Disclaimer: Deep Space Nine and the Deep Space Nine characters belong to Paramount. I'm just using them in my story. The song "All The Way" is not mine, nor do I know who to give credit to. If you know who wrote it, please e-mail me at Trillgirl so I can give credit where it's due. The song "(Slipping Away) In Her Arms" was written by me, though. This story is dedicated to Terry Farrell and Michael Dorn, the two wonderful people who brought the beautiful union of Dax and Worf to life.

"Coping" is part one of a four part series: "Death Avenged, Honor Restored."

Worf's arms were empty, and it felt wrong. Cold and wrong. He had gotten used to having Jadzia by his side, being able to hold her slender, warm body close to him at night. He missed their everyday rituals, their holosuite adventures, the unsatiable passion in their lovemaking.

/Jadzia slipped into bed beside him, wearing only a seductive smile. Worf cast aside the book he'd been reading and took her into his arms, feeling her tense in eager anticipation as their lips met in a fierce, demanding kiss. /

He even missed those painful morning-after struggles to the infirmary after an especially aggressive night, where they would endure the knowing looks and teasing remarks from Doctor Bashir as their shoulders or hips were realigned and the multitudes of colorful bruises healed. But the thing he missed most was companionship. Not just friendship. He had plenty of other friends. Chief O'Brien and General Martok, to name a few. Jadzia had been the only person with whom he could talk openly. She had been a constant source of encouragement and inspiration. When he'd first come to Deep Space Nine she'd barely known him, yet she'd instantly been willing to help him during his time as an outcast from Klingon society. (To this day, nothing can oppose the beating of two Klingon hearts.) Jadzia had had an intimate knowledge of Klingon customs and their way of life.

She'd understood him, maybe better than anyone he'd ever known. They'd shared many of the same interests, from parrying with bat'leths in the holosuite to Klingon opera. In some ways, she was more Klingon than any Klingon he knew. But in other cases, nothing could have been further from the truth. One of her many quirks was her tendency to misplace things. Right now, he would have given anything to be able to pick up after her.

As Worf rolled over in bed, his efforts to sleep proving futile, he caught sight of their framed wedding photo resting on the nightstand. Jadzia's grin of elation at finally marrying the man she loved more than anything was a beautiful sight, but one that ate despairingly at his heart. He could hardly believe that he would never again see that alluring smile, never again savor the warmth of her soft, caressing lips against his. It had been a damnably short three months. Three fleeting months spent with the love of his life. It was amazing how fast things could change. Worf could still turn his face into Jadzia's pillow and inhale the unique, pleasant scent that had been all her own. Some nights, like tonight, he lay awake and imagined what their children would have looked like. ("Our baby would have been so beautiful…") The tiny ridges, delicate brown spots- they were as real to him as if he could have held the baby in his arms. She'd been so excited at the prospect of having children. The time they'd spent babysitting Kirayoshi O'Brien had been good for them. They had been able to observe the extent of each other's parenting skills and decide what needed work and what was fine the way it was. Worf remembered how good Jadzia had been with Yoshi. He really had seemed to respond to her.

/ Worf suddenly sensed a presence behind him. He pivoted halfway around, carefully cradling a wailing Kirayoshi in his arms. Jadzia leaned against the doorframe, her arms folded across her chest.

"Are you sure you don't want me to take over?" He half-smiled, half-frowned at her.

"I thought I told you to go to sleep."

"How can I with that little klaxon screeching?" Before the Klingon could protest, she'd plucked the baby from him and settled him against her shoulder. "Shh, Yoshi," she soothed him, gently rubbing his small back. "You don't like sleeping without your crib, do you? Well, that's all right. Let's just pretend it's a little camping trip. Did you ever go camping with your daddy? Shh…" She continued to sway back and forth and talk softly to him.

Quicker than Worf had expected, Yoshi's sobs subsided and his eyelids drooped shut. Jadzia carefully laid him in the spare bed that was acting as a crib for the time being. He slept soundly as she pulled the blanket over him.

/ Worf had no doubt that Jadzia would have been wonderful with their children as well. He rolled over again. He could look at the wedding picture no more; the ache in his heart was just too much to bear. Worf's restless tossing and turning finally yielded to a shallow, unsatisfying sleep.

"The time is 0600 hours." Worf's eyes flew open. For a moment he thought that it had been Jadzia who had spoken, her melodious voice slowly encouraging him awake.

/ "Wake up, parmach'kai." Jadzia rolled over on top of him and kissed his lips. Worf slowly opened his eyes.

"You're energetic this morning." The lovely Trill laughed and ran her fingers through his hair.

"Good morning to you too!" Her early-morning enthusiasm was contagious. With a sudden burst of energy, he pushed her off.

"I'm going to go take a sonic shower." Jadzia scrambled to untangle herself from the covers.

"Wait for me!" /

But it was not. The computer announced again,

"The time is 0600 hours and 45 seconds."

Damn. The Klingon threw off the blankets, stood up, and stretched. He went into the bathroom, on the way grabbing a towel and slinging it over his arm. He tapped at the controls for the sonic shower, programming it to emit heat along with the cleansing beams of energy. The shower stall came to life, the bright beams illuminating the small room. The beams also produced a whining noise, too high-pitched for Klingon (and Trill) ears to hear. Ferengi couldn't take sonic showers. The noise drove them insane. Worf slowly stripped and stepped into the stall. The energy beams coursed over his body, bathing him in their relaxing warmth. Like Jadzia, he preferred to adjust the shower to use water instead of the sonic energy beams. They had both relished the tingly feeling the massaging streams of water left on their skin.

/ Jadzia tilted her beautiful face upward into the warm shower spray and closed her eyes. "This is exactly what I need after dislocating my shoulder. Again," she groaned. She turned to look at Worf. "Or maybe I should say you dislocating my shoulder. Again." Worf carefully touched her arm.

"Are you seriously injured? I did not mean to disable you this severely. Perhaps you should go see Doctor Bashir." She brushed a wet, clinging strand of chestnut hair off her exotic face.

"Don't worry." She took the hand that rested on her shoulder and lightly kissed his fingers. "It's not that bad. Besides, it's my fault. I didn't deflect the blow from your bat'leth quickly enough." Worf continued to gaze at her with concern, barely aware that he was just as bruised and battered as she was.

"Are you sure?" Jadzia smiled. Ignoring the slight twinge in her injured muscle, she draped her arms around him, loving the feel of his muscular body under her roaming hands. The water cascaded over them both as she kissed him passionately, telling him without words that he was forgiven for injuring her shoulder and reassuring him that she was all right. The Trill sucked lightly at his lower lip as they finally parted. Worf ran his fingers through her wet hair, twirling a few strands gently around his fingertips. "You… are very beautiful." Jadzia smiled her flawless smile.

