A young Cardassian woman pushed a hover-chair with a man in it toward a barrier. She stopped when his knees almost touched it, she then locked the chair in place. She sat on a bench next to the chair and looked at the man.
He stared at the city landscape on the other side of the river. It wasn’t Lakarian City that he knew. He had been told that it had been completely destroyed in a war of which he was not aware. Now, unfamiliar hooked spires of buildings graced the reddish sky, mixed with copies
of familiar historic buildings, of which re-building he had his humble, albeit unwitting, participation. It wasn’t his
Lakarian City but it was Lakarian City nevertheless and even if it looked differently, it still was beautiful. And if his old paintings could be of help in re-creating it, his life wasn’t wasted.
The sun was slowly moving to hide behind the city. It’s red light reflected from the water of the river, giving it slightly crimson hue.
A tear filled his eye. The girl has been bringing him here for four years at least two or three times a week and he had yet to grow tired of this view. He felt her hand on his; in spite of thick gloves, which hid his deformed hands, he could feel the warmth of her touch. He looked at her and mouthed Cardassia is beautiful
. He could not produce voice, not any more, not for years, whispering was the best he could do, but he didn’t have to do even that—for she could read from his lips.
“It is, Uncle, it is,” she said softly.
A young couple stopped at the barrier and looked at the sunset. Then one of them glanced at the man. She stared at his hooded head for a moment and then pulled her betrothed away. It didn’t bother the man; he was actually glad they left as he didn’t want to ruin their beautiful moment with his face that looked like he was two hundred years old, while in fact he could enjoy merely half of that time and even that had been robbed of its quarter. He could not know that she wanted to move away not to obstruct his
“Uncle,” the young woman said. “I have been accepted to the Lakarian Academy of Classical Art.”
He looked at her. His face wore signs of unimaginable suffering he had endured in his life, his body destroyed by inhuman experimentation and almost useless, but his black, like Betazoid, eyes shone with excitement. His hands with missing parts of fingers couldn’t hold a brush any longer but his brain still saw the world the same way it had when he had been young and could commit those images to canvas.
“Proud of you,” he whispered. He could not make sounds any more, but he still could whisper. It had taken him years to develop that ability; still, it was better than writing everything down or using the ancient ‘flash code’. There was someone else in his life to produce voice, a beautiful voice, a singing voice.
He looked back at the landscape and admired its perfection. He wished he could paint it.
He was happy. In spite of everything, he was happy. In a weird way, laughing in faces of his butchers, he was happy