"We can't possibly do that! Who'd clear up the mess?"
My Arnold Rimmer and Mr Flibble cosplay!! Considering the whole outfit only appears for a total of about five minutes out of a ten series tv show, a surprising amount of people recognised him.
Hello! Thank you so much for publishing the end of the Garak story, it was such a good read. Thank you! I wanted to ask about Parmak and Garak, who seem to have been together for a long long time. But who made the first move? :)
Garak offers the context; Parmak makes the move.
So I think I have found a sort of pathway through this, but it’s only my version of events and what do I know. If you don’t want these ideas in your head, stop now. Otherwise, fill yer boots.
Right after the war, during the early days of the Ghemor administration, they are moving from colleagues to friends. Garak is an advisor to Ghemor; also responsible for the ongoing relationship with the Federation. Parmak is advising on health policy. There’s a big moment here when Ghemor strikes down a family policy that Dukat put on the books, one of those neo-fascist things with the father at the head and have lots of babies please, we need soldiers to fight our wars. Ghemor goes further than striking down the law; the same legislation decriminalises homosexuality and strikes off various laws about bastardy for the first time in Cardassia’s history. This is a massive moment for Garak, for obvious reasons, which Parmak observes and thinks, “Oh, there’s more going on here than I realised”. This doesn’t go further because Garak takes on the job of ambassador to the Federation.
The next problem is Ghemor’s assassination; obviously devastating all round. Garak comes back to Cardassia, prepared to stay and help stabilize things; he and Parmak reconnect. It rapidly becomes clear that the frontrunner to take over, Rakena Garan, hates Garak’s guts, and that Garak staying on Cardassia isn’t going to help. So he says again, “I’m sorry, I’m going back to Paris.”
They’re in touch at a distance, warmly, but mostly for professional reasons, not least that Garak wants Parmak’s insight on what’s happening at home. About a year later, Parmak goes to Earth as part of delegation trying to get more assistance in public health programmes. Garak is this sparkling figure on the diplomatic scene; everyone wants to be at his parties; he’s also working like hell; nobody can forget about the Cardassians. He invites Parmak back to his apartment after one of these receptions for a drink and to talk shop, and Parmak sees this completely other side to him: living alone; clear there’s never anyone else there. Parmak wonders why he’s been allowed inside. Over the course of his stay in Paris, they start carefully pushing through the barriers between them.
There are two significant moments: firstly, when they talk about the interrogation. My reading of this is that Garak goes into that interrogation with two goals in mind. Firstly, there’s Tain’s agenda, to get evidence to ruin Parmak’s father (who is a not very competent protestor against the Occupation); secondly, there’s Garak’s agenda, which is to get information that will break Natima Lang’s networks (Lang and Parmak are old friends from university). Garak often found himself juggling what Tain wants against what Cardassia needs. Parmak calculated at the time that he could save Lang by giving up his father. Garak, in Paris, tells him that he was correct, and made the right call, and that’s obviously a huge liberation for Parmak. In another conversation, Garak explains about Tain. Many things become clearer as a result.
The rest of the time that Parmak is out there, they move steadily towards intimacy, with Garak completely taking cues and direction from Parmak. They’re both lonely, and sad, and extremely keen to put the past behind them. Also, they basically just get on very well. After that, it’s a long-distance relationship (a few trips both ways) with Parmak becoming Garak’s chief sounding board and the trusted person with whom Garak is able to confirm that he’s not doing something Tain-ish (because he doesn’t trust his own judgement). Parmak’s always thinking, “I do wish he’d just come back home and we could spend time together properly…” (Sir, you've been off in Paris for so long!) Which Garak does (So what'd I miss?), but to run for castellan. They get married in Paris a few months into Garak’s term as castellan, during a state visit to Earth, in a completely private ceremony at the ambassador’s residence (Akret is there). So they’ve been together about 9 years by the time of The End of This Day’s Business, married for 5. They do eventually make that trip to Paris that Garak promises at the start, in time for the tenth anniversary of getting married.