"So I've been told." This was one of the times she loved him the most. It was not often he expressed his feelings for her so openly. He preferred to show his love in actions rather than words. The memory of the mission to Soukara resurfaced at times like these. Worf had risked everything to save her life: the mission, his career, Lasaran's life. Some would say he had risked the entire Alpha Quadrant by failing to retrieve the information on the Founders. But when it came to his parmach'kai, nothing else mattered. Not his career, not his future command, not even his own life. He had never regretted his decision to go back for her. That action, that total risk, meant more to her than any sweet words ever could.

Sometimes he would watch her play tongo with Quark in the bar. Jadzia knew Worf pretty much despised the game, and Quark, for that matter, but he respected the fact that she enjoyed the game and made the most of it. He had even the sneaky Ferengi proprietor convinced that she would one day prevail over him. The little notes he left around their quarters for her to find were mysterious and exciting and usually totally unexpected.

Some were romantic, but more commonly they added a little boost of encouragement to help her get through the day. Once after an excellent day at work, he walked through the door, swept her into his arms, and carried her into the bedroom. Their lovemaking was more often than not aggressive, but occasionally they would calm down and have a more subdued but still extremely passionate night. The one thing he absolutely never did, though, was let her win one of their bat'leth combats. They agreed that taking charity from the other was forbidden.

Jadzia and Worf both put up a powerful fight, and they had the colorful bruises to prove it. Usually one of them would get a bone or two broken, but today it had just been a dislocated shoulder for her and a sprained wrist for the Klingon. Her eyes darted down the length of his body to double-check the extent of his injuries. Just bruises and small abrasions, it seemed. She moved forward into his arms again, almost overcome with the love she possessed for him. Their lips met again, softer this time. Worf's tongue pushed forward, exploring the silken cavern of her mouth. Jadzia tightened her arms around him as she completely surrendered to the moment. /

Worf missed those special times together desperately. He sighed and turned, letting the pounding streams of water massage his shoulders. Jadzia had given the best shoulder rubs, which, accompanied by the hot, steady beat of the water, had been just what he needed after a long day.

Worf caught sight of the chronometer through the glass shower door. The time was 0630 hours. He hadn't realized that so much time had gone by since he started. Hurriedly he pushed open the door and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around his waist. Turning, he hit the controls by the shower and turned off the water. Worf caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he started into the bedroom. He saw a typical Klingon. Pronounced forehead ridges, heavy eyebrows, dark, broad chest streaked with droplets of water. But he looked different. His face looked deprived, grieved, even heartbroken. He seemed to have aged much more than three years in his time serving on Deep Space Nine.

Worf continued into the bedroom and dropped the towel, quickly donning his Starfleet issue boxers and undershirt. The closet door slid aside when he touched the controls. Only the left side of the small room was occupied by his uniforms and boots. The other side had been Jadzia's. The empty space in the closet was like the empty space in his heart. The Trill had always looked so beautiful, no matter what she wore. Whether it was her standard uniform, short magenta slipdress, purple pants suit, or the wedding dress in which she had shone on that wonderful day, she would always be gorgeous.

He perused the closet, looking for a clean uniform. He retrieved one from way at the back and paused when his hand brushed something soft and silky. Even before he pulled it out to see it he knew what it was. Worf pushed the rest of the uniforms aside and gently removed a flowing teal silk dress from the hanger. Jadzia's favorite dress. It must have been overlooked when he was preparing all her things to be put into storage after the funeral. For some subconscious reason, he had left it here, even though he was sure he had packed everything. Holding the soft garment, stroking the silk with one hand, he could easily recall the way Jadzia had felt in his arms as they swayed together on the dance floor at Vic Fontaine's casino in the holosuite. She had loved to dance.

/ The dim lighting cast mysterious shadows on her face as she gazed at him, settled comfortably in his arms. Worf's hands rested in their familiar place on her slender hips. Jadzia moved closer and adjusted the position of her arms around his neck.

"I'd like to know where you learned to dance like this."

"What do you mean?" the Klingon asked, marveling at her beauty.

"You dance so well. I wouldn't think someone like you would have that capability." He smiled, recalling the glorious years he had spent serving on the Enterprise.

"Doctor Crusher taught exercise classes in her spare time. Dancing was one of her various topics."

"You've told me a lot about Doctor Crusher. She sounds like a fascinating woman."

"Not nearly as fascinating as you can be, parmach'kai."

Jadzia smiled at this, one of the rare moments when his love for her overwhelmed him and he would lean down and whisper in her ear how deep his feelings ran. Vic Fontaine's melodious voice complemented the perfect evening:

This song was one of Jadzia's favorites. It seemed to sum up their relationship perfectly. Vic continued,

Worf and Jadzia were happily lost in the moment, Vic noticed from the stage. It was obvious, even to the uninformed observer, that these two were a perfect match. /

Worf walked briskly down the corridor, knowing that he was late and berating himself inwardly for being so laggard. He suspected the reason was because he didn't want to go to Ops. It was easier to go to the holosuite and just sit, remembering the happy times they'd had there. He was annoyed at the early hours at which he had to awaken, which had been more bearable with someone to wake up with. He was annoyed that his daydreaming hadn't given him time to eat breakfast.

His irritation must have showed on his face, for as he passed people in the hall, they shied away from him with a nervous "Good morning, Commander."

Even the most sociable and eager-to-please young ensigns kept their distance, as if afraid one wrong word said to him would cause him to turn and rip them to pieces. These days, it probably would. He stopped at the turbolift door and pressed the control. After a short wait, the lift eased to a halt, and the blood-red doors parted to reveal Chief O'Brien and Doctor Bashir already inside. They paused their conversation and looked up as he entered.

"Good morning, Worf," Bashir said with a smile.

"Morning," echoed O'Brien.

"Doctor, Chief," The Klingon acknowledged them. "Ops." Bashir turned back to O'Brien as the lift began to move again.

"My point, Miles, is that the Battle of Saratoga is a fascinating holosuite program. Think of what it would be like to witness - participate in- one of the greatest victories in American history! It was considered the turning point in the Revolutionary War when France, motivated by the Americans' unlikely victory, chose to ally themselves with the colonies. I think it would be awfully interesting to see the treaty between them signed. Maybe even sign it ourselves."

"It certainly sounds exciting," admitted O'Brien. "When did you say Felix was going to send the program to you?"

"Next week. It would be sooner but he tells me he's been very busy lately."

