PART EIGHTEEN: CAPRICE IN A MINOR

Die berggans het 'n veer laat val,

van die hoogste krans by Woeperdal,

my hart staan tuit al meer en meer,

ek stuur vir jou dié berggans veer -

mits dese wil ek vir jou sê

hoe diep my liefde vir jou lê.

                                                Boerneef

Kathryn stood ready to fight him. The winter chill spread through him and he shivered slightly, even though it was much warmer inside the lodge. He had lit a fire earlier in the hearth. Now the dying embers were all that remained, but they still created a cosy ambience so in complete contrast with what he was feeling.

He hadn't wanted to face what he knew was coming. Now he would be forced to listen and expected to accept without a fight. It was her way. He had been fooled in thinking that Kathryn had suddenly changed into a submissive being, that she would, on his insistence, comply, listen to him, bow to his demands. Foolishly he had imagined that she had taken to heart all his warnings, his diatribes, his concerned entreaties that burnt fingers were not to be burnt again and that she had listened and learned her lesson.

It was what he loved about her - her fierce sense of independence, her individuality. Yet, when the time came for him to deal with that independence of spirit, her right to make her own decisions whether they included him or not, he couldn't absorb it.

They were facing off. Kathryn stood, primed to attack. If he stood any closer to her, he would see how her neck hair bristled.

"He needs me, Ethan."

How could he dispute her words? They had been dancing around one another for the past week, ready to attack and defend. The announcement of Seven of Nine’s death had been shocking. Former Voyager crew had expressed their stunned disbelief at hearing the news. According to Mike Ayala, they had all sent their heartfelt condolences to Chakotay. Seven of Nine's passing left Chakotay grieving with a fifteen month old child to care for now that her mother had died.

Kathryn had been distraught and had clung to Ethan the first night in her apartment near Headquarters. He comforted her but when she had eventually drifted into an uneasy slumber, it was Chakotay's name that issued from her lips when she dreamed.

The news had spread like wild fire and the general feeling had been, as B’Elanna Paris told him, that no one had wished Seven of Nine dead. Their dislike of Seven had been rooted mostly in their disappointment that Chakotay didn't marry their captain and chose Annika Hansen instead.

Icheb had recovered once the mystery of his illness had been solved. He had been intensely saddened by Seven's death, but for him, life went on. It had to. The past week had been a painful adjustment for Icheb who had been close to Seven of Nine during their Voyager years. What Seven of Nine learned by way of her introduction to human relations, she in turn imparted to Icheb, had coached and even counselled him. Now, a week later, Icheb had calmed and busied himself with his studies as a way of coping with the loss of a good friend. And, it was as if his old Borg ways kicked in. Icheb's impassive acceptance rubbed off on him too and Kathryn had been devastated by his apparent unfeeling attitude. She had taken Seven of Nine's death hard, since she had practically raised the former Borg drone, or Annika Hansen as she preferred to be called once she had married Chakotay. Even though Annika married the man Kathryn wanted, hatred was not part of Kathryn's life. The moment Annika's violent death receded just enough for Kathryn to see beyond the trauma of the accident, it was Chakotay and the baby who commanded her thoughts, her sympathy, her compassion, her total concentration. 

She had been in subspace communication with Chakotay every day for the last week. Now Ethan faced Kathryn on a wintry day with snowflakes drifting noiselessly down to earth to settle on tree branches, the eaves of the lodge, the deck, and she was quietly assertive about her course of action.

"I have to go to him."

"I'd like to stop you from going…"

"Then don't."

"Not even if I go on my knees and begged you?"

Ethan knew his words sounded bitter. It was their first open confrontation since she had told him of Seven's death. They had conducted themselves civilly, skirting cautiously around the possibility – now a reality – of Kathryn leaving for Ketarcha Prime. Ethan had dreaded this moment, had known that it would come, that it would be futile to hold Kathryn back. She'd had a friendship with Chakotay long before he came into the picture. He was not, and had never been, part of that equation in which friendship and love didn't really equate with a happy life. He wanted to rub Kathryn's nose in that little fact, but at the same time was filled with self- loathing that he was ready to fight dirty. He had once told Captain Neil Brannigan that there were no rules in the rules of engagement and now Ethan was prepared to use low tactics as a counter-offensive.

When Kathryn gave a soft little sigh, it was one of exasperation. Her mood had slowly faded from an expectation that he understood her motives to acceptance that he didn't or wouldn't. He still couldn't understand how Kathryn could leave everything behind – her work, her obligation to everything that she had built for herself in the two years since her return to the Alpha Quadrant, her lover, her son – to be at the side of her friend and former lover. He didn't make it any easier for her. He had never quite liked Chakotay and recognised that his antagonism sprang from the fact that Chakotay couldn't leave Kathryn alone even after he had married another woman. What kind of constancy was that? Ethan always seemed to ask himself.

"Ethan, please, you must understand. Chakotay is grieving. He has been left behind with a motherless child to care for now. I must go to him…"

"So that you can care for him and his motherless child?"

"He needs me now," she replied, pursing her lips in anger, her eyes flashing. "Why am I even telling you this? I shouldn’t have to tell you anything!"

"My God, Kathryn. Are you listening to how you're sounding right now? As if everything we have shared here didn't matter to you at all!"

He shook his head. They were heading for the cliffs in this argument. With a jerky movement he rose from the couch. When he stood in front of her he placed his hands on her shoulders, grimacing when she flinched. Then he dropped his hands.

"I see you're not going to leave gracefully, Kathryn. Doesn't it count for anything that we've been together for a long while now? My own feelings – "

"I was hoping you would understand."

"And I was hoping you'd say Chakotay is a man who doesn't need you there, to nurse him and play – "

"One word from you, Ethan…" Kathryn hissed as she realised what he was going to say.

"We have a son, one who was quite ill a week ago. You don't have to go…" His protestation had ranged from heated and impassioned to feeble entreaties. He was losing the battle; he was losing it fast.

"Icheb is out of danger and quite settled into his studies again. I'm…not leaving forever…" she said, slowly.

"You're not? Why do I have a feeling I'm not going to see you again anytime soon? Why do I feel as if you're succumbing again to a man who doesn't deserve you, who has treated you shamefully?"

"Ethan!"

"No, let me finish, Janeway. Chakotay left you when you needed him the most. He didn't see you like I saw you two years ago, ready to die. Yes, don't look at me like that! Your precious Chakotay took one look at you during the debriefings then told himself you could fight the most important battle of your life on your own when you came up against the Federation. You did well in that combat too, Janeway, so well that it fooled everyone, including Chakotay. All he wanted from you was your assurance that you didn't need him to hold your hand during the court-martial and debriefings so he could be on his way to live on Dorvan with his brand new wife whom he took, might I remind you, because he couldn't have you! And do you know what? He didn't have the balls to tell his wife his best friend needed him! Dammit, Kathryn!"

The next moment Kathryn's hand snaked out, ready to strike at him, but this time he caught her hand and gripped it tightly in his own. He saw how she battled to keep her rage under control, the eyes that gleamed in fury, her trembling lips, the hardness of her jaw as she clenched it.

