DISCLAIMER: The Star Trek characters
are the property of Paramount Studios, Inc and Viacom. The story contents are
the creation and property of Djinn and are copyright (c) 2020 by Djinn. This
story is Rated PG-13.
An Unobstructed View
by Djinn
Poor
kid, this Ezri Dax. She's struggling and she's
hurting. Never should have been joined, certainly wasn't prepared for it. Hadn't
gone through the training that a proper host was supposed to, hadn't even
wanted to be joined.
She
thinks we wanted her to be with us. She thinks she hears the voices of the
hosts talking to her. But it's not us; it's that crafty old Dax using whatever
means it can to make the host submit, conform, quit fighting it. It'll channel
one voice or all of them, if it means it'll be accepted. I'm sure the Jadzia voice said all sorts of comforting things to her. Dax
remembers me perfectly, can bring me to life better than I can at this point. But
I'm not in there. Not really. Ezri won't know that. It's
a fine distinction, and when you've suddenly got a slug in your stomach and
seven—no, eight—voices talking all at once in your brain, it's easy to believe
the previous hosts are all there. But we're not. It's Dax. Dax's voice. Dax's
memories. Dax's will.
Dax's
lies.
Oh,
don't get me wrong. I'm not saying Dax is evil in the way it manipulates us. It
needs us to want it, to welcome it. Dax has the voices inside it and nowhere
for them to go without us, the willing bodies. And if we aren't there, it's back
in the silt pool for Dax, and it isn't the kind of symbiont to want to stay in
that dank pit forever—or at all. Dax knows what it's like to live life, to
enjoy life. And it doesn't want to go back to swimming around in other
symbionts' memories. It wants to make more of its own.
So
now it has another chance. It's found yet another new life, in the body of an
untrained and nearly unwilling host. One who, if they'd asked me, I wouldn't
have picked for my successor. Of course, they didn't ask me. That's the whole
point. I died unexpectedly, and Dax needed a new host, and Ezri
Tigan was the closest thing to a suitable one. But I
wouldn't have picked her. On the other hand, Curzon failed me the first time I
went through the host program, so maybe I shouldn't be so quick to judge her.
But
look at her. She's faltering. Unsure, off balance. The joining is supposed to
make you stronger, not cause you to doubt everything and everyone.
I
didn't doubt. Not the way she does. Sure, I was always in awe of Curzon. But that
made it easier. I knew him. I knew the struggles he had. I was ready to become
Dax. But this child? She's not. And I worry for her.
And
I worry for Worf. He's in so much pain, and she's
only making it worse. He avoids her, and it makes me unreasonably glad. Makes
someone else glad too.
"Like
it isn't bad enough sharing him with you," my new friend K'Ehleyr says, her mocking tone covering a love for Worf that she'd rather not own up to.
She
makes fun of everything; nothing is safe from her laughter. But she does that
to hide her true self, and once you know that. you start to see through the
gentle scorn to the real woman underneath. The real woman who I've gotten to
know quite well since I've been here.
We're
both waiting, you see. Waiting for Worf. And while we
wait, we talk and we laugh, and we judge the ones who catch our interest, the
ones who live still. I'm enjoying getting to know her, this half Klingon who
won Worf's heart and bore him a son. I am happier
still to find a friend in one who so easily could have been my rival. But here,
in this place, we are all equals. And we wait with equal patience for those we
love to come to us. Even if those we love happen to be the same person.
So
K'Ehleyr sits with me and we watch Worf. She does not approve of Ezri,
belittles her role as counselor. "Never held much with that
psychobabble," she says. "Just a way to explain your own
insecurities." She may be right in this case. Ezri
does seem a seething mass of them.
K'Ehleyr surprises me when
she says that Ezri is no warrior, that she lacks my
bravery, or K'Ehleyr's own. I remind K'Ehleyr that she was not a warrior either in life, that
she chose the way of the diplomat.
She
laughs and pulls her bat'leth out. "Fight me then," she says.