What’s the attraction? Do I need to explain the attraction of Elim Garak? At this point in his life, he is at the top of his game, ridiculously charismatic, witty, and trying his hardest to be the best version of himself. Parmak is as charmed as everyone else, although he’s not blind to the realities of the situation. Parmak also believes in the political project, and knows that he’s a crucial element in that. Meanwhile, Garak can’t quite believe he’s persuaded this handsome, cultured, gentle, and sophisticated man to hang around with him: “Hey, everyone! Look at my boyfriend! Isn’t he great?!”
I'm never going to write this whole story, but why not have the important bit? With thanks to @tinsnip for the idea and at least one line.
Arc de Triomphe
Paris, 2381
The ambassador’s private rooms were unexpectedly modest. The door opened straight onto a small sitting room, with a neat writing desk in one corner and a little kitchen area to the right. The room was warm, the lamps dim, like a little piece of home transported to an alien world. He must have become good at doing that, over the years. Music had started playing when the door opened, very quietly, taking the silence off the place for anyone who might be returning here alone. Parmak recognised one of Tarn’s nocturnes.
The ambassador pushed the door shut behind them. He took Parmak’s jacket and hung it up, with his own, on hangers on the back of the door. He paused for a moment to brush the creases out from them both. Then: “I’ll make tea, if that suits,” he said. “Or did you want another drink? There’s wine, there’s kanar—”
“Tea, please.”
The ambassador went off to the kitchen and set the kettle to boil. Not replicated then; very hospitable. Parmak took stock of his surroundings. Two big windows – it was dark outside, now – took up the wall opposite the door. A rather shabby chaise longue ran parallel to one window, with a reading lamp behind; there were two or three woollen throws heaped there, and a paperback book on top of these, open, face down. A low round table bearing a kotra board partway through a game, another couple of books, and a bowl of leya fruit. Two armchairs, placed round the table. Both of these were covered with books and padds; they clearly did not see much service as seats for guests. So who was the other kotra player? Did he play against himself?
Parmak went over to the chaise longue and picked up the book. It was written in Earth Standard so he reached into his pocket for his translator film. Giovanni’s Room. He didn’t know it. He put the book back in its place and looked round. There was a big bookcase against the wall by the entrance filled with books; a free-standing full-length wooden mirror stood beside this. He went over to the bookcase in search of clues, looking for some kind of key to the man. Paperbacks, mostly, their spines creased and worn. There were a dozen or so books in their own language, although most were in Earth Standard, and a handful in two or three other languages – could he read all of these without assistance? Parmak cast his eye over those titles he could decipher. Possession of more than a few of them would have got him sent to a labour camp, in the old Cardassia, for various crimes running from sedition through to deviancy. Had he read them back there, back then, on Order business, perhaps? Or only when he landed safely here?
The ambassador, coming back with a tray, saw him looking at the books. The ghost of a smile passed over his lips. He put the tray down on the table, and started clearing the chairs so that they could sit down. “I need a better system,” he said, apologetically.
Parmak helped him move the books, stacking them on the floor by the side of the table. Their arms brushed against each other at one point; the ambassador cleared his throat, swallowed, and put a little distance between them. When Parmak was seated, he poured the tea and handed it across. Parmak breathed in the welcoming scent of redleaf. The ambassador sat down. Before picking up his own cup, he loosened his collar, and then – quickly, precisely – took off his shoes. Black leather ankle boots, in fact; supple, smart, and expensive-looking. Like an actor taking off a costume. He tucked the boots neatly, side by side, out of the way under the table. Then he picked up his cup, and sat back in his chair, legs stretched out in front, feet crossed. He sat contemplatively, tea in his right hand, head propped up on his left.
“I think tonight was a success,” the ambassador said, after a moment or two.
“Oh, I think so too, most certainly.”
“Good. Hard to tell, sometimes. There’s always so much going on. More than one man can keep tabs on, really.”
Even an Order man? “There’s Akret.”
