#hebetian

[bijoumikhawal]

Hebitian Language: terms for family

(Disclaimer: I'm not good at conlangs, so this is more vocabulary than anything else)

Let's look at three Hebitian languages here! The majority langusges of the Alåsh, the Thav, and the Qåmtsu. The Alåsh are from the somewhat isolated Valley of the Hebitians, the Thav from the similarly isolated northern regions of the Helta Highlands, and the Qåmtsu from the delta and hills near Lakarian City and Central City. The Alåsh and Thav are interesting because they're traditionally considered "conservative" cultures, having less cultural exchanges with other groups and the Thav being prideful in this regard, and the Qåmtsu having had good and bad relations with Cardassians for a long time. The Alåsh had relations with the Anìjb’èawa /ˈanɪʄˈɓɛɔa/, who lived on the coast north of the Valley, as well as the minor Hebitian groups in the delta north of the Valley and their neighbors. Their language is thought to be the "oldest", or closest to any idea of proto-Hebitian, which has lead to faulty academic study.

As a general rule, Hebitians family terms are broader than Cardassian terms, which are more specific. The word for grandmother and mother are the same, and aunts may be called the same word as well. The most accurate definitions are:

Older female relative - Alåsh: Adzi̊ /aʣɨ/, Thav: Assai̊ /assaɨ/, Qåmtsu: Atzú /aʦy/.

Older male relative - Alåsh: Datsa /'daʦa/, Thav: Dassa /ˈdassa/, Qåmtsu: Dai̊ss /'dɑɨss/.

Older Relative - Alåsh: Påhmú /ˈʙɑhmy/, Qåmtsu: Vahm̂m̂ad /ⱱahɱɱad/.

Older female relatives not directly related to you (i.e. not your parents or their parents) - the Qåmtsu have a word for this concept, but the Alåsh do not. For the Qåmtsu this is shoad /ʃoad/. The Thav typically do not refer to female relatives this way, possibly because their bias is in favor of women. If they do, the Qåmtsu word is borrowed in.

Older male relatives not directly related to you (i.e. not your parents or their parents) - the Thav and the Qåmtsu have a word for this concept, but the Alåsh do not. For the Thav this is shop /ʃoʙ/, and the Qåmtsu, shov /ʃoⱱ/. This was borrowed from the Qåmtsu by the Åv first, who passed it north.

Older relative not directly related to you - only a feature in Qåmtsu, the Thav historically being uncomfortable with gender variance. Pumyad /ˈʙumjad/.

Fem. Relative of the same generation (i.e. siblings, spouses, cousins) - Alåsh: Mai̊dú /maɨdy/, Thav: Måpåp /mɑʙɑʙ/, Qåmtsu: Mavi̊ad /maⱱɨad/.

M. Relative of the same generation - Alåsh: fúi̊ /fyɨ/, Thav: ifúla /ɵˈfyɫa/, Qåmtsu: i̊úyi̊ /ɨyjɨ/

N. Relative of the same generation - Alåsh: dåĝú /dɑɣy/, Qåmtsu: doåyi̊å /doˈɑjɨɑ/

Spouse, partner, lover- sometimes used in conjunction with the previous 3 terms also being used. In Thav, this is related to the word for ink, tús /tys/, with a feminine or masculine affix as appropriate. In Alåsh and Qåmtsu this is related to the word for braided cord, and is a neuter gendered word. Alåsh: huri /huʀɵ /, Thav: Yatús /jatys/, Qåmtsu: gůlti /ˈgʌɫtɨ/

Fem. Relative of a younger generation - Alåsh: åmo /ɑmo/, Thav: om̂oj /oɱoy/, Qåmtsu: åmmush /ɑmmuʃ/

M. Relative of a younger generation - Alåsh: khi̊ng /χɨŋ/, Thav: qi̊q /qɨq/, Qåmtsu: khi̊q /χɨq/

N. Relative of a younger generation - Alåsh: i̊vyå /ɨvjɑ/, Qåmtsu: i̊úy /ɨyj/

Your daughter- only a feature in Thav. Other Hebitian languages would use the appropriate possessive paired with the appropriate word for a relative of a younger generation. (Many Hebitian languages have a word meaning "my (belonging to an individual)" and a different word meaning "my (belonging to a group the speaker belongs to, such as a family, village, city, etc). Dzův /ʣʌv/

Your son- see above. Shmo /ʃmo/ 

Relative more than two generations removed from you (great grandparents and on), ancestor- Alåsh: umi̊yång /ˈumɨjɑŋ/, Thav: omi̊yån /omɨjɑn/, Qåmtsu: um̂m̂uyång/'uɱɱujɑŋ/.

These are not the only terms for family or other persons in society.

Hag, Auntie, old woman, nursemaid, midwife- thanks to Cardassian records, this word is often translated as hag, which does match to how it's used when said derogatorily, but in intention is more often used as a somewhat affectionate title for an older woman who is not necessarily related to you. Laad /ɫaad/ in Qåmtsu, Loådú /ɫoɑdy/ in Alåsh, Låp /ɫɑʙ/ in Thav.

The above has been very incorrectly translated as wet nurse in Vulcan studies of Hebitian culture in an attempt to convey the idea of a particular relationship between adults who share in parenting a child without adopting them, being closely related to one of the parents, or marriage to one of the child's parents, known in Hebitian as håmdafi̊ /hɑmˈdafɨ/. Nursemaid is an alternative to this, but wrongly implies this relationship is always transactional- traditionally, this is an intimate relationship, almost like a godparent. That translation is rarely used in the Federation and carries incorrect connotations. It could be somewhat transactional, such as in Hebitian aristocratic families, but this relationship always conferred kinship rights and expectations onto the "outside" party being brought in, not just between them and the child, but the rest of the family too. A newer translation is "nest warmer", as one of the duties in early child care is keeping the infant close to you near constantly until their thermoregulation develops fully, and even after this many children find cosleeping and extensive body contact comforting. This term is still not without controversy: Hebitians on Vulcan have criticized it as likening them to animals, bluntly pointing out they sleep in beds, not nests. The Hebitian preference- among those who speak on it publicly- is to leave the word untranslated with an explanation, with discussion of similar relationships, but to not try to replace the word with words describing those relationships.

Cardassians have a similar concept, but the relationship is entirely between the adult and the child they care for, typically a partnered couple, and less commonly a single woman, and even less commonly, a single man. By contrast, no particular tendency of this sort was implied in many Hebitian permutations of this practice.

Guy, Uncle, "male auntie", old man, nanny- see above, though the derogatory translation was "male auntie" in Cardassian because of different perceptions regarding gender (Cardassians still putting high value on there being a hard distinction). Lodi̊ng /ˈɫodɨŋ/ in Alåsh, Mi̊or /mɨoʀ/ in Thav, Lov /ɫoⱱ/ in Qåmtsu.

Guy, older person- neuter of former two terms. These three terms are usually used by the children to refer to the adult in the case of the nursemaid/godparent/etc relationship. Adults in that relationship may use these terms for the other person, or may use "relative of the same generation" + an affectionate suffix, much like one might for a spouse. Suffice to say, it's a relationship not neatly described as platonic, romantic, or anything else. Lasi̊m /ˈɫasɨm/ in Alåsh, Låtzi̊ú /ɫɑʦɨy/ in Qåmtsu.

Unserious partner, person you're having sex with, the partner you have before you're really mature: adzu /aʣu/ in Alåsh, madzol /maʣoɫ/ in Thav, atzúa /aʦya/ in Qåmtsu.

[lorenzobane]

Forever in a Private Library! Or a later chapter of The Family Next Door :)

This one is still pretty conceptual since it is, unfortunately, the one I started last, so I haven't done as much as I wish I had with it but basically it is about the non-linearity of love.

