And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Tristan rushed after his father, uncertain how he could stop the horrible experiment that would soon take place, yet fiercely determined to do so nonetheless. He stopped in his tracks, immediately after he rounded a hedge, when he saw that Bochra had been caught into a conversation with...a Cardassian?

What was a Cardassian doing on Romulus? He had the looks of a gardener, including a pair of sheers casually slung over his shoulder. Then Tristan remembered they were right next to the Cardassian embassy. The gardens themselves were of Cardassian design, with their heat-loving flora and infinity pools. It made perfect sense to employ a caretaker from that world. And yet, there was something about this particular gardener. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but somehow he felt this fellow was not at all what he seemed.

"What are we going to do?" Tristan hissed in DeSeve's direction.

"I'm thinking," came the response.

"Think faster!"

"You see, Centurion," he heard the Cardassian explain, "my particular specialty is in growing Edosian orchids."

"How quaint," Bochra returned, moving to past him.

The gardener placed a hand on his shoulder, which the centurion promptly shook off, though the gesture succeeded in halting his stride. "Gardening can be quite a useful hobby, under the right circumstances..."

"Will you-" But Bochra's impatience melted away when the tone of the Cardassian's voice registered in his mind. "Is that so?"

"It is," he answered with a twinkle in his eye, "I have found Endosian orchids to be especially effective."

A tight smile came across Bochra's lips. "And what interest could that possibly be to me?"

"I couldn't help but overhear...your commander seems displeased with you." Considering how loud Sela had yelled, it was more a question of who hadn't heard the reprimand. "There are ways to accelerate your impending promotion, if you get my drift."

For a moment, it was apparent that the offer enticed Bochra. "You're fortunate you're not a Romulan. I should report you."

"But you won't," he said with a confident smile, as he returned to his previous task of trimming the verge. "The name's Garak, plain and simple. I'm here every afternoon, should you require my...services."

DeSeve nudged Tristan with his elbow. "I've got one idea: Sela. Bring her here and she'll start yelling all over again, or she'll send him on some other errand. In any case, he'll forget all about his visit to Taibak's laboratory. I'll stall him when our friend releases him."

"Of course," he returned sarcastically, "You want to get 'the other man's kid' out of the way so you can move in for the kill."

DeSeve huffed in frustration. "Tristan, for once in your paranoid life will you just trust me? If I was going to betray you I would have done it already!"

He was growing weary of constantly having to put himself in these situations over which he had little control, and was forced to place his trust in a man who to all appearances didn't seem to have Tristan or his family's best interests at heart. But what other way was there? At any moment, his father would brush off the Cardassian and charge off to his doom. "Fine! But I'm warning you-"

"Just go, before it's too late!"

Frustrated, Tristan raced back around the hedge—only to bump into yet another figure. He uttered an ancient Breton curse before he thought better of it, then glanced up at the man.

He was a senator, though rather young for that office. "Young" was a relative description, considering his age was likely twice that of Tristan's. "What did you say?" he asked, raising an astonished brow.

Tristan felt like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, even after he realized the man wasn't scolding him for using foul language. "Oh, nothing. I beg forgiveness, senator. How about this odd weather, eh?" It was a lame attempt at a distraction, but the words had once again already escaped.

"There's only one planet where that word is part of vernacular speech," he said, narrowing his eyes.

Tristan nearly swore again, but caught himself in time. "I heard someone say it in the marketplace the other day, and its timbre intrigued me. I have no idea what it means," he added with a nervous laugh.

"Come with me," said the senator, putting a hand on his side. A slight lump under his robe indicated a concealed disruptor. Tristan had no choice but to comply. He was led to one of the more secluded terraces, surrounded by tall hedges, and far enough from the pools and fountains to avoid amplifying their conversation. A scream would easily be heard by any passers-by, but anyone dropping eaves would have to strain to hear a low conversation.

"You're part human, aren't you?" he said, taking a seat in one of the stone chairs.

