Archive of Our Own ^beta

At first, there is only silence—silence, and the droning of the ship’s engines. For a second, an eternity. They don’t move. They stare at each other. Then the sound of her voice echoes across the room, like a stone sliding over the surface of the water.

“Good evening, Captain.”

There are no evenings in space. Lenara has been planet-bound for months. Perhaps she still sees the sun rising, in the back of her mind. Perhaps she still feels the breeze on her cheeks, the wind in her hair.

“Come in, Doctor Kahn,” Ezri nods towards the chair facing her desk.

Lenara sits down, folds her hands over her knees. There is silence once more, and there are shadows all around, flickering on their faces, their palms, their lips. Ezri’s fingers touch the four pips on her collar. She straightens up and tugs her uniform down.

“You wanted to see me?” she asks.

The question feels wrong, but Lenara will understand. She knows better, after all.

“It’s about our destination, Captain.”

Her eyes dart away when she says it. Captain. Is it really that strange? Not once has she used Ezri’s name attached to her rank. Not once has she spoken it out loud, as if the mere word could bring those shadows back to life.

“Our destination,” Ezri says, slowly. “The Trill homeworld.”

She waits for an explanation. Lenara’s lower lip is caught between her teeth, and it’s such a familiar expression that Ezri is momentarily disoriented. She never thought she’d feel it again, the dizziness and confusion. There is an old voice inside her head, a voice that was once hers, she used to be my wife.

Lenara leans in and places her elbows on Ezri’s desk. It’s a bold movement, here in the Captain’s ready room. But what she says next is bolder still. “You can’t take us there.”

Ezri blinks. “I have my orders,” she says, struggling to keep the surprise out of her voice.

This isn’t what she was expecting. She watches in silence as Lenara closes her eyes and shakes her head. Ezri wishes she could leave the room. She doesn’t know how to feel, how to quiet the roiling in her chest. And then she meets that gaze—those eyes that know her, although they’ve never seen her before.

“There’s a man on board,” Lenara says. “His name is Nejal Len. He’s a joined Trill accused of Reassociation.”

That’s when Ezri understands. She stands up abruptly, hands suddenly shaking. “I don’t think this is a good time to discuss this.”

“If you deliver him to the Trill homeworld he will be found guilty.”

“There’s nothing I can—”

“He will be exiled.”

“You’re dismissed, Doctor Kahn.”

The silence returns, different this time. Lenara’s eyes are no longer reaching out; they are cold, harsh. For a second she doesn’t move, and her chest heaves with all the anger she tries to contain. Then she stands up and leaves. The moment the doors close behind her, Ezri falls back into her chair and buries her face in her hands.

*

Captain’s log, stardate 6407.2. We’re on a routine mission in the Quanari System. My orders are to transport a Trill science delegation from Starbase 112 to the Trill homeworld. The leader of the science team, Doctor Lenara Kahn, has informed me that among our passengers is a man accused of Reassociation.

The stars blink back at Ezri through the viewport in her quarters. She takes a deep breath. She can almost hear them through the bulkhead; all those strange new worlds, calling her name. Dax, Dax. She thinks of the homeworld, of the promise she was asked to make. And she feels the weight of the nine lives she carries in this body.

A chime tears her away from her reverie. Ezri turns, hands clasped behind her back. “Come in.”

Lenara’s chin is held high as she walks into the Captain’s quarters. She swallows heavily. A lock of hair escapes her bun and curls over the back of her neck, where Ezri remembers pressing her palm, her lips. She carries many memories like this one. Memories that are not hers.

Now she can’t look away, although the tips of her ears turn red when she is caught staring. Jadzia would’ve been unashamed. Jadzia would have held those beloved hands in hers and whispered, I've missed you, I've missed you so much.

“I wanted to apologize,” Ezri says, and her voice is not hers either.

A breath. Lenara tilts her head to the side. “For what, Captain?” she asks, carefully. “For dismissing me? Or for what you’re doing to Nejal Len?”

It burns, but it’s better than silence. They’re both still standing, hovering, as if waiting for something to happen. Of course, nothing can happen. Ezri feels Lenara’s eyes on her, although she dares not meet them.

“As a Starship Captain, I can’t disobey direct orders,” she says.

Lenara shakes her head. “Some things are above rules and regulations. You know that better than I do.”

There’s another memory attached to the words. Something Nilani said to Torias, several lifetimes ago. Something about responsibility and how it can never truly be ignored. Responsibility, yes, but to whom?

“There’s nothing I can do,” Ezri says weakly.

