This story is an alternative view of Ziyal's funeral. It obviously doesn't fit canon anymore, but I really didn't have the heart to tweak it to fit with the present storyline. While it uses Paramount's characters and their lovely playground, I wrote it purely for enjoyment, and with no intention of infringing on their copyrights in any way. It's purely rated "g", so children of all ages can revel in the fact that they don't have to leave the room, and adults can curse their rotten luck. If you want to download, print or archive this for personal use, be my guest. If you want to do anything else with it, you have to ask me.

Tribute

Garak walked into his shop and locked the door behind him, shutting out the happy bustle of the Promenade. He looked around at the familiar surroundings with relief, surprised at the depth of his attachment to the place. How like an animal, he thought, happy to be back in his cage. He dismissed the momentary impulse to tear at the racks in frustration. The voice in his mind mocked him, confirming the earlier image. He was no animal though, and Garak went calmly to the back of his shop and sat down at the worktable.

The dark was comforting after the brightness of the infirmary, and Garak welcomed the chance to just sit and think. So much had happened in the last months, and he had not realized just how hard the task of holding up the facade of cameraderie and happy co-operation had been until now. And now that matters of survival were solved, there was the death of that sweet, gentle girl to deal with as well. Profound sadness flooded the tailor at all the lost chances, the happiness and the trials of life that she would now never experience. All had been shattered when he saw that cold face lying on the infirmary table. She would never know what a gift she had given this humble tailor with her innocent trust, her obvious delight in his company. He would never forget that, or her.

A long time later, Garak rose and went to his stockroom. There was one last thing he could do for Ziyal, poor and inadequate though it was. He moved through the neatly stored bolts of cloth, the familiar smell comforting and heavy around him. Briefly, Garak wondered why his shop had been left nearly untouched during this latest occupation, but pushed the thought aside as he searched for a particular bolt. There! Green Tirellian velvet, soft as a whisper. It would bring out her eyes and the exotic color of her skin. He walked along the racks, holding the fabric up to other choices, looking for the perfect accent. Garments took on a life of their own, after all, if one took the time to listen to the blended voices of pattern, fabric and trim. Garak had time, and after all, this would be the last time... He was surprised to discover that tears were running down his cheeks, blurring his view of the bolts in front of him. He set down the velvet and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.

Garak finally settled on a patterned brocade of many curving textures and shades of green. It was beautiful, and it reminded him of how she had flowed like water around all the obstacles set before her, choosing her own path regardless of how many setbacks she faced. Her strength had been in her gentleness, in her refusal to see the world as anything other than a beautiful place. It took strength to see only the best in people, after all, a strength that Garak had not known existed until he met Ziyal, and one he knew he did not possess. Few understood or appreciated it, or Ziyal. They all expected her to meekly do as she was told, and she allowed them to think what they liked. A cynical part of Garak added that one also had more freedom to act when one did so without fuss.

There was not much of the brocade, only scraps, and Garak took them out into the workroom with the green velvet. He sat down at the worktable to design his creation so he could determine how much of the fabric he would need to replicate, and what shape the pieces would need to be. A sense of peace wove itself around the tailor as he worked, the drawn lines of his face relaxing somewhat in the glow of the designing screen. He had abandoned all the preset patterns, even as starting points, and used the stylus to draw directly on the dress form on the screentop. He had his inspiration and this garment would be truly, and only, Ziyal's.

* * *

Dukat woke alone in blessed darkness. Vaguely he remembered the voices of the Starfleet officers, and the ministrations of the station doctor. Couldn't they understand that all he wanted was to be left alone? Then he remembered the reason why he had wished to be left alone. His sweet Ziyal. Her smile, the light in her eyes as she told him her dreams, what she hoped the future held. Silently he stared at the ceiling as the tears slipped down his cheeks. Any noise or movement and that damned Doctor would be in here for all he knew. After a time, he realized that he had no idea how he had come from the corridor where she died to the infirmary. What had happened to her body?

Dukat was on his feet and to the door before he realized it. He stopped short as it refused to open, nearly running into it. He slammed a fist against it in frustration. Then another, and suddenly he was pounding at the door, screaming for them to let him out, screaming for Ziyal.

The muffled thumps startled the security officer stationed outside the door, and he looked quickly at the monitor to see his prisoner's condition. He slapped his commbadge and notified Main Security as Bashir came barrelling out of the office next to the quarantine cell. They could hear Dukat's screams through the door, and Bashir reached over to open it.