It's going to be a five chapter fic:

Chapter 1: The first half of a lost Hebetian myth

Chapter 2: A series of letters from Iloja of Prim to Tolan Dax while he lived on Trill discussing the myth

Chapter 3: A lunch discussion between Julian and Garak about Dax and Iloja's letters

Chapter 4: Julian's eulogy for Garak

Chapter 5: The second half of the lost myth

I'm pretty excited for when I finally get around to it because I think it'll be a ton of fun to write

[lovehebe330]

undefined

Hebe Tien: *Winks*

[zombified-queer]

Anyway if y’all need me I’m gonna go offline for a bit to work.

[sabraeal]

He Who Studies Evil [Part 2/4]

Part 1

A prequel to Wanting Is More Pleasurable Than Having (And Other Things Vulcans Don’t Know a Damned Thing About), written for @bubblesthemonsterartist 

There are pleasantries to observe when the runabout docks. Haruka hardly expects them from a group of war-mongering mine managers, but when he steps through the airlock, ensigns flanking him to either side, he’s pleasantly surprised to find a greeting party.

“Welcome,” their leader says, the tallest among them, though none of the Cardassians are what he would consider small. Perhaps not as broad and muscled as he would expect, but then again, alien biology holds a cornucopia of oddities. One only underestimated a Vulcan once before believing in their superior muscle density. “You are invited to meet with Gul Dukat presently.”

Gul Dukat, the prefect of Bajor. A man much maligned by the planet’s population, as far as he can tell, though he doubts the Bajorans would welcome even the most benevolent overlord if he were Cardassian.

He is also the man brokering this peace. The representative Cardassia wished to pit him against.

Already they are trying to throw him off his guard, but no one makes captain without a degree in quick-thinking. “Thank you for the warm welcome. We are honored by the prefect’s invitation and will join him after we--”

“There’s no need,” the ranking Cardassian tells him. “Your effects will be brought to your quarters, and you will go to Gul Dukat. Follow me. You do not wish to keep him waiting.”

Haruka hesitates. The Federation wants this treaty, yes, but allowing himself to be summoned as a supplicant to this Gul Dukat would set himself at a disadvantage, would make this so-called prefect believe that he held all the power in this exchange. A dangerous place to be, when the only thing separating him from an unfortunate mining-related accident was two junior crewman.

“He means that,” Ensign Shidnote mutters, jostling his shoulder in a way that could be easily be an accident, two men in too-close quarters -- except for the way the boy is so careful not to look at him, to pitch his voice low. “Punctuality is a religion to these people.”

He stares, and not for the first time, wonders exactly how that ensign got that scar across his nose.

“Sir,” he adds belatedly, an afterthought.

“I thought the Union didn’t allow religion,” Haruka manages, still rooted to the spot.

“Well.” Shidnote shrugs, sauntering off the docking platform. “Had to replace it with something, I guess.”

It is said Cardassia used to be covered in old Hebetian vaults, a marvel of sweeping architecture, the cradle of humanoid life. But those ruins are all but gone now, instead replaced with the style enthusiastically purveyed by the Union -- tall, imposing buildings; architecture meant to intimidate rather than inspire. Unless, of course, one wished to inspire fear, in which case, the Cardassians had gotten that down to an art.

Terok Nor was a microcosm of that fear, of that oppressive sensation of being watched. Their escort led them across what he brusquely introduced as the promenade, an open area where it seemed brisk trade was conducted, and both the Bajoran workers and their Cardassian overlords could relax for a spell, though never in the same place. Even here, Haruka could not shake the feeling of a hundred eyes on his back, not until he followed the soaring spikes of the pylons upward, up to where the higher level loomed, every banister lined with armor-clad Cardassians.

“It’s a trick,” Shidnote tells him, voice pitched low, so no one but him and Sui can hear. “Meant to make you feel observed. They think it cuts down on the peons getting uppity.”

“And do they?” Haruka asks, trying not to show how much this display unnerves him. “Get uppity, I mean?”

“No.” His mouth curves, bemused. “At least not where the Cardassians can see.”

They meet in a board room, a level field compared to the experience on the promenade, but Gul Dukat is an intimidating presence nonetheless. All Cardassians were broad in the shoulders -- or at least wore armor to make it so -- but the spiny ridges down his neck make him seem even more forbidding than the rest, and the bone at his brow protrudes so starkly that his eyes seem deep-set, more skull than man.

What’s more, every move the man makes says he’s aware of it, that he enjoys the discomfort his presence brings to his guests. Even the other Cardassians are deferential, flinching when his gaze flits over him. This is how the prefect keeps control of this station, even with tension bursting at its seams; he relies on this overbearing mien to get his work done, to keep both the Bajorans and his people in line.

And thus when he smiles, teeth bared in the human way, Haruka knows he has found a formidable opponent.

“Ambassador!” The man sweeps his hand out over the table, laden heavily with food. Haruka has eaten any number of foreign cuisines, but these dishes -- they must all be from this sector from how little he recognizes them. “I hope we have made you feel welcome to Terok Nor! A home away from home, I think you say on Earth.”

“Just so.” The words come out stiffer than they ought; for all that the Cardassians needed this treaty, Haruka could not help but think, as he surveyed the steaming stews and flaky pies and whole roasts of meat he could not account for, that it would be all too easy for a human to eat poison and never even know it.

“Here, let us start with a toast.” The prefect pours a pale blue liquor into fluted glasses, smile still firmly in place. “To our most important duty. May we each serve the State as we ought.”

His own smile pulls tight, but Haruka drinks the wine down. It’s both smoother and sweeter than he expects.

“That’s not kanar,” Shidnote remarks, blinking at the glass. Haruka stares at him, eyes wide.

It’s unfortunate his attention was not the only one the ensign had caught.

“Correct. A fine vintage though, is it not?” Gul Dukat asks, turning the question back to him. Still, Haruka can feel that he captures only half the prefect’s interest, the other firmly on Shidnote. “Springwine, from Bajor. Made from kava juice. I must admit, I have quite a penchant for it.”

“Really.” He keeps his tone even, hand steady. From what they’d heard from Bajor, Gul Dukat is responsible for countless atrocities, but here he is, admitting a weakness for their wine. “I had not expected to hear a Cardassian praise Bajor.”

The man’s smile grows even wider, and Haruka trusts him even less. “The Union would not waste resources bringing Bajor into the modern age if there were nothing of value.”

Shidnote’s mouth pulls tight, but he stays silent. To his other side, Sui looks like he might faint from the very insinuation one might violate the Prime Directive.

“I had been of the impression that its value was to be found in the uridium ore mined from the planet’s surface,” Haruka ventures, keeping his tone conversational, light. He has no intention of provoking the prefect, but he wouldn’t suffer the whitewashing of the occupation right in front of him. “Not it’s culture.”

Dukat’s smile takes on more teeth, not in threat, but in delight. “Can it not be both?”

He makes to serve himself, and the ensigns follow their host’s invitation. Sui delicately arranges his plate with things that look vaguely familiar, while Shidnote digs in with aplomb, serving himself heaping portions of everything at the table. Ah, to be a young man again.

Haruka is more reserved in his appreciation of the spread, taking from the same plates Shidnote does at half the volume. Dukat watches them with unfeigned pleasure as they each take their first bites into Cardassian cuisine. Or at least, his and Sui’s; Shidnote has barely stopped to say more than, “It’s been forever since I’ve had Tuli!” before tipping a half dozen tiny fish onto his plate.

“Careful,” Dukat warns, as Shidnote reaches to take a spoonful of what looked to be souffle. “The station’s replicators make the hasperat especially spicy.”

The ensign’s face falls flat, blank. “You have Bajoran food too?”

“Of course,” he drawls, “I consider myself a connoisseur of the planet’s delicacies. Little...diamonds in the rough, as you humans say. There’s much to admire, if one dedicates themselves to discovery.”