The ambassador smiled. “That’s true. She doesn’t miss much.” He checked the time. “I hope she’s home now…”
He fell silent again. His features began to alter, subtly. More of the costume being shed? He began to look pensive. Careworn. Lonely?
Why have I been granted admittance here?
“So, doctor,” he said. “What do you think of Paris now that you’ve seen something of it?”
“I think,” said Parmak, “that it’s one of the most beautiful cities I’ve ever seen.”
A soft smile changed his face once again. “It is beautiful, isn’t it? Still, though…” He stopped, and sighed. “Well, there are considerably worse places to which one can be sent, let me assure you.”
“It is a long way from home.”
“Yes,” he said, quietly. He pushed out a breath. “Well. It is what it is.”
But, palpably, he would prefer to be at home. Did Garan know, Parmak wondered, exactly how much she was asking, sending him all the way out here?
“So what would you be doing this evening back in Ses’erakh, doctor? Where do you live now?”
“I have a little place on the west side of Paldar,” said Parmak.
“Very nice.”
“Well, it was. My family home was there…”
He saw the other man looking steadily at him. He would know this, already, of course.
“Well, so, after the Fire, I rebuilt where I knew, as I think so many of us did.”
“Yes.”
“If somewhat more modestly. Three whole rooms! Quite the luxury, these days. I have a small trikolat that I have restored, which I play—”
“That’s not an easy instrument, or so I understand.”
“I didn’t say I played it well.”
“No,” he laughed. “You didn’t.”
“I suppose, on an average evening, I would come home, listen to music, play some music, eat…”
“Do you cook?”
“I cook about as well as I play the trikolat. Do you cook?”
“Yes, I love to cook,” said the ambassador. “Though I don’t, much, on the whole… There are so many lunches and dinners and receptions that when I’m back here I hardly feel the need. Such a hard life,” he said, waving a hand with just a touch of that considered flamboyance that distinguished his public persona. “How I long to be home eating Federation rations and sieving water.”
Parmak laughed. “It’s not that bad these days.”
“Well, good, that’s rather by way of the point of me being here, isn’t it? So you like music, you play… I won’t say ‘badly’, let’s say ‘for pleasure’, and you cook… what, under duress?”
“That more or less captures it.”
“What else do you like to do, doctor?”
“I read a lot,” he gestured back to the bookshelf behind him.
“It fills the hours, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does,” he said. “But it’s no substitute for conversation.”
The ambassador was staring at him. Bright blue eyes. He looked away, quickly, at the wall beyond Parmak’s shoulder. “No,” he said. “It’s not.”
The music had come to an end. The room was becoming still, with a faint threat of turning oppressive. Parmak put down his cup, stood, and walked over to the window. “Tell me about the view,” he said. “What am I looking at?”
Behind him, he heard the ambassador sigh. After a moment he came to stand beside him. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he was leaning slightly away. “We’re… on the river. The Jardin des Tuileries is right ahead, on the other side.” He pointed. “The Pyramide du Louvre, to the right… That’s the point of the Obélisque, there, to the left…” He continued pointing as he spoke. “If you carried on that way you’d reach the Champs-Élysées… the Arc de Triomphe… la Tombe du Soldat inconnu… As you can see, I’m very favourably situated.”
“Yes, but where’s the Eiffel Tower?”
“Oh!” He laughed and gestured to the left and slightly behind. “That way. Round a bend in the river. You can’t see it from here. But some nights there’s a beacon on the top, that moves around. Like a lighthouse. You can see that. Some nights.” His hands came to rest, flat, on the windowsill.
“Like I say. It’s beautiful.”
“It is. Very, very beautiful, and very, very alien.”
Yes, lonely. Gently, Parmak touched the back of the other man’s hand. The ambassador made a move to pull back, so he caught his fingers, entwining them. “Look at me.”
The ambassador stared down at their hands. “This wasn’t why I…”
“No. This is me. Look at me.”
The ambassador looked up, but slightly to one side. Parmak put his fingertips against his chin, and moved his head around until they were, by necessity, looking directly at each other.