The security officer put his hand out to stop him. "I don't think that's a very good idea, Sir", he said.

Bashir's angry look silenced him. "I don't care", he said, putting his hand out again. Just then, Odo came pounding into the infirmary, a security team right behind him. As the door slid open, Dukat stumbled into the room and almost fell, so intent had he been on getting out. Bashir put out a hand to steady his patient. Dukat wrenched himself away, and caught his balance.

"Where is she?" he said, almost conversationally.

Bashir and the others just stared for a moment.

Dukat advanced on Bashir, his gaze darkening. "Where is my daughter?" he said fiercely.

Bashir stood his ground, and the security team grabbed the Cardassian by the arms, stopping his advance. "She's in the infirmary" he said quietly, wondering if Dukat even remembered what had happened. His heart sank at the thought that he might not.

"I want to see her." Dukat's voice was calm, reasonable, but brooked no disobedience.

Looking into the tortured eyes, Bashir realized with relief that the Cardassian did, indeed, remember exactly what had happened, and that the calmness and control were whisper-thin. "I don't think that would be a good idea right now" he said.

Dukat lunged at him, nearly breaking the hold the security officers had on his arms. He began to scream and rage about desecration and treachery.

Sisko came striding into the infirmary then, taking in the situation grimly. "Dukat!" his voice cracked through the room's noise, but Dukat wasn't listening. Sisko walked up to the flailing Cardassian and took his chin in his hand, turning him to face him. "Dukat!". The struggling man lunged towards Sisko, and almost got an arm free, but Odo waded in then, securing him with Changeling strength. Dukat kept screaming about his daughter, and desecration, and insisted on seeing the body.

Sisko turned to Bashir. "Is there any reason why this man hasn't been allowed to see Ziyal?"

Bashir looked steadily back at Sisko. "I didn't think that his condition could possibly be improved by that, Sir", he answered. "However, at present, I really don't see how it would make the situation any worse."

Sisko nodded. "Are you aware of Cardassian burial customs, Doctor?" The look on Bashir's face made it obvious that he was not. "Only Cardassians are permitted to view or prepare the body prior to burial." Sisko had his back to Dukat, and signalled the Doctor to play along with his eyes. " I trust you haven't done anything more than place her in the morgue?"

Bashir took his cue from his commander. "Of course not, Sir! You know that it's standard Federation practice to wait for instructions from the next of kin before doing anything with a body."

Sisko felt some of the tension drain out of the room at this, as Dukat stopped fighting his captors. Sisko turned to face the Cardassian. "If you'll give the Doctor a moment to prepare, of course you can see your daughter."

Dukat stood straight, as if the events of the last few minutes had never happened. "Thank you, Commander," he said quietly.

Garak sat back at last and stretched, yawning. Ziyal's face was still before him, but now she was smiling. He looked at the finished design on the screen. Yes, she would have liked this. The tailor smiled. Design really was one of his passions, and the uninterrupted pursuit of the art was the best part of his exile. What he had created for Ziyal was rich, exotic and expressive of that gentle spirit. It showed her beauty, and a bit of her rebellious side as well. Garak smiled. Her father would *not* be pleased, though even he would find nothing overtly objectionable about the garment, for while it celebrated rather than hid her dual heritage, it was not revealing.

Dukat stood beside the biobed that held the body of his daughter. The Doctor had lied, like all his kind, but the attentions given to his daughter's body had been minimal. It looked to her father as though all that had been done was to lay her body out decently, and cover the wound that had taken her life. He touched the cold hand, and looked at the closed eyes, willing fiercely for the light in them to return, for them to open and gaze upon him once again. One precious moment was all he would ask, though they had said all that needed to be said between them before she had been taken from him. One precious moment to know his daughter's love again, and then this. He vowed in that moment that Damar would pay for what he had done. The pain of choosing between revenge and his daughter's last moments of life had been nothing compared to the pain of her passing, and though Dukat regretted nothing, not her life, or his choice to stand by her to the end, he knew that his hatred for Damar and his rage at the circumstances that had allowed that murderer to escape would rule his life until he put an end to him. He knew then that he would indeed return to Cardassia, and revenge for Ziyal's death and the highest good for Cardassia would become one and the same. Somehow, the thought comforted him, gave him the sense of purpose he had lacked since the Defiant came back through the wormhole, alone.

