by Peter David
“Subtleties? The sparring session? The underwater immersion for hours on end? The dozens of books you have had me read? The essays? The ten-mile barefoot hike? Having me try to chop down a tree with my teeth? I am still picking wood chips from my gums!”
“We have different definitions of subtlety.”
Worf felt as if they had different definitions of reality altogether. “How is watching paint dry supposed to be of any use?”
“Worf…look at it.” He looked. “Do you see how it is now? Wet? Glistening? Over the next hours, slowly that is going to fade, going to transform. The glistening will diminish, the paint will form its permanent bond with the easel. It will change before our very eyes. You build your starships, take them out into space, park them and have no trouble watching while a star is born or a star dies. But all you see are the big things, Worf. There are the little things as well. It is from those little things that true love blooms, you see. We may first be attracted to the big things about other people…the entire physical package, or the thunderbolt that hits us when we first look into their eyes. At first, love is wet and glistening and new. Over time, however, the love dries. You become bored looking at it…if you are in the wrong state of mind. But if you appreciate it properly…it can be a constant source of interest and amazement.”
He stared at her blankly.
“So here is what we’re going to do, Worf,” she said, undaunted by his evident lack of enthusiasm. “We will watch the paint dry. And as we do, I want you to try and achieve two things. First, I want you actually to appreciate the simple and amazing process of the paint transforming from one state into the other. See it for the wonder that it is, and if you do not think that it is wonderful, then try to find a way to make it so. And second—since we’ll have plenty of time—I want you to try and separate yourself from yourself. Do not think about other things you could be doing. Do not think about frustrations, or goals unachieved, or debates, or anything. Make this drying easel more important than you. Elevate it. Lose yourself in it, and ease yourself into a meditative state. See if one drop of paint looks different to you than another. See all the possibilities. Let yourself go, Worf. That’s all I’m asking. Lose yourself…” She gestured to the easel. “…in that.”
“I will…try,” he growled.
They sat and stared at the easel.
Five minutes and seventeen seconds later, Worf said, “This is ridiculous.”
“Worf…”
“The lesson is over.” He rose and turned to face her. “I do not know what sort of elaborate game you are playing here, Lwaxana, and as of this point, I no longer care. I am a Klingon. Klingons do not sit around watching paint dry! There is no purpose to it except to waste more of my time than has already been wasted.”
“Is that all you see of what we’ve been doing?” she asked, getting to her feet. She placed her hands on her hips. “Just wasting your valuable time? And don’t you walk away from me!”
That was exactly what Worf was doing. “We are done with this absurdity.”
“You don’t love her, Worf. Not like Riker did.”
The harsh words brought him up short. “What. Did. You. Say?”
“She deserves the best,” Lwaxana said defiantly, not the least bit intimidated by his clearly building wrath. “Will and Deanna, they were Imzadi. They share a bond you can never have.”
“What bond? What does ‘Imzadi’ mean? Is this another of your ‘lessons’?”
She stared at him and he felt as if she were truly seeing him for the first time. And she seemed, somehow, to deflate, ever so slightly, as if something had been taken away from within her. “No, Mr. Worf. The lessons are over. We’re done. Here. Let me put it to you in a way you will understand.”
And she went to the paint-covered easel, drew back her arm, and plunged her fist through it. The canvas ripped easily enough, and the entire easel tilted over. She caught the canvas before it fell, gripped it firmly, twisted at the waist, and then let fly with all her strength. As if on cue, a breeze caught up the easel and carried it down, down to the water far below. It landed there and floated for a moment, supported by the wood of the frame.
Lwaxana looked at her hands. Tinged with red paint as they were, they looked almost bloodstained. She gave him one last, disappointed look and then walked away, shaking her head. Worf remained behind, standing at the precipice, looking down at the ruined painting far below in the water. The tide was going out apparently, and slowly, ever so slowly, the ruined painting was carried away with it.
“Nice throw,” he noted.
Deanna had just come back from the art museum and was burbling happily with Chandra over piping-hot glasses of moog when Worf walked in. He said nothing; just stood there and seethed. One did not have to be an empath to know that he was not particularly happy.
“Chandra, perhaps you’d better…” Deanna said.
“…leave, yes, I was just thinking that,” Chandra replied, overlapping her. With a hasty good-bye, she quickly exited the house, leaving Worf and Deanna alone.
“Where is Alexander?”
It wasn’t the first thing she was anticipating that he would say, but she readily replied, “He wished to visit with my mother. They’re very fond of each other, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“So I brought him over to the house. She wasn’t home, but Mr. Homn was attending to him. I had the appointment with Chandra and I really didn’t want to break it, otherwise I would have stayed with him. I didn’t think there would be a problem with that. Is there?”
“No. No.”
“Worf, what happened? I mean, clearly something did.”
He paced a moment more before he could calm himself down sufficiently to frame his thoughts. “I know why she is doing this to me. But why are you doing it?”
“Doing what? I don’t understand….”
“Do you love me for who I am?”