“Better.” He leaned in, and placed a soft kiss on the other man’s cheek. The ambassador’s eyes closed, and he drew in a breath that was almost a sob. His eyes flickered open again; they were wide and wet and… was that scared? Whyever would he be scared?
“You don’t have to do this,” he whispered.
“No. But I want to.”
He put his hands upon the other man’s shoulders, and leaned in to kiss him full on the mouth. The ambassador all but crumpled against him. His right hand was still on the windowsill; the left hand flailed around for a moment, unsure, it seemed, of what to do, before settling on the side of Parmak’s face, pushing up into his hair. The other hand joined in, eventually. They kissed for some time, until the ambassador fell back. He was trembling; he looked… undone. This was really not what Parmak had expected. So what had he expected, then? Someone more in command of the whole situation? Yes, someone more like that. Life brought many surprises.
“It’s been a while,” the ambassador said, with a small laugh.
“Mm,” said Parmak, happily. “Me too. It’s nice, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it is. May we go again?”
“Oh, I think we should, yes…”
They did, for quite a while. The ambassador’s arms came up to circle around his neck. He was a touch shorter and had to tip up his head… Parmak ran his hand gently up and down his back. He was relaxing, yes… gaining confidence, yes, yes… He was rather good at this... Better than good, in fact… What else was he good at? Parmak, mumbling, said, “The bedroom?”
“Mm? Oh. That way…” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the Arc de Triomphe.
Parmak looked across the room. “Left-hand door or right-hand door?”
“Oh. Right, go right… The other is… the other is the bathroom…”
“Mm. Helpful information. Perhaps for later.”
---
Later, they lay quietly together. The ambassador’s head was resting on his chest; his hand upon his stomach. Parmak watched the strange lights of an alien world dance across the bedroom walls, and reflected upon the unanticipated turns that life could take. A long time ago, after a period of great pain, he had made the decision to meet the cruelties of the world without fear and with love. He was by that time veteran enough to know that he was rarely, if ever, likely to be repaid in the same coin, but sometimes, sometimes, the balance was settled.
The ambassador was sleeping. Somewhere, in the midst of this unanticipated tangle of bodies and limbs and sheets, he had found peace. Parmak studied the contours of his face for a while. He felt as if he had been given the keys to a strongbox, which, upon opening, turned out to conceal all manner of unexpected treasures – precious jewels, rare books, something quick-moving and subtle for which he had, as yet, no name – all hoarded away until the day someone came by, and saw their worth and claimed them. Parmak was, by nature, a gentle man, temperate – but he was not without reserves of passion, and, lying here, looking at that sleep-softened face, he felt a powerful desire come over him to protect. To keep safe.
He kissed the other man, very gently, on the top of his head. He turned, to hold him better. Then he closed his eyes, giving himself over to the warmth that lay between them, and whatever might lie beyond.
Oh for god's sake this is getting ridiculous now. This LITERALLY did not exist last night and then I woke up and it was there. Stupid brain.
Sacré-Cœur
Paris, 2381
Since they both had jobs – not to mention responsibilities to their government – they arranged to reconvene for lunch. Parmak, returning to the residence at the agreed time, came to the door that led into the office of the ambassador’s aide. It was standing slightly open. Hearing voices inside, he stopped. Was it eavesdropping? No, not really. Just taking a moment, to collect himself.
“So you’re out for lunch today,” said Akret.
“Mm,” said the ambassador.
“And is Dr. Parmak joining you?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, he is. He’ll be here any minute. Why?”
“No reason. Just asking.”
“Just asking.”
“He’s handsome, isn’t he?”
“Mey…”
Now this was proving irresistible, even for a man as scrupulous as Parmak. He checked the time (he was still early enough) and settled in to eavesdrop for a little longer.
“I’m just saying that he’s handsome. Also, you’ve never brought anyone home before. In the six years that I’ve worked for you.”
“How would you even know, Mey?”
“Oh, I’d know. Anyway, I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss.”