Listening to this man speak sets Haruka’s teeth on edge as much as a dentist’s drill. “I wasn’t aware the Union allowed the admiration of those outside of it.”

Gul Dukat pauses, hands frozen in the act of cutting his pie. Kain would kill him for making such a bald remark, for veering far too close to the sun, but --

But one does not get things done with men like Gul Dukat by playing their game. He’s ceded too much ground, allowing himself to be summoned straight from the docking bay. It’s time to let the prefect know that the Federation will not just lie down in this negotiation.

Dukat blinks, lets out a laugh. “I had not thought a man from the Federation would be so versed in the statutes if the State.”

“I took up some light reading before coming here,” Haruka explains. “A friend recommended one of your classics. The Never Ending Sacrifice.”

“Ah, yes! An excellent example of Cardassia’s literature!” Again, his enthusiasm is unfeigned. “The repetitive epic is our highest form of art.”

The Hebetians must weep for what was lost, if that passed for high art. “It is quite...illuminating. I was surprised to see how highly the family as a unit is regarded among your people. I had always thought your duty was foremost to the State.”

It is an impertinent observation, and if he was at a Romulan table it would have ended in death for one of the men here, but Gul Dukat only continues to smile, unfazed.

“Ah, it is an older piece of work, though its themes have translated well into a more modern age. And besides, is not a strong family that is best for the State?” Dukat proposes, warming to the topic. Of course Haruto would be right in this -- the Cardassians did view a meal as a venue for philosophical debate. “Our children are our future, and our elders mark the path.”

Haruka nods, and his heart pounds in his chest as he decides his answer. “That had been my thought as well. However...”

Gul Dukat leans forward, intrigued. “However...?”

“I heard a rumor,” he confides, “and I’m afraid it made me doubt what I thought I understood.”

The prefect stiffens, smile wrapped tight around his face. “A rumor?”

“Oh, yes.” Sui is still beside him, eyes wide and mouth opened, but Shidnote is blank-faced, watching the exchange with little more than cursory interest. “I heard that you were keeping a prisoner aboard this station.”

“A prisoner? Here?” Gul Dukat laughs as if the very thought were preposterous. “I must admit, my constable is very good at apprehending men and putting them in the brig, but those are dissidents and drunks. Minor crimes, no more than a night in a cell.”

“I didn’t mean a member of this station,” Haruka presses, keeping his tone guileless, almost helpful. “Rumor put it as a Federation prisoner.”

“You cannot believe that,” the prefect says, hardly blinking. “I’m sure there are ships that have taken their adversaries, but Terok Nor is a refinery, not a place for the Union to keep political prisoners.”

Haruka lifts an eyebrow. “Even though it is so close to Bajor?”

“You did say Federation prisoners,” Dukat manages though his clenched teeth, “did you not? As far as i know, there are no...Federation actors on the surface of Bajor. Though I believe we are allowed our...prisoners of war, as you say.”

Haruka lets the lie settle between them. Perhaps there was no official Federation presence on the planet, but hardly a news cycle went by without more reports of losses from those who went to aid the rebels.

“Our articles do allow such things, yes,” he allows, “but I was told this wasn’t an acting member but instead...a child.”

“A child.” Haruka has known sheer cliff faces less forbidding than the tone Gul Dukat takes now. “Preposterous. The Union would never do such a thing.”

“Of course not,” he agrees. “I am only relaying the rumor that has been circulating among the high-ups of the Federation. As a courtesy.”

“Yes. Thank you,” the prefect grits out. “It is most...gratifying to find out what sort of...pernicious propaganda has been spread about my people. You do not believe it, I hope?”

“How could I, if you deny it?” He offers Dukat a thin smile, one that says quite clearly that he has noticed how the Gul has done no such thing.

“Good.” The man must be agitated, to not see through him, even now. “After all, you know how much we revere children.”

“Oh yes,” Haruka agrees. “Cardassian children, at least.”

Haruka had thought he’d known bad mattresses -- after all, it wasn’t as if Federation-issue sleeping bags did much in the way of muting rocks at one’s back -- but it takes only a moment laying on his bed to realize that Cardassians had only mastered the art of torture because they first slept on bed like these.

“Computer.” The room buzzes with silence, and he remembers -- this isn’t the Wistal. There is no computer keyed to talk to him here.

He huffs, swinging his legs off the bed. There’s no other way to do this than the old-fashioned way, then.

His PADD comes easily to hand, and it’s easier still to call up Ensign Shidnote’s service record, far longer than a man his rank should have. He scrolls through all the beginning matter -- born to a freighter family, recruited on mission, other details that seem more and more bog standard now that there’s humans spread all over the alpha quadrant and beyond -- but his eyes catch on the first posting: USS Fortissia under Captain Lido, stationed under Admiral Bergatt and the USS Wilant. Admiral Bergatt, who has been fighting the good fight against the Cardassians for the past half decade.

The would explain a thing or two, save that he should have had no need to contact Bajor --

Something niggles just at the back of his mind. Lido, Lido. He had heard that name before, years ago, and it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

It takes only a quick search, and there it is: Captain Amos Lido, with a dozen postings over his illustrious career, the last being the Fortissia at the Cardassian border. Well on his way to Admiral, it seemed, until the mutiny against Starfleet, and his flight into Bajoran space. He’d nearly made it a year working with the resistance, but he’d fallen in with the Kohn-Ma and gotten himself back on the Federation’s radar.

He, like many of his Kohn-Ma compatriots, chose death over capture. His crew had been given the option to return to the fold, so long as they had not worked with the separatist splinter cell. Zakura Shidnote had been one of them.

Haruka dropped to his bed with a groan. Here he was, meant to make peace with the Cardassian prefect, and he’d gone and brought a resistance fighter on board. Potentially even a terrorist.

He reaches for his PADD again, and calls up Shidnote’s file. He flicks past the neatly scrubbed service record, only stopping when he get to the end, when he gets to his assignment to the Wistal, and right there, clear as day, the name on his recommendation --

The tablet drops from his hands, and Haruka scrubs a hand over his face. He should have know, he should have known.

Special recommendation from the Federation, signed by Haruto Wisteria.

[annawanderer]

你太猖狂Missing you..... #misshimlikecrazy #26032017 #hebetian #田馥甄 ＃你太猖狂 #missingyou #earlymorning #wishhimwerehere

[tangxiaolin]

Omg! Love Hebe! Watching her concert on T. V. but the excitement seems as tho I am there! Definitely going to her concert one day! She's amazing!!! #HebeTian #田馥甄 #如果演唱會 #IfConcert

[adventuresofgarashir]

"My dear Doctor, have you any idea what we've found here, what this means?"

"Yes Garak, this is quite incredible. This state is quite old. "

"This is no mere statue, this is an ancient Hebetian god! None were thought to remain. "

(Sorry for the particularly unfunny quote and lack of posts. I'm mid move and sick!)

[agrippaspoleto]

Coming alive

A small Garashir ditty set after Garak’s incarceration after Broken Link. Angsty talks about Garak���s crimes and Julian’s self resentments. Rating: General.

Read on AO3.

Garak was in his shop, rearranging the mannequins. It normally was a nice change to his routine but today it felt tedious. He had been out of the holding cell for two weeks now and adjusting to civilian life again was difficult to say the least. And doctor Bashir had offered but an excuse every time he had asked for lunch.

The six months in the holding cell had gotten to him more than he cared to admit. Especially since his best friend on the station had been very angry with him for most of his incarceration time. While Garak wouldn’t change his actions, he couldn’t blame his dear friend for his anger. But how do you make amends for doing what you believed was right?

He was pulling at the jacket he was changing with more force than necessary.

“Do I want to know what the jacket has done to you?”

Garak froze. The teasing lilt of the doctor’s voice had not only caught him by surprise but was also not welcome. He exhaled carefully one time and then turned around, customer service smile perfectly in place.

