a story for J/C by
vanhunks
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Paramount owns Janeway and Chakotay.
Summary: Kathryn Janeway has dinner in the holodeck with Chakotay. [A story somewhat on the sad side]
LARGO
The
chandelier fanned into five prongs, each fitted with smaller terraced clusters
of lights, suspended by its
tentacle-like bronze fingers from the ornate ceiling rose - intricately designed
by an early seventeenth century French architect in delicate symmetry with the
classic mouldings of the ceiling panels and cornices. The architect himself may
have lain on the concealed beams with his protruding hand offering purchase to
the heavy, magnificent centrepiece above. The muted light, though creating a
golden glow of warmth and intimacy, caused shadows to flicker across the walls.
The smallest movement created a pas de deux of an unearthly dance - queen and
her warrior in eternal bond.
The
room reminded strongly of an era long gone, of forgotten grandeur, whereby the
desired effect was to instill a sense of richness, a sense of being in another
time and place, of sun kings and the vistas of endless green lawns, only to
return to the present and be slightly bemused by the splendour and occasion of
the place just visited in one's dreams. Only one table was set, its tablecloth
almost touching the floor, with two chairs upholstered in heavy earth tone
brocade, a mix of colours that synchronised with its surroundings. They were
enhanced by the soft glow of light that bathed the room and touched its surfaces
- the tables, the chairs, the Sterling silver cutlery, the silver lined rims of
the plates and the too shiny glint of crystal glasses.
Kathryn
Janeway closed her eyes briefly. The music fitted the period, she thought, or
near as correct she could determine. She always did like Vivaldi, and there was
nothing better than listening to the Largo
from Spring of his famous Four
Seasons. It suited her mood, gave
her the centering she craved in times of discord. Chord and discord -
counterpoint, melody... infinite spirals in perfect harmony.
"It's
a beautiful room, Kathryn," Chakotay said. "I'm amazed that you always
create these unique surroundings for our dinners. This room…Where - ?"
"The
main dining room of the Astoria, late twenty first century Earth…"
"But
the furnishings, the architecture… It's earlier, I take it."
"A
replica of the dining hall of a seventeenth century chateau in France."
"It's
beautiful. You are beautiful tonight."
"Thank
you," she said, leaning forward to touch his hand briefly. Her touch was
light as a butterfly's, as if it could only have been imagined. The waiter, in
starched shirt, white cravat and tails, arrived with a bottle of wine. Kathryn
glanced up quickly, nodded to him, then faced her companion again. "I hope
you don't mind. I ordered Picard Shiraz."
"I'll
try my best to do justice to your choice tonight, Kathryn," Chakotay
replied, his features creasing as he smiled.
Emile's
facial expression and hand movements as he poured their wine reminded Kathryn of
Pierrot, the white-faced, sad, satirical, dramatic clown. Even the cravat looked
like a ruffled collar. All that was missing was a lone tear frozen on the stiff
white cheek of the clown. The golden liquid tumbled into the tilted Waterford,
creating young waves that crashed against the smooth walls of the glass until
they stilled into a sea of calm. Kathryn grimaced at the jaundiced look Emile
gave Chakotay, making a mental note to replace him at her next dinner
invitation. She raised her glass, staring through the liquid at him. Another
grimace as Chakotay's face changed in the prismatic distortion of the crystal,
the smile looking lop-sided, his features grotesque - lips pulled away from his
teeth, giving him an eerie, death-like form, like one who had shown extreme,
irrational terror in the moments before death. Quickly she positioned her glass
so that he came into real view again, giving a relieved sigh.
"To
the last thirty years on Voyager," she said softly.
"And
the month we still have to travel to Earth."
"It's
almost over…"
"Then
you can finally find rest."
"Not
without you, Chakotay."