“Absolutely. And I also love you for what you can b—”
“There,” and he stabbed a finger at her. “There is the problem. We have different definitions of what I can be. Or should be. I am a Klingon, Deanna.” He thudded his fist against his chest. “That is not a state of mind. That is who I am. If my adopted parents could not make me into a human, what makes you think you can make me into a Betazoid?”
“I’m not trying to turn you into a Betazoid, Worf, don’t be absurd! Neither is my mother! We just wanted you to understand. Not become. Just understand…”
“Oh, I understand all too well. What is ‘Imzadi’?”
She actually seemed to blanch when he said the word. “What?”
“What does that word mean? I am asking you a straightforward question. What means ‘Imzadi’?”
“It’s…a term of endearment. It means ‘beloved.’ ”
But Worf shook his head, clearly refusing to believe it. “No. That is not all. Not from the way she said it. She gave it significance beyond a simple endearment.”
“Worf, this is silly. Nothing is going to be accomplished by—”
“What does it mean!”
She was taken aback by what she saw in his eyes. There was a cold, burning fury. She wasn’t intimidated, she didn’t think he was going to hurt her. Instead the anger seemed directed inward, as if he was furious with himself over something that was eating at him. She drew herself up, steadied her chin, and said, “All right. It has a secondary and…deeper meaning.”
“And that would be—?”
“ ‘The First.’ ”
“The First.” It took a moment for him to understand, but then he did. His eyes widened. “Are you saying that Commander Riker…he was your…”
She nodded. “But it’s more than that. It’s not just the first person who captures your body. It’s the first person who captures your…well…your soul.”
“Your soul mate.”
“I…wouldn’t put it that way.”
“But you would not deny it.”
For
a moment, it seemed as if tears were about to well up in Deanna’s eyes. Tears of frustration, of upset over the hurt that she could see Worf was enduring…a hurt that he would never admit to, because he might consider it a sign of weakness. “Worf…what would you have me do? I can’t go back and make myself not fall in love with Will, back when he was assigned here to Betazed. I can’t alter the course of our relationship. I can’t go back in time and reorder it to my liking.”
Her comment touched a nerve in Worf…but he couldn’t quite determine why. Instead he asked, “So…where does that leave us.”
“It leaves us right where we were before, Worf! I love you. You love me, don’t you?”
Slowly he nodded. “But,” he said, “it can never be the same as what you had with William Riker, can it.”
“So it won’t be the same,” she said tiredly. “It will be different. Not everyone loves everyone in the same way, Worf! You’re not in competition with Will Riker.”
“It seems to me that I am.”
“I can’t control how things seem to you, Worf. You just have to believe me that I’m not measuring you up against Will.”
“Am I a better lover than he was?”
If Deanna paled before at the mention of the word “Imzadi,” this time she went in the other direction, turning positively red. “Worf! Oh my God, I can’t believe you asked that—! You don’t hear me asking if I’m a better lover than Alexander’s mother was!”
“Do you want to know?”
“No! I don’t! Because unlike some people, I’m not in competition with a memory!”
“It is different.”
“How?”
“Because she is dead…and he is not.”
She saw the hurt in his eyes, the pained recollection of a wound that was clearly still raw in him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“It is…all right. I suppose…the question is irrelevant anyway. When I make love to you…I do so differently than I would with a Klingon woman.”
“You…do?”
“Yes. I endeavor to use the techniques that a human male would use.”
Deanna felt as if she had been experiencing an entire gamut of emotions. Minutes ago she had wanted to cry; now it was everything she could do not to laugh. “And you know these…how?”
“I…” He cleared his throat. “Researched it.”
“Researched it? How?”
“I would rather not say.”
“So tell me…” Deanna, trying to tease Worf away from his concerns, slunk across the room and draped her arms around his neck. “…would you be interested in making love to me…as you would to a Klingon woman?”
“No.”
“Oh.” The flatness of his turn-down startled her. Trying to recapture the mood, she said, “Why not?”
“Because it would likely either kill or incapacitate you.”
Deanna’s arms suddenly felt to her like two unmoving iron bars. “Oh,” she said again.
“Riker, of course, never had that problem,” Worf couldn’t help but note.
Beginning to lose her patience, Deanna blew an annoyed puff of breath from between her round lips and said, “Worf…to love someone differently than someone else doesn’t mean that you love them less. It’s just that our relationship exists on a different level than what Will and I had. But the thing to remember is that you have one very significant advantage over Will.”
“And that would be…?”
“You’re here. And he’s not.”
“I see. So you agreed to marry me…because I was convenient.”
“No!” she cried out in frustration. “No, that’s not it at all! I mean, are you marrying me because I’m convenient for you, because you know I can help you take care of Alexander?”
“No. Well…”
She waited for him to complete the sentence. He didn’t. “Well…what?”
“There is…some element of that…I suppose,” Worf admitted. “But that is part of seeing you as an ideal mate for a variety of factors. One factor is not inherently more important than another, correct?”
“Well…” She hesitated and then said, “Actually…I would think love is…wouldn’t you? The more important, or most important, I mean.”
“Yes. Of course.”