"Don't tell me what I should do with my life, Ethan Bellamy! If I choose to leave here, I do so of my own free will. I have that, in case you didn't remember."

"And that makes you conveniently forget that we've made a life here, Kathryn. A good life. For a while there, you managed to convince me that we could be together permanently, that, God forbid, you even love me…"

There. The words were out. Hidden in the depths of his being, of his conscious mind, that Kathryn might have come to love him against all the odds, against all expectations except his own. They were his feelings, embedded where he allowed no one near, refused to allow anyone even a small aperture in case it was used against him.

Except Kathryn.

They made love. They slept together, they parented a young Academy cadet and they cared for their dogs. They thrived in their home - cosy, cocooned, beloved. She painted, he wrote and made music. Then, when they were spent in their musical interludes and literary journeys and splashing canvases with daily colourful little tapestries of their life together, they made love again. Many times, he woke in the dead of night to find Kathryn buried in the soft goose down cover tightly squeezed against him. In the morning, when grey dawn filtered hesitantly through the window, he'd lie holding her in his arms while she still slept soundly, thrilling in watching her, often caressing her hair, her eyes, her cheeks, often hearing her murmur his name in her sleep.

Yet, they never proclaimed undying devotion or...love...

All that which he thought they felt, but had never given voice to, never given an affirmation of commitment and honour and devotion. That had to be assumed.

Sometimes, he thought, even men had to be assured by actual words that they were loved.

Kathryn looked at him, a strange expression in her eyes. Then she frowned heavily, at the same time extricating her hand that, he realised belatedly, was still clamped tightly in his.

"You know how I feel about you," she started, heavily. "I do love you…"

The words, when they came, didn't fall like manna from heaven as he had always dreamed. They didn't turn his insides into the kind of mud that, when Kathryn stepped into it with her dainty boots, left her prints embedded into eternity. Her words, when they came, didn't fall like the burning tongues of fire that scorched his very soul, her name emblazoned where all could see how she felt about Ethan Bellamy.

He thought…

"You say that, and in the same breath you want to walk from here, to a man who destroyed you? What kind of love is that? The kind that is only voiced with the lips as a way of soothing my own feelings?"

"I – you know my feelings, Ethan," she said softly, her cheeks flaming.

"But you will walk out of my life to choose a man who is free again, to go to his bed and – "

"Ethan, before I leave here, let me tell you this, okay? He's a man, yes! A man who just lost his wife and unborn child. Annika was three months pregnant when she died. I thought you would understand. You lost your loved ones too and you know how you felt, how you grieved  – "

"Kathryn, I didn't have the luxury of my best friend coming to me, offering solace and pulling me out of the depths of the abyss. Why? Because everyone I knew well enough to call a friend died on the Bellerophon! I was left alone! I had no one, don't forget that. Chakotay has you, yes, and he is counting on you to come running to him in his hour of need, no matter that he knows you are with me. Where was he when you needed him!"

"That is not fair!"

"Has it occurred to you that I need you? Kathryn? Has it!"

Kathryn walked to the French door and peered outside. She looked aloof, beautiful and  untouchable. He couldn't make her see sense. He conceded that Chakotay was distraught, shattered after his wife's violent death. A routine mission to one of the moons of a neighbouring planet that had gone disastrously wrong. Seven of Nine had died with her unborn child. He felt sorry for Chakotay, had intense empathy for the grieving husband. But Chakotay had reneged on his promises to Kathryn, had even, when his wife was alive, bedded Kathryn. Kathryn had returned to Beaver's Lodge, broken again after her experience on Dorvan. The man had done Kathryn no good. All Ethan could see was that Chakotay was free again and reeling Kathryn in like the good fish she was, biting the lure he threw out. He shook his head, wanted to damn himself to hell's gates for thinking too uncharitably about the man whom Kathryn had loved once, whom Kathryn still loved.

Sighing, he closed the distance between them and turned her to face him.

"I need you in my life too. I know, I know. Everything I've ever felt deeply I always seem to find expression for on paper, in holodecks, in the written word. I breathe you, Kathryn. I don't know how it is that you can't see or sense it…"  He swore under his breath. He was losing her, losing the fight. His words sounded feeble, lacking in power, in the urgency of keeping her home, on Earth, next to him, in his heart, his mind, his soul.

Kathryn's eyes became soft.

"Ethan…" she started, "Chakotay and I are friends. It was all I could salvage from a failed relationship with him. Do you know how rare it is that people still remain friends after they've parted as lovers? I had that with him and I treasured it. If I lose it, I will have nothing left from a time that he meant the world to me. Yes, he meant the world to me. But I couldn't let him in my life, because he couldn't give me what you have found in me – my very soul. You touched that, Ethan, and I shall always be glad that you did. I want to remain in your life, but I have to go to him, you understand? He has a little girl who has no mother now and he needs me…"

Ethan closed his eyes briefly, felt an unfamiliar prick of tears behind the closed eyelids. He felt Kathryn's palm against his cheek, his own hand covering hers spontaneously. How could he tell her he would be lost without her if she went away? Ketarcha Prime was a three week journey and he wasn't sure how long Kathryn would be staying there. Knowing her, she had already made arrangements for leave of absence from Headquarters, from teaching at the Academy. Did Kathryn even know how she had already distanced herself from him? Last night in bed… He sighed deeply. She had already become detached…

He opened his eyes. Then he bent his head and kissed her. His lips found hers soft and moist as he allowed himself to revel in the touch. His fingers laced in her glorious hair which had grown long again. He broke the contact between them when she remained motionless in his arms, when her own arms had not flung around his neck in the usual abandon.

"I love you, Janeway, but I can see in your eyes you've already left me," he said softly, finding the words he had wanted to say for longer than he remembered a completely ineffectual entreaty.

Kathryn's eyes filled with tears. Groaning, he pulled her close to him, burying her face against his chest, his hand caressing her hair. When at last he held her away, he had calmed sufficiently to look at her without losing his cool.

"So, do I keep the dogs?"

She said nothing, remained staring up at him.

"No?" he asked.

Still no response.

"I can't help you pack?'

Kathryn remained silent.

"Sorry, you already packed," he said, unable to mask his bitterness.

When she still said nothing, he swore again softly.

"Will you come back, Kathryn?" he asked, the pain overflowing. "Will you come back to me, to Ethan Bellamy?"

"I…don't know, Ethan…" she said, finally. Then she turned away from him and walked into her room.

An hour later, with the dogs barking furiously, he watched Kathryn's shuttle take to the air, watched until it vanished from sight.

And even long after he couldn't see the shuttle anymore, he still looked at the sky, watched until the clouds sailed into his line of vision at the last known point he had seen the craft before it had grown too small to see anymore.

He was alone.

Again.

************ 

Icheb stood before Admiral Paris who peered at him with his sharp blue eyes. Owen Paris was a tall, stocky man. With his grey hair and stern looking features, every cadet in the Academy feared the man who was the father of Tom Paris.