“My dear doctor! What can I do for you?”

Garak winced inwardly. That cheerful demeanour sounded more like a horde of Bajorans celebrating the Emissary's birthday than the suave tailor he had been portraying for years.

Doctor Bashir looked dejected and nervous. Nothing like his usual self, actually.

“I deserve that.”

Garak raised his left eyeridge.

“Whatever you mean?”

His voice was still dribbling sweetness, his smile never waivering.

“This cheerful facsimile of yourself, so far from who – I’m still hoping – you wish to be.”

Bashir dragged his hand over his face.

“I’m sorry. I was so caught up in my anger and hurt that I was ready to sacrifice our friendship. You needed me and I let you down.”

Garak sighed.

“You don’t need to apologise, doctor. I made a decision and now I have to live with the consequences of my actions.”

His mouth curled into a humourless smile.

“I did try to kill you after all.”

Julian growled.

“That is not the issue here, Garak, and you know it. You were ready to kill an entire race!”

While the outburst wasn’t surprising, it startled the Cardassian.

“Why aren’t you enraged by the fact that I was ready to sacrifice you?”

“My life is not important in our discussion! It doesn’t change the fact that you wanted to commit genocide! To avenge a man who has done nothing but using you!”

Garak felt as if the doctor had slapped him. While there was a part of him that felt the urge to avenge Tain, he would’ve never sacrificed Julian just for that man. By all the dead Hebetian gods, when had that happened? Of course he couldn’t confess to that but a lie didn’t do. So half the truth and half the lie.

“I did it that no other Cardassian would have to face the war we have now!”

“Damn it, Garak! Do you think I don’t know that?”

Julian let himself fall on one of the chairs, his face hidden in his hands

“I know, why you did it! And I can understand it. And sometimes when I look at the casualty reports I wish you had succeded. It makes me feel like a monster.”

A shudder went through the doctors lithe body. Garak suspected Julian’s secret was the culprit of these feelings. He hadn’t found out the exact nature of the enigma the doctor had been hiding but he knew it scared his friend. Something or somebody made the good doctor feel worthless even monstrous when he was anything but.

Tentatively he touched the doctor’s hands and pulled them from his face.

“Doctor, look at me. I know monsters, I have met some and I’m sure, there are people out there who have every right to call me a monster.”

He paused for a moment, holding the doctor’s gaze.

“But you, my dear friend are no monster. You may be naive or arrogant sometimes, but never cruel and you’ve never ever enjoyed hurting somebody.”

Julian looked at him with his big hazel eyes, unbelieving. Another half truth then.

“You are the beating heart of this station”. You are for me.

Julian stared at him. His eyes were wide and glistening with… Hope? Garak’s heart sped up, his neck ridges flaring with heat.

“I don’t really believe you, but for once it has nothing to do with your ability to lie and everything with my capacity to hate myself. Still, your words mean a lot to me.”

Garak shook his head.

“My dear doctor, I sometimes wish you could see yourself as I… as we see you. Maybe you wouldn’t aim so much disgust at yourself...”

Bashir smiled. There still was a self-deprecating quality to the lilt of his lips. But the doctor’s eyes cast a soft adoring look, for once unabashed in their affection. Garak felt himself getting lost in the hazel eyes and it became increasingly difficult to remember why he should resist this beautiful creature. The Cardassian tried to pull himself away from the doctor’s gaze only to be mesmerised by his lips. How could he have ever thought that he would be able to sacrifice Julian?

“Do you hate yourself so much, that you don’t care that I would’ve killed you?“

The truth just slipped out. Garak barely managed to stop his hand from flying to his mouth as if to block more words from coming out of his traitorous lips. He had been ready to be a true Cardassian, to sacrifice one of the few persons he deeply cared for on this miserable station. The relief he had felt when he realised that the doctor was still alive, had made him realise that he was becoming Garak in a way he had never thought possible. Regnar, the part of him that was foremost Tain’s creature, was withering. And he was fine with that, surprisingly.

“Garak?”

The doctor stared at him with wide eyes, obviously surprised by his outburst.

“I’m only one person. In the light of the millions that would’ve died, my life doesn’t matter...”

“It matters to me!”

Garak’s voice boomed through the shop. Both of them stared at each other, stunned into silence. For once the Cardassian wasn’t able to school his terrified features into a neutral expression.

“I just had six months to contemplate what I would’ve done if I had succeeded in killing you. I don’t know what I would’ve done...”

“Garak.”

The doctor’s voice was soft and very close. Garak wanted to take a step back but at the same time he was incapable to. The kiss when it came wasn’t surprising and Garak relished in it. At some point they both pulled away a little.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry...” Garak couldn’t stop saying it. He wasn’t sure to whom he was apologising.

Julian wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close.

“How can you even stand touching me?”

One of the doctor’s hands cupped his cheek.

“Because I see your struggle, your pain. And I believe that you’ve changed more than you wanted and probably expected to. Because I won’t let Tain win.”

“We’ll need to talk about this. It’s not a good idea.”

Julian pecked his lips again.

“Most brilliant things aren’t. How about dinner? My replicator’s treat.”

Garak stared at him. It felt as if the world was about to shift and for once his fate lay in his own hands. The doctor was caressing his facial ridges and Garak grasped his friends wrists. But instead of wrenching the hands from his face as Regnar would have done, he gently stroked the sensitive skin there in a sign of trust.

“Alright. But I’ll bring the drinks. You can’t trust Terrans when it comes to spirits.”

Julian beamed and stole another short but intense kiss. Then he pulled away.

“I’ll see you in six hours, then.”

With that the doctor disappeared into the Promenade leaving Garak bewildered but with a soft smile on his face. Yes, it was time to put Regnar to rest. He was his own creature now. Just as Tolan had always hoped.

[bijoumikhawal]

Hebitian Burial Customs & Afterlife beliefs

One of the only pieces of Alpha canon information we get about Hebitians is that they had tombs full of elaborate grave goods, particularly of the material Jevonite (which seems to be a purple and amber colored stone).

Like before, let's compare the Thav, Alåsh, and Qåmtsu. For a refresher on why these three are of interest in general: The Alåsh are from the somewhat isolated Valley of the Hebitians, the Thav from the similarly isolated northern regions of the Helta Highlands, and the Qåmtsu from the delta and hills near Lakarian City and Central City. The Alåsh and Thav are interesting because they're traditionally considered "conservative" cultures, having less cultural exchanges with other groups and the Thav being prideful in this regard, and the Qåmtsu having had good and bad relations with Cardassians for a long time. The Alåsh had relations with the Anìjb’èawa, who lived on the coast north of the Valley, as well as the minor Hebitian groups in the delta north of the Valley and their neighbors.

Overall the Hebitians often had communal tombs, in contrast to the normative Cardassian practice of interring only families together, or the image that might be conjured by the public perception of them as individual palaces. Tombs were near always underground; the Orallian goddess of the earth (in accordance with the base tri element system of earth, water, and air), Khal, oversaw life and deaths of a large scale, and was therefore a more suitable protector for tombs than Dzådta, the water god, who also had an association with life and death on the more individual level.

Many Hebitian communities buried work animals and pets with similar care as was afforded to people. Most common were birds, as they were not only common pets and livestock animals, but considered a class of sacred animal. The specifics varied by specific communities. Other common animals were riding hounds, lemurs, and wompats. Overall they were interred either alongside Hebitians or in dedicated tombs for animals. Hounds were associated with the life-death duality associated with Khal and Dzådta, and were the first interred in some tombs.

Most Hebitians make offerings to the dead, and during a yearly festival (on Cardassia Prime, this is loosely equivalent to 39 years), communities gather to honor all their dead, including the dead who have no one to remember them or make offerings. This is a very joyous festival, celebrating life, and wishing well upon the dead.