Worf, idly listening, felt the turbolift slow, then stop. The doors whooshed open, and he stepped out into Ops. O'Brien got out with him, saying a quick goodbye to Bashir as the lift continued on its way. He hurried to catch up to Worf.

"Wait a minute, Commander." Worf turned.

"Yes?" O'Brien smiled companionably.

"Julian and I are going down to Vic's tomorrow night. Care to come along?"

Worf considered it, noting that the crew spent so much time in Vic Fontaine's holosuite program that they tended to think of him and his casino as real objects and often referred to them as such, even more so now that his program was running 26 hours a day.

"I will be there," he accepted.

"Great!" O'Brien replied. "Meet us there at 1900 tomorrow night. Holosuite two."

Worf nodded.

"Good day, Chief."

"See you later!" replied the Irishman with his usual good humor, descending the short flight of metal stairs to the Engineering console. Worf turned left and went to his position at Tactical. Ensign Walker, who was currently monitoring the station, nodded and moved aside. No sooner had he begun to glance over the controls then Captain Sisko's deep voice interrupted him,

"Commander, as you can see from your readouts, we have a glitch in the targeting system. Any photon torpedo that's been fired in the test runs seems to wind up a little off target. See what you can do about that."

"Aye, sir."

"Good." Sisko ran his hand over his dark brown scalp, smoothing nonexistent hair. "We've just gotten word from Starfleet Command that we might be getting a visit from a wave of Dominion ships in the next week or two. Three squadrons of Jem'Hadar fighters have all rendezvoused at Cardassia Prime. It looks like we'll need those weapons."

"Yes, Captain." Sisko went back over to the Main Operations Table. The war had taken an especially heavy toll on him as well. Jadzia's death had affected him almost as much as Worf. Another Dax was now gone from his life, adding to the ache of losing Curzon, which never had completely faded.

Worf began his task, scanning the targeting system for the source of the malfunction. Surprisingly, being in Ops calmed him somewhat. He realized he welcomed the change of surroundings, a chance to escape from the aura of loneliness in their -his- quarters. The work distracted him from the emotional agony he was experiencing. No one really knew the full extent of his suffering. He hid it with his everyday stoical attitude most of the time.

But there were certain times where all the pain, all the rage he kept bottled up inside him, just exploded out at those around him. The unspoken suggestion from those unfortunate victims of these outbursts was to go see a counselor, and that was one of the things he absolutely refused to do. Yes, he was suffering, and he would handle it like a Klingon, with strength and determination. But the real reason he refused to seek counseling was because of the counselor herself. Ezri Dax.

The single person on this station who understood him because of Jadzia's memories, contained within the small gray symbiont inside her. Yet he could not bring himself to go to her for help, maybe because she carried Jadzia's memories. Ezri and Jadzia were so different, and not just in the physical aspect. Of course, they looked different. Ezri wasn't nearly as tall, with short, blunt-cut brown hair, a pixie-shaped face, and a more boyish but still slender figure. Jadzia had stood head to head with him, and possessed a svelte, gracefully curvaceous body. Her hair, framing an elegant face, had also been brown, but was long and silky, like the satin evening gowns she had favored when going somewhere special. The intriguingly exotic spots dappling Jadzia's neck had seemed slightly darker than Ezri's. But their bright cerulean eyes were eerily alike, sparkling with mischief and eagerness. Jadzia's eyes had been deep and mysterious, though, hiding the experiences of eight different people.

Now Ezri made nine. Since they shared Emony's memories, they both had a love of physical activity. Ezri favored gymnastics, while her lovely predecessor had always enjoyed an early morning jog around the docking ring. Jadzia had been smooth, confident, sure of herself and never afraid to speak her mind. Nothing seemed to faze her. She was athletic, a good listener, and always had answers to questions. Ezri, on the other hand, had not gotten the years of training before receiving the symbiont, only a quick lecture from the ship's surgeon on the Destiny, where under necessary conditions, the symbiont had been placed in her when it looked to be in its darkest hour.

As a result, she was sometimes confused, very emotional, and not prepared for the onslaught of memories and feelings that came with her new, unexpected responsibility. But she was reading the books that the Symbiosis Commission had given her, and slowly adjusting to being a Joined Trill.

To Worf, Ezri was a painful reminder of Jadzia's eternal absence, but he was tolerant of her, mainly because he knew it was not her fault that his wife was gone or that she now had the symbiont. That was just the way things had to be.

Worf forced himself to concentrate on his work. The problem with the targeting system was not yet revealing itself. It would take persistent searching to find it. As his right hand played across his console, his left tugged at his uniform collar. Ops was unusually warm today, like the nights on Risa had been.

/ The waves lapped at the sandy shore, a quiet whisper announcing the coming evening. Jadzia and Worf held hands as they strolled relaxedly down the beach under the palm trees, which cast lengthening shadows as the deep orange sun descended in the sky. It was pleasantly warm now, though not sweltering as it had been during the day, when the sun was at its zenith. They walked slowly, not speaking much, just enjoying each other's company and the freedom from all duty to Starfleet, at least for the moment.

They came to a cluster of wide-leafed palm trees on a slight hill with a perfect view of the radiant sunset and rippling ocean. Jadzia sank to the soft sand with a content sigh. Worf settled down behind her, and she leaned back against him, reveling in the salt air and the nearness of the man she loved so deeply. The Klingon wrapped his arms around her waist as they watched the sun go down. /

Worf scanned the complicated internal workings of the station for the eleventh time and was just about to request Chief O'Brien's assistance when a flashing light caught his eye. Finally, he was on to something. He proceeded with the search.

Three hours later, working with O'Brien, the two of them located the malfunction. An essential isolinear chip had been replaced improperly when repair work had been done a few weeks ago on the main computer in the central core of the station. They hadn't had to use the weapons since then, so the problem hadn't been noticed until now. O'Brien sighed.

"Looks like we're going to have to replace the master differential relay for the weapons altogether; the damn thing's just too messed up. Problem is, I don't think we have another one on hand. We'll probably have to put in a request to Starfleet Command for a new one. Hopefully we can find a Federation ship currently docked here that has an extra one, though, so we won't have to go through the trouble. Heaven knows it'll be a lot quicker."

"Time is of the essence," agreed Worf. "I'll begin checking with the engineers of the docked ships and the ones within communications distance that will soon be arriving." O'Brien nodded absently, already making notes on a PADD and mumbling to himself. "Chief?" O'Brien glanced up hurriedly.

"Hm? Oh, sorry. Yeah, that'll be fine."

"We should have someone remove the faulty relay as soon as possible," reminded Worf.