Now, for the first time since he'd entered the Academy, Icheb felt disconcerted by the older man's gaze on him. For the first time too, he felt as if his heart would stop. He experienced anxiety and, when he clenched his hands, felt that his palms were sweating.

He had never transgressed, never put a foot wrong. He had never considered executing unauthorised and banned flight maneuvers during flight training, nor had he propositioned any female professor like one or two cadets had done. He had never so much as absented himself from classes like he had seen some  cadets do. He loved Academy life, thrived on pitching his intellect against such great men as Admiral Paris and Professor Li Zhyiang who taught quantum physics. He could never wait to be in their classes and always hounded James to join him in being on time. He never consciously projected himself as anything but a cadet who wanted to become the best engineer in the Federation. Well, after the famous Doctor Leah Brahms, of course.

Yet here he stood before the older man, afraid. Admiral Paris had a reason to call him to his office; Admiral Paris had a reason to dress him down. His infraction was not an infraction at all. But what he had done or, more pertinently, what he hadn't done, was enough to warrant being called to the office of a man whom he had come to admire greatly.

"It is very unusual," Admiral Paris started, "that my top student has performed below par and lost points on his last test. You lost focus on something that a cadet of your calibre never misses. What do you say to this, Icheb Janeway-Bellamy?"

"It will not happen again, Admiral Paris. I do not wish to see you disapprove of my performance. I find the feeling unsettling."

"That I disapprove of your performance or that you found your performance unsettling?"

"Both. You are disappointed in me. I failed you."

"Cadet, you didn't fail me. I am not disappointed, but I am concerned."

"I will work ten times harder from now on." 

"Icheb," the admiral said, with a sigh, "I know you will always strive for perfection, but let me tell you it's our imperfections that make us human. Things will happen to impede you on your way to success, or any road you walk. Now, young man, would you care to tell me why your scores have dropped in the last month?"

"I do not know myself, Admiral. I thought I had everything under control. I cannot tell you what it is, except…"

"It has to do with Admiral Janeway?"

The words were thrown at him like a bolt of lightning, striking deep into his chest.

"Please, may I be dismissed, sir?" he asked, not sure how to continue a dialogue that made him feel worse by the minute another word was spoken. Especially when the admiral seemed to home in on something he didn't wish to discuss with anyone.

"If it is of any help to you, Cadet Janeway-Bellamy, I understand that you miss your mother."

"Many cadets here do not see their parents for entire semesters, Admiral. I should be no different - "

"But the circumstances of her disappearance have a bearing on your state of mind, young Icheb."

He felt the heat creep into his cheeks.

"That is not true!" The words burst from him with sudden intensity.

Admiral Paris rounded his desk and came to stand right in front of him. A hand gripped his shoulder in reassurance, much like his father would have done, only his father was battling his own demons... When the older man spoke, his voice was gentle, so gentle that Icheb felt an unfamiliar prickling behind his eyelids. He blinked once to drive away the moisture that came to settle in his eyes. It was the strangest sensation. He didn't know tears, nor did he experience crying, like he had seen Naomi Wildman do sometimes. He was Borg. Emotional outbursts were foreign to him. Yet strangely, unaccountably, when Owen Paris's hand touched his shoulder like that, it made him want to weep.

"Icheb, son," the older man began, "you may have to accept that when things happen outside your ability to control, they...infest your subconscious in ways that you may find…surprising."

"I am Borg. It is irrelevant - "

"I know that your mother is not one to shirk her commitment to her son. She will return, I am sure of that."

Icheb pictured his mother the last time he had seen her, on the screen of his vid-com during a subspace communication. She had only contacted him to tell him she had arrived safely on Ketarcha Prime. She had looked tired and a little unhappy. How could he be sure she would come back to them? How? Even though Admiral Paris seemed convinced, he wasn't sure any more.

"Thank you, Admiral Paris. I am much relieved," he replied, trying to smile, trying to feel encouraged. "Permission to be dismissed, sir."

"Dismissed."

When he left, he remained perplexed at Admiral Paris's words, for even though they were supposed to make him feel better, he still felt rudderless and unsettled. No matter how comforting the hand on his shoulder was, it didn't lift his mood of melancholy. He still felt an ache inside him that his mother had left and would never return. After she had contacted him that one time, he had heard no more from her. 

Despite the admiral's assurance that she would come back to her family, he was not sure of anything anymore. And his father…

Icheb sighed. Ethan Bellamy never once looked like he missed Kathryn Janeway. He fed the dogs, played his cello with his head bent low over the instrument like always, disappeared into his office to hammer out thousands of words of his novel. He went for long walks up to Deer Lake or hiking Mount Coniston and trudging the Coniston Peaks. Those were Ethan's general activities anyway. The times when he visited Beaver's Lodge , his father appeared upbeat, but never spoke a word about Kathryn Janeway. But, Icheb decided, with Ethan Bellamy, looks were entirely deceiving.

"So, did the admiral crap on you?" James asked, as he stepped out of the office into the long corridor. His friend had accompanied him and had been waiting outside all this time. Now James tugged his arm. Icheb stood still, then continued walking, forcing James to release his grip. But James kept walking behind him. Icheb turned suddenly, causing his friend to knock into him.

"It's nothing, James." Then he turned and continued walking 'til they were outside, with James keeping up his prattle.

"Nothing? Oh, yeah, we've been over that before. There's something in nothing, and nothing can be something, remember?"

"I remember. I fared badly in my last test, James."

"The one where you scored ninety eight percent instead of the usual ninety nine or hundred?"

"That. Yes. I failed him."

"What? Would that be the Borg in you speaking? I'm sure Old Blue Eyes - "

"Old Blue Eyes?"

"Admiral Paris, dummy."

"What about the admiral?"

"He told you he's concerned about you, right?"

"Yes," he replied sharply without looking at James, who now walked abreast with him. "I didn't perform to my usual standard."

"Yeah. First time I scored higher than Icheb Janeway-Bellamy. But an accidental first, mind you. You don't normally slip up like that. You gonna tell your best friend what's up?"

"What's up? The same thing Admiral Paris tried to coax from me, but could not succeed."

James yanked his arm again and he was forced to stand still. He sighed. James looked like Admiral Paris: concerned.

"He couldn't get anything out of you?"

"He tried."

"Oh, don't for one moment think he didn't get anything out of you, Icheb. That man is the cleverest man in the universe. He knows everything," James said as they neared the Academy dormitory. "He already knew before he even asked you."

It was bitterly cold, but he hardly felt it. When he turned to face James again, he saw how his friend shivered uncontrollably. Very quickly, he entered the foyer where he stood still, letting the warmth of the room fill him again. James, he saw, gave an audible sigh of relief to be out of the cold.

"Did you divine the admiral's thoughts?" he asked his friend.

"No. But I knew him before you knew him. That makes me the expert around here on Owen McKenzie Paris. So? Are you going to tell me?"

"He didn't get anything from me."

"Let me guess what Admiral Paris said, before you crap on my head, my friend. He told you you miss your mother, right?"