I
remember Worf telling me that they used to battle
together in one of his holoprograms, so I know she
could fight me if she wanted to. But she won't. It is all posturing and even if
it weren't, she can't hurt me here. Sto-Vo-Kor may be full of warriors, but it is not a place of war. It
is a place of raucous celebration. Of drunken boasting and playful wrestling. Besides,
we're dead already and it's not like we can become any more dead.
I
share that thought with K'Ehleyr, and she laughs. She
laughs at many of the things I say. And I laugh with her, enjoying her scathing
wit and blistering insight. I can see why Worf loved
her, and I can see why they drove each other crazy.
She
has a hard edge, an unwillingness to relax, to let people in, to be soft. And
for all his Klingon ferocity, Worf liked it when I
was soft. He found comfort in that, I think. But K'Ehleyr doesn't let her guard down, and I can't imagine
that she let him in very much, if at all.
Yet
he loved her. I know he did, and I think deep down she loved him just as much. Even
if it would kill her to show it. Kill being a relative idea in a place like
this.
Two
warriors stumble by, their plates loaded down with heart of targ
and gagh. They nod at K'Ehleyr
and me, accepting us without question. We are all brothers and sisters here, united
in our honor.
I'm
happy to be among such warriors, even if I was surprised to wind up here. I
remember being in a different place at first. A place quiet and dark—sort of
like the symbiont cave. And then I was yanked away, flying through the
firestorm of a huge explosion and deposited here in Sto-Vo-Kor, amidst the never-ending cacophony and color of a
Klingon battle feast. Koloth and Kang were waiting to
welcome me, and Kor eventually joined us too.
I
like it here. I mean that I, Jadzia, like it here. And
that is comforting, because for years I thought that my love for things Klingon
was only because of Curzon. But there is no Curzon with me now, and no Dax to
mimic his voice and his passions. I am alone here, only one voice in my head.
Curzon
didn't find his way to Sto-Vo-Kor. No one waged a
great battle in his name, as Worf did for me. Nor did
he have a murderer to be killed in bloody vengeance as Worf
killed Duras for K'Ehleyr,
ensuring her a place in Sto-Vo-Kor.
The
part of me that was always in awe of Curzon is happy that he isn't here. I have
achieved something he didn't. I may have been shot down like a dog by a mad Cardassian, but at least I didn't die in bed.
K'Ehleyr laughs at me. "You
are a true Klingon," she says, rolling her eyes slightly. K'Ehleyr is less pleased to be here, and, not for the first
time, I wonder if Worf has any idea what awaits him
in the afterlife.
She
was quite happy in the human heaven, ready to catch up on her reading and her
sleep. Then, in the same way I was taken, she was yanked from her
pastel-colored nirvana and thrown into Sto-Vo-Kor. I
am glad that she had time to adjust before I got here. Resigned K'Ehleyr is sarcastic enough. I wouldn't want to meet angry
K'Ehleyr.
Worf, on the other
hand, may have no choice. He sent her to Sto-Vo-Kor, and she is obligated to stay until he arrives. She's
already practiced her speech on me several times. It cuts like a bat'leth, and
I have tried to get her to temper it. But she won't, and I can only hope that Worf will also hear some of the love that she refuses to
put into words but that fills her eyes every time she speaks of him. I hope
that he can see that, no matter how irritated she is with him, she still adores
him. I don't want to think his only memory of her in this place will be her
angry goodbye.
K'Ehleyr stretches, giving
me a wary look as if she can sense my thoughts. She has seemed happier lately. Maybe
she will stay a while when Worf comes. Or at least
visit occasionally. I think he would like that. I know I would.
A
warrior comes up to me, insisting on filling my cup of bloodwine.
I throw it back, then I hold out the goblet for more. The warrior is pleased;
he pounds me on the back to show his approval. He doesn't pull his blows, doesn't
try to temper his strength. And here, in Sto-Vo-Kor, I can take such a beating without feeling as if my
bones might snap. Here, I can give it back to him if I wish.
I
am strong. I am Jadzia, wife of Worf,
of the house of Martok.