When Dukat emerged at last from the little room, Sisko was waiting for him. The look of compassion and concern on his face made Dukat want to smash him against the wall behind. How little these Terrans really understood other races, and their cloying attempts at Universal Love and Understanding sickened him. However, when one had no power in the situation in which one found oneself, it was necessary to work with those who did. So the former Ruler of Cardassia pulled a weary smile onto his face and took the chair Sisko offered.

"I suppose bringing Ziyal back to Cardassia is out of the question" Dukat began. Inwardly, his laughter at the thought bordered on the hysterical. She would be no more welcome there in death than she had been in life. He could just imagine the faces of his family as he attempted to lay her to rest in the Dukat family.... Dukat pulled himself out of his bitter reverie, realizing that Sisko was speaking.

"...Damar would too, don't you think?"

"Hmm...." Dukat smiled apologetically at Sisko. "I'm afraid I missed that last, Captain?" He could see the worry in Sisko's eyes, and the pity. Though such an estimation of his condition could prove useful, if the opportunity presented itself. Dukat realized then that he no longer cared about future opportunities, about anything except for that small still body in the room behind him. He clenched his fist beneath the table as grief threatened to overwhelm him again. There. There was something he cared about, his dignity in front of Sisko.

"We have to do something soon, don't you think?" Sisko asked gently.

What would you know about it, Terran! Dukat wanted to shout, to pound him into the wall until nothing but blood was left. He would leave her in stasis until she could be taken home to Cardassia, until he regained his former position and could force his people to give her the decent burial she deserved! Instead, he sighed, and spread his hands in defeat. "What would you have me do?"

Sisko looked relieved at that. "Is it possible to bury her here, according to your customs?"

"No" Dukat said, his face like stone. Suddenly, the whole exercise seemed futile. The Federation would do what it liked, regardless. He stood. "If there is nothing further, Captain?"

Sisko stood also, his eyes blazing with something Dukat could not name. "Damn it, I'm trying to help you! There are a lot of people on this station who also would like to say goodbye to her, but you're her father!"

Dukat shook his head. "What could I possibly do now that would make any difference?" Except find her killer and make him pay!

"You know" Sisko said, "My father has a saying ; 'Funerals are for the living'. They give us closure, and allow us to pick up and move on. Even if you don't need that, the rest of us do."

Dukat's head whipped around to face Sisko. "With all due respect, Captain, I don't think you have any idea what I need, and I can't say that I'm too concerned about the needs of this station. Now, if you're quite finished, I'd like to go to my cell now."

Sisko held the Cardassian's eyes. "If there was ever anyone who needed to pick up and move on, it's you. Don't you think you're taking this a bit far?" he said softly. "How many Bajorans went through what you're dealing with and worse? How many Cardassians don't even have a body to lay to rest?"

Damned Terran sympathy! It was like drowning in sugar! But Dukat took hold of himself, knowing that if he didn't start making a more credible attempt at working with his captors, he would never be able to create the opportunity to return to Cardassia and take revenge. How fitting, in a way, and how sad. Ziyal would go to her final rest as she had lived, at home nowhere except this damnable station.

* * *

Leeta turned to see Garak beside her. She smiled, not sure what to make of his sudden appearance.

"Hello, my dear" he said. "Might I have a word with you?" He indicated the entrance to his shop, which they were just passing.

Leeta realized that she must have missed him as he came out, and followed him into the little shop. A single dress form stood in the middle of it, draped in black.

Garak smiled benevolently at Leeta "I'd like your opinion on a particular creation of mine".

Leeta had worked at Quark's long enough to know a sales pitch a mile away, but was intrigued by the presentation. What was so good that Garak would go to all this trouble to set this up? She smiled at the tailor. "All right- though I can't say I'm up on all the latest styles, what with the war." One other thing she had learned from Quark- it cost nothing to look, if you were determined. The state of hers and Rom's finances, what with her rash promise to Quark of two years free labor would definitely do for determination at this point.

Garak's smile broadened. "That isn't the sort of advice I'm after, my dear. I hope that you don't consider my work to be simply a product of the latest modes?" With that, he whipped the drape off the form. The dress was simple, the neckline sweeping wide to show flesh almost to the points of the shoulders. The brocade's curves thus framed the neck, the panel cut high in front and back and pointed, reminiscent of a Cardassian military uniform but ending between the breasts instead of at the beltline. The green Tirellian velvet fell from the yoke created by the brocade, tight along the torso, then widening into a skirt much fuller than Cardassian fashion would ever accept. Garak had cut the panels as single pieces from the yoke to the floor, and the effect was graceful and flowing from decolletage modestly covered to hem. The sleeves were long, to the wrist, and emerged from under the yoke, which flared out on top of them.

