The BLTS Archive - Human on My Faithless Arm by Brighid (earthstone@lycos.com) --- This is really barely even PG - the implications are there, but the kids would have to drag out a fine-tooth comb, and cable TV has pretty much taken care of the attention span required. . . These characters belong to Paramount, and I neither intend infringement, nor do I seek profit. I just so admire the beautiful depth and richness Stewart and De Lancie provided, and couldn't resist expanding upon it. The beauty of the two characters is that they are both towering intellects, and were they ever to come together, it must of course begin at a mental/spiritual level. I suppose this story is copyrighted to Brighid, 1997. The title is taken from a rather famous 20th century poet's work, the first verse of which is found at the end . . . ah, people with Lit. degrees and time on their hands. . . enjoy. --- Picard watched Deanna Troi leave his Ready Room and sighed. He had tried, really tried this time, to open up about his experiences at the hands of Gul Madred. She had listened, too, her dark, liquid eyes alive with sympathy as he had haltingly told her of Madred's tortures, both physical and psychological. As an empath she could sense the deep disturbance that lay uneasily at the core of his being, and she had gently probed with reflective questions, trying to push him to the place where he could meet, and even overcome that disturbance. But try as he might, he could not get the words out, or let the understanding in. Phrases, fragments of thought cleaved to the roof of his mouth, threatened to choke him even as he struggled to explain the violation the Cardassian had wrought. He had always been a reserved man; not passionless, but very guarded about his emotions, unwilling to share them wantonly. To some extent, it had meant cutting himself off from his own interior life, experiencing it only vicariously through music and literature. Now this reserve threatened to overwhelm him, like a breached warp core. He had not said there were five lights, he had not given in to Madred . . . But he had wanted to. And that terrified him. Again Picard sighed, and stretched out on the couch of his office. Will had the bridge, he was not required anywhere right this minute and so it seemed a good idea to lie here and search for the inner calm that had so far eluded him. He needed to find again the Jean-Luc Picard who could look upon tempests and not turn, the stalwart captain that his crew expected on the bridge. --- He sensed a subtle shifting in the room about him, and in himself. He opened his eyes to find himself back in the chair Madred had allowed him, a bank of lights bright and hot upon him, showing the silhouette of a Cardassian officer behind a desk. He swallowed down rising panic, and forced his frozen vocal cords to work. "What the hell is going on here?" he demanded, relieved that his voice sounded strong and sure despite the mounting terror that turned his guts to water. The Cardassian leaned forward so that his face was not obscured in the shadows, and Picard felt his mouth gape slightly. Beneath the greyed skin, the ornate ridges and scaling, the face was unmistakably Q's. "That, Mon Capitaine, is exactly what I was going to ask you," the Q/Cardassian replied, his mocking tone washing over Picard and setting the human's nervous system ablaze with an odd mixture of confusion and rage. "Q!" Picard ground out, rage gaining ascendancy over confusion. "Picard!" the other retorted, mimicking tone and expression almost exactly. "What is this all about, Q? Why am I here? What have you done to the Enterprise? If you've been interfering again, I swear I'll. . . " His words sputtered out as the Q's face turned cold and utterly expressionless. He had seen the alien scornful, wrathful, amused, tormented, and once, perhaps, even mournful . . . but he had never seen this complete absence of expression. He found it chilling. The Q/Cardassian rose up from behind the desk, and walked over to the now-silent Picard. Invisible hands raised the human up, held him immobile as the other approached. He watched in trembling fascination as Q produced a blade exactly as Madred had done, and cut away Picard's uniform. "I think," Q said pleasantly, "that you have forgotten yourself, human. In this situation, you do not ask, you are asked. You do not demand, you give." Long elegant fingers reached out, caressed the line of Picard's jaw, slid down the throat and over the chest until they reached the place where the Cardassian implant had been set. A overwhelming pain rippled along Picard's nerve endings, hurting him everywhere at once. It was to Madred's torture as a hurricane was to a summer breeze. Even as the red haze of agony receded, leaving him gasping and slick with perspiration, Q moved away from him. "Unlike Madred, I know there is no point in starting small with you. That is a mere taste of what you will get if you defy me, human." Picard nodded in dumb assent, watching as Q moved back to his position behind the desk, and lowered himself into the chair. He almost smiled at the sight of the omnipotent being leaning back in the chair and steepling his forefingers as he had done so many times before. With a visible shake of his head, he steeled himself for what was