“I’m not the one… It’s complicated, yes?”
Was it complicated, thought Parmak. Was it really? Certainly they could make it that way if they wanted. But that seemed… unnecessary?
“It really isn’t that complicated,” she said. “You’ve not looked this cheerful in… Actually, you’ve never looked this cheerful. Not in—”
“The six years you’ve worked for me, yes, I know. I didn’t realise I was such a permanent rain cloud on the blue skies of your days, Mey.”
“Not a permanent rain cloud, sir, no. But you do have a tendency to mope, every so often. Anyway, enjoy your lunch. You look nice.”
“Mope… Yes, we shall. Thank you.”
“Apropos of nothing,” she added, “your afternoon and evening have, by some miracle, become completely free.”
There was a pause. Then, quietly: “Thank you, Mey.”
Parmak coughed, to alert them to his presence, tapped on the door, and poked his head round. The ambassador was leaning back against Akret’s desk, arms folded. He stood up, quickly, when Parmak entered. He was particularly smart today, Parmak thought; black suit, charcoal grey short coat, black gloves, and a pale blue wool scarf that set off his eyes. “Dr. Parmak,” he said. “It’s good to see you.”
“Good to see you too.” He glanced at the ambassador’s aide. “Hello, Akret,” he said, and smiled at her. She held his eye and smiled back, nodding slowly. Yes, she would surely be a most helpful accomplice in all this. Whatever this was going to be.
The ambassador came to join him at the door; they pressed palms and smiled at each other. He looked happy. “Shall we go?”
“Let’s,” said Parmak, and followed him out. As they left, Akret called out after them.
“Have a nice time, boys.”
Parmak laughed. The ambassador sighed. “One day,” he said, “she’ll be the end of me.”
The brasserie he’d chosen was just round the corner. They clearly knew him well there. They sat outside, working their way through steak au poivre and salad and a bottle of red wine, and talking about music. Their tastes more or less overlapped, and where they didn’t there was potential for entertainment – if not, necessarily, enjoyment – on both sides. Near the end of the meal, as the ambassador picked over a selection of cheeses, Parmak cracked the crust of a crème brûlée and said, “Tell me about the books.”
“Which books?”
“You know the ones I mean. On your bookshelf. The banned books.”
The ambassador’s mouth twitched. “There are no banned books any longer.”
“Yes, but there were. When did you read them?”
The ambassador’s eyes slid away from his face and fixed on a point slightly behind him. That was going to take some work, wasn’t it?
“Some I picked up here,” he said. “The human literature… that started in exile. Know your enemy. Lang’s books I mostly read when I was in the Order. Well, she was under surveillance, of course. Like I say – know your enemy.”
“Quite.”
“And one or two I read a very long time ago when I was undercover at U of U and infiltrated a student reading group.”
Parmak sat back in his chair. “Is that true?”
“Completely true.”
“Really?”
“I’m not lying, today.”
“I suppose I did ask.”
“Yes, you did.” He leaned back too, mirroring him. He looked relaxed, but then he was a consummate performer. “I enjoyed my term at U of U,” he said, airily. “I would have liked to have stayed longer. Not that I asked permission. I very much doubt my father would have agreed.”
Ah, so he did know who his father was… They would return to this, Parmak predicted. When he was ready. He didn’t let information slip, not without a plan for it. “Given the choice, what would you have studied?”
“Political ethics.”
Parmak laughed out loud. “Now that’s a lie!”
“Yes, I admit, that is a lie. But the rest is true. And I would have studied literature, of course. What else?”
“But you didn’t.”
“Evidently not.” The Cardassian Ambassador to the United Federation of Planets looked out across the busy street. “Oh well. It seems to have worked out more or less satisfactorily. I do wonder sometimes what my life might have been like, had that route been allowed. I imagine I would have died in the Fire, clutching my books to my chest.”
“Or been exiled, for writing seditious novels?”
The ambassador’s eyes glittered. “How do you know I wasn’t?”
“Oh, I wish that were true!”