Leeta's reaction was all that Garak could have hoped for. She stared. Then she began to cry. Instantly the tailor was all solicitude. He sat the weeping Dabo girl down in a chair, got her a hanky, and sat across from her, murmuring words of comfort.

When Leeta had gotten herself under control, she looked sorrowfully up at Garak. "That's for Ziyal, isn't it?" she asked.

Garak nodded, smiling. "How very perceptive of you, my dear!" he said. "I knew your eye for fashion was what I needed." He leaned towards her conspiratorially. "There's just one slight problem..."

* * *

Kira looked up curiously at the door chime. Who could that be, at this hour? "Come" she called.

The door slid open to reveal Captain Sisko. "I'm sorry to bother you at this hour, Major."

Kira smiled and offered him a chair. "No bother, sir- what can I do for you?"

They both sat. "It's about Ziyal's funeral. I've just spoken with Dukat about it."

Kira's smile was replaced by a look of confusion. "And what does that have to do with me?"

Sisko's look of confusion matched Kira's. "He says that you're the only person fit to prepare his daughter's body for burial."

Precisely at 0800, Kira Nerys entered the Security Office and demanded to see Dukat. Odo granted her request, and was refused an explanation, or even a greeting. He followed her as she stormed into the holding area and down the corridor to the solitary cell. The door was slammed in his face as he tried to follow her in, so he did the only thing a good Security Chief could- he watched it all from the viewscreen in his office. When Kira emerged, she was much calmer, almost resigned. She threw herself into the chair in front of Odo's desk dejectedly.

Odo sat as well, a sardonic smile on his face. "Went well, did it?" he said. Kira looked at her friend and sighed. "I'm sorry, Odo. You didn't deserve that."

Odo's eyes softened at that. "Neither did you."

Kira's confusion showed plainly in her face, and Odo resisted, as usual, the impulse to take her in his arms. Why did she have to be so compelling? Why did she always have to come to him? He realized, also as usual, that he wouldn't have it any other way. If this was the only way he could have Kira Nerys, he would take it gladly.

Kira stopped at the entrance to the Infirmary, Garak's creation in her arms. It had seemed so reasonable a few minutes ago when Leeta had brought it to her, but now she was having second thoughts. She nodded to the guards, then went in determinedly. When Dukat hated it, as he had her last three choices, she would return it to Leeta and that would be that.

Dukat looked up from his chair beside Ziyal when Kira entered the little quarantine room. He didn't speak, and Kira didn't trust herself to, after the number of trips she had been forced to make. Kira held up the dress, waiting for the inevitable rejection. It didn't come.

"That will do nicely, thank you Major" he said absently.

Kira resisted the temptation to throw the dress in his face and leave right then. This would be the last time she would be forced to play nice with this Cardassian for Ziyal's sake. Was it only this morning she had begun saying that to herself? It had to have been. Sisko had only handed her this ridiculous assignment last night. Suddenly the comic aspect of the situation hit her, as well as the perfection of Garak's revenge. Somewhere inside her, laughter was building, even in the face of Ziyal's death. While she couldn't give free rein to it, at least she didn't feel quite so much like hitting Dukat.

"So what's next?" she asked.

Ziyal's funeral was quiet and dignified, though everyone on the station who could wangle their way into the room appeared to have done so, to judge by the crowd. Garak stood as far from Dukat and the casket as he could manage- there was no reason, after all, to risk an ugly scene by doing otherwise, as Cardassian custom decreed a closed casket, at least among non-Cardassians. Garak had hoped someone would see fit to make an exception in Ziyal's case, after all, she was only half-Cardassian, but no one wanted to upset her father further. It was enough to know that she would go on her last journey in one of his creations. He could hug that secret close to him, warmed by the knowledge that her father had not only approved the outfit, but knew nothing of its origins. Apparently, the man had at least a little taste, even if he chose odd occasions to display it. That purple dress that had been missing from his inventory when he had returned to the station, which Garak had discovered had almost gone on Major Kira, of all people, now THAT was more what the tailor had come to expect.

When the casket had finally been ejected, Garak knew what Dukat would have objected to, had he been paying attention. The dress showed Ziyal as Garak had seen her, and so was a final tribute that now could not be taken away. The tailor slipped out of the service, mingling with the rest of the crowd, and made his way back to his shop on the Promenade.

THE END