He couldn't ignore James's penetrating gaze. He sighed as he nodded, his hands on his hips in an unconscious imitation of the way his mother stood when she taught a class.

"Yes."

"And he told you she will be back, no matter what, right?"

"Yes, he told me that."

"So, why the long face?"

"I'm just not sure anymore, James. She left without saying goodbye to me. That is so contrary to her nature. She did call to say that she arrived safely. That man...Chakotay, I do not want him in my mother's life. My father...he isn't taking it well, you know?"

"Oh, ye of little faith. My father will tell you that there was never a time he thought that Captain Janeway would fail them. And, that man...Chakotay," James mimicked his own words, "should learn to cope on his own. My father did when my real mother died. So did thousands of men and women who lost their nearest and dearest. Your father..." James swore. "Icheb, I don't know much about what happened to him so many years ago, but I know that his family died on the Bellerophon and he was the only survivor when the ship was destroyed. But he was forced to cope, whatever the nature of that coping was."

"He suffered."

"But he didn't die of grieving! I tell you now, Icheb, son of Kathryn Janeway, your mother is not going to fail you. It might not look too rosy to you right now, but everything will come right in the end. Mark my words."

James's face was red from his outburst.  For a few seconds Icheb closed his eyes and allowed his pain to wash over him again. James was right. His friend's faith was greater than his own and he didn't appreciate that James cared about him so much. With a sigh, he opened his eyes again and squeezed his friend's arm.

"Forgive me. My behaviour was boorish. You sound so convinced that I will mark your words."

"Great. Now, shall we get our gear and leave for Utopia Planitia?"

"Utopia Planitia…?"

"Yeah, Utopia Planitia, the place where they've completed the building of the Poison Dart, remember? And we're supposed to take her on a test flight, remember? Huh? Huh?" James said insistently, nudging him in the ribs.

For the first time Icheb felt like smiling again. Admiral Paris and James were right. He worried too much. After all, it was only two months since Kathryn Janeway had left for Ketarcha Prime. Who knew, she might even be on her way back... His spirits lifted.

"So what are we waiting for? The Poison Dart awaits!"

They were standing at the lifts, and as the doors opened, the young woman who stood there gaped at him. She had no eyes for James. A flush crept into her cheeks. By the time she realised she had been staring at him, she gasped suddenly, then fled through the door away from them as quickly as she could. When the lift doors closed, he rested against the wall.

"She's the one," he heard James say.

"My heart does nothing but beat in the normal way."

"Ah, but hers went into warp drive. Didn't you notice, Icheb?"

"Noticed that she was flushed, yes. But that's no – "

"That was Shaira Begum Khan, the most beautiful second year cadet on Earth, in case you haven't noticed," exclaimed James as the lift took them up to the sixth level.

"Yes, and so what?"

"So what, indeed," James said with an air of exasperation.

************

He was restless; it seeped into the tips of his fingers where it quivered incessantly and spread from there through his system, making eating, breathing and sleeping unwanted necessities. He wanted to escape the restlessness, but like peace and contentment, even that was denied him. So he drowned himself in his music. Sometimes his fingers plucked furiously at the strings, or the bow struck the strings in intense rage as it scored them, the sound sharp and metallic, far removed from the mellow, deeply resonant tones whenever he played. 

"Will you come back to me, Kathryn? Will you?"

Her eyes had filled with shadows, darkly intense as she just looked at him, and without answering, turned and walked away.

She left him with every heartache he had suffered before. He tried not to think, so he sank his soul into Elgar and Boccherini and Dvořák and Brahms and allowed them to fill his mind and make new odd, fragmented memories there.

Don't think…

How could he not? He remembered everything, and those times that she dominated his mind, Elgar and Dvořák fought him like fiends and bullied him into serving them in a titanic battle that left his fingers scarred, blistered, bleeding. Then the storm clouds would gather, boiling and boiling in enormous billows as they too, seemed to join in the harassment of Ethan Bellamy, one time lover of Kathryn Janeway and now, nothing but a bad memory for her.

At the oddest moments, he wondered what she was doing. Then, when he imagined that right at that moment she might be lying in the arms of Chakotay, no matter that Chakotay's wife had just died, he would rise jerkily to his feet and rush with breathless energy to the shed to gather his hiking gear. Within minutes, he'd be off, scaling the cliffs or climbing up Mount Coniston, hiking the Peaks, rowing an old boat on Deer Lake until he was so tired that he couldn't move anymore. Exhausted, he'd fall into a slumber, only to wake when the icy cold drilled painfully into his bones. Then he would rise, his limbs creaking, and make his way back down to Beaver's Lodge.

Beaver's Lodge.

When Mélisande and the boys had died, he'd sought refuge at Beaver's Lodge, the wood cabin left him by his parents. Here he'd lived and died ten thousand times. Here he'd lived and metamorphosed into someone else, a hated being that left him hating himself. Here he'd hidden his shame, cocooning himself within the walls of the cabin, away from the outside world, jealously guarding his safe haven from prying eyes. Here he'd lived and created music and images, trying to forget, trying to find rest. Here he'd lived and found a measure of peace.

Until Kathryn arrived and disturbed his hard-earned equilibrium, however seasonal that was. Until Kathryn came and gave him reason to live again, live like a man who needed a woman by his side. Until Kathryn came and gave him reason to believe that the world could be a good place. Until Kathryn came and taught him that he could learn to forgive the enemy.

Until Kathryn came and he fell in love with her.

He treasured his vulnerability with painful precision, had known that it would always be suspect when the right person came along to spear open his heart and expose his deepest emotions, see his most precious feelings. And when he allowed Kathryn inside his sanctuary, he was fearless again for the first time in many years. He felt he could trust her with his sensibilities and once he had, had begun to live again. She brought him joy amidst the pain he felt most of the time when he couldn't fathom her unequal friendship with a man who gave her nothing but heartache when he chose to supplant Kathryn as the woman who would warm his bed.

Then, unbidden, came the image of Kathryn writhing under a body - Chakotay's.

Suddenly feeling breathless again, he stopped playing, his chest burning as the air left his lungs.

"Damn…you…Kathryn…" he murmured as he got up, and the cello slid sideways to rest against his chair.

Feeling that his chest was about to implode on him, he tried sitting down on the couch and bent his head low, forcing himself to slow down his breathing. The room spun maddeningly for a few seconds. He waited it out and finally, when he could focus again, he leaned with his head against the back of the couch.

It was indisputable. The reality was always there, in his face, ready to bite into his flesh and thereby providing the physical torture that would complement the indescribable inner torment he felt. Missing Kathryn became a pervasive substance that kept him awake when he tried to sleep and kept him thinking of her when he was awake.

After two months in which he had heard nothing from her, he felt his life ripped violently from him.

Song without words…

"Kathryn…" he murmured softly, to himself, "I just don't know how to tell you that I love you. Words elude me, always. My tongue is a useless appendage, unable to articulate emotion or any declaration of what I feel for you. How then can I tell you what I feel, even as I know I am too late to hold you to me, forever? How then can I convince you that staying is better than leaving, even if you no longer feel the way I do? How then can I repair the damage even as I know that the damage is irreparable?"