“Alas, I wasn’t even exiled for reading them. Since, as I say, that was part of my job, on and off.”
After lunch, they went to the Musée Rodin, where they looked at a statue of two doomed lovers kissing, and another which seemed to show half-a-dozen starving officials being dragged away after the siege of their city ended badly. The ambassador, arms folded and head tilted to one side, said, “I’m beginning to regret my choice of venue.” He turned away. “The garden’s nice.”
The garden was nice; formal and meticulously laid-out. The bronzes displayed were powerful and strong. Parmak did not dislike them. In one corner, there was a massive frieze depicting two huge doors covered in small figures each of which appeared to be in agony. This, according to the label, was called the Gates of Hell. The ambassador, staring at the frieze, said, “My father, for the record, was Enabran Tain.”
Even prepared, as he was, for the eventuality that they would be returning to the topic of the ambassador’s paternity, Parmak had to take a moment to recover from that one. He went and sat down on a nearby bench, the fingertips of his right hand pressed against his temple. The ambassador came to sit beside him. He leaned forwards; his hands were turning over and over.
“Well,” said Parmak. “That explains a great deal.”
“Doesn’t it?” agreed the ambassador. He looked at him directly, very briefly, then back down at his hands. He studied them closely, front and back, front and back. “If you decided to leave now, I wouldn’t be offended.”
Parmak stared at the figures on the frieze, each one trapped in their own particular torment. “We heard about his death at home, you know,” he said. “Dukat made a special broadcast. I have to admit, I celebrated that night with friends. The death of the Order…”
“Yes, well, that was a… rather more difficult time for me, but your reaction is perfectly understandable. Are you leaving now?” His voice, despite his phenomenal self-control, held a faintly plaintive edge.
“No,” said Parmak. “No, I’m not.” And there it was; decision made, and it turned out not to be a complicated one, after all.
“Well. Good. I’m very glad to hear that.” He swallowed, and put his hands down flat upon his knees. “Shall we go somewhere else?”
“Let’s.”
They went to the Jardin des Tuileries and talked shop. The ambassador looked glad to be on safer topics, as was Parmak, and glad to have someone as a sounding board. So that was another thing they could do together, in this future they were making up as they went along. Somewhere in the shade of the trees they switched to first names. As they wandered back across the river, Parmak thought, I wonder when I’ll persuade him it’s safe to hold hands?
At the Musée d’Orsay, they stood in front of a pink and gold and grey painting of an old palace emerging from the fog. The scene overflowed with water and light. What a place this was, marvelled Parmak, this Earth of his. No wonder he loved being here, even if it wasn’t home.
“This isn’t Paris, is it?”
“No,” he said, “that’s London. Not far from here. Let’s go, next time you visit.” Panic flared up in the ambassador’s eyes. “You are visiting again, aren’t you?”
“Elim,” he said, patiently. “Of course I am.”
They went back across the river at a bridge marked by a statue of a man called ‘Thomas Jefferson’. Through the course of the rest of the afternoon, they walked steadily uphill. In Montmartre, they stopped for coffee and patisserie, and came the closest to touching since they’d woken up holding each other that morning. But not quite. At the top of the hill, rosy in the last light of the afternoon, the cathedral stood before them wildly and transgressively, completely unlike anything that had ever existed at home. Parmak was enchanted. “What a place this is,” he said. “What a world this is.”
“That… wasn’t actually what I brought you up here to see,” said the ambassador, apologetically. He pointed behind them, over his shoulder. Parmak, turning, saw the whole of Paris laid out below him, like a gift. The daylight was golden, and the black lines of Eiffel Tower stood out sharply. As advertised, there was a beacon at the top, shifting round.
“You implied last night that you wanted to see the Eiffel Tower,” he said.
Implied… Parmak covered his laugh, which might have been construed as unkind, but in fact would have signified delight. “Yes, I did imply that.”
They stood and watched the sun set, and the city come alive with lights. The beacon continued on its circular course. Under the cover of the growing darkness, the ambassador reached out to take his hand, and rested his head against him.