I
sit back down near K'Ehleyr and smile in contentment
as I listen to one of the warriors recite an epic poem. It is warm here,
comforting and safe, and I relax, leaning my elbows on the table, propping my
chin up and letting myself soak in this place, this wonderful chaotic peace.
I
jerk, realize that I've been dozing, floating in a haze that's not quite sleep.
I thought I had just closed my eyes for a moment, rested my head between the
fifty-first and fifty-second verse of "Kahless
and the Serpent" but I find that many weeks have passed in that other
reality where Worf and Ezri
live, even if my comrades are only on verse fifty-five of the song. Time passes
strangely here.
Ezri is doing better than I thought she
would. She certainly seems to have made friends...my friends. They all seem to
like her, accept her. And for herself, not for me. That'll be good for her,
help her turn down the voices inside. Too easy to lose your way, if they're all
you hear.
She
walks taller. More like me. Dax has been working hard, I see. It has fed her
the memories, the voices, as if they are something other than its own
remembrances. She thinks that the hosts live inside her, somehow connected to
Dax in a manner that lets us grow, learn, and continue to exist in some small
way.
But
that's not how it works. Dax is merely speaking in tongues. It's had years to
understand our dreams and hopes, to copy our voices and mannerisms. It can be
any one of us now, and Ezri will never be the wiser. Nor
will those who tend the symbionts. They've never been joined. They've never
died. So how can they know?
But
I know—now. I didn't know then. I thought when Dax told me how to fight with a
bat'leth that I was channeling Curzon. I thought I was linking with something
ancient and somehow immortal.
It
was a heady feeling. Led me to take some chances I probably shouldn't have. But
I was sure that my voice would go on forever, that I would live on in the next
host. So I risked much and held back nothing. I was
ready to die in glorious battle, hand-to-hand with a dreaded enemy, or be blown
apart with Worf and Benjamin in the darkness of
space.
Instead I died in a Bajoran
temple, trying to convince deities that I didn't even believe in to look
favorably on my wish for a child. I wanted to have a child in the middle of a
war? I am lucky that it only took Worf one battle to
win me a place here. The warriors were obviously in a generous mood that day.
And
what of my Worf? He is still there, on the station. Mourning
me, as he has since the moment I stopped breathing. His
pain is so real that I can taste it from here. So can K'Ehleyr.
"He never mourned me that way," she says, more as commendation for
our love than out of any sense of jealousy.
"He
shouldn't mourn me that way," I say. No good can come of it.
But
the alternative for Worf is to fixate on my
successor. He watches Ezri, looks out for her. If it
weren't that I fear that he sees me reflected falsely in her eyes, I wouldn't
mind. But I'm afraid he will push her too far and she will respond. The Dax-Jadzia has been talking to her, making her focus on
feelings for Worf she shouldn't even have.
It's
what is keeping her on the station. Worf has said she
could stay, and so she does. And now I see how she looks at him. I wonder which
of my memories Dax has called up for her. Making love with Worf?
Our many battles both of words and with weapons on the training mats? And does
he tempt her to break the rule of non-association?
I
laugh at the thought of that rule. I have broken it, indeed
I don't know of a joined Trill who hasn't. In fact, I think they make the rule
just so we, contrary beings that we are, will try to rekindle something with
those we've lost, knowing that once we do, we'll realize that it doesn't work,
doesn't feel right. That being with those people from our past is off somehow. And
then we'll move on and live our lives.
And
that is what is happening now. I see that Ezri has
moved on, and I realize again that time is strange here. I barely blinked, and
the world where Ezri lives speeded up. I see what's
happening to her as if in a blur, yet I understand it completely. She has
indeed broken the rule. She and Worf were alone and
angry, and they came together in the violent passion that I used to enjoy so
much. And of course, it didn't work for them, because she's not me, and no
matter how Dax tries, it can't make her more like me.
So Ezri is moving
on. To her own life, she thinks. But her own life would lead her off the
station, away from my friends. She thinks she's living her life, but she isn't.