Hebitians were known, among many things, for their metal work, particularly their decorative swords. This was mostly a female occupation. When a metal worker dies, it is imperative they grant the blessing for the items they altered to still be used. If this blessing is not given it is considered bad luck, and there were burials of metalworkers where items they created were interred with them. Often these metal workers died violently, so the presumption is a blessing was not able to be given.

Orallian religion, the most popular religion in Hebitian society, believed in a multipart soul. I've written about this before; I'll link what I had in the comments, and gussy it up when I formally post this all on ao3. The Hebitians believed in a layered reality; the soul is layered as well. Of the most pressing, the Nexus is one layer, and one part can be found within there; the image and breath are physical/mortal, and the breath reincarnates; the group soul, which essentially everything has and can connect to, even the dead; the intellect, which enters a type of afterlife. The details of the afterlife are intentionally obscured, but what is known to lay persons is that it's a type of continuation of the best parts of mortal life.

The Alåsh

The most famous Hebitian burial practices come from the so called "Valley of the Hebitians"; in fact, this is where the name stems from. Tombs there were carefully selected caves or former quarry sites, and were carefully shaped to allow for easy passage of every person in a community, including the old and injured, so they could pay respects to the dead. In the tombs were coffins and niches with stone covers.

Each person has their own sealed niche or stone coffin, within which their favorite possessions were buried. Usually these were selected ahead of time, similar to buying ones own plot. The niches and coffins usually have art covering them, identifying the person interred. Sometimes this was a bas relief carving- of the person as they were laid, as though looking through the coffin, or a portrait of them doing something they enjoyed in life. They were also sometimes painted, or gilded, and some had cloth hangings. These varied by localized community, with some having obvious preferences for one way or another of doing things. A table or shelf accompanies these bodies, allowing for offerings of food, money, alcohol, flowers, and so on from the living to be made. The artistic depiction of the person is thought to aid the dead in accepting the offerings by allowing them to identify which were meant for them.

They are dressed in their finest clothes, hair washed and carefully styled, makeup done, and so on. The body is covered with a shroud. In addition to favored items, items denoting status and profession would be set inside. Due to the environment of the mountains around the valley, certain tombs had just the right conditions to cause most or all remains within to mummify naturally. These were considered more desirable locations, as improper upkeep of the remains invited hauntings (different groups of Hebitians often have different understandings of what was improper).

The tombs were carefully guarded, and the living would enter them to pay respect to the dead. When a tomb had to be sealed permanently, the entrance would be sealed water tight, and the hall leading to it would be flooded with water, then sealed once more, creating a middle flooded chamber to deter theft. Permanent sealings predominantly were done in the event of disaster that made it necessary to leave an area entirely. It was better to cut off access for anyone than to leave the vulnerable dead with no guard, where anyone could do whatever they liked to their remains. A large number of such tombs date to the Cardassian conquest of Hebitians, and are only 500 years old.

Suffice to say, the Cardassian sale of these artifacts in particular has caused great controversy. Some 30 years before the Occupation, a trio of young Alåsh Hebitian women living on Vulcan plotted a terrorist attack against an institution dedicated to said artifacts, which was partially successful. The reasoning given by the women upon being caught was they knew a theft would not succeed, and if they could not care for them, and could not hide them, it was better to destroy them as the artifacts were not property of the living any longer. It is also rumored, but officially denied, that this institution had the physical remains of some Alåsh. The fastest way to offend a Hebitian living on Vulcan is to reference this incident; all but a few refuse to speak on it at all, and those that have say there is no consensus on support or disavowal for what occurred.

In the years between conquest and the crackdown on Hebitian culture that heralded the Bajoran occupation, the Alåsh continued these interrals under the new political reality, and still carry them out in diaspora. The decorations of the niches are of a poorer quality, and very few can afford a stone coffin, carved or not. Fewer items are interred with an individual, and very few, if any, are made for the purpose of being interred. A greater secrecy is conferred; before, an entire community would know where the tomb was, but today it is a secret passed down in a particular family. Those visiting to pay respects agree to be blindfolded and otherwise put in a state of confusion so they will not remember the way to the tomb. This is much the same for other groups of Hebitians.

The process of paying respect is done at least once a dleiha, usually on the anniversary of a death. This is fairly consistent for all Hebitians. One enters the tomb and makes offerings to the deceased and ensures their plaque or coffin is clean (guards are often also entrusted with this duty, but the act of checking is important). Any new additions to the family are introduced to the deceased, and the sick often ask for blessings or intercession from the deceased.

The funerary procession has the prepared body placed on a bier after a night of watching over the body while praying and singing, and carried towards the tomb. The procession usually goes westward and is timed to coincide with the sun setting (again, in the west). The procession consists of the family and friends, dressed in simple clothes with no jewelry. The journey is segmented between periods of dead silence and loud singing and wailing. Cardassian accounts claimed that people would self flagellate along with wailing; if this is true, it was a custom localized to specific villages and is rather unusual. Upon entering the tomb, at least one person was meant to talk at all times; this was to remind the procession that while they were accompanying a dead person and surrounded by dead, they themselves were alive. The body is interred with its feet pointing west and the cover of the niche or coffin is placed. The cover would then be kissed by each member of the procession, and the first funerary offerings were made.

The Thav

As opposed to the Alåsh practice of interring a whole body quickly after death, the Thav used to inter their dead twice. The first time the body would be left in a designated spot where it could be identified later, usually a cave, but open to the elements. A significant amount of time later, the living returned to collect the now skeleton, and would gather the bones, washing them and placing them in a specially prepared container. The jar was personally decorated, and stored in a secondary underground location. These jars often also contain grave goods. Today, the secondary burial is still practiced, but diaspora communities also opt for aquamation (though with the bones being kept intact rather than powdered). Aquamation appeals because of the beforementioned connection with death and Dzådta.

Cremation is not practiced by any Hebitians, nor Cardassians, for that matter. The biology of Cardassians is such that smoke inhalation is far more deadly than it is for many other humanoid species. This creates a strong association with death, but it is also regarded as a very fearful thing, and cremation is regarded as a form of disrepect. Other cultures on Cardassia Prime however, did historically practice cremation, though it is illegal in the Union today. Fire is even excluded from the Hebitian understanding of the base 3 element system.

The reason for this process of burial is that the Thav were historically, largely aniconic. They did not do direct depictions of anything from life in art as it would invoke the image part of the soul: across Hebitian cultures, this part of the soul is often associated with hauntings. It was thought that the physical body remaining intact might confuse the image-soul into thinking it was alive, cause hauntings, and harm other parts of a person's soul. Having only the bones be interred ensured the image soul, if it returned, would understand its body had died.

Archeological evidence indicates that thousands of years ago, this process as performed in the Helta Highlands involved a manual defleshing, and the bones and flesh were placed in two smaller containers, then one large one. Then only the bones and specific organs were kept, then only the bones. There's some debate as to wether this practice originated with a non-Hebitian people that assimilated into the Thav.

The jars used by the Thav are usually egg shaped, and some families specifically reported that this is very intentional, and references two things; the rebirth of the breath portion of the soul, and the sacredness of birds. Historically, the bones of those believed to be especially holy persons might be interred in a jar which was then hung from the ceiling of a shrine; other times the jar was empty and would function as a cenotaph of sorts. The latter evolved into diaspora Thav temples and shrines being decorated the hanging egg shaped ceramics and even lamps honoring specific gods, spirits, and holy people. These are sometimes decorated with glass or metal mosaics.

The Thav inter the jars of ordinary persons in shelves or small niches. Offerings are made to those interred in these as well, with strings of beads or garlands of flowers placed on the jar being popular. Some will have a sprang or net cover made to fit over the jar, allowing for things to be hung from the holes in the fabric. The location these were interred in generally had an aboveground and belowground chamber.