to come. "So, human," Q drawled lazily, expression once again hidden in the shadows. "Tell me how this makes you feel." For the second time that day, Picard felt his mouth gape. He had expected something else; a grim re-enactment, perhaps of the whole ghastly scenario with the deranged Gul or else another one of Q's "trials of humanity. This sudden foray into the realm of Picard's emotions was far more disturbing. It was not something he had ever anticipated, and so he was utterly unprepared for dealing with it. "I'm afraid I don't understand," he said at last, his voice rough and hesitant. He could sense, rather than see the smirk that curved Q's mouth. "That is hardly unsurprising with you, human. When have you ever understood?" The silhouette shifted, leaned in across the desk. "Let me phrase it so that your limited primate brain can grasp it: Describe for me how being stripped naked, hung up like an animal carcass, and interrogated makes you feel. The emotional response it generates. The psychological implications, the visceral reactions. Tell me how it feels." Q's fluid baritone throbbed through Picard, washed over him. There was a long pause then, where the silence became palpable and menacing. Picard's brain stuttered and stalled, trying to figure out the angles of what the alien being across from him wanted, yet was unable to make any sense of it all, beyond Q's usual love of pushing buttons. "Go to hell, Q. I'm not going to play your games, and titillate you with a private showing of my suffering." Pain, an increment higher than what Picard had experienced before, lanced through him. It lasted little more than a second, and yet if it were not for the invisible bonds which held him, he would have collapsed to the ground. "You just don't understand, do you, human? This is not a game at all. I am in deadly earnest. Tell me how this makes you feel." Picard lifted his head and glowered at the umbrous shape before him, but did not speak. He felt another set of invisible hands pummel him, moving methodically over his body and hitting him in places where the damage would be minimal, but the discomfort would linger. Still Picard kept his mouth shut, eyes sealed against the bright lights glaring down upon him. The beating continued on interminably, though the human captain did not speak. The occasional grunt escaped as a well-aimed blow hit its mark, but no words, protestations or pleas marred the otherwise still room. At last Q made a gesture, and the beating stopped. "You are foolish to be so stubborn, human. You cannot outlast me. Your small existence will wink out, and still I will have all eternity to sit and wait." He rose from the desk, and crossed over to where Picard hung. Again the graceful fingers reached out and stroked the human's jaw. "Perhaps a night to think, since sleep is most unlikely, eh?" The fingers moved away, and Q strode out of the room, leaving Picard alone with the searing lights, and the thoughts that burned through his brain. --- Some time later, Picard surfaced from a fitful doze to see Q sitting on the edge of the desk. The alien regarded him steadily, dark eyes unwavering. "Tell me how this makes you feel, human." Picard turned his head away, and closed his eyes again. The bodiless hands of the previous day resumed their systematic work. He did not flinch, he did not cry out. After a time he gratefully slipped into unconsciousness. --- Water stinging his face roused him from his stupor; his tongue darted out furtively, trying to gather some of the trickling moisture. The lights blurred before his vision, danced and wavered and changed configuration. Gul Madred's voice rang inside his head. "How many lights, human?" He fought to focus his gaze, and found Madred standing beside him. "How many lights, human?" Picard hesitated, squinting, before sighing. "There are four lights." A heavy fist snaked out, knocked his head back. Picard heard the crack of vertebrae sliding against one another, tasted the copper-salt flavour of blood. He straightened his head and turned his gaze back to Madred, who was regarding him with calm detachment. The Cardassian offered a small smile. "I believe, human, that there are five lights." The opinion was offered diffidently. Picard shook his head slowly, in the way of a stunned animal. So he was still here, then? Everything else had been delusion, the product of a mind and body pushed too far. . . "Not quite, Mon Capitaine, not quite," a familiar voice hissed in his ear. " You are here, and you are not here. This is what was, and what is. It is how I wish it to be." Picard tried to speak, but despite the trickle of water he had managed to swallow, his voice was ragged, scarcely more than the rasp of metal on metal. "Damn you, Q! What the hell do you want of me?" Madred leaned in to Picard, feigning concern. "Human, your wits are wandering. No wonder you perceive four lights when there are five. Come on, human. Tell me how many lights there are, and this ends. Food, water, rest. Tell me how many lights there are." The Cardassian's voice became a crooning sing-song, and Picard felt the familiar longing to comply. The lights blurred his vision so much, who could say for sure . . . "Tell me how this makes you feel, human." Q's voice thrummed against