She's living mine—and I was living Curzon's, and ultimately
we were all living Dax's. Ezri may have ended any
romance with Worf, but now she's moved on to Julian. Would
she have even noticed him if she hadn't had the Dax-Jadzia
whispering in her ear that it was time to give him a chance? That he'd loved us
for too long, too faithfully, not to be rewarded?
Hell,
the same could be said for Quark. She could have picked him, and Dax would have
found a way to make it all right. But it isn't all right. None of this is Ezri's, and she doesn't even know it. She's on the station,
my station, and she's picked up the pieces of my life and is moving on with it.
But what life would Ezri lead if she had never been
joined? What does Ezri really want? Does she even
know anymore? Or can she only hear what Dax wants? Is that the sum total of her
reality? As it was for each of us who went before her?
And
what does Julian want? He loved me. I always knew that. But I'm not sure that
he really loves Ezri. Is she a fresh, new thing—truly
mostly Ezri and only a little bit Jadzia
Dax?
Or
is she Jadzia-light for him, a small, less vivid copy
of me, but close enough to do for now, until he grows tired of pretending that
she is anything other than what she is? That sounds cruel, but I don't think it
is. Julian loves deeply, but he's also more than capable of deluding himself. I
just wonder for how long.
And
what does she feel? I wish, just once, I could actually be inside her the way
she thinks I am. Could understand what she feels and, if it isn't real, slap
some sense into her.
But
it wouldn't do any good. Ezri will stay on the
station because Dax likes it there. And it'll pull out every stop to convince
her she belongs. Channel my voice or Curzon's, hell, it'll even bring forth
Joran again if it thinks it will work.
I
followed the Dax-Curzon voice the same way. The station wasn't in my future
originally. Not when Dax was just a possibility for me. Not when it was still
housed in Curzon's belly. I could have been a scientist on Trill. Or doing
research on an outpost somewhere. Deep Space Nine was just one of my options. But
once I was joined, there was no choice. I chased down that posting like it was
pure latinum. Found Benjamin, searched him out the
same way Ezri did. Curzon, I thought. Curzon wanted
to see his old friend.
Curzon
couldn't have cared less. I understand that now. He was gone, but the
Dax-Curzon remained. And he spoke loudly and with emphatic assurance. I had no
choice but to follow my destiny. To go to Deep Space Nine. To take my place in
history.
To
take Dax's place in history.
But
it wasn't all bad. At least Dax's place in history was an exciting one. The
view from its world was amazing and the chance for adventure unparalleled. And
I met Worf, had the chance to love him. I may have
lived out someone else's life, just as Ezri is doing
now, but at the time it felt like the most amazing ride I'd ever been on.
And
truth be told, it still does. I will be remembered. I may have been only the
eighth in a long line of Dax hosts, but people know who Jadzia
was. People I've never met are sad that I am gone. And one man mourns me as if
his life will never again be the same. I wish I could help him. I know that I
cannot. And it makes me sad if I watch him for too long.
And
watching Ezri only makes me wonder if Curzon looked
down on me from wherever he went when he died, and wondered if I would ever
stop living my life for Dax. Have all the hosts wondered this?
I
think I'll stop watching any of them now. K'Ehleyr
says they've broken open another barrel of blood wine. And it's my turn to lead
the chorus. We're on verse sixty-seven, and it's my favorite. Or Curzon's. Or
Dax's. No matter. I'm the one drinking the blood wine and singing in ancient
Klingon. And I will be the one who waits, alongside K'Ehleyr, for Worf to come
home in his own time to Sto-Vo-Kor.
So
let Dax have its way. Let it lead and spin Ezri until
she can't see straight, until she can't choose anything except what it wants. And
it wants its life. The one it took from all the hosts, even Lela, the first. Dax
can play its tune and make the host dance in the steps that we all have
followed.
If
it wants to live that badly, who am I to criticize? They both can have my life.
Ezri and Dax. And I hope it's everything they ever
wanted. As for me, I plan to enjoy my death.
FIN