"I'll get right on it," agreed O'Brien. Starting off, he hit his comm badge. "O'Brien to Ensign Prak'vei."

"Prak'vei here," came the stoical voice of the young Vulcan officer.

"Meet me by the conduit to the central computer in five minutes." O'Brien stepped into the turbolift. "Habitat ring, level seven. We've located the problem with the torpedoes. Bring a phase coupler and…" Worf turned his attention to his console as the lift doors whisked shut and carried the chief away.

He called up a list of the ships currently docked at Deep Space Nine. The Emerald Isle was the first of the Starfleet ships. He sent a message asking about the power relay, then forwarded the same request to the Jefferson, the Liberty, the Independence, the Truman…

The names were a mindless blur when Worf had received a response from them all, two hours later. There were offers of replicator, transporter, and environmental control relays, but none for weapons. He tapped his comm badge. "Worf to O'Brien."

"O'Brien here," came the prompt and slightly breathless voice of the chief.

"I have received a response from every ship. No one has a master differential relay for our weapons array."

"Damn." O'Brien's sigh was audible over the comm link. "Why don't you talk to Ensign Nog? He might have an idea. We've almost finished removing this relay, anyway. When do you get off work?"

Worf checked the chronometer on his console. "Twenty minutes. I will be staying later, though, until this problem is at least partially solved."

"All right. Prak'vei and I should be back up in Ops shortly. O'Brien out."

Worf gazed around the room, trying to locate Nog. The young Ferengi was somewhat of a prodigy to Worf. When he first met Nog, he had been nothing more than a troublemaking waiter in his uncle's raucous bar. Then he had unexpectedly joined Starfleet Academy, and had been transformed into a responsible, dependable cadet. He had been promoted to an engineer with the rank of ensign so quickly that Worf was amazed.

The boy obviously had more potential then the Klingon had given him credit for. He had been eager to please and quick to respond to situations where he was needed. Then the accident, which he least of anyone had been expecting. Worf had not been there when he lost his leg defending AR-558, the captured Dominion base, but Nog had been traumatized by the experience. For a long time he had been stunned, not entirely comprehending what had happened to him, refusing to believe that he now had a disability. No, he was Nog, this could not happen to him, he was somehow safe and protected from the horrors and gut-wrenching trauma of warfare that raged around him.

A youngster's inexperienced fantasy, uninfluenced by anything except the simple fact that he had never actually been in real combat. Of course he had trained and prepared at the Academy, but he had still somehow convinced himself that he would always be watching from a distance, never in the thick of the action where he could be injured… or even killed. That realization had come to him as he lay, helpless, on the biobed with Doctor Bashir telling him he would lose his leg.

It had had plenty of time to sink in during the endless weeks of rehab, the constant pain, the inner gnawing of his loss. He was a cripple now, despite his new prosthetic limb. He despised it bitterly, and it showed. Nog was changed. He was slowly returning to as close as he could become to his old self, but he carried with him a deep distrust of the people and the galaxy around him. He had aged mentally, if not physically, forced to grow up and accept life at its hardest in an instant.

Worf knew how he felt and offered a warrior's sympathy. They had both lost a part of themselves in this damned Dominion war, and the damage was undoable. But, with the support of friends and family, they could at least partly cope.

The Ferengi was seated at the Main Operations Table, absorbed in his work, a somber look on his face, which was quite handsome by the standards of his wealth-obsessed people. He tapped at the PADD he held in his hand and then at the display table in front of him, apparently transferring some information. "Ensign Nog," Worf called from Tactical. "Your assistance."

"Just a moment, Commander," he said without glancing up. He made a few last adjustments on his PADD, then got up, surrendering his chair to an attractive Bajoran lieutenant who'd been waiting for a seat to be open. Joining Worf at his console, he waited expectantly. The Klingon called up a schematic of the weapons array.

"Have you been informed of the malfunction in the torpedo targeting system, ensign?"

"With the master differential relay? Yes, sir."

"Could a relay for a different area be converted to suit the standards of our weapons?" Nog's brow furrowed.

"I'm not sure, sir," he replied. "It would be complicated and would probably take a lot more time then we have. As far as I know, it's never been done before. We'd have to do a lot of trial runs in the holosuite. Doing something like that would take weeks, maybe even months. We may need the weapons way before that."

"The Dominion does have a distinct tactical advantage at this point," agreed Worf. "They have a lot of ships at their disposal, while we have only the ninth fleet, and they are five days away at best. We must make sure they get no word of our disadvantage. Now would be an ideal time for them to attack; when we are virtually defenseless."

Nog nodded.

"Would the ninth fleet have a relay to spare?"

"It is likely," agreed Worf. "Nevertheless, we may not have the luxury of waiting for them to arrive." He paused, thinking. "Ensign, arrange an engineer's meeting in the wardroom for 0700 tomorrow."

"Aye, sir." Nog scampered off, bulbous head and dwarfish body disappearing into the turbolift.

When he was gone, Worf stretched slightly, feeling his well-toned muscles ripple under the fabric of his uniform. Sometimes he despised the layered outfit, preferring the lightweight jumpsuits he and Jadzia had worn when they had their weekly bat'leth competitions. She had looked especially good in hers, the soft black fabric clinging tantalizingly to every curve. The silver streak blazing across the chest gave the outfit a daring, don't-mess-with-me look. She had always left her long, satin hair down on these occasions, claiming it made her feel more Klingon. He started across Ops to the replicator, passing the science station. Jadzia's post, now strangely empty even when someone else sat there. The spacious room, always before bustling with activity and motion, the air filled with quiet, pleasant voices and the chirps of the computer, now seemed silent and cold, emotionless now that she was no longer around to gaze at when he was temporarily unoccupied. S

ometimes as he watched her maneuver around Ops, PADDs in hand, stopping somewhere to gather some information or share the latest gossip that just couldn't wait, their gazes would lock, and she would pause and smile at him. That smile was always full of promise, a prelude to what wondrous things would occur later that night when the day was over and uniforms and duty were forgotten. Then she would lower her bright blue eyes and continue on her way. Unfortunately, the science station was on the opposite side of the room from Tactical. They hadn't gotten much of a chance to chat during the day, except when they stopped for lunch. But with events being especially rushed and tense because of the war, the crew had often eaten meals at their posts.

Worf stepped up to the replicator and ordered a raktajino. When the drink shimmered into existence, he picked the mug with the Starfleet emblem up and took a sip. Refreshing. He took the mug back to Tactical. Just as he set it down, the turbolift slowed and came to a halt in the shaft. The doors opened, and out stepped the object of his avoidance ever since they met.