A
quiet descended around them. The music had changed - the Adagio molto
from Autumn. Falling
leaves...golden brown leaves, at their most beautiful as they tumbled and swayed
slowly to earth in their dying moments. She remembered a thousand dinners like
this one, images of a thousand species and a thousand worlds they discovered,
tamed, challenged, feared, hated, researched, respected, protected. And all the
time she pictured him, sturdy, wholesome, always waiting for her, always by her
side, always just...there. Her eyes felt warm tonight, her heart heavy like the
chandelier which seemed to hover above her. She didn't want to meet Chakotay's
gaze. He had hardly lifted his glass again, while she had taken a sip of her
wine and rolled it delicately on her tongue, inhaling its bouquet even as its
hint of cinnamon awakened new images of her late grandmother, buried at Indiana.
Tonight
she felt lethargic, yet her heart would skip a beat when she did glance
furtively at Chakotay, or became aware of a clock ticking somewhere in the great
room, as if she were trying to run ahead of time to emerge victorious at the
end. Her words drifted about the table, then moved away as they lost their
momentum - like the golden leaves of autumn floating effortlessly to the floor.
Perhaps she had reached a point where it didn't matter anymore, or perhaps their
conversation had become stilted over the years and it was no more a source of
abject concern. She had learned to be patient with him, to wait until he spoke,
even as her words were profound in their veiled meanings.
Emile
had returned in the meantime, making a great display of placing her food before
her.
"Thank
you…Pierrot…"
Emile
gave her a disgusted look as he stood back.
The
presentation - grilled fillet of sole in lemon parsley butter garnished with a
single thin ring of pineapple and rosemary leaves evenly arranged around its
circular edge. It lay bathed in a strange, bluish tinged sauce which he had
concocted and told her it represented the sea. It looked too good to eat, she
thought.
In minutes this will be gone from the plate…
As
always, Caesar's salad for Chakotay. She smiled to herself. No wonder Emile had
given Chakotay his Pierrot look.
"Kathryn,
you know I -"
"You're
here."
It
was all that she needed to say. Words heavy with meaning, yet unvarnished,
unchallenged in their succinctness by lofty exclamations of devotion.
She
thought she heard him sigh. When she looked at him, this time without the
prismatic distraction of her Waterford and wine, he smiled. Emile had served his
food, but Chakotay's hands remained hidden behind the façade of the table
cloth. His hair looked as shiny black as it had when he came aboard Voyager.
Even after thirty years, his dimples remained as defined as they had been since
the beginning. Smiling a little edgily, she took up her glass again.
"I
am married, Kathryn."
She
hadn't expected the statement to be so forthright, but she understood. This time
it was Chakotay who established the faint lines and boundaries. No
interruptions, no reference to ties that bound him elsewhere, no prisms, no
prisons…
"Please,
let us enjoy this like we've always done every month for thirty years…"
"It's
our last on Voyager. I'm happy for you, Kathryn. We're almost home…"
"Yes...home..."
It
was quiet as they continued their meal. When Kathryn looked up, she gave a small
cry. For a moment she thought he had left.
"I'm
here," she heard him say. Relief swamped her. This time she didn't mind
when his face was again distorted by the crystal.
"I'm
glad, then. Very, very glad. You hear that music?"
"Yes.
From the same suite?"
"The
largo from Vivaldi's Winter..."
"Winter.
You never liked winter."
"I
do now. I'm looking forward to it."
Kathryn
leaned back against the chair and closed her eyes. She heard the clock tick,
inexorably synchronising with the rhythm of her heartbeat. Perhaps, she thought
absently, it was the other way round. The clock listened to her heart.
Chakotay's voice seemed to travel across the table, making its way to her
through the fog of her memory. Distinct, yet indistinct. Did Pierrot sit
opposite her now?
Was
she drifting away from him? The early lethargy she felt, now heavier, soaked
into her body. Limp fingers released the glass. Her head dropped to one side.
Thousands
of voices… Once she had been assimilated. She heard them - old voices, new
voices, fear…fear…fear… She understood the irony. Sighing, she reached for
them, the thousands, the one…
Kathryn…
Kathryn…
Kathryn…
******
The
two men who stood in the Astoria next to Kathryn Janeway's chair hardly noticed
the grandeur of the room, its ambience of old world refinement.