“I think,” he murmured, staring out, “that I’m in danger of falling in love.”
“Perfectly understandable,” said Parmak. “Shall we go home?”
Back at the apartment, Parmak observed that the two armchairs had been replaced by a sofa. From the way the ambassador’s eyes narrowed, Parmak suspected Akret’s mischievous hand at work. For the moment, however, it served only as a repository for their jackets. In the coming days, weeks, months, years, Parmak would realise exactly what it meant that the ambassador had not stopped to hang up their clothes. But that was one of many things they both still had to learn.
Now that I'm safely past (I hope) my two consecutive Years of Hell, I can return to the project that I was slowly working on before the shit hit the fan, i.e. archiving Garak and Bashir fanfiction from the late 90s/early 00s by the incredible writer Mevennen (I'm archiving with their permission). Seriously, you should read their stuff. May I recommend for starters:
Nom de Plume: Garak has a lot of spare time on his hands. How should he fill it? By writing a novel, of course.
Physician, Heal Thyself: What Garak was up to during 'Doctor Bashir, I Presume' (seriously, this is so good I'm always amazed not to see it on screen).
A Dance to the Music of Time: On Bajor, during the Occupation, Elim Garak meets a traveller in time and the love of his life. (Warnings for drug use, addiction, rape/non-con elements.)
I got asked a really interesting question on AO3 about The End of This Day's Business, and how it would have looked different if it had been officially published.
It really set me thinking, particularly about questions of canonicity, so I've posted my reply here, for my own reference, if nothing else.
My answer to [how it would have looked different if officially published] is that I don’t know, only that it would have not looked like this – but perhaps not for the reasons one might think. This narrative is obviously a continuation of those beta storylines, but it is intentionally structured by on-screen narratives from the rebooted franchise (e.g. the synth attack, the Romulan refugee crisis). It moves constantly between stories that existed in my mind before even A Stitch in Time was published, and the years of stories that came afterwards. It’s intended to shift between alpha canon, beta canon, head canon – if we want a word for it, we might call it transcanonical.
It is a story that is not shaped by the professional requirements of writing for the various audiences of a commercially produced mass market paperback, but written entirely for the emotional and intellectual pleasure of the author (who of course fondly hopes she might temporarily beguile readers to follow her as she tells this tale). It’s the product of my roots in fandom, of two decades of the incredible privilege of participating in the production of a multi-authored continuous narrative, followed by the creative liberation of being released from that project, and the cathartic joy of writing a queer Garak in a book for the rebooted franchise – all of which enabled a reenergised return. It is my shout of ‘no pasarán’ at this precise political moment in the only way I know how. It is exactly what I wanted.
Does it need to be official? I think it needs only to exist, on its own terms. I’m so glad I made the decision to complete it, and to publish it.
The End of This Day's Business, the lost last transcanonical work of Eleta Preloc, Cardassia's greatest dead writer.
It’s almost the last day on the job for Castellan Elim Garak. One or two loose threads to tie up and then he can retire home to his books and his garden and his doctors. Surely everything will work out fine?
What might have happened after The Crimson Shadow and Enigma Tales.
Feel free to ask me anything, or Eleta for that matter, about this, or anything else.
I’m doing these little guys for $25 + $5 shipping (US & Canada only, I will have to calculate anywhere else!) and this is optional but if you pay an additional $5 I can send you a little display easel to go with it! they’re really nice, they have non-slip grips on the feet and they fold up! the panels are sturdy and 1/4 of an inch thick. you can also choose your finish! this one is high gloss but I also have satin and matte. you don’t have to get glitter but it’s not any more/less if you do/don’t!
you can hmu through IM here or through etsy (my shop link is in my bio!) and I’m available for larger commissions as well!
our painting ripens red is my fic for Femslesh February! (Rated E, No Warnings)
Here is a little illustration I made while writing this story - both the fic and the art have become very dear to me and I hope you can enjoy them as much as I do! 💖