"Shall I build you a temple, Janeway?"

"No…"

"Not even walk to the end of the earth or swim the deepest ocean?"

"No."

Agitated by these thoughts of happier times, he gave a small cry and got up suddenly, swaying as the unexpected movement caused another bout of dizziness.

"I must go..." he murmured, walking clumsily to the back of the lodge. He groaned as the dogs jumped up at him from where they had been sleeping in the shed. Conor and Keira had accompanied him on his easier hikes, and sometimes to Deer Lake when they balanced themselves in the boat while he rowed.

"This time, you stay," he commanded. Conor barked and Keira whined unhappily but settled down as he gathered his gear - a 20l backpack ready filled with rations, his red parka which Kathryn had given him on his last birthday, a pair of boots as well as crampons should he encounter ice, climbing rope, pitons, picks and karabiners. 

When he was ready, he stood, facing the dogs.

"Look after the lodge for me, will you?" He waited 'til they turned and scooted through the backdoor into the house. He heard their barking as he walked away from Beaver's Lodge, up, up towards Mount Coniston, to where the firs ended and the snow started, to where he would encounter ice. If he didn't return within twenty four hours the transponders on the dogs' collars would activate to send signals to Mike Ayala or Icheb on their commbadges.

He was safe. For now.

On and on he walked, maintaining a brisk pace, fraught with a slight burn in his chest as the gradient became steeper. Little puffs of mist formed when he breathed, the shock of inhaling the frosty coldness keeping him awake, alert. Still he trudged up the mountain until he could no more just walk, where the snow lay driven against the ridges. Then he started the actual climbing, his ice pick glinting as the rays of a tepid sun reflected on its head. He slid down a metre or so, landing on a ledge. Gasping from the icy air, he took a minute to catch his breath. He removed the pack carefully, then set about fixing the crampons on his boots. Five minutes later, he was ready to hack into the mountain ice again. Now he could literally dig his heel into the ice to gain purchase and facilitate movement, plotting a diagonal course over Hollister Ravine.

The exercise hardened him. When the first karabiner was hooked through the piton he knocked into a tiny crack in the ice sheet and the rope secured, he began the first of his swings against the ice face, using his feet in a running movement. Like a small pendulum, hanging only by a piton, a karabiner and the rope, he swung from point to point and so he slowly made his way across the most difficult ravine of the Coniston Peak. He smiled to himself. He had once had a conversation with Tom Paris, who told him that he had challenged the north face of the mighty Eiger in a holodeck experience. "And without safeties, mind you," Tom had told him. "Got right to the top in thirteen hours… We should do the real Eiger sometime…"

He liked Tom Paris just for that bravado. Tom, who couldn't stop teasing Kathryn about hanging around a guy who had abseiled himself into her life.

Kathryn's images jumped at him as he remembered her look when he had done the same down the cliffs near the lodge. Her eyes had filled with momentary fear when he tumbled twenty metres, their ropes preventing them from plummeting to the beach. He'd suffered whiplash just from the sharp jerking as the rope's elasticity pulled him back like a rubber band.

Ethan closed his eyes and tried to blot out her existence. He didn't want to think of her. He wanted to pretend she'd never happened in his life. It was impossible. Just as it was impossible not to smell her in their bed, her pillow still fragrant with a faint teasing of hair shampoo, a soft scent that hovered in his awareness more than actually smelling it.

She's never coming back...

It was why he climbed, scaling the cliffs, the ravine, the ledges, the nooks and crannies and overhanging ice sheets, to forget, to concentrate so hard on what he was doing that only the next metre of movement forward, upwards, sometimes even down again, mattered because it had to matter. 

"I must forget...forget..."

Hours later he reached the Canada Ravine, the approach to the rest of the Coniston Peaks, five mountain summits that in turn formed the gateway to the Coniston Mountain Range. If he reached the fifth - he called it the Epsilon Peak - he gave himself only a day for the return hike, this time keeping to the lower foothills that would bring him back finally, to Beaver's Lodge.

"You like to do things the hard way, Bellamy?" Kathryn once asked him when he returned to the lodge after a five day solo hike.

"Just scaling Hollister Ravine takes five hours, and then some..."

"That's what I mean."

He had given her a sheepish grin, almost embarrassed to admit that he loved the physical challenges nature offered.

He pulled himself away from thoughts of their life together and busied himself with the task of resting, quickly removing the crampons and hooking them to his backpack. The ledge was wide enough for him to bivouac for the night, if necessary. It was late afternoon and he had been on the move since morning without resting, except when he stopped for necessary relief as well as fixing the crampons to his boots. He didn't worry too much about the dogs; they had enough food and water and could slip through the hatch in the backdoor and run around outside.

After he had eaten and taken some fluids, he sat back against the rock. The vista of the mountain range with its untamed beauty always took his breath away; it stretched in the distance until he could see only a bluish tinge on a clear day. The sun was behind him so he had a good view of the natural formations, the pristine snow. When he sipped a draught of whisky, he grimaced, then half disgustedly emptied the container. It was no time to get dizzy and aggravate his laboured breathing because he was sitting at an altitude of three thousand metres where the air was thin. He was just about to pack away the container when he saw something flashing in the distance. It could have been a trick of light, it was so small. But when he saw the flash again and again, he thought it could possibly be a bird. He blinked, then he remembered that he carried binoculars whenever he trekked up the mountains. He retrieved them from his pack and peered through it into the distance.

"Oh, my…a goose," he exclaimed softly, in wonder, as the bird came into view.

Ethan frowned. Every year he had seen Canada geese migrating south, flying in the famous V-formation over Beaver's Lodge, at times quite low. He recognised them by the distinctive dark necks, the white underbelly. This was no Canada goose. In fact, he was certain it didn't belong to the continent of North America. But it had a similar plumage, looking remarkably like the Egyptian goose. And this lone goose appeared lost, even injured, as it flew in haphazard movement in circles, yet still coming nearer and nearer. Actually, it was probably a thousand metres away, but it seemed close when viewed through the visor.

And then he realised something else. It was flying alone, in some distress. Egyptian geese moved together in pairs. They mated for life.

"So, where is your mate, Osiris of the Nile?" he asked, still fascinated that the goose was slowly making its way closer to where he was. Now he could hear the inelegant squawking sound it made. He thought it was the sound of pain. The bird was flying alone, far away from its natural habitat – the mountains and wetlands of Africa. How did it get to this part of the world, and on its own?

Did you too, sing the song of a wayfarer, wayfarer?

When the goose squawked again, Ethan wanted to think it was an answer to his questions. He wanted to imagine the bird felt like he did, away from its mate, in isolation, in pain… Ethan kept looking at the goose through his binoculars. With wings suspended in flight, on its erratic path, it flew closer and closer.

When Ethan put down the binoculars, Osiris of the Nile was still too far away. Then suddenly the bird gave an unearthly cry. It flapped its wings in furious alarm, gathered its composure as it became even in flight again before hastily flying higher, higher, higher, over the Coniston Range until it was so far and so small that Ethan couldn't see it anymore. He felt inexplicably sad when the bird was gone, sad and helpless.