Ezri Dax descended the stairs from the lift and crossed the room. In that instant he saw Jadzia, lithe and slender, ponytail swinging casually as she walked. Heads had turned all over Ops when she had passed through, everyone wanting to catch a glimpse of that beautiful face, that enchanting smile. Not to say that Ezri wasn't attractive. She also got a few looks, but she was more cute than anything else.

Jadzia had been elegantly alluring, possessing the kind of glamorous looks most people only dreamed about. He remembered walking down the promenade with her and seeing the admiring looks men of all species cast her way.

Some of the more attractive human and Bajoran males regarded him with looks that said How did you wind up with a woman like her? Worf had felt a secret sense of satisfaction at knowing no other man could touch her. They were afraid to, lest they provoke him. Other men knew they were no match for a defensive Klingon. Then the painful future came rushing back, and he was overwhelmed by the fury that another man had touched her, ripped her life ruthlessly from her for no reason at all except that she was in his way.

The only obstacle between him and his goal: the Orb of Contemplation. Gul Dukat's actions had been devastating that day. He had sought only to diverge the Bajorans from their gods, not caring what the consequences would be or what innocent victims would perish at his hands. It was an ironic coincidence that Jadzia had happened to be in just the wrong place at just the wrong time, attempting to thank the Prophets for their help in allowing her to bear children by following Major Kira's example. She had had no idea that her display of faith, her gratitude, would be her downfall. No time to react, no way to defend herself. That knowledge was bitingly painful for Worf. She had truly been innocent.

The Trill had been many things. A good soldier. An honorable warrior. A vehement lover. But never a coward or a cheater. Jadzia had deserved a chance, hadn't deserved to lay on that biobed and feel centuries of memories be torn away before she'd hardly had a chance to contribute to them. She shouldn't have had to lose the symbiont, feel the sudden onrushing emptiness as their bond was broken. Only one mind now, one consciousness, one being. So alone. Damn that malicious, meddling Cardassian for forcing his Jadzia to an early, dishonorable death.

According to Trill physiology, though, Jadzia was only physically gone. Her memories lived on, contained in the symbiont. The guardian of the age-old Dax symbiont walked past him now. When the two of them were this close, memories of Jadzia resurfaced very vividly. Ezri caught his eye and smiled before continuing into Captain Sisko's office.

/ Worf heard the bedroom door open with an almost inaudible whoosh. He looked up as Jadzia entered the room.

"What a day," she groaned, shrugging out of her uniform jacket. "I thought my shift would never be over." He watched her kick off her boots.

"Were there a lot of malfunctions today?" She snorted.

"I wish there had been. I've never been so bored. There wasn't a single problem. No ships docked. Absolutely nothing."

Wearing only her Starfleet-issue undershirt and boxers now, the rest of her uniform dumped unceremoniously in a heap on the floor, the Trill grabbed her hairbrush and robe from the chair in front of the mirror. "I'm going to go take a shower."

Worf watched her go.

"Would you like me to wait up for you?"

"If you want," she called back. Worf resumed his reading. Since today had been his day off, he'd hardly seen her at all. It seemed like he'd been waiting forever to hold her in his arms. Twenty minutes later, she returned, wrapped in her black velvet robe, and sat sideways in her chair.

"What are you reading?"

"I'm studying the schematics of the Dominion ship that Captain Sisko passed out today."

Jadzia began to brush her sleek chestnut hair.

"Sounds like fun." She grinned. "I already memorized mine."

Worf gazed at her as she guided the brush through her hair, still slightly damp from the shower. "Are you ever coming to bed?"

She grinned. Her tantalizing way of drawing things out was torture for him sometimes.

"In a little while." She crossed her legs, and part of the robe fell to the side, revealing immaculate, creamy skin speckled with brown spots.

That was too much. Worf turned the PADD off and set it on the nightstand.

"Jadzia."

She smiled playfully, as if she had no idea what he was about to say.

"Yes, my love?"

"Get over here." A noticeable husk crept into her voice as she replied,

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir."

Moving with deliberate slowness, she laid her brush down, stood up, and walked over to her side of the bed. She turned her back to him. Untying her robe, she shrugged it slowly off her shoulders and let it flutter gracefully to the floor, revealing a short silk nightgown the color of a ripe peach.

"Computer, dim the lights," she murmured. The room grew instantly darker, the dwindling flame of the candle by Worf's Klingon altar the only illumination. When she pivoted to face him again, her smile was seductive, enticing. Jadzia slid under the covers and pressed up close to him, wrapping her arms around his neck as their bodies touched. Worf's lips trailed along her neck, lightly at first, then with more pressure. Abruptly he rolled over, pinning her beneath him, and kissed her soft lips. She tasted heavenly, and he savored that unique flavor, that unique scent, that was all her own. The Trill's fingernails dug into his back as his hands began to explore her irresistible curves. Worf's fingers maneuvered under the thin straps of her nightgown and all but tore the garment from her. The shadows highlighting them were mysterious and added just the right note of romance, but neither of them really noticed the lighting. They were too enraptured with each other, too enveloped in emotion and passion, taste and sensation. When they finally parted, hours into the night, exhausted, Jadzia rested her head on Worf's chest and sighed contentedly.

"I can see you missed me today." The Klingon kissed the hollow of her neck, then her shoulder.

"Of course I did." Jadzia twirled a strand of his long, textured hair around her fingers.

"More than usual?"

"Maybe." Her full lips formed a smile.

"I could tell."

"Good," Worf whispered, kissing the top of her head. His fingers wandered through her silky hair. She twisted around and up to favor him with another beautiful smile. Their gazes locked, and in her eyes he saw her many experiences. Lover. Fighter. Dreamer. Worf kissed Jadzia softly. When they drew apart, she nestled herself against him again.

"Good night, parmach'kai. I love you." He stole a last, lingering look at her as they closed their eyes, energy spent.

"Good night. I love you too."/

Ezri Dax gazed out through the closed glass doors of Captain Sisko's office. The burly Klingon standing stiffly at Tactical brought back memories-strong memories. Sometimes the attraction she felt when she was near him was almost unbearable. When she had walked through Ops just a moment ago, the Jadzia in her remembered the long, passionate nights, the combats in the holosuite, and the feeling of just being loved and understood by someone that you knew almost better than you knew yourself.