“But there is,” Lenara answers, taking a step forward. “You can take us to D’Argo Prime. It’s a small planet in the Mutara sector.”

“I don’t understand,” Ezri frowns.

Lenara hesitates, her fingers twitching nervously. She wears an expression Ezri has seen on her before. No, not Ezri. Jadzia.

“There is a group of Federation citizens on D’Argo Prime,” Lenara blurts out, “who has been secretly helping exiled Trill lead normal lives after Reassociation. Nejal would be safe there.”

Ezri can’t conceal her surprise. There is a question on the tip of her tongue, threatening to spill out of her mouth; how can you trust me with this? She does not ask. They are both silent for a long time.

“You understand that I’m obligated by Federation law to report this incident,” Ezri finally speaks.

Lenara watches her, looking in her eyes but seeing someone else’s. “I don’t believe you will,” she says, softly. “You’ve faced the possibility of exile. You know what it’s like to stand alone and make that choice.” She pauses, takes a shuddering breath, then continues, “A choice you might end up regretting. And all you can do then is tell yourself a thousand times that if you could go back in time you would do things differently, consequences be damned.”

Ezri looks away. It’s too much, all of a sudden, and what can she possibly say to that? Regret was never Jadzia’s burden. It isn’t Ezri’s either. The choice, at the time, was entirely Lenara’s. Now it seems the roles have been reversed.

“Thank you, Doctor Kahn,” Ezri whispers. “I’ll think about it.”

*

The Mutara sector is only nine days away. They spend a lot of time together—too much, perhaps, but no one seems to notice. They have dinner in Ezri’s quarters after her shift; they sit in silence on the observation deck; they even reserve some holodeck time. And it’s not a surprise that they fall back into old habits with such ease: it was the same with Jadzia, it would be the same in a hundred lifetimes.

They don’t speak of D’Argo Prime, or Nejal Len, or what happened all those years ago on Deep Space Nine. But there is, sometimes, the timid touch of hands, the unbearable closeness, the exchanged smiles of old lovers.

Ezri isn’t a fool. She is constantly reminded that this is a new skin, that she is no longer Torias, or Jadzia. A new skin, but inside there is the same writhing, churning need. Yearning—like water, like fire. She wants to say things; words from another life. I thought I'd gotten over you. It's been so long and so much has happened. And now I know I haven't. Are your eyes open? Do you know what the risks are?

In her ready room, Ezri asks for their ETA over the commbadge. Fifty-one hours to the Trill homeworld. She looks at the stars—her silent companions. She taps her commbadge again.

This is what she has been fighting for ever since she was joined: the right to be herself. She will not live eternally in the shadow of her former hosts. If there is anything she can bring the Dax symbiont… it is this. And if she’s the last one to bear that name, then so be it. It’s her burden, and her choice. She knows what it’s like to fight the good fight. She believes in it.

“Lieutenant Benzarti,” she says, “Change course to the Mutara sector. We’re going to D’Argo Prime.”

*

They stand facing each other in the transporter room. Nejal Len and several other Trill scientists have been beamed down to the planet. To safety. Lenara waits alone on the platform.

“Run away with me,” she dares to say.

There is no one but Ezri to hear this. The entire operation is her responsibility; the crew has nothing to do with it, and she wants no one else involved.

“I can’t. I have to go back to Earth and face the consequences of…” Ezri’s voice fades away, and she is powerless against the longing that overcomes her at the sight of Lenara’s eyes, wet with tears.

Shadows, once more. On their faces, their palms, their lips. Always the same dance. Lenara swallows heavily. “I just want to know… what made you change your mind?”

The question is almost cruel. Ezri’s fingers tremble over the console. “Being with you,” she says. “Seeing how you’ve changed your mind too. It made me realize that it doesn’t have to be like this for everyone. That we can help people like Nejal Len—people like us—and that it really does make a difference.”

Lenara nods, and a tear escapes, falling onto her cheek. Ezri wishes she could reach out and wipe it away. Instead, she says, “Being with you makes me a stronger, braver person. I don’t think that’ll ever change.”

Now there is only silence, and the droning of the ship’s engines. For a second. For an eternity. Then Lenara steps off the platform. “I’m coming with you to Earth.”

Ezri shakes her head, eyes wide. “That’s not—”

“I lost you twice; I don’t think I could stand to lose you again.”

They kiss, and it is like coming home. Jadzia’s words echo in Ezri’s mind, bolder than before, this truth, their truth, and she can almost feel her former host smiling at her—all that matters is how we feel and what we do about it.