He had seen something else as well before Osiris of the Nile took flight. As it flapped its wings in distress, Ethan had seen a feather unsheathing and drifting lazily down, down, down… Ethan kept his gaze on the falling feather until, looking through his binoculars again, he saw that it had landed about two hundred metres away from him, coming to rest where, because of its unusual shade and contrast to the snow, it lay like a blood spatter staining the white, white, earth.

The yearning – so suddenly, yet so quiet and powerful came to him. The goose, Osiris, had captivated him. Did its mate die somewhere? Egyptian geese mated for life and only death could have separated him from his mate, nothing else. Perhaps there had been chicks. Still, it haunted him for a moment – the extreme loneliness of Osiris as he tried to find direction, to find his way home, Ethan realised with a pang. He would never see it again. Never. But the bird had left him something. Was it a portent, signalling only doom to his own battered, lonely, unhappy existence? How much more lonely could he become than he already was? How much?

And so the lonely feather drew him inexorably to it. The haunting, melancholy way it glided to earth kept him riveted, his desire to reach it becoming the only thing to own in the whole universe.

Osiris, inflict your loneliness on me -

Let me have your pain and you'll see mine.

Give me something – one single feather -

Leave me with a memory, a haunting thought

to wonder forever about your destiny

to follow you in my heart

to unknown lands far, far away

where vistas become mirages in a desert,

while your instincts lead you there

our flight paths merge, is mine to share…

In breathless anticipation he packed up, for in the morning the feather would be gone, covered by snow. He could track it on his tricorder, but while it was still light, while the sky was splashed red as the sun set, he wanted to reach the feather and treasure it from the ancient bird that once had graced the gardens of kings. He heart thudded against his rib cage and his mouth felt suddenly dry, so filled was he with the urgency of his mission. Once his crampons were secured to his boots again, once he had rolled up his sleeping bag, once he had slung his arms through the bands of his backpack and settled it securely against his back, once he had pulled his red, fur-lined anorak with its fur-lined hood tighter around him as if to insulate more of his body heat and conserve energy, once all that was done, Ethan set off to find the feather.

Only, it lay perched precariously at the edge of a precipice, a  sheer drop of about thirty metres if he were so unfortunate as to plunge down the small ravine. Yet the desire to grasp the soft plume and own it, even as it resisted ownership of its very existence and only occasionally revealed to the possessor its core, was so great that he hastened towards it. He knew that Osiris had left, alone again, to continue his quest in search of his mate, even as his ancient intuition told him that she might lie amongst the ruins of her destruction. It was the way of the bird, its destiny engraved into its birth cells since the dawn of time. It was inescapable and so Osiris swept the skies, searching, searching, heedless of his destination and only impelled by the knowledge of the journey.

The way ahead because perilous. Ethan had never tracked this route before; in fact, he was going  way off course. Once more, he fiddled with gloved hand in his pocket to retrieve the binoculars and get a good look at the feather.

Then his heart stood still. It had slid further to the edge of the precipice. Did a wind suddenly spring up to drive it further away and out of his reach?

He trudged forward, skidding, stumbling, at times even managing to run a few steps. It was almost dark, but he could still see the feather which had taken on an ethereal, luminous appearance. As if it wanted to guide him there. His chest wheezed from the exertion. From where he had originally rested and decided to bivouac and continue again when light from the East struck the sky ahead of him, it had taken an hour to progress a mere three hundred metres. His heart sang wildly as he saw it beckoning to him, drawing him ever nearer. He looked at the sky and groaned. When had the sky become overcast? When had it become dark so suddenly? Had he been so intent on reaching Osiris's feather that he hardly noticed how the sky had changed?

He hurried forward the last few metres through thick snow, the crampons impeding his progress. At last he stood on a ledge just above the narrower ledge on which the feather had dropped so gracefully from the sky, a thousand years ago it seemed to him. He drew in his breath, surprised to find the burning no longer so overpowering.

Carefully, Ethan started down the short rock face, using only his ice pick and the jutting pieces to gain foothold. He cursed when he slid a metre even with his crampons digging into the ice. When he could feel at last the solid surface of the ledge under him, he realised only then how narrow it was. He couldn't turn on the ledge because his backpack budged against the face. He teetered maddeningly for a second before he found his balance again. Ethan was no stranger to great perpendicular heights or sheer drops of hundreds of metres, but this time he was unprotected by his pitons and karabiners and rope. He'd have to use them just to get off the new ledge. He looked down and saw the feather quivering on the edge.

A warmth overcame him as he looked at the legacy of Osiris. Beautiful, beautiful plume! He removed a glove, and when he felt the soft plume with its spike at its base, he closed his eyes a second to revel in the feel of it between his fingers. He thought absently that he had walked a thousand metres, not counting the extreme difficulty of climbing, across terrain that had grown more and more inhospitable, to find the treasure – a time of six hours into the darkness with only the tepid illumination of his wrist light as guide. Carefully, he prepared to slide the feather into his empty cylinder, giving a sigh of relief as he sealed it. He closed his eyes a second. It was as if the cylinder became warm in his hand and its content glowed with new-found peace. Then he reached back with his hand to clip it into the side pocket of his backpack.

He heard a rumble above him and even as he looked up, knew that a snow bank had dislodged, probably disturbed by his own treading over it earlier. Now, ducking instinctively, he slipped, and when he tried to find his footing, found nothing.

Ethan gave a long cry as his body, encumbered by the weight of his pack, impelled forward and over the edge. He bumped once against a jutting rock and then knew no more as he plunged downward, the backpack lunging over his head, creating a momentum impossible to stop.  Another jutting rock. The force of the impact flung him into the air and down, down, down, landing with a sickening thud below, thirty metres down.

"Kathryn..." he murmured before he lost consciousness.

**********************  

"And this," gushed Admiral Nechayev, seemingly oblivious of the frosty air, "concludes the presentation of the Poison Dart, designed by cadets Janeway-Bellamy and Rollins."

There was loud applause from all the senior cadets as well as the third year students who had attended the presentation of the practical application in shuttle design and engineering on the grounds outside the Academy. Ten teams had worked on their crafts, which ranged from ultra modern impractical-looking flitters to escape pods, runabouts and small, compact shuttles such as the Poison Dart. Nechayev looked pleased. Icheb glanced at James, nodding his head in mutual pleasure. It wasn't easy to impress Admiral Nechayev, and her warm acknowledgement of their work was a balm to them both.

"So, when can we fly our little babies?" one of the seniors asked. "They have all been tested and are good to go."

Nechayev gave the unfortunate senior an icy stare. "All craft will be returned to Utopia Planitia. They may only be claimed once you have completed this course and graduated."

There was a cry of disappointment. The cadets though, took it in good spirit. They were aware of the rules, and Icheb thought Cadet G'Kor was just trying to capitalise on the momentum of Nechayev's good humour.