She missed that, but knew better than to follow her instinctive urges. It wouldn't be intelligent to pursue another relationship with Worf. Trill reassociation laws forbade it, for one thing. More importantly, she understood that she didn't really love Worf, it was Jadzia who would have given anything for him. But despite those facts, she couldn't help feeling a pang of compassion or loneliness whenever she passed him. She knew what he was going through because in a way, she was experiencing it herself. Sometimes she felt helpless, knowing that she could guide him through these rough times but unable to unless he gave his consent. It wasn't likely that he would admit he needed help, and maybe he really didn't. After all, he was Klingon.

Jadzia understood that. He would deal with it alone. But from where Ezri stood, she felt terrible for him. As she watched him now, she knew he was thinking of his wife. The disconnected expression on his face told her that.

"Something wrong, Old Man?"

Ezri turned to face her friend of three lifetimes.

"Look at Worf, Benjamin." Sisko gazed past her at his Strategic Operations Officer. "I'm just not sure he can function properly under the current conditions. Even though it's been a few months since I-I mean Jadzia- died, he seems to be very far away sometimes. Have you considered putting him on medical leave?"

"I've mentioned it to him," Sisko replied. "He refuses to take time off or see a counselor. At this point it's really out of my hands."

Ezri sank into a chair, laced her fingers together, and rested her chin on them.

"I feel like I should be doing something for him. After all, I'm experiencing the same thing that he is. In a way, I feel like he's the one that's dead. Jadzia can see him, if you know what I mean. I see him, and her memories hit me. She wants to talk to him, to touch him, but of course that's impossible."

"You should talk to him," Sisko advised. "You two haven't spoken much at all, from what you've told me."

"I'm sort of afraid to." Ezri looked young and frightened as she spoke these words. "He might think I'm trying to get back into his life and replace Jadzia."

"You two should talk," the captain repeated. "Tell him that you don't want to start another relationship, just to be friends. It would benefit both of you."

Ezri sighed.

"This is just all so new to me. I wasn't prepared for the symbiont at all. Now I feel like I'm being torn in a million different directions at once."

Sisko stood up, walked around the desk, and took her hand.

"You're doing fine, Old Man." Ezri looked up at him for a moment, then smiled.

"I thought I was supposed to be the counselor."

"Even a counselor needs some good advice once in a while."

"Truer words have never been spoken. Thanks, Ben."

Worf felt out of place in the crisp midnight-black tuxedo as he walked down the crowded Promenade to Quark's. The old-fashioned attire was not suited for a Klingon. It felt stifling, and the carefully pressed neck of his white dress shirt pricked the underside of his chin. The stares of those around him were obvious. They were not used to seeing Klingons in eveningwear, just the usual dull gray battle armor. There had been a time when his parmach'kai would have walked with him on their way to the holosuite. Then the stares would have been directed not at him but at the exotic Trill accompanying him. She had really been eye-catching in her stunning blue velvet halter gown, a beacon of loveliness in a swarming sea of people. He could hear the clicking of the spinning Dabo wheel even before he stepped inside the noisy bar.

An alarm sounded suddenly as the wheel eased to a halt. An exhilarated cry of "Dabo!" swept over the gathered crowd. A scantily dressed Bajoran Dabo girl smiled and handed the winner, a grinning Bolian in a greasy, sweat-stained brown uniform, his latinum. He immediately split the pile in two and pushed half of it forward again. As he set the wheel spinning once more, the observing patrons, most of them considerably intoxicated, began to chant their encouragement.

Worf pushed his way past the huddle at the Dabo table and climbed the spiral staircase to the upper level, where the holosuites awaited. It was somewhat quieter up here, the Klingon noticed as he passed the first set of double doors and stopped at the second. Touching the keypad with the tips of two fingers, he tugged at his starched collar with the other hand.

The doors parted, and he stepped inside, leaving behind the hustle and the crowd and the noise and escaping into a calmer world, a world where the lighting was dim most of the time and couples swayed perpetually on the dance floor and the host, Vic Fontaine, seemed to know everything there was to know about romance. The plush carpet under his shining black shoes was a regal red, and the tables spread at even intervals throughout the room were draped with clean white tablecloths. A vase of Bajoran lilacs and a lit, scented candle were arranged carefully on each one. Most of these tables were unoccupied, except for a few on the opposite side of the room.

At two of them sat holographic couples, sipping champagne and talking quietly, hands intertwined. At a table in front of the stage sat Bashir and O'Brien, who seemed entirely at ease in their suits. Their attention was riveted on Vic, standing with his back to the door. He had apparently just finished telling a joke, for the doctor grinned, and O'Brien laughed. As the holosuite door closed behind Worf, Vic turned, and his companionable face broke into a huge, welcoming smile.

"Hey, how's it goin', pally? Haven't seen you around here for a while!"

"I've been busy," Worf explained. He, unlike his friends, did not consider Vic as much of a real person as they did. Still, it was easy to forget that the congenial hologram was only a collection of photons, a "lightbulb," as he had said so himself once.

"I understand." Vic clapped him on the shoulder. "Can I get you anything?"

"No, thank you." Worf preferred not to imbibe when he was needed on the job the next day.

"I'll have a martini," piped up O'Brien, while Bashir declined the offer of a drink as well.

"Comin' right up," announced Vic, pointing a finger at them. "Don't go away." He strolled off to the bar.

"Have a seat, Worf," invited Bashir when their host had gone. "Great tux, by the way."

Worf acknowledged the compliment with a nod and sat down. Just then, the neon lights proclaiming Vic's name on the stage backdrop flashed to life and the band began to file onto the stage. The room became considerably darker as the music started and more elegantly dressed holographic patrons, conversing softly among themselves, came in from some unknown entrance. Vic returned with O'Brien's drink.

"One martini, on the rocks," he announced jovially. "I'll see you folks later. I've got a show to do!" He hopped up on the stage and took hold of the microphone, smiling and bowing at the instant applause of the fans. "Thank you… thank you all for coming tonight. Settle in, have a drink, relax, and enjoy yourself."

Bashir leaned over to Worf and whispered,

"This song was written by one of Vic's friends who lives in Los Angeles. He told us before you came that she sent it to him last week."

Worf glanced at the doctor.

"Interesting." Vic closed his eyes as he began to sing,

The rest of the casino's patrons cheered delightedly and whistled their approval. Those who were gambling or playing the slot machines turned to focus their full attention on Vic. The Klingon's mind, though, was wandering, and he heard no more of the song. Right now his thoughts were in turmoil, making it impossible to relax. The problem with the master differential relay weighed heavily on his mind. So did the stiff white collar poking annoyingly at his neck. And of course there was Jadzia, the constant memory of her imprinted on his brain right in front of his eyes, where he could see her lovely face and hear her voice.