the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck, swirled around him like a mist. Picard felt himself stiffen, his jaw tighten. He would not give in, he would not submit. . . "You are being very stubborn, human!" Madred's voice mingled with Q's in a dreadful parody of patience. He felt the back of Madred's hand connect with his cheek, felt the bone shatter even as the invisible hands resumed their familiar pummeling. He began to thrash, hoarse cries torn from his aching throat. His lean body arched up and managed to knock into the Cardassian. An explosion of pain followed, radiating from the device in his chest to the farthest nerve-endings throughout his body. A small smile, despite the fractured cheek, curved Picard's mouth as he welcomed unconsciousness for the third time. The cycle repeated itself indefinitely. He awoke, was questioned, beaten, and continued to refuse to answer either Madred or Q. Eventually one or the other, and sometimes both, would push him over the edge into oblivion. He welcomed those scattered moments of dark respite, where no one could touch him, or force him to betray himself. Eventually, though, even unconsciousness failed him. Q and Madred moved into this nether-realm, their voices pulling at every fiber of his being, demanding answers he did not know how to give. Silence was no longer a sustainable defense, and so he began reciting literature, poetry, childhood songs in order to contain the answers he could not control, the words he had no ownership over. After a time even these deserted him, his mind too fractured to dredge up coherent thoughts or words. Weeping replaced the mindless recitation: endless mewling cries, barely audible with his ravaged voice. He could no longer distinguish between waking and dreaming. Reality became an improbable concept. Madred and Q and the bank of lights danced in and out of his sight, like characters in a Lewis Carroll story. He had no name. He was Human. Sometimes there were four lights, and sometimes five. Madred's voice grew shriller, more demanding, even as Q's gentled, became a balm that soothed his lacerated mind. At last, "Tell me how this makes you feel, Picard." He gasped, his name a lifeline of pure light, the only beacon in the sea of darkness he floundered in. He felt wrenching sobs convulse his exhausted frame. *Helpless* he thought, his swollen mouth unable to frame the word. * So damn helpless* Immediately he felt that shift again, saw the room coalesce about him into a dark-walled sitting room. While still exhausted, he realized that all his physical hurts were gone. He was also, he noticed, clothed in a long brocade dressing gown, and reclining on a well-appointed chaise-lounge. Q sat across from him, on what appeared to be a Chippendale chair. He had it turned around backwards, so that he straddled the seat, and rested his chin pensively upon the chair back. "Why, Jean-Luc, must you make everything so difficult?" the alien asked, perhaps a little sadly. Picard regarded Q quietly for a moment or two, his hazel gaze measuring Q's own glance. "Because that is who I am, Q," he answered at last. "Would you have me be any different?" The alien stood abruptly, knocking the chair over. "Yes . . . no. . . I don't know, Picard, I just don't know!" he exclaimed, pacing restlessly back and forth. He paused, standing over the reclining human. "You give up what you are so grudgingly! You would rather bleed to death than give in. It is so . . . frustrating!" Picard quirked his head. "It is who I am, Q," he repeated, not ungently. The alien crouched to his knees, tapped Picard's forehead with a graceful finger. "You are sealed away inside these little bone prisons, and have the arrogance to assume that they are inviolable, secure. You think because you are physically separate, that what others do to you should not be able to breach this weak fortification of yours." The tone was both derisive and wondering. "You would rather be broken, shattered into irrecoverable pieces, before admitting that another can get inside here, reprogram you. You would rather break than bend. That is your greatest weakness, you know, Johnny. You don't understand that the true power lies in bending, in acknowledging that there are forces that this," Q tapped the Picard's skull with reverent fingers, "cannot withstand. There is no shame in being helpless, Picard." "That didn't seem to be your view when you appeared naked and human on my bridge," Picard replied drily. A rueful smile quirked Q's full lips. "Too true, Johnny. But I had begun to understand it by the end of that unfortunate experience . . . that is what caused the Continuum to re-admit me. And I have gone on learning that lesson." Picard reached up, laid his own lean fingers against the hand that touched his temple. "And so you took it upon yourself to teach me this, Q? Why?" Q's dark eyes were utterly still upon his face. "I have no desire to see you break, Mon Capitaine. It was close with the Borg, y'know, but you held. This, however, went deeper. I saw cracks that you could not close, could not even acknowledge were there." The human leaned back on the chaise-lounge, and closed his eyes, but some part of him noted that Q retained his hand. "Why not let Counselor Troi find them with more orthodox methods, then?" He felt Q's