"No one can flit around anyway, Icheb," James whispered to him. "We have a long haul to the finals. I'm ready to go without sleep for the next five months..."

"Same here. Think we can stay awake for four days at a time?"

"Hell, there's nothing like trying. I plan on being in the top two of our graduating class, Icheb."

"Top two... That leaves no room for error then."

"You bet!"

"Dismissed!" Admiral Nechayev's voice sounded, and the cadets started filing back to the Academy building.

"Cadet Janeway-Bellamy."

He had already started walking when she called him. He stopped, looking at James.

"James, I - ..."

"See you later, Icheb," James said, patting his back. "While you face the harridan, G'Kor and I will be looking at the new specifications of the remodelled Delta Flyer."

"Fine. You go ahead."

Only when everybody had left did Icheb take a step in Nechayev's direction. She stood near the Poison Dart. Illogically Icheb thought that Nechayev reminded him of a poison dart, one that inflicted nothing but pain and shame on the hapless cadets who crossed her. Still, today, their own shuttle craft had inspired a bit of good humour in her. He hoped it remained with her until she had finished with him.

"You wish to speak with me," he stated.

"You did the engineering work on the Poison Dart, Cadet.  A fresh new concept of thinking.  You have a bright future ahead of you. I commend you. You may tell the others that I've given you a severe dressing down. And you may think up your own excuse."

Icheb blinked. Admiral Nechayev actually smiled, transforming her hard appearance, making her look even attractive.

"Thank you, Admiral. I have had good teachers in my parents."

"I understand that Admiral Janeway is currently on Ketarcha Prime."

"I understand that might be seen as prying, Admiral," he responded stiffly.

"Please, I didn't mean to pry. I've never been on a good footing with your parents, but you have been under a lot of strain lately. It's common knowledge around Headquarters, Cadet, that Admiral Janeway has gone to offer comfort to her former first officer. She took leave of absence… An unusual thing for her to do considering…" Nechayev paused.

"What she left behind, Admiral?" he asked, unwillingly drawn to confess to her some of his own feelings.

"Yes, I guess. I...uh...wish to be friends..."

Icheb stared long at her, surprised that he could see uncertainty in the woman's eyes, the dark rings under them. In fact, there was a general tiredness and lack of cheer which he knew for certain now the other cadets had missed because their reverence of her was too extreme for them to notice that here too, was another lonely being caught up in the lives and destinies of two persons who meant the world to him. Nechayev hungered for peace. It was as clear to him now as if she had told him in so many words. Commander Bellamy had never disguised his dislike of her and Admiral Janeway kept her distance from this stern woman, who had given her so much grief at the debriefings and court-martial.

"Is that why you have asked me to stay behind, Admiral? So that you can tell me this?"

"I am not a monster."

"You are not. But I cannot offer you what you seek, Admiral."

His  words unsettled her. Her expression changed. She seemed to be engaged in a great battle to keep her emotions in check.

"How do you know what I seek, Icheb Janeway-Bellamy?"

"I can only tell you that they don't hate you," he added, taking another step forward. "That is a beginning, is it not?"

"Yes…yes, I suppose it is." She smiled again. "It is a beginning. I’m not proud of the pain I caused both of them."

"Admiral, I am not human. I was raised as a Borg. I do not understand human nature, but I have  come to understand my parents. I can tell you they do not burden themselves with hatred. When you talk to them again, you might just be surprised."

Even as I am so uncertain of Admiral Janeway returning to my father...

After a short pause Nechayev smiled as she pointed in the direction of the Poison Dart. "You have designed quite a nifty little shuttle – "

"James and I, Admiral," he reminded her with a returning smile. "We're very proud of our Poison Dart. She is nippy and quite fast. With the new gel pack technology, it's a machine that will match our thoughts, as it were, and become an extension of our bodies. We've taken her on a test flight. I have to wait five months before I can take her on her maiden voyage – "

It was bitingly cold. Nechayev began to shiver as she gave in to the harshness of the elements. "Who knows? You might have to take the Poison Dart up sooner than you think," she said as she touched his arm and indicated they return to the warmth of the Academy foyer.

"Why do you say that, Admiral? Do you perhaps know something of which I am not aware?"

"No, Cadet Icheb," she replied with a crooked smile. "I'm thinking of buying affection."

"It won't work…"

"I know. Just testing the reaction of the Academy's brightest and best. Did you know that your mother was the best in her senior year?"

"No, I did not," he replied, knowing his mother to be wholly without the urge to sing her own praises. "But it doesn't surprise me. My…mother… I'm not certain she will return home, to us…"

"She returned home after seven years in the Delta Quadrant, fighting to keep her crew united, fighting to keep going, just plain…fighting. She will return to her family, where she belongs."

"You know?"

"I know that if she made you and Commander Bellamy a promise, she would never renege on it."

"Next you will tell me that I should be patient, that she will come home." He couldn't mask his bitterness.

"I'll tell you to have faith," said Nechayev, touching his arm again.

Icheb sighed. He nodded. He liked Admiral Nechayev a little better now. She was as human as the next person. A lonely woman who needed company, who sometimes wished to conduct a simple conversation without going to war over it.

"Thank you, Admiral. I'll – "

When his commbadge gave a low, almost inaudible buzz accompanied by a thin beep, he knew something was wrong.

"Cadet, is anything the matter? You have gone quite pale," Nechayev exclaimed.

"I may have to take the Poison Dart on her maiden voyage sooner than I thought, Admiral."

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know. But the dogs are at Beaver's Lodge. They carry transponders, set to alert me or Lieutenant Ayala if my…father doesn't return to the lodge within twenty four hours. Then we know that something must be wrong. The transponders have been activated. It's the first time it has happened. My father is in peril…"

He wanted to run out instantly, just run. He felt a sting behind his eyelids. He blinked several times, surprised that his eyes felt wet suddenly.

"I'll go with you, Icheb," he heard Admiral Nechayev say. At that moment his commbadge beeped.

"Ayala to Icheb."

When he tapped his badge, his hand was shaking.

"Icheb here, Lieutenant. Yes, I've received the signal. My father is missing… I'm leaving for Beaver's Lodge right away…"

"I'll follow you. Ayala out."

"Come," said Nechayev. "We must go."

"Admiral, with respect. I would rather James Rollins accompany me."

After a momentary hesitation she nodded. "Fine. You take Cadet Rollins and I'll alert Medical to be on standby... Commander Bellamy may be injured."

"Thank you, Admiral. I appreciate your help."

Ten minutes later, they were airborne with James at the helm. He wanted James to hurry. It was snowing in the mountains of Oregon. If Ethan Bellamy had been hiking the peaks, he would be in serious danger, perhaps lying somewhere....

Only then did Icheb wonder again why his mother couldn't know what his father was suffering.

************  

"Say, Icheb," James started as they touched down near the broken body of Ethan Bellamy, "we designed the Poison Dart in the nick of time. Now look where we can land…"

Icheb didn't reply. He was out before James could speak again. He stumbled through the snow as he reached Ethan. His father was stiff and blue in the face, one blue hand clamped tightly around a metal cylinder they usually utilised for water.