The rest of the evening passed. Vic sung wonderful songs, charming the audience with his soothing voice and humorous jokes, but Worf didn't notice. Once or twice he snapped out of his temporary coma, feeling slightly guilty, and tried to listen and enjoy himself for Bashir and O'Brien's sake. But he couldn't stay focused, and within a few minutes his attention would once again be elsewhere.

/ Jadzia looked marvelous in satin. From across the table, she smiled at him and raised her champagne glass.

"To Worf," she said quietly. "The loving, wonderful, honorable, handsome, and mysterious man I love more than anything in this entire universe."

A strand of her hair fell across her shoulder, bare except for one thin strap of her long pale purple dress. The soft fabric flowed around her ankles, the left one adorned with a thin silver chain, as she gently touched his foot with her own under the table. Her brown spots trickled down her shoulders and lost themselves in the folds of her gown. Her smile was radiant. Worf lifted his glass as well.

"To you, Jadzia. You are a truly magnificent person. You're understanding, thoughtful, trustworthy, honorable, elegant, beautiful… you're perfect."

"To us," the Trill whispered. Her hand crept across the table and took his as they tapped their goblets together. The tiny ringing sound they made was the sealing of a promise. /

Before Worf knew it, Vic was just singing the last lines of his final song for the evening. As his voice trailed off, the audience gave a thunderous round of applause.

"Thank you. You're all too kind."

Someone threw a rose up onto the stage. Vic bent and picked it up, tucking it into his lapel. Then, with one last wave and grin at the patrons of the casino, he went to the short flight of steps and descended down off the stage. O'Brien and Bashir stood up as the singer approached. Worf followed suit as they congratulated him.

"That was great, Vic," gushed Bashir. "You have some talent."

"Wonderful," agreed the Irishman. "I never get tired of hearing you sing." Their eyes turned to Worf, expectant of what he would have to say.

"Very enjoyable," pronounced the Klingon.

"Thanks, guys," said Vic. "You're my favorite audience. Get you another martini, Miles?"

"No, thanks," the chief declined. "I'd better be on my way. Got a lot of work to do tomorrow."

"Same here," said Bashir. "Thanks for everything." They said their goodbyes to Worf and Vic, then filed out with the rest of the holographic crowd. Vic turned to him.

"You're awfully quiet today, pally. Something on your mind?"

"A few things."

"Don't get me wrong," the hologram added. "I don't mind you being subdued. It's a nice contrast to your destructive side." When Worf looked at him sharply, he said,

"Ah, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be insensitive. It's just that when you walked in, you kinda made me a little nervous."

"I am not offended," Worf lied. "I enjoyed your performance." What little I heard of it, anyway.

"Thanks. I guess you'd better be going too, huh?" The Klingon nodded.

"Goodbye, Vic."

"See you later." As Vic began to head off towards the bar, Worf turned and made his way to the holosuite's exit. Taking one last look at the serene environment, he stepped through the doors and descended the spiral staircase, back down into Quark's.

/A bright flash swept across the Defiant's viewscreen as a final orbital weapons platform exploded. Worf, at Tactical, heard Major Kira give an almost imperceptible sigh of relief. The comm system beeped for attention, and General Martok's deep voice penetrated the bridge atmosphere.

"Martok to Defiant."

Kira looked up as if he were standing before her.

"Go ahead, General." Martok's larger-than-life image appeared on the screen.

"Good work, Major. We will begin transporting ground troops to both planets immediately."

Worf could see the fire in his comrade's eyes, sense the victory. The Bajoran smiled and nodded her understanding. Martok signed off, and the bridge crew once more was staring at the quiescent weapons platforms against the background of blackness and the omnipresent stars. O'Brien glanced up from his post as a timid klaxon sounded.

"Major," he announced worriedly, " we're receiving a priority one transmission from Deep Space Nine. It's from Julian." As the last words left his lips, a sudden chill surged through Worf, as if he had been plunged into the coldest water imaginable. Something bad had happened. Very bad. And he had the awful feeling he knew exactly who it concerned.

Doctor Bashir was hovering just outside the door to the operating room when Worf plunged into the infirmary. The expression on his face when he looked up and saw the Klingon was desperate and pitying, but his eyes were desolate and his skin moist with… was it sweat? Tears? Both? "What happened?" Worf demanded, fearful of the worst. What he heard hit him like a bat'leth, numbing his body from head to toe.

"Jadzia's been injured. Very badly. Gul Dukat somehow transported onto the station and enveloped her in some sort of lethal energy field inside the Bajoran shrine."

"How is she?" Worf gripped the side of the door for support.

"Not very well, I'm afraid." He paused, then finished in a lower voice saturated with defeat. "We've already removed the symbiont. You should go see her now, before…" His voice trailed off, and wordlessly he stepped aside for Worf, turning to break the news to Sisko, Kira, Odo, O'Brien, and Jake, who had just entered the infirmary.

Worf hurried back into the operating room. Jadzia lay still on a biobed, her eyes closed, hands at her sides. A faint bloodstain defiled the blanket over her abdomen, where her link to the symbiont had been severed too early. She looked so beautiful at rest. But this rest was wrong. Rest was never meant to be for eternity.

Her hands were cool as always when he took them in his own. She didn't respond at first. Then her limp fingers gradually tightened around his, and she opened her eyes. The instant their gazes met, her despair bit into him. Her lips parted, but she did not speak. Worf smoothed her damp hair back off her forehead. Her skin was unnaturally pale.

"Jadzia," Worf finally choked out. " I…parmach'kai…Jadzia…" The Trill at last found the strength to summon her voice. Tears trickled down her cheeks as she gasped,

"Worf…I love you so much! I love you! I'm so sorry! I love you!" With her waning energy she struggled to sit up and wrap her arms around his neck. He caught her and eased her back down onto the biobed as she whimpered in pain. Jadzia lay still and gazed languishingly at Worf. He bent over her, holding her gently in his arms. Neither of them heard Captain Sisko enter.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. Worf was being torn to pieces. If he could have ripped his own heart out of his chest and given it to her so she could keep on living, he would have done so on the spot. But all he could do was watch helplessly. She was his life, his inspiration, his reason for breathing. Damn it, why her? Why his Jadzia?

"Save your strength," he whispered back, hardly aware of what he was saying. He seemed to be watching from outside his own body, observing someone else live out this horrible moment. Jadzia's hand rose to caress the side of his face, something she had done countless times before.

Worf refused to believe that it was the last time he would ever feel that familiar gesture. He took her hand again and lightly kissed her fingers.