The procession for the body at the initial interring is much the same as the Thav: starting from the house, going west towards the chosen cave at sunset, simple clothes. The two main differences were: 1) the only members of the procession were the mother, father, and other male relatives of the deceased. Dzådta was strictly seen as a male god by the Thav, as opposed to the ambiguous representation found in many other groups, making this an unusual occasion where men were expected to lead. 2) no speech occurred during this inital procession. Again, the feet are put facing west.

During the second procession, the mother, father, and significant other are the only members, traveling west to the cave with the jar and cleaning supplies during sunrise. The bones are cleaned, placed in the jar, and carried out towards the second location. As the bones are prepared, the trio will talk to them the same way they talk to their loved one. The deceased's children are sometimes also included in this part, depending on age. Some villages would walk backwards during this part, making the living continue facing west. They go into the underground chamber, place the jar in its designated spot, and make offerings. They would go to the upper chamber, immediately eat a meal, and live within it for 3 days before returning home.

The Qåmtsu

Due to Cardassian cultural influence, some Qåmtsu use family tombs on the family property in favor of communal tombs. When communal tombs were used by Qåmtsu on Cardassia Prime, they were out in the desert. The procession to reach them would have the body placed in a bier atop a riding hound, or on a boat pulled by one, covered in red cloth. Members of the procession would paint their faces red, and wear a simple red kilt. This procession could take many days. The tomb was either cut into rock, or constructed double layer building.

Unlike with the Thav, in the case of the latter the underground level is only entered when laying the dead to rest, feet facing west. The upper level is where the living make offerings and visit, with each having a dedicated stall with portraits and names listed on the walls. The former would have one chamber cut for the dead, and a separate one cut for the living. The separation is a covergent evolution with Thav practices and there is no direct relation. These communal tombs were sometimes called the "Hall of Memories" and the term is still used figuratively in service class Kardasi from the region to refer to the place one exists in beyond ones death, though most don't know the origin.

Once the dead is interred, a stone cover is fit into place, and those in the procession bite their fingers to smear blood on it, then pour water over the cover. Also common is to carve the name of the person being interred on the wall of the passage leading to the tomb. The first offering is made.

When family tombs were used, a cenotaph with names of those interred on the property would be made (Cardassian influence) but would have a rain cover erected over it. This cover had a ceiling and one wall. On the wall there would be figurines representing the deceased or pictures. Like the Cardassian custom, this is a site for mediation and contemplation, as well as talking to the dead and praying. A low table is set before the cenotaph for offerings. Before interacting with the dead in this way, alcohol, gelat, or tea is commonly poured over the cenotaph, followed by water. The first is an offering to the dead; the second is an offering to Dzådta. Like the custom for Cardassians, these markers are made official by living relatives bleeding on them and reciting the names of whoever is being commemorated. When a new person is interred, this is repeated. This is followed with a drink libation, and a water libation.

The Qåmtsu prepare their dead by watching over them with song and prayer, washing and dressing the body. The mouth and teeth are dyed red. They keep closer to the Cardassian custom of keeping the body for 9 days to allow visitation from family who are further away. Red features prominently in funerary goings on; this is also a Cardassian influence. Red is the color of perek flowers, blood, and the desert. In short, it's the color of death. The Qåmtsu recognize the color red for other associations as well; Red is a masculine color for many Hebitians, and is the pigment men do their makeup in. During these 9 days, if finances permit, food is given put in honor of the deceased, and some even pick the food they'd like to be given out in their honor beforehand.

Just before burial, red cloth strips are used to bind the legs together and the arms to the body. This helps keep the body secure during the long journey if a communal tomb is used, and is traditional anyway if it isn't. These strips are blessed and have inscriptions on them.

No Hebitian group, not even the Qåmtsu, has a taboo on outsiders viewing their dead as Cardassians do. The Qåmtsu have changed the manner of the burial procession to hide the dead from view, but this seem to be a matter of neighborly respect that arose from contact with Cardassians.

[cyrelia-j]

[Fic] Deuces II: Knights (Garak/Bashir)

Yeah it's a continuation of that story though I completely blame @eilupt for the direction it took with all the tattoo talk. More Pre Garashir but it's definitely there haha (Also, it got long)

Part 1 if you missed it

AU (no Dominion) Garak and his surrogate daughter Ziyal find themselves on Deep Space Nine on a stopover to Bajor. Now having secured a date with the attractive doctor both Garak and Julian find themselves getting ready for the evening with a little help.

“Are you going to tell me what the handsome doctor whispered to you yad’, or am I going to have to audit you?” Ziyal’s works the oil into the scales of his bare shoulders firmly. One of her fingers is already insinuating itself behind a sensitive spot near his shoulder blade making Garak twitch. She knows all of his weaknesses. The “audit” is the euphemism he used to use for his previous occupation’s primary function when she was younger. It strangely grew to mean a nerve rending tickle torture between the two of them to get answers to silly inconsequential questions. Garak looks ahead stoically. He absolutely refuses to break this time. “Though I may owe you a debt of gratitude, my dear I assure you that I will not crack even under the worst torture.” He can feel her making a childish face behind him. It certainly won’t help her case but they both know that there are certain aspects of Garak’s dates and relationships that he prefers to keep private. She in turn, refuses to this day to tell him exactly what had gone on between her and that wild child Rugal behind the back wall of the garden.

Ziyal flicks one of the ridges of his neck. “Fine. But I’m not going to tell you anything that Major Kira and I talk about tonight either.” She absolutely will, but Garak allows her that moment, relaxing as she rubs more warm oil between hers hands and starts carefully working the scales of his back. The oil is a careful blend designed to make ones’ scales shimmer majestically while not ruining the delicate fabric of the underlining of his shirt. Ziyal insisted that he wear the dark red silk with the high neckline. “Better to give him a lot to wonder about, right?” Garak had agreed when he saw it coupled with the dark black pants she suggested. They were a touch immodest but then again with Julian’s incredibly forward invitation modesty is hardly his main priority. 

“I suppose that leaves us at an impasse,” Garak declares dramatically. Ziyal laughs softly behind him. He’s seated on the bed with her kneeling at his back rubbing the oil excitedly like she used to when she was younger. His first date since becoming her adopted father years ago was a mess of nerves and he’d nearly pulled something, causing an awful ruckus trying to reach every spot himself. She’d come in fourteen, snippy, but still such a sweet girl deep down finally offering to help. When she went out with Rugal- a privileged misfit like herself, Garak’s intel had revealed- a short chaperoned time later, Garak had returned the favor. He also learned the proper high fashion styles for pinning up her hair. She learned his as well and even convinced him to let her tint his chufa a daring blue when he was feeling particularly lucky. He’s asked her to do it tonight as well. It’s a ritual that’s been going on more than half her life and Garak thinks sometimes that he’s going to miss it whenever that inevitable end comes.

But he doesn’t allow that melancholy to overtake him. He’s looking forward to an exciting evening, though he has a hunch that Julian may have played some small part in the Bajoran Officer Kira’s sudden invitation to show Ziyal around the station and tell her more about Bajor. Yes, doctor, I’m sure the busy Major Kira would absolutely take a precious free evening to play hostess to a station guest she’s never met before. Garak has learned though, rough lesson that it’s been, not to question good fortune: at least not terribly much. His head lurches forward and he hums contentedly when Ziyal’s hands reach the small of his back. He won’t look tonight, their quarters not having a suitable array of mirrored surfaces, but he can imagine the picture of brilliant color that will display when she finishes.

