Work Text:
‘Computer,’ said Kira Nerys, ‘give me some paper. And some paint.’
‘Specify type.’
Nerys grimaced. ‘I don’t know. Whatever type people use for painting with.’
‘Insufficient information. Please...’
‘Forget it.’
She slumped back down onto the couch. This was a stupid idea. But how could it be, when the new Emissary wanted them all to go back to their D’jarras? If the Prophets wanted her to be an artist, she’d be an artist. But where did you even start?
She called up some information on the station database, but even the beginner-level stuff was too complicated, and there was too much of it to read. She paced, frustrated.
She couldn’t ask Jadzia for help - cool, confident Jadzia who was talented at everything she turned her hand to. She might have called Lupaza, but Lupaza didn’t know her family name and thus didn’t even have a D’jarra. It would be selfish for Nerys to whine about hers. She’d call Lupaza later anyway, find out how she was feeling about it all, but for right now she needed to figure out this artist thing.
An idea came to her. She put a call through.
Tekeny Ghemor’s face appeared on the viewer. He was blinking at her, and the lights were low.
She gasped. ‘I’m sorry! I woke you didn’t I? I didn’t even think to check what time it was on Mathenis...’
‘There’s nothing wrong, then?’ he asked. ‘You’re not in trouble?’
She shook her head. ‘No. No trouble. Unless you count my complete artistic incompetence.’
She saw him relax.
‘You should go back to sleep,’ she said. ‘I’ll catch you another time.’
He smiled at her. ‘Since I’m already awake, you might as well tell me what’s going on.’
So she told him everything that was happening with Akorem Laan and the D’jarras, and while she talked he listened attentively, asking questions to clarify when she rushed.
After what had happened last year, she hadn’t honestly expected Ghemor to keep in touch. Even if he had, she hadn’t quite expected herself to keep it up. After her kidnap by the Obsidian Order, she’d mostly just wanted to forget that the whole thing had happened. But she’d sent him a quick message just to be sure he was settling in all right on Mathenis - it was partly her fault he was exiled, after all. And he’d sent a message back telling her about his new home, and they’d just… kept talking, after that. Sometimes in letters, sometimes over subspace.
He was easy to talk to, and she liked to hear how he was doing. And he was a good listener, and sympathetic. She’d grown fond of him without meaning to.
‘So, you have to become an artist now?’ he asked. ‘Does it have to be painting?’
Nerys shrugged. ‘Not really. I mean - my mother was an icon painter, and it was a tradition in her family for generations, so I thought maybe…’
‘You wanted to follow in her footsteps.’
‘I thought it was worth a try. It still might be. But I don’t even know where to start. It all seems so complicated. I don’t have many memories of my mother, but I remember her paintings. We sold most of them for food, but we had two in the house when I was little. They were so beautiful. I don’t think I could ever make anything like that.’
‘Well, certainly you’d have to work very hard to catch up with someone who was a painter all her life. You could try, if you wanted to - but why not start with something a little less… emotionally resonant? It might be less pressure?’
She sighed. ‘You’re right, that makes sense. But what?’
‘Etching? Sculpture?’
She smiled. ‘Iliana’s a sculptor, isn’t she?’
She’d talked about Iliana in the past tense once, and the look on his face had made sure she’d never do it again.
‘Well remembered,’ he smiled. ‘I had her work all over my house on Cardassia, before I came here. She was very talented. I don’t think she got it from me, I’m not the least bit artistic - but I’m very good at providing encouragement.’
‘I sure could use some,’ said Nerys. ‘I’m not sure sculpting is going to be any easier than painting. How do you decide what to make?’
‘You start with something simple,’ said Tekeny. ‘No need to aim for the stars on your first attempt. Just, make something that you like. What do you like?’
She shifted in the chair, pulling her knees up to her chin. ‘I like… music. I like poetry. I like playing springball. All of those are too complicated to sculpt.’
‘Try thinking of things you liked when you were small,’ he suggested. ‘Favourite colours, favourite animals...’
‘Birds,’ she offered. ‘I like birds. Before I joined the resistance, there was a bird that sang outside my window every morning.’
‘Do you think you could try sculpting a bird?’
‘I don’t know… but I’m going to give it a damn good try.’
‘That’s the spirit.’
She grinned. ‘I’ll keep you posted. Now, go get some sleep.’
He smiled back, and then his image disappeared from the screen.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Computer - give me some clay.’
‘Specify type.’
‘Prophets…! The type you use to sculpt things!’
‘Insufficient information. Please specify...’
The rest of the computer’s response was lost in the growl of frustration.
* * *
‘I still feel kind of guilty,’ she told him, after the whole thing was over. ‘I was so relieved when I found out that I wouldn’t have to leave the station after all, that I didn’t have to become an artist. But now that I’m confronting it, it feels a little like… I don’t know, rejecting my heritage. My mother’s family were artists for generations back - and it all stops with Kira Nerys?’
Tekeny chuckled. ‘You know, there are options in between never picking up a piece of clay again and devoting your life to the study of art. Maybe you don’t feel like it now, but perhaps later on you’ll want to take an art class in your spare time, or just have fun experimenting. And perhaps someday you’ll have children and they’ll all be icon painters.’
‘I guess you’re right,’ she said. ‘Want to see an example of my work?’
‘I admit, I’m intrigued,’ he said.
She dragged the least bad of the clay birds across the desk to show him.
‘It’s beautiful,’ he said.
‘It’s terrible,’ she replied.
‘Oh, yes, that too,’ he agreed, with a faint smile. ‘But it has a certain… charm.’
She huffed. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do with them. I have a dozen of the things just sitting here. I guess later I’ll put them back in the replicator...’
‘You might send one to me...’
She stared. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Completely. Oh, we both know it’ll never win any prizes, but I’d like to have it, anyway. Would you mind?’
‘Well… all right. But if anyone asks, don’t tell them I made it. It’s embarrassing.’
‘Quite right. I’ll tell them it was a small child. Maybe a toddler.’
‘Now you’re pushing your luck,’ she grinned. ‘I’ll choose one for you and send it on the next transport going your way.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’d like that very much.’
After they said their goodbyes, Nerys looked at the birds again. They were pretty pathetic. And she was glad to be staying on Deep Space Nine and doing the job she loved. But Tekeny had a point. Maybe some day she’d try again.