Epilogue

Pre-dawn. Awake even earlier than usual, Bashir came out of his tent to find Garak already waiting.

“Good morning, doctor. Here’s your raktajino.” He held out a steaming mug.

Bashir accepted it gratefully, still blinking sleep out of eyes that were gritty with weariness or sand — averaging two to three hours of sleep a night over the past few months was catching up even with him. Taking a sip of the raktajino, he sighed appreciatively at the hot, revitalizing drink. “Thank you, Garak. The replicators must be working pretty well this morning.”

“I’ve had opportunity to learn which of the stations are in the best working order — and what time of day they’re less likely to be overloaded. But come, doctor, don’t dawdle, or we’ll miss the festival.”

“All right. Good points.” Bashir quickly drank the rest of the raktajino while Garak waited with obviously growing impatience. He soon realized his friend was carrying something else. “What’s that?” he asked, squinting in the dim light.

The Cardassian held up a musty old cloak. “It occurred to me yesterday that you might want to ... conceal your human features and uniform. As you well know, not everyone here is pleased about the Federation presence.”

“I remember,” he answered ruefully.

Following Garak’s suggestion, Bashir pulled the cloak around his head and shoulders, and kept the hood low over his face as they trudged through the city. A few people were stirring in the very early morning, but not many.

“Where are we going?” he finally asked.

“A small memorial park in the Paldar sector, to the north,” Garak answered. “It used to be considered rather quaint, and as such, it was not frequented by the military or political elite, but for some of our ordinary citizens, it always retained a certain historical significance.”

Above them, the last of the few visible stars faded into the hazy light of dawn as they moved toward an open area that had been a memorial park, before the war. The center of the now mostly untended gardens was a steep hill surrounded by statutes of various historical figures. At some point in the previous century, the hill had been terraced on three sides, with several broad plazas united by steps of the same material. The fourth side had remained natural, grown over by native grasses and shrubs, and with a rare spring flowing from about halfway up the hill, down to a little pool at its base.

The plazas had been damaged in the final battle, and many of the statues were broken, but the park still retained a sense of serenity and permanence that was lacking in most of the city.

Approaching the hill with them were small groups, pairs, and solitary Cardassians, many of them bundled against the morning chill. Bashir pulled the cloak a little tighter, realizing he didn’t look out of place at all as they made their way carefully up the steps to the first terrace. In the wan light, with the broken stone paving, they had to watch where they put their feet. They also had to step around people who were beginning to settle themselves on the stone. From somewhere at the top of the hill, they could hear low, deep chimes and a steady thrum of some kind of hand-held drums.

Looking for the source of the music, Bashir didn’t realize Garak was stopping until he felt the pressure of the other man’s hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s sit here,” Garak whispered into his ear. “It’s beginning.”

He let the Cardassian pull him down, and sat cross-legged, making himself as comfortable as he could on the cold stone.

A heavyset Cardassian woman stood on the crest of the hill, not much more than a dark shape against the sky. As they watched, she moved around a lower shape, which began to glow. The music stopped; all conversation ended as well, and all attention focused on the woman.

“Our grief has weakened us, brought us into darkness,” the woman suddenly announced clearly into the silence. Bashir could see that the glow was a brazier of some kind, which the woman had lit. As she moved around the low fire, it gleamed on her face. “We come here at dawn to step out of the darkness. We shall let our grief fall away from us as the darkness fades. We open our hearts to joy, to life, to light.”

The glow suddenly leapt up in a burst of fire.

“In the burning light of day, our grief vanishes, seared into ash and gone with the night.” She held up her hand; Bashir could see she had a clenched fist. She moved quickly, flinging whatever she held into the flame. A sudden poof of bright orange reached skyward for a second, quickly fading, leaving only a few dying embers floating over the small crowd.

He had a sudden flashback to the station, to times he had watched Colonel Kira or one of the other officiators at the Bajoran gratitude festival. The words weren’t the same, but burning of griefs was the same motif. He wondered what substance the Cardassian woman had thrown in the fire, substituting for the Bajoran renewal scrolls.

He leaned toward Garak. “What—”

“Shhh. Watch.”

The woman had picked up a short pole. As they watched, she thrust the end of the pole into the brazier; it flared into brilliance.