Ziyal is an artist, though not entirely of sculptures and paintings. She developed a fascination with the permanent Cardassian scale dying or what he’s learned the humans and Bajorans call “tattoo artistry” or some variant. Garak had thought it a bit strange at first, but he saw the beautiful works that she was able to create with pen and ink and when she told him in earnest that she wanted to learn how to put her picture permanently on the body so people could hold the image forever well he just had to go and find an enterprising artist to teach her. Tarn Belor had been hesitant at first to teach such precious cultural tradition given her obvious lineage but Garak could be nothing if not convincing. So she had learned with care, practice, her first serious pieces done both on the insides of her own forearms. Both Garak and Tarn thought she was out of her mind but she insisted that if she could manage it on her own body while under the duress of the small laser injections to permanently alter the scale pigment then she could to it to anyone. She was right.

Garak was her first big project after seeing with wonder the small symbol of Bajor, the Cardassian union, and her mother’s face. He bears one of her most beautiful and intricate pieces on his back: a stunning view of the beach outside their home viewed through a stunning copse of trees. He has several other tattoos that she’s down for him since on his arms and chest as well but that remains his favorite. Dukat had felt- as he could hardly allow his enemies to know that Ziyal was his own daughter- that the last lush rainforests of the Morfan Province were best suited to remind his beloved Tora Naprem of Bajor and give Ziyal a small taste of the other home she might someday know. Garak had supposed if he were already doomed to the stigma of having a Bajoran “wife” and “child” as his cover that the lovely scenery was the least that they could pay him with. Only the three of them and Enabran Tain himself knew her true father and well as far as Garak is concerned-

“I’m going to do your hair now, yad’,” Ziyal informs him crawling off the bed to get the brushes and the hair slick. Garak smiles at her, thinking she looks more excited than he is, but he understands. Charity or no, Major Kira is doing Ziyal an immeasurable favor in indulging all her questions and curiosity for the night. He stands, putting the undershirt on first, then overlaying the red silk already having gotten a feel for the chill temperature of the station. He imagines it must have been far warmer when it was still Terok Nor. Oh but surely, Julian should be warm enough for the both of you. Garak’s smile turns a bit wicked at that thought. Julian’s little tease had played so immediately to the exact sort of fun that Garak is looking to have. And that lovely boy looked more than game for it.

Garak sits back down seeing Ziyal rush out with both the oil and clay, a brow ridge moving at the sight of both. Just how strong a hold does she think his hair is going to need on a first date? She grins at him not quite innocently. “Like you always say, it’s better to be prepared than to find yourself in a group of your enemies without a sharp knife.” He supposes he has said that on more than one occasion and he wonders if he shouldn’t have at least tried for a more traditional upbringing. Well hardly the time to have doubt about it all now, Elim. “Do you really think I’ll need a knife too, Yaya?” he asks, shutting his eyes as her fingers start combing oil through his hair and over his scalp. He can tell even behind him that her nose is making that precious little wrinkle.

“Ah! You win. I don’t need to know everything about your date tonight.” His throat vibrates with a low  rumble of amusement as Ziyal continues to work following that exaggerated exclamation of parental sex picturing disgust. Garak isn’t quite sure what future a half Cardassian tattoo artist and a former Obsidian Order spy turned tailor are going to have on Bajor, but Garak guesses as Ziyal has been saying the adventure lies in the mystery. “Still,” she continues cheerfully and Garak knows that he’s nurtured her curiosity far too well from childhood. “We don’t choose the truth that we’d like to hear but sit as willing ears when it spills from the vessels we nurture.” Such a pretty euphemism for such a cruel profession and she recites it back like one of Tolan’s old Hebetian proverbs. Guls, Julian better watch out if this becomes serious!

“So are you gonna ask him he he wants to give Cindy a kiss?” Miles O’Brien sits lazily on the couch in Julian’s quarters half reading the latest report from Engineering on the PADD. Julian pokes his head out of the bathroom momentarily to answer him. “Absolutely not! Are you mad? It’s a first date, Miles!” “Aw, c’mon Julian, that’s what you ask all the pretty girls isn’t it?” Julian takes a step out having already switched from the light blue button down, to the white linen, to the gray “second skin” and back again. “That was one time!” he protests a bit too loudly. He’s at least settled on the pants; they’re his favorite ultra slim stretch black number that settle low on his hips. In spite of what Miles says he has hips they’re just a bit well... slim.

“First date or not, those Cardies move fast. You and that last fella almost closed the place down, didn’t ya?” Miles makes a sour face at that, having had the misfortune of witnessing a good part of that whole thing. Cindy had made an appearance for that one too. Cindy, being the infamous tattoo that Julian has on the inside of his right thigh. She’s quite lovely, really. He still isn’t quite sure of how the two of them came to form their unlikely partnership. The accounting varies widely depending on which old classmate of his he asks and even then on the occasion and the party the story is being relayed for. One account has a twenty three year old Julian getting the elaborate piece on a bet. Another has him doing it as part of a dare to impress a beautiful Betazoid classmate. Yet a third- and his personal favorite- involves a Klingon rite of passage, blood wine, and two Andorran girls fighting over him. The commonality in all the accounts is that he was completely trashed and woke up the next morning with a burning inner thigh thinking he’d scored something fierce only to come face to face with Cindy.

Julian isn’t sure why “Cindy” and no one has ever been able to fill in that part of the mystery. All he knows is that his right thigh bears a stunning rendition of a young blonde human women with blue eyes and a pretty red pout puckering up for a kiss. As ludicrous as the tattoo is, it’s quite stunning in its detail and Julian decided in the end to keep her as a valuable life lesson. He may have also in his more stupid (read: also drunk) moments tried and kiss her himself, finding in the process that he’s a great deal more flexible that he’d thought. That’s proven useful on some of his more enduring dry spells. He hopes Garak appreciates it. The “last fella” to which Miles refers was an adventurous Cardassian trader named Mekor who absolutely appreciated it and even more so when Julian called him “sir”.

“Yes... well...” Julian turns his head with a scratch of his neck not wanting to revisit that embarrassing night when Captain Sisko had shook his head like he was lecturing Jake and just told him to go sleep it off. “It wasn’t a first date in any case and he had to leave rather abruptly so well... You know how it is when you’re not going to see your partner for awhile.” Julian gives a bit of a tease back. Miles had been unbearable when Keiko was on Bajor, “enjoying the bachelor life” or not, there were some types of single excursions that they couldn’t exactly share. Julian was pretty sure if she’d been gone any longer he’d have started rubbing on the furniture.

“Yeah, and speaking of Keiko, if I wanted to watch someone running around throwing clothes all over I could go back home.” “Don’t you still have to get ready?” Julian asks in complete earnest. Miles draws himself up looking just a touch offended. “And what’s wrong with what I already got on?” Julian looks at him sitting there in his uniform. Miles had initially stopped by to ask Julian if he might be able to look after Molly while the two enjoyed a couples’ evening. Julian had apologized letting him know as he tried to sort through three pairs of shoes that Miles swore all looked the same that he’d love to but he already had plans. Miles had taken one look at him, his quarters and with a dramatic sigh shook his head. When Julian asked him about it he pressed a mock hand to Julian’s forehead and declared that Julian may be the doctor but Miles knew a sure case of “Cardie Fever” when he saw it. Alright, so he wasn’t exactly entirely wrong about that one but still.

“Nothing it’s just well... it’s your uniform,” Julian points out brilliantly. “It’s clean!” “Right yes but it’s ah...” “Jeez!” Miles says throwing his hands up. “You oughta be standing here with my wife instead of me, it’s like talking to a mirror of her tonight!” “You clean up quite nicely,” Julian offers apologetically. Miles grumbles as he swipes down on the PADD. “Yeah, s’too late for flattery. ‘m sure the both of you are in it together. You don’t look so bad yourself,” he says by way of peace offering. Julian looks down not sure if it’s quite the look that he wants to convey. Not with the proposition that he’d made. He doesn’t want to look too young either but he’s hardly trying to project an air of stiff buttoned up doctor so...

