Little Warrior

By Laura Schiller

Based on Star Trek: Deep Space Nine

Copyright: Paramount

Worf's first reaction to the Dax symbiont's new host was dismay.

It felt all wrong for him that, just as he had won his beloved Jadzia a place in Stovoqor, the Klingon Heaven, and more or less resigned himself to the pain of losing her, a stranger should stumble into his life carrying all of Jadzia's memories. All of them, including their courtship and marriage; memories which were sacred to Worf and Jadzia alone. The little counselor with the terrified blue eyes knew far too much.

More than that, she was tiny. She barely came up to Worf's shoulder. She looked as if she could barely lift a bat'leth, let alone hold her own in a duel as Jadzia had. She could never carry on the Dax symbiont's warrior legacy. Jadzia would be so disappointed, he thought.

"I was your wife," she pleaded. "Why won't you even talk to me?"

That appeal touched his heart, which made him even more uncomfortable. She was like a child, confused and fragile, carrying a burden she had never asked for. Still, he snapped back.

"You are not Jadzia. Jadzia is dead; her soul is in Stovoqor. I do not know you, nor do I wish to know you."

Her face crumpled, as if she was about to cry. She had no pride.

But what she said next surprised even him. She swallowed her tears and looked squarely up at him, and for just a moment, her blue eyes held just the look his wife had worn when she knew she was about to win an argument.

"Jadzia wouldn't want you to treat me like a stranger."

There it was – a spark of wisdom, a hint of courage. Perhaps Ezri Dax would not disgrace the symbiont after all.

=/\=

It was the Breen incident which changed Worf's perception of Ezri completely. He had been going slowly insane in his escape pod, knowing just how small the possibility was that his comrades would ever find him, when suddenly he found himself beamed into a runabout with none other than Ezri frowning down at him. It was incredible, if he thought about it – this small woman entering the plasma-flare-infested Badlands all by herself. She had defied their Captain's orders, her spacesickness, and fate itself on the off chance that her runabout would be swept along the same currents as his escape pod. Worf was more impressed than he cared to admit.

It was on Golaris Three that he made acquaintance with Ezri's temper. Unlike Jadzia, who had fought with the amused detachment of a skilled racquetball player, Ezri took a conflict deeply to heart. Her face flushed, her voice rose, and her body trembled like harp strings. For Klingons, love and war are tightly intertwined. Worf lost control, and regretted it soon after.

Making love to Ezri was an awkward experience – she behaved just like Jadzia, but in an unfamiliar body. He realized afterwards that he would rather not repeat it, and felt guilty. That made it all the more galling when, as the Breen dumped a delirious Ezri back in the cell after mind-probing, the name she spoke was Julian Bashir's. Worf and Ezri's night together, therefore, had been an empty act for both of them, since they both preferred another – Ezri loved Julian, and Worf, if he was honest with himself, was still bound up in the memory of his late par'machkai.

He had used Ezri as a secondhand Jadzia. It was not honorable. And it sparked yet another shouting match, in a prison cell of all places, when they ought to have been trying to escape.

Ezri tried to psychoanalyze the situation, driving home the point to Worf once again that this was not Jadzia. This was a counselor-in-training, who decoded dreams and interpreted subconscious motivations. Worf was rattled. And for that matter, Ezri's dream was so obvious even he could have understood it: running away from a helmeted Breen soldier, who caught her on the shoulder and revealed himself as Julian Bashir, was an obvious metaphor for Ezri's denial of her feelings for the Doctor. But he did not tell her that. If she couldn't figure it out herself, she wasn't worth her salt as a therapist.

It was a distinct relief when she sat down next to him and said softly, in a manner with no trace of Jadzia in it: "We're people. We make mistakes. Maybe we both should be forgiven … Friends?"

He shook her hand in the human way, careful not to crush her delicate fingers. Friends, yes. He would like that very much.

For a moment, Ezri reminded him of another young counselor, another woman he had loved and left. The old guilt flared up in his heart again; guilt for not making Deanna happy, guilt for breaking their commitment, guilt and jealousy at not measuring up to Will Riker. But that was all behind him now, and this kind, understanding little lady would never be hurt by him again.

Later on, once they were back at the station, Worf privately tried to settle Ezri into a new category in his mind. He had stubbornly refused to place her for months, thinking of her – if he had to think of her at all – as a sort of irritating blot on the station, a mind-bending paradox of Jadzia and not-Jadzia, a thing to be avoided except when manners demanded it. Now, he decided that, since it was the closest comparison he could come up with for a joined Trill, that he would think of Ezri as Jadzia's little sister.

It made sense to him. It accounted for her blue eyes, so like Jadzia's, for the wry humor, hardy optimism and courage they shared. It would have been the same with two women related by blood: similar, but different. One does not expect siblings to be identical; witness Worf and his own brother.

One thing was certain: Ezri was under Worf's protection, just as much as a real sister-in-law. And aside from his affection, she had earned his full respect.

Ezri Dax was a warrior. Jadzia would be proud.