"Our baby would have been so beautiful," she breathed. Her eyelids fluttered closed. The hand Worf held suddenly became a weight. Jadzia no not my Jadzia you can't take her away she doesn't deserve to go please no Jadzia don't leave me please parmach'kai I love you too much! Worf's thoughts were a panicked, furious, grief-stricken jumble as he laid her limp hand gently down on her chest.

Then, stepping away from the biobed, he threw his head back and uttered a long howl that echoed in the small room. He took her hands when the reverberations had stopped and bending over her began to chant ancient words of guidance. No sooner had he began to speak than another voice cut into his thoughts.

"I don't see why you were so enamored with this woman." Worf's head jerked up. The Cardassian standing on the opposite side of the bed was regarding him with distaste. It had not been Sisko who'd come in after all, but the former prefect of Terok Nor. "Or rather I should say I don't know why she was so enamored with you."

"Dukat!" Worf spat viciously. The sight of his wife's murderer filled him with rage. He wanted nothing more than to wrap his hands around Dukat's neck, feel every bone in his throat snap like twigs. He took a step forward, assuming a fighting stance.

"You Klingons. Always so violent," Dukat observed. "Sometimes it's better to stop and think about what consequences your actions might have."

Worf's voice became low and dangerous. "You killed my wife."

The Cardassian shrugged.

"That's not my concern. She was in my way. I had a task to perform, and I did what needed to be done."

"You could have gone through with your treachery without murdering Jadzia!"

Dukat gave an unsettling, toothy grin and rasped, "You should at least be glad to know that she died for the most wonderful cause imaginable. The pagh' wraiths appreciate her sacrifice."

Snarling and cursing in Klingon, Worf leapt at Dukat. Just as his fingers brushed the Cardassian's throat.../

he jerked into a sitting position in bed, his hands still outstretched to throttle Dukat. Worf closed his eyes briefly and collected himself, then collapsed back onto the sweat- soaked sheets. The nightmares were becoming so vivid recently. Sometimes it was hard to distinguish what was real and what was a figment of his imagination.

Unable to go back to sleep, the Klingon lay there in the dark for what must have been at least another hour before deciding to go take a walk. Throwing on his uniform from the day before, not caring about the wrinkles at this time of night, he headed out of his quarters and down the corridor with no particular destination in mind. There was hardly anyone up and about this late.

He found himself on the top level of the Promenade, admiring the stars. Morn strolled by with a pretty Dabo girl hanging on his arm and giggling. A Romulan warbird cruised slowly past the window and nosed up to a docking clamp on a nearby pylon. The station always seemed tranquil at night, when everyone was either at home sleeping or occupied in Ops. The only noise came from Quark's, and Worf descended the metal staircase and entered the bar. The only patrons still there were two odiferous Caxtonian traders playing one of Quark's notorious gambling games and nursing tall glasses of Romulan Ale. The Ferengi proprietor looked up from the glasses he was polishing behind the bar.

"We're closing in a few minutes, Commander," he called. "Would you like a quick glass of bloodwine?"

"No," Worf declined. "Are the holosuites still open?"

"Always." Quark leaned forward and grinned a sharp, snaggletoothed grin. "Perhaps you'd like to try out one of my new programs. There's this amazing one with three Deltan dancing girls-."

"I want to see Vic," cut in Worf brusquely. Quark shrugged and gestured toward the upper level.

"Suit yourself." Turning his back on the obnoxious Ferengi, the Klingon went to and ascended the metal staircase to the holosuites. He touched the entry keypad to holosuite two and stepped inside when the doors parted with a quiet whoosh. Vic had his back to the door and was talking with a slender brunette. The woman wore a snug, low-cut red dress that exposed more than it concealed. A cigarette balanced in betweenher crimson lips. Ashes sprinkled to the floor when she took it in graceful fingers and tapped the end with one long painted nail. Worf was glad Vic was distracted. He didn't want his presence to be acknowledged, just to listen to a few songs to make up for the wasted holosuite trip earlier that evening.

The Klingon took a seat in the back of the casino, hiding in the shadows of the draperies on the wall. The lights dimmed suddenly, and Vic raised the brunette's hand to his lips and kissed it formally before making his way up onto the stage. The few people in the holosuite clapped when he appeared. Vic smiled and thanked them, then sang a few slow songs and a fast-paced melody that had the audience up on their feet and dancing. When that song ended and the crowd had calmed down, the singer spoke into the microphone as the saxophone player began to play a slow, smooth ballad.

"My last song of the evening is one of my favorites, even though it's a little sad. Although it's about losing someone you love, it also highlights the most wonderful parts of having someone special in your life. So ladies and gentlemen, right now reach out and take the hand of someone special to you."

Worf's heart clenched into a fist in his chest. He longed to feel Jadzia's cool fingers wrapped around his own. Right now he desperately missed her. The nights were long and cold without the supple dexterity of her body next to his. Something inside him told him to get up and leave, not to put himself through the torture of the song. But he stayed. And Vic sang,

Something in Worf stirred then. A powerful feeling that he should be doing something. But what? The song had brought back such strong memories of Jadzia and the way their love had been. It could have been telling the story of their lives together. A common misconception was that Klingons didn't experience emotional pain, that they always dealt with their problems by getting angry and fighting.

But in times like this it wasn't always possible to slice someone's head off with a bat'leth, so the pain had to stay locked away inside. Right now the stress was so bad it was almost unbearable. Vic didn't see Worf as he got up, fists clenched in what was both frustration and determination, and quietly left the holosuite.

The bedroom was dark, like Worf's thoughts. The slowly drifting stars outside the window did not calm him as they usually did. Instead they piqued his desire to be taking action. But as to what action he should be taking he had no idea. The black oblivion of space was filled with endless possibilities, some pleasant, some horrible.

If not for Jadzia's mistimed display of thanks, she would be sharing the pleasant ones with him. ("I do not wish to lose you, Jadzia.") But in the past few months the only thing either of them had experienced was trauma. Worf, as a Klingon, would have normally enjoyed wartime. General Martok's words proved true now, he saw. What good is a victory without someone to share it with? Honor does little good to a man alone in his home- and in his heart.

Prophetic words, spoken what seemed like years ago on their wedding day. Worf's gaze drifted to the wedding picture on the table beside the bed and froze there. Jadzia's smile was so familiar. So captivating. So enlightening. The Klingon's hands shot out and snatched the photo. Your honor will remain intact, parmach'kai, he thought, relieved that he at last understood. I will do what I have to do. Worf knew now.

It was finally time.

Time to handle the problem that had plagued him ever since Jadzia's beautiful sapphire eyes closed for the last time on that fateful day. It was all up to him.

He was going to kill Gul Dukat.

~The End~