“Thank you! So... er... skin or skin tight?” he asks thinking that Jadzia might give a better opinion but then again all the station would know that “Doctor Bashir is on another lizard hunt.” So help him if he ever finds the person who coined that irritating phrase... “You can’t do both?” Miles asks giving what Keiko might call in exasperation an “uncivilized unhelpful” opinion. Maybe Julian should drop in on Keiko. Then again, if she’s in half the dire fashion straits that he is then that would hardly be fair. No, he’s just going to have to trust his instincts on this one. The blue button down- with a few buttons down- it is. “Right, no. I think this will have to work.” Julian isn’t quite certain how far this will go in one night, but he’s an eternal optimist and he needs to get a start on straightening his quarters just in case. Well perhaps an optimist with a touch of schemer thrown in seeing as how he’d promised Kira anything she wanted if she could find it in her heart to keep a lonely half Bajoran girl company and ease some of her fears about seeing home for the first time.

Kira is a saint, Julian decides, and Miles is... taking up space on a sofa that he needs to clean. Perhaps he’ll get the hint if Julian just starts and saves the thing for last. “So ya think he’s some sort of spy?” Miles asks suddenly making Julian stop. “A what? A spy? Oh come on, Miles, he’s just a man taking a trip with his daughter.” “Two Cardies going to Bajor?” he replies skeptically. “A Cardassian man and his half Bajoran daughter,” Julian corrects. He hadn’t ben able to stay and chat much longer before his shift had started, but Ziyal had let him know that her father was a rather talented tailor and he was making a terribly noble sacrifice in uprooting his entire business so that she could see and experience her other home. She said that he wouldn’t dream of just sending her off into the wild and god, that protectiveness was just all sorts of sexy. It was obvious he adored her, obvious he was a man with an eye for detail, for beauty and those hands.

“You got that look, Julian,” Miles notes and he’s not quite sure what “look” that’s supposed to be. “That kinda funny “daydreaming about your date” look”, Miles finishes like he’s just read his mind. Julian clears his throat as he picks up a few more shirts. “Well, I do,” he says with what Keiko calls his “shouganai shrug” (it can’t be helped!). Miles rolls his eyes and actually has the good grace to extricate himself from the sofa and head towards the door. “Yeah yea, I know. Better make myself scarce before you really start going on about him.” “Saving that for after the date right,” Julian answers with a cheeky grin. “Right, make sure you tell me all about it. Every last detail.” Heavy on the sarcasm. Julian laughs and Miles claps him sincerely on the shoulder. “

Have a good time, Julian,” He says making his exits to a few brief goodbyes. Julian supposes that he does perhaps have that far off day dreamy look to him but if Miles had seen those eyes, those hands, that thick body, that strong grip and the way Garak’s eyes darkened so nicely when he called him “daddy”... Okay yeah, he still wouldn’t get it because he’s Miles O’Brien and not Julian Bashir hopeless “daddy lizard queen” as Jadzia calls him between the two of them but that’s neither here nor there.  Julian’s getting goosebumps just thinking about his date and he hurries up with his cleaning. After all, he wouldn’t want Garak to think that he’s not a good boy. At least not yet!

(Link to Part 3 if you want to keep going)

[fauvester]

Not sure if you meant for the questions to be askes BUT 9 for like iskra or something would be interesting since there is a mix of human and cardassian culture, does julian celebrate any terran holidays with them?

omg I wish I was a better worldbuilder, people come up with so many fun fake little holidays. Thanks to that one throwaway line in ST:D I've unilaterally decided that Cardassian culture is very food-centric, so you know baby Iskra got taken to lots of street food festivals celebrating military victories and elections..

Julian trying to figure out which terran holidays can be safely transported and re-potted on post-Fire Cardassia (I feel like he still tries to celebrate Federation day at home just so the kids can have some positive associations. Cue him and Lim trying to figure out how to cook a desert lungfish without soliciting their neighbors' help with removing the fibrous capsule..)

Halloween is a safe bet, I think. Scaring the spirits away is vaguely Hebetian and the locals enjoy both tricks and treats. Julian gives his coworkers at the hospital candy to distribute to her.

Still got to be lots of nationalist holidays to celebrate after the war, but now they're very much tinged with bitter memories. Now they're more of an opportunity to complain about the current administration and get drunk (both activities Iskra vigorously enjoys as an adult)

[lorenzobane]

*sighs heavily*

Looks like it’s time for me to come up with my version of hebetian culture for a fic.

[gplusbfics]

A look into the minds of the Julian and Garak in “The Wire,” during the long course of Garak’s withdrawal from the implant. Julian’s thoughts are focused on trying to remain professional (why is it so difficult?), puzzling out Garak, and also having odd thoughts about their friendship. Garak, meanwhile, is mostly unconscious, caught in a web of dreams, nightmares, hallucinations, and fantasies. 

Excerpt

The hours crept by, or maybe they stood still; Bashir had lost all track of time. He checked the readouts. He administered fluids and nutrients, although the biobed could have done it. There was very little required of him. He felt like an audience to the struggle taking place in brief but dramatic acts between intermissions of sleep. A witness to a primitive ritual. He didn’t appreciate such a passive role. He tried to read the medical journals he had brought with him, but he couldn’t concentrate. He tried to nap, but he was simultaneously over-tired and too keyed up. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His bum was getting sore and his legs were threatening to cramp. He rose awkwardly, and began to amble about. He took a slow circle around the room, orbiting the bed, letting his eyes slide casually over furniture, shelves, walls. If one thought a tailor’s home would reflect a love of beauty, of textures, of colors – well, then this was no tailor’s home. There was very little to decorate or personalize the space. His eyes noticed everything – but there wasn’t much to notice. A table, a vase with a few flowers. Shelves, sparsely filled. After circumnavigating the small space, he dropped his pretense of boredom and allowed himself to actively study the room’s contents, looking, searching, for... what? Anything. A clue. A hint. A whisper of who this man really was. He noted small, shallow drawers, each carefully labeled. They were for data rod storage; he had several similar files in his own quarters. His gaze lingered a bit, and his fingers almost twitched, but then with a brief shake of his head, he clasped his hands behind his back, and stepped past. Here were shelves: no knickknacks, no holos, certainly no clutter. There were books, though; Bashir was surprised at the sentimentality in keeping books. He peered at them to study the spines. Like the data files, they were (naturally) in Kardasi. He committed a few to memory. His gaze moved on, then stopped. Here was something. A small statue. The figure looked familiar: an idealized Cardassian male in a rough tunic, gesturing to the stars: a mythical figure from the Hebetian period, Bashir believed. His hand reached for the figure, then stopped. Well, why not? Surely artwork displayed on shelves was meant to be looked at. He picked up the figure and studied it. The young, noble face reminded him of Michelangelo’s David. This was a very common, well-known statue; Bashir was sure he recognized it now. He felt a lick of disappointment. With a sigh, he returned it to the shelf, then hesitated. There was something else on the shelf, behind where the stature had been. He looked, but it was dark in the shadows. Pushing away any scruples, he reached for it and drew it out into the light. He frowned. A charred piece of wood, about as big as his hand. Not rough wood, this was a slab of beautifully-finished wood, polished and smooth and level, curving gently down into a right angle at one end. The edges were burnt and charred. The remnants of ... what? He turned it this way and that, but could make out nothing that indicated its significance. He peered at the wood in his hand, willing it to reveal its secret. He even tried to stifle his chattering mind and open his heart, playing at being Betazoid. Nothing, of course. He sighed, and returned it to its spot. As he watched his fingers set it gently down, he noticed absently that the wood was almost the same color as his skin.

Metadata

Title: Wired Author: PrelocAndKanar Year Posted: 2008 Approx. Word Count: 5,400 Chapters: 1 GB - Slash or Platonic: Slash My Rating (1-5): 4 Keywords: The Wire, Subconscious, Dreams, Halluciations, Pining, Medical Situation