"Dad!" he exclaimed as he touched Ethan's ice-cold cheek.

Meanwhile Ayala had arrived, transported from where he had landed his own shuttle; without speaking, he ran a quick scan. Icheb heard the barking dogs and when he turned quickly to look in that direction, the dogs were bounding through the snow towards them. They were instantly all over Ethan. Icheb pushed Conor away, to little avail as the dog kept licking his master's face. Finally, James took hold of the dogs, though he too, had a hard time keeping them in check. Then, from somewhere, they heard a sharp whistling sound. The dogs yanked so hard that they pulled James along for a few metres, dragging him literally through the snow.

"Hey, where're you going with me?" he yelled.

When he released them, they bounded off in the snow again to the origin of the whistling. It registered absently with Icheb that it was Diego Ayala who had whistled. Ayala had meanwhile snapped the tricorder close.

"Too many broken bones," he said. "I'll transport him to my shuttle."

"What about his head, Lieutenant?"

Icheb noticed the deep gash in Ethan's skull that stained his white hair red. For once he blessed the cold. The bleeding could have been worse.

"Concussion. He'll have a doozy of a headache when he comes to."

Which happened at the second Ayala spoke. Ethan Bellamy groaned, trying to move his head. When Icheb tried to take the cylinder from him, he groaned louder, the hand gripping the object tighter than ever.

"No…"

"You are hurting…"

"You came in the Poison Dart, son," Ethan said, his tongue thick, his voice slurring, yet tinged with awe. He was about to lose consciousness again.

"Please, you must not speak now. We're taking you to hospital – "

"Your mother…"

"I'll let her know."

"She won't come. I've made my peace with that."

Ethan's eyes closed. They made him as comfortable as they could. James collected Ethan's equipment that lay strewn around. Icheb noticed how his father clung to the cylinder in his hand. He looked worriedly at Ayala. Ayala appeared unruffled as he tapped his commbadge.

"Ayala to Diego. Son, beam Commander Bellamy to the shuttle, on my mark. Don't take that thing from his hand, okay?"

"Sure, Dad! Dad, the dogs are barking like mad…"

Seconds later, Ayala stood up and looked at Icheb.

"Your father has been lying here about eight hours. If he hadn't been so thickly insulated, he might have died. I took a route across the Peaks. That was some hike…"

"I know. My father is living dangerously," he said as he and James prepared to board the Poison Dart again.

************

Icheb was a worried cadet as he looked at the figure of his father on the bed at Starfleet Medical. Ethan was cleaned up, his hair washed and the gash healed. He was no longer blue in the face and hands. In fact, his colour had returned although his eyes remained closed. Ethan had refused to release the cylinder he had clutched tenaciously during his ordeal. His father had plunged thirty metres, hitting ice outcrops on his way down. What had he been doing? Icheb wondered. Whatever it was had to do with the contents of the cylinder. No one could touch it, no one knew what was inside. It might well have been empty. The way he clung to it suggested that there was something inside he treasured.

But Ethan Bellamy had stopped talking. He remained resolute and tight-lipped about his solo expedition into the mountains. Icheb knew that Ethan wandered off into the mountains, ice climbing, or sailing on Deer Lake or scaling the cliffs at the shore mostly because he just got the inspiration to create new stories, but also in an attempt to forget his woes. Funny thing, he thought. His father never drank himself into a stupor, though Icheb had read that men and women sometimes did that in order to forget.

Ethan Bellamy was not like other men.

He found ways, and if he couldn't find ways, he created new ones in order to insulate himself and hide his most precious feelings if he felt they were exposed.

Or, like now, if he wanted to forget. Physical endurance was often a method he chose in order to purge himself of any thoughts that provoked new pain. He had been Borg, and the cold impassiveness, the proclivity to proclaim everything that meant anything in life as irrelevant if it disturbed the order of things, had been a part of him for a very long time. Icheb knew what it was like to be part of a single mind, and so did Ethan, every time he had transformed into Borg.

Even more intensely now, when his father had given his heart to a woman whom the crew of Voyager thought should marry Chakotay, Ethan Bellamy wanted to protect his heart, for he was losing it again.

Icheb gave a sigh when Ethan finally opened his eyes and stared directly at him.

"I made a fool of myself. I should hate her but I can't," he said with an honesty that was disconcerting.

"Yet you cling to her memory," Icheb replied.

"It may be all I will ever have. Don't take it away from me."

"I won't. You are not happy."

"Of course I am not," Ethan bit back. "I will go to Beaver's Lodge and drown my sorrows in good Chivas Regal."

"I never thought of you as a coward – "

"Get out, Icheb."

"Dad?"

"Leave me alone, will you? I need…time… Sorry, son."

The passion to defend himself welled like a tidal wave inside Icheb. He had watched Ethan move like the walking dead for months after Kathryn Janeway left and Ethan in turn left his son in the cold, ignoring him. Icheb felt the unaccustomed sting of tears when he looked at Ethan lying on the bed, the metallic cylinder clutched tightly in his hand. His lips trembled and he knew not how to stop the trembling or the quivering in his voice when he spoke.

"My real parents were not really parents at all. I hardly knew them. I was nothing to them but a tool. I had no frame of reference for love and affection, pain, denial, betrayal and solace until I met you and Captain Janeway. You lie there and you think only of your own sorrow and drowning it in wine. "

"Stop that, Icheb – "

"You know what, Dad? I wish I were back on a Borg vessel with ocular implants and an exoskeleton, a neural transceiver that could connect me to the hive mind again..."

"Dammit, Icheb! It's not - "

"And then I would never again have to feel what I feel now. I would be able to dismiss everything that has happened in the past few months – with you, me, my mother, your hurt, her hurt, mine – as utterly and completely irrelevant."

"Icheb!"

"I hurt too, Dad. Never forget that."

Icheb had never spoken in such an impassioned voice in his life. He turned away from his shocked father and hastened outside, where the icy air could fan the heat of his indignation. Long he stood, his face cast heavenward. When finally he decided that he'd gazed enough at the cloudy, murky skies where silver linings were either hidden or consumed by the demons of his hurt, he looked away into the distance.

When his eyes had lost their glazed state and his sanity had returned, the long walkway from the landing pads to the hospital came into view, like a hazy road in the desert. But the mirage remained, moved towards him in deliberate, yet infinitely small steps.

Icheb froze. Recognition brought tears, long denied in Borg cold storage, spilling from his eyes, out and away, not even touching his cheeks.

His heart began racing, galloping like a wild stallion across the dry plains.

For out of the hazy, shimmering mirage in the distance walked Kathryn Janeway.

And then Icheb started running.

************** 

END PART EIGHTEEN

PART NINETEEN: OSIRIS'S FEATHER

 Author's Note: The poem at the start of this chapter is written in the Afrikaans language. It is actually crucial to the events in the chapter, when Ethan goes climbing and the Egyptian goose dropped a feather. It is arguably one of the most beautiful love poems written in our language and in the next chapter [second last!] I will be giving my own version of the poem in English.

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