Tristan sat down, too. "How'd you guess?" So much for blending in better than DeSeve. Why was it he was the one always getting grilled, instead of the other way around?

"You're a pathetic liar." He leaned against the back of the char. "I know every human, and part-human, who dwells on my world. But not you. Tell me, what business does a Breizhian have on Romulus?"

The way he stared at Tristan affirmed there was no trifling with this man. He had pieced together a great deal of information about him, and Tristan likewise deduced that the senator was none other than his mother's first husband, Tævek, the former Ambassador to Nua Breizh. He must have returned early from his offworld conference—or was this when he was supposed to return in the previous timeline?

His mind reeled. This time-travel business was getting more complicated by the minute, not to mention tedious. "You wouldn't believe me..."

Tævek leaned forward, his eyes boring into Tristan's skull. "Try me."

"Alright, I am from Nua Briezh," he admitted. "I'm a relative of Lady Guinevere."

"That much is obvious. Continue." It wasn't a request.

"She doesn't know I'm here."

"Does anyone?"

Tristan swallowed. "Um...not exactly."

"Let me guess," he held his hands together, "you're from the future?"

"Actually...I am," he said firmly.

Tævek held his eyes for several grueling seconds. "For the sake of argument," he said after a while, "let us suppose I believe you. Why are you here?"

"To save the life of someone very dear to me."

Concern flickered ever so slightly across his face. "Guinevere...is in danger?"

"No." As he knew he would be questioned further, he decided he may as well cut the chase. "My father. I came from the future to save my father. Through a time portal."

He paused again, pondering Tristan's words. No doubt, he was adding up the rest of the story. "You're not my son, though, are you?"

"No, Ambassador," he admitted gingerly.

"Hmmm..." He rose, and paced around the terrace. "My wife is an honorable woman, so I must assume that you exist because I will die sooner than she. Since you are here now, I can only conclude that it will happen soon. She will then marry another Romulan, yes?"

Tristan held his breath, and nodded. He hoped against hope that Tævek wouldn't insist on knowing his father's identity.

"Who am I to argue with fate?" he said softly to himself. "There is something I must know. Does your mother...love your father?"

Tristan's mind flashed back to the funeral, when she had locked herself in her room for days after Bochra's death. "Yes, she does. Very much."

"That's all that matters," he replied stoically. "It is good to know she found—will find—what she is looking for. I had hoped that I could give it to her. But," he held his hands behind his back, "I can go to my death peacefully, since I know she will be happy."

Tristan blinked. "You're not going to try to save yourself?"

"We're all going to die sometime, boy. Didn't your father teach you about facing death like a true Romulan?"

"He did. I guess I'm not used to witnessing it. I didn't grow up around many Romulans."

"Then note well my example." The ambassador glanced up at the rain clouds drifting off into the distance. "'It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done;'" he whispered, "'it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.'" He turned when Tristan didn't respond. "Charles Dickens. I know your mother must have read that book to you."

"Yes. Many times," he said, swallowing despite the fact that his throat had gone dry.

"Well then. You had better hurry back to your business."

Not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, Tristan hastened from the terrace, leaving his mother's husband to mull over his approaching fate and the rain clouds. He admired Tævek, he decided. He couldn't help but wonder how things would have unfolded, had fate been kinder.

Sadness welled up in his heart, and sympathy. That was his human side. But his Romulan half drew the line at pity. Tævek was about to face his death heroically, and that was the resolve of every being who possessed a drop of Rihannsu blood. On top of that, his sacrifice was for a worthy lady. No, Tristan refused to pity him. Like his father, Tævek was a model Romulan.

After this mission, however, Tristan resolved he would never again delve into the workings of time and fate. There were simply some things about which he was better off not knowing.

Ha ha! This has turned into a Back To The Future type of story! One more chapter to go! I've already started on it, so hopefully I'll have it up soon. Thanks for reading!