uncertainty, and marveled at it. Why the hesitation? "She would not have been able to pull it out of you, Mon Capitaine," the alien said at last, his voice utterly serious. "She has not the power to push you past your own limits, to put you into the place where your little bone fortress ceases to be an obstacle." Picard cracked open an eye, and regarded Q, who had lowered his head and so missed the Captain's speculative gaze. "But why would you intervene at all, Q? I know you find me amusing, a challenge now and then . . . but to intervene in such primitive, primate matters. . . ?" At this Q raised his head, and the emotion that shimmered in the depths of his eyes moved through Picard like a pulsar wave. "I could not stand to see you broken, Mon Capitaine," he admitted at last, his voice a low throb. "Where would be the fun in life if there was no Jean-Luc Picard? Riker has his moments," the alien added flippantly, "but he's no Johnny!" Picard sat up, swung his legs to the floor. "So you'd miss your favourite play thing?" he probed gently. The look Q shot him should have been enough to sear flesh from bone, but the alien said nothing. This time Picard's hand reached up, and touched Q's temple. "How long, Q? For how long?" The alien stood suddenly, and resumed his pacing. "How many times, Picard," he said mockingly, "have I told you that time is not the point? That it is, in fact, irrelevant?" Picard nodded in agreement. "You're right, Q. It is irrelevant." Q stopped pacing, and turned to Picard. His face was a caricature of disbelief. "Did you just say that I was right, Picard? Perhaps I'd best send you back to your ship, Mon Capitaine, and have your little counselor peer between your ears for you!" The human laughed. "Right now, Q, I am quite happy where I am. I assume that you have moved us outside of time?" Q nodded dumbly, and Picard smiled at him. "Good. Then there is no need for me to hurry anywhere. Since you've forced me to acknowledge my own frailty, then you'll have to bear with me while I recover from it. And we need to talk," he said, gesturing Q to the chair he had earlier abandoned. Q, still quiet, resumed the chair. Picard paused a moment more before continuing. "If you didn't want me to 'break' as you put it, why let me go through that at all? We both know you could have pulled me out at any time . . . so why didn't you?" Q snorted, the unprecedented silence broken. "You would not thank me for that, Johnny. Despite what you've said about me – and really, you've been quite rude at times – I'm no fool. You are your experiences, and you would be furious if I changed your experiences to suit my own preferences." He lifted his eyebrows. "That would hardly be conducive to developing our friendship, would it?" Picard let the word 'friendship' pass. "You won't intercede in the actual event, then. How is this any different?" Q rolled his eyes in frustration, and spoke slowly, as if talking to a dim-witted child. "Stopping the event is entirely different than helping you come to terms with it." "Yes, yes it is," Picard agreed. Again Q's face assumed an expression of shock. "You're not agreeing with me twice in a row, are you, Johnny? Be careful, it might go to my head!" "Like there's any room up there," the human replied witheringly. A slow pause, as hazel eyes captured dark ones and held them. "Thank- you, Q. For a third time, you were right. That was what I needed. In many ways, over the years, you have tried to give me what you perceived me needing. I may not always have agreed, and often your methods left much to be desired . . . but thank-you, all the same." Again, the look like the heart of a warp-core. "You are very welcome, Jean- Luc." Brandy snifters appeared in each being's hand. "So what do we do now, Mon Capitaine? Discuss Shakespeare?" Picard reclined again on the chaise-lounge, and took a sip from the deep, bell-shaped glass. "Hmmm, if you wish Q." A single dark brow lifted, and he looked challengingly at the omnipotent, yet oddly evasive being sitting across from him. "How about the sonnets? " 'Let me not to the marriage of true minds. . . ' " his voice trailed off as he watched Q's eyes drift closed, the expression tremble and then tighten. "Something else, then, Q?" "There was a 20th century poet," Q replied gently, his eyes still closed. "I have found some of his writing inspiring. 'Lay your sleeping head, my love/ human on my faithless arm . . . ' " Now Q's voice trailed off, and his eyes opened to meet Picard's. "It has been a very long time, indeed, Johnny," he said at last. "Perhaps even forever." "Time is irrelevant," Picard answered, his voice low and rumbling. "Everything is now." "Bravo, Mon Capitaine!" Q applauded softly, with only the slightest edge of his usual scorn. "You begin to understand." The captain rose up from the chaise-lounge, and crossed over to where Q sat. "Yes, my dear Q, I think I finally do." --- The End --- From "Lullaby" by W.H. Auden Lay your sleeping head, my love, Human on my faithless arm; Time and fevers burn away Individual beauty from Thoughtful children, and the grave Proves the child ephemeral: But in my arms till break of day Let the living creature lie, Mortal, guilty, but to me The entirely beautiful. --- And doesn't that just sound like them? = ) Brighid