within the folds of his cloak a long knife set into an
ebony handle inlaid with precious stones. He turned the knife so the
handle was pointed at Q. "Kill her," he said.
Q was stunned.
"What?" he cried.
Abu was unmoved by Q's reaction. "You must kill her if you want to go
home, Q. That is the challenge you must face."
Q felt his fury rising like bile in his throat as he resisted the urge
to strike Abu. "How dare you demand this of me! She saved my life
countless times, and her reward is this treachery?"
Fatima's eyelids fluttered and she reached out her hand, searching for
Q. As her hand came to rest on his cheek, she forced her eyes open with
great effort. He was astonished at the tenderness and love he saw in her
expression. "No Q, I did not save your life, at least not yet. If you
don't kill me, then you will die."
"No!" Q roared in impotent rage and helplessness. "I won't do this to
you! Not after what you did for me." His hands trembled as he carefully
tucked a strand of hair behind Fatima's ear and wiped a smudge of blood
from her cheek. "I can't live without you."
"You won't have to. The moment I breathe my last, we will become as one,
and I will be with you always. But I must die at your hands, Q."
"I think the bull's already taken care of that." Tears streamed down his
face, washing away the bloodied imprint of Fatima's caress.
"The bull was merely the last manifestation of Soma's poison," Abu said.
"You have been restored to your natural state, now that all vestiges of
the toxin have been defeated. But Soma's poison didn't just turn you
into matter; she wiped away your identity and your link to the
Continuum. Fatima volunteered to sacrifice her life to restore yours."
"You've known all along that I would have to kill her," Q said
menacingly, glaring at Abu.
"Yes."
"And still you let me --"
"-- grow to love her? Of course; it was only natural. You've been two
bodies sharing a single soul as Fatima helped you overcome the poison.
She has also come to love you, even against her memory and instinct. But
now that you are free from the poison, you must occupy this soul alone.
Fatima's work is done. If you do not kill her before she dies of her
injuries, then there is nothing more I can do for you, and she will have
died needlessly."
Q bent his head down and inhaled deeply. He could not let go. There had
to be another way. In his infinite knowledge he knew, however, that
there was no other way. He knew about Soma, and knew that only one other
Q had survived one of her assassination attempts. That Q, his father,
now stood before him, urging him to take the knife and restore himself
to immortality by killing the one human he could not live without.
Without looking up, he held out his hand, palm up. "Leave us alone," he said.
Abu gently placed the knife in Q's hand and exited the shrine.
Q lifted his head and gazed at Fatima, his heart bursting with love and
gratitude and mourning. Her eyes were open, but the light that once
flickered in them was dull and vacant. He smoothed his hand across her
brow and leaned over, careful not to put any weight on her, and kissed
her, his lips whispering "Forgive me" against her cold skin.
In the blink of an eye, the knife flashed across her throat.
TBC...
--
=====
"This city of monuments [Washington, D.C.] is itself a monument to
blunders, bungles and boondoggles. Part of what makes this country great
is it can survive Washington year after year."
Tom Shales