They stared at each other uncertainly for a time, and then Worf said, “I…need some time to think, Deanna. Just a couple of hours to myself.”
“Yes…yes, of course…”
“I will meet you at your mother’s house, if that is acceptable. Perhaps then we may all…discuss matters.”
“I would like that. And that is the Betazoid way, Worf: Talking out feelings. Coming to a meeting of minds. You see, you are learning.”
“As you say,” Worf replied, but he didn’t sound completely convinced.
He walked for hours, from one end of the city to the other. Worf watched Betazoids in action, interacting with each other, laughing on occasion, enjoying themselves. But it was so quiet, so damned quiet. Worf had never realized before just how much general noise was created through the simple constant stream of chatter that most beings engaged in.
A Klingon city, on the other hand…the noise level! It was beyond belief. Perpetual shouting, howls of laughter or anger, explosive arguments that oftentimes seemed to be launched just to have something to argue about. Bone thudding bone as heads slammed together in reckless competition. It was as if Klingons thrived on noise for the purpose of reminding themselves that they were alive. If they could hear themselves, then they were there. Silence was reserved for the grave. Noise was for when you were alive and thriving on that life.
No wonder Betazoids had so much time to contemplate things. There was nothing in particular going on to distract them. The way things were around Worf, he could probably actually hear paint dry if he wanted to.
Why was he being so hard on himself? Why was he obsessing about Riker? Why couldn’t he simply take Deanna’s word that there was, indeed, no competition?
“You are going to ruin it,” he warned himself. “You are going to ruin the best thing that ever happened to you simply because of your pride.”
He was not in competition with Riker. It was foolish for him to think of it in those terms. He was not in competition because…because she had chosen him, that was why. So if there had been some sort of competition, it was over. He had won. He, Worf, had won.
There was still the matter of the Trois trying to make him over into something he was not. But after several hours of walking, he had the answer to that as well. He would indeed bring Deanna to Qo’noS, the Klingon homeworld, and have her undergo some rudimentary warrior rituals so she likewise could “understand.” Yes. Yes, that would be most amusing. Deanna Troi, scaling the Flame Cliffs of Kutabi—blindfolded and with no gear. Deanna Troi, learning combat tactics and trying to defend herself in the ring against females half again her size (let alone males!).
He did not contemplate these matters out of a sense of vengeance, no. Far from it. If understanding was what it was all about, then understanding Deanna would have. And perhaps then, she would cease trying to change him in exchange for his not subjecting her to any of the assorted trials that the average Klingon was undergoing at the age of ten.
As he approached the Troi mansion, following a lovely path lined with exotic foliage, he was becoming increasingly satisfied with the way in which things were working out. Perhaps he had disappointed Lwaxana. But then again, he wasn’t marrying Lwaxana. All he had to do was make Deanna happy, and that he was more than prepared to do.
Although, to be honest, he wished that he could have taken back his comment about killing her if he made love to her as if she were a Klingon woman. He could tell that hadn’t gone over particularly well with her. Then again, he couldn’t exactly blame her, now, could he.
As he approached the front door, the sun was just beginning to settle down upon the horizon. Long shadows cast themselves over the house, caressing it with darksome fingers. He knocke
d on the front door and waited for Mr. Homn to promptly open it, as he always did.
It didn’t open.
Any other person might have taken a few moments to wonder what was going on. Where was Mr. Homn, why wasn’t he answering it, he was usually so reliable, they must be busy, and so on.
Not Worf.
Immediately he went into a crouch, taking as a possibility that there was some sort of danger present. He reached for his phaser…
…and remembered he didn’t have it.
Off-duty Starfleet personnel were not supposed to carry hand phasers with them. Worf was indeed off-duty, in civilian clothes, and had absolutely no reason to be toting small arms.
He was, however, a Klingon, and that was more than enough reason to be prepared for just about anything. Consequently, Worf reached into the tops of his boots and pulled out, from each one, a slim blade with a thin handle and notched end. Individually each of the blades was a nasty weapon, and could be yanked out instantly to deal with whatever emergency presented itself. Since he had a few moments before possibly launching himself into battle, it gave him the time he needed to connect the two blades together at the hilts. This presented him with a handgrip in the middle and blades extending from either side of his right hand. He cursed himself for not having more weaponry on him, but he was worried that it might have given Deanna the wrong impression if he’d gone to Betazed armed to the teeth. Besides, it was difficult to carry a bat’leth in the average suitcase.
He crept slowly around the perimeter of the mansion, alert to any possibility of enemy infiltration. Part of him was telling him that he was completely out of his mind, overreacting…that, in fact, he was trying to prove something, prove that danger lurked everywhere and only he, Worf, was genuinely prepared to deal with it.
There was a large picture window just ahead, and Worf crept toward it. Carefully, he looked in.
He had a clear view into the main foyer. There didn’t seem to be anything amiss.
Then he spotted it: a pool of blood over at the far side.
His nostrils flared, and suddenly every battle-ready sense he had screamed at him that someone was right nearby. His head whipped around and he saw no one, but his blade swung around in a deadly arc nonetheless.