Soft music filled the air, plain like a dirge the lonely violin, pitched
thinly with its sad melody. The doctor tilted his head in the way he always had
when running his programme. Tom Paris frowned, a question in his eyes.
"Largo
from Vivaldi's Four Seasons… The finale, Winter…"
"How
long?"
"She
died an hour ago," said the Doctor as he completed his scan.
"There's
nothing you can do for her? Revive her like you did B'Elanna and Neelix and
Seven and Harry?" Tom asked in a voice that rasped.
The
EMH looked up at him.
"What
would be the point, Mr Paris? Captain Janeway's heart stopped. Were I to raise
her from the dead as you desire, she would continue this…illusion."
Tom
Paris looked at his Captain, studied the wrinkled features so peaceful in death.
Her hair had long ago turned almost white. Her dress - a favourite burgundy she
wore on every dinner date - sagged on her body. If anything, she had lost more
weight in the last years than gaining anything. The crew knew. The crew
understood; they pitied their Captain more than they admired her the past years.
Most of them had lived more than half their lives on Voyager and had witnessed
her gradual decline.
The
Doctor was right. They couldn't continue seeing her like this - images of a
lonely woman who walked the corridors of Voyager in her burgundy dress, making
her way to the holodeck. B'Elanna had been furious when he agreed to the
Captain's request. The crew had
been concerned. In the beginning they protested gently, then gave up, indulging
their Captain for she was, of all of them, the loneliest person on Voyager.
"I…understand,
Doc. We're so close to home too."
"Yes.
One month from now we will be docking at Earth's orbital station. The end of our
journey. After so long, so many battles and struggles and triumphs. Now this -
bringing a dead Captain home."
"But
you're right. When Seven of Nine died, she could deal with the loss of someone
she nurtured."
Tom
bent over the still body of Kathryn Janeway, her head reclining on her shoulder,
slightly forward so that her eyes were almost shielded from view by her hair
that had fallen forward. Gently he placed his hands over them and closed her
eyes. Then he noticed something. Intrigued, he held the old watch on the palm of
his hand, with the fob chain still around her neck.
"The
watch Commander Chakotay gave her twenty five years ago, on her birthday."
"But
Captain Janeway couldn't deal with the loss of her beloved first officer,"
the EMH continued Tom's words reflectively.
"Chakotay's
hologram degraded over the years, as well as his dialogue subroutines. I thought
if I could wean her off…" Tom felt a twinge of guilt and shook his head.
"You
did the right thing, Mr Paris. I think Captain Janeway knew this was her last
dinner. She had never worn the watch before."
Tom
Paris looked at the table with its pristine table cloth, the shiny silver
cutlery, the crystal glasses, the untouched wine opposite her. Tonight, he knew,
there was no Chakotay. Opposite her sat, with his head tilted in sad
contemplation of life, the white-faced clown, with a tear running down his
cheek.
The
programme never registered the presence of the hologram.
"I
did not delete the commander's hologram, Doctor. Captain Janeway had a lonely
dinner. A dinner for one."
"No,
with Pierrot…" the doctor corrected, thoughtful.
Long
minutes they stood there, each one reflecting on what Kathryn Janeway had done
for them, had meant to them over the years. The doctor remembered their
friendship, the times she had come to him for advice, or company, reading
"La Vita Nuova" together.
Tom
Paris remembered the feisty woman with brilliant golden hair which the sun
behind her seemed to light up as she stood on the rise of the New Zealand Penal
Colony and introduced herself to him. He remembered how she bartered for his
freedom, how angry he had been in the beginning, blaming the world for his woes.
He remembered how she refused to bail on him, giving him her trust, her
understanding, her love.
He
made a vow. They would bury her at Indiana. There would be an inscription on the
gravestone.
"Here
lies a noble warrior."
**********
O
Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The
ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The
port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While
follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But
O heart! heart! heart!
O
the bleeding drops of red,
Where
on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen
cold and dead.
- Walt Whitman
end
vanhunks
September 2004