“We leave our grief and weakness in the night, defying the darkness, and with the light of morning, find new strength.” She held the torch up and called loudly, “Summon the morning!”

Everyone around them stood up and began to shout. A few moments later, several more torches began to burn among the scattered crowd. Voices began to sing in a deep, repetitive chant.

To the east, the faint color brightened. A few moments later, the sun tipped over the horizon. The grayness in the sky finally dispelled and day arrived.

Someone in the crowd stood up, dropped a jacket, and began to dance, simple steps in a wide circle, arms flung open. Over the next few minutes, others began to dance as well, solitary and in groups, spreading across the massive steps.

Bashir felt a tug at his arm. He looked up to see Garak rising to his feet, and felt a second of panic — he had no idea what kind of dancing the Cardassians considered appropriate for this celebration, and if he dropped the cloak, they would see that he was human, and Starfleet. He doubted he would be welcome.

“But—” he hissed.

“Time to go, doctor,” Garak whispered, then continued more loudly. “We can’t stay, or we’ll be late to our day’s assignments.”

Bashir let the other man pull him to feet, and they began making their way down the terraces and back toward the Coranum Sector where the Federation relief camps had been set up.

“How long will the celebration go on?” he asked Garak when they were out of hearing range and alone. Glancing back, it looked like most of the crowd was staying, although a few were moving along as they were. Many of those remaining were on their feet, singing and dancing, and he could hear music playing again too.

“A few hours, perhaps until midday,” the Cardassian replied. “Although the celebration used to last a full day and night, according to our old texts. The last few centuries, it has only lasted from the rising of the sun to its highest point of the day.”

“You realize, the burning of one’s griefs and pasts, and the celebration of a new year with singing, dancing, and rituals, over the course of a single day and a night, sounds very like the Bajoran gratitude festival,” he remarked casually.

Garak studied him in apparent disbelief. “Are you suggesting our ancient celebration is derived from a Bajoran festival?”

“Well, it was only a few years ago that Captain Sisko proved Bajorans could have made the trip to Cardassia, right about the time that your own archaeologists discovered evidence of a Bajoran ship landing — and hasn’t there been some talk recently of one of the old Hebitian vaults having murals that are remarkably similar in style and theme to Bajoran artwork of a similar age?”

“My dear doctor,” Garak admonished, “don’t tell me you’re one of those people who are determined to ascribe all that is good in Cardassian culture to accretion from other beings!”

“Oh, far be it from me—!” Bashir assured him.

Garak smiled, looking satisfied.

Julian smiled too. He had the feeling that Garak would have admitted, privately, that there was a good chance there had been some Bajoran influence on his world, a long, long, time ago. But there were very few Cardassians that would acknowledge it publicly.

“So did you enjoy our little festival?”

“Yes,” he acknowledged. “It’s good to see part of your civilian culture, and to find out that your people actually dance and know how to enjoy themselves!”

“Oh, doctor, you would be surprised!”

“Do you dance?”

“I was appraised to be a most excellent dancer, in my youth. Socially, of course.”

Julian glanced back. There was still a little music in the air, but he could no longer see the hill or the people there. “So tell me, Garak, what did you really want me to see there?” he asked directly, expecting his Cardassian friend would sidestep the question in some way.

“I wanted you to see that there is still hope on this world.”

Bashir nearly tripped in astonishment. “What?”

“Because then, perhaps you can find it for yourself.”

“Garak, I.... What makes you think...?”

“I do not know what you are seeking on Cardassia, doctor. But I want you to find it. And I thought that if you saw that we could still have hope, even after what has happened here in these past years, then certainly you could find hope for yourself.”

For a second, Bashir just stared at him. Then a sudden gust of wind threw a swirl of dust in their faces. Coughing and blinking, the two men shielded their eyes and continued on.

“The winds are picking up,” he said, his attention diverted. “I’ll have to check with Lausten. I hope he’s having better luck with the environmental contaminants than we are with the plagues....”

“Indeed,” he heard Garak reply. “Defeating either one would be a great success. But I am sure it’s just a matter of time, Dr. Bashir. Perhaps when you least expect it. One of these days, your answers will come. To all of your questions and mysteries. I have faith in you.”

The doctor stared into the wind, the grit stinging his eyes. He wished he felt as certain.

The End