Icestorm (part 8) written by Maddie Mumford

Note :
This story was originally printed in the 'We'll Always Have Paris', Vol. 2 fanzine available through Unicorn Press

"No, Melchor." Paris' shoulders straightened and he rose up on his knees despite the restraints binding his arms. "No way in hell. You'll get your show tomorrow. Perhaps more than you bargained for. But only as long as Kes stays here."

"Oh, Paris, have we found your weakness?" Sarcasm dripped from Melchor's quietly spoken words as he stepped closer to Kes, his hand stroking the tousled blondeness of her hair. "Have we found the one thing that gets under that seemingly impenetrable hide of yours ? Is it possible that devil-may-care, Tom Paris, who cares for no one but himself, has an 'Achilles heel'? I thought it *was* just a rumor, a passing fancy, but maybe all that shipboard chatter about you and Kes was true. It did amaze me that Neelix would allow his lady love to accompany *you* to such a lovely place as this. This makes things much more interesting. Maybe," Melchor stopped as though savoring a forbidden thought, then continued, "Maybe, tomorrow, if Kes feels the same for you, she'll find a way to bargain for you, to save you from certain humiliation."

Melchor said nothing more. There was no need to. Kes knew full well what he wanted in return for Paris.

"But you have the night to think of that don't you." Melchor nodded, false congeniality in his smile and his tone. "Until then, I will leave you 'lovebirds' alone. Think about what I've suggested, Kes. Think well."

With that Melchor turned and strode out of the cave, taking the Kazon warrior with him. Turning slowly to where Paris still knelt, Kes got down on her knees beside him, embarrassed by her failure.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, not wanting to look him directly in the eyes.

"Nothing to be sorry about," he answered gently.

She looked up to find him watching her intently. Alarmed by the strain she heard hidden in his voice and words, she quickly forgot her own discomfort, as concern for him swept through her. Melchor had left her with little more than a light, but she could at least determine how badly Paris was injured. Recovering her lantern, she placed it on the ground beside him.

"Let me untie your hands."

"That's okay," Paris said quickly.

Too quickly, Kes decided. "Yes, I will. Don't argue."

"Kes, don't--"

Paris grunted softly, under his breath, when she bumped him again. He *was* hurt, she didn't need a tricorder to know that, and it went beyond the darkening bruise on his cheek. Carefully, using her hands, eyes and senses, she examined him as the Doctor had shown her. His face was cool, but far too pale, breathing and pulse elevated, perhaps from anger, and he was in pain. She soon determined why.

"Your hands."

Paris looked away, jaw clenched. "It's nothing."

"It's more than nothing, Tom Paris."

"But there's nothing you can do right now, Kes."

Cautiously, making sure she did not jostle his arms or hands, she studied the ropes he was bound with. Woven of a tough, metallic fiber, they were more like heavy cable than rope, the intricate knot sealed, with a melted substance that made untying impossible, and she had nothing with which to cut the bindings.

"What did they do?" she asked softly, although she did not need to ask. His hands were swollen, the fingers twisted and discolored. It was all too obvious what had occurred.
Paris said nothing.

"Melchor?" Kes asked. "Did he---"

"No." Paris swallowed hard, steadying himself before he continued. "It was the Kazon. Melchor just made a few suggestions. He's good you know. Better than I ever expected. Good at finding the best ways..." Paris' voice faded, his eyes closed against the memory.

"The best ways to hurt."

Paris nodded. "He told them I was a pilot. Asked them to think of something 'appropriate'." He was silent for a long moment, the he looked at Kes. "I guess he wanted to make sure I didn't fly out of here in the shuttle he's got hidden in the woods."

"So they broke your hands."

A shudder went through the young helmsman, and he nodded.

"Oh, Tom, I had a hypospray. If I'd known, I would have had time to take care of the pain."

"It's okay, Kes. Everything is pretty well numb from my shoulders down right now." Paris looked at her, his steady blue eyes, troubled. "I'd hoped you had gotten away."

Caressing his face with a gentle, soothing touch, Kes brushed the sweat soaked hair from his forehead. She could feel the exhaustion, desperation and fear radiating from him, even though he appeared outwardly calm. It startled her to realize that the weaker he became the more intensely she was able to read his unspoken emotions. It made her decision that much easier.

"When he comes back in the morning," Kes said, firmly, "I'll do whatever he wants."

"No." Paris choked the word in a voice worn to harshness. "No, Kes. You can't."

"Tom," Kes laid a tiny hand on each side of his face, her fingers gentle, lifting his face to hers. "I have to. It's the only chance you have."

"No," emotion cracked in Paris voice. "It won't do any good. He'll use you, and nothing will change for me." His voice dropped to a rasping whisper. "I won't let you."

The naked hurt in Paris voice, brought tears to Kes' eyes. She hoped he could not see them, and she fought to keep them from her voice.

"Ever since the storm, you've struggled to protect me," Kes said simply, "Now it is my turn to protect you. I can stop him from hurting you any more."

"That's just the point, Kes." Paris words were edged with exhaustion and pain. "It no longer matters what either of us do."

"Don't say that."

"But it's true, Kes. Degrading yourself won't stop him from hurting me. In his mind, I'm getting exactly what I deserve. Maybe he's right." There was a moment of hesitation. "Besides, he can't do a damned thing to me, that hasn't already been done, by someone else."

Shame burned in Paris eyes, in the rigidly clenched jaw.

"Can't you understand. You can't give in to him. Not for me."

Kes was startled and frightened as she watched the last remnants of his spirit crumble. Despite her embracing fingers, he looked down. Paris' voice was barely audible and she leaned forward to catch his words.

"I'm not worth it."

Kes lifted his face to hers once more, shocked by the sadness she saw there, the years of self doubt, of hiding pain the pitiless words of others caused, of always being made to feel less than he was. She had suspected, but until now, had not fully understood, his private demons.

"Promise me," he whispered. "When he comes back in the morning, you'll refuse to cooperate with him. Promise."

"Oh, Tom--"

"Promise."

Kes nodded, silently.

With that, some of the tension drained from Paris rigidly held shoulders. His body slumped against the pole at his back, his head tilted backwards, and his eyes closed, calm resignation settling his features in a sleep-like peace. Her senses told her, he was far from being at peace, but some of the worry had evaporated. Opening his eyes, he looked at her.

"You should try to get some rest," he said.

"Everyone keeps telling me that," Kes snapped more harshly than she intended, frustration and anger filling her. "I hardly feel like resting."

"But you need to. You'll need your strength tomorrow." He swallowed hard. "We both will."

Kes knew arguing would be futile, though her mind churned with silent fury, at Melchor, at the Kazon. She felt an anger she had never known when she was a captive herself, yet now the simmering passion that had been building in her threatened to spill out. How could Melchor treat a fellow human in such a fashion? She could almost understand the Kazon, but Melchor?

Paris read the distress in her features because his mouth quirked into a small sarcastic grin, "Makes you want to scream doesn't it?"

Kes nodded not trusting herself to speak.

"I had a friend, when I was a kid. She used to always say, 'if you feel like screaming, and don't scream, you'll get fat.'"

Kes looked at him, puzzled by the non sequitur.

Then Paris forced a subdued laugh. "She used to go out into the woods and rant and rave and kick trees until she got it out of her system."

"Did it work?"

"Seemed to work for her. She never got fat. Broke her toe once, but she never got fat."

Kes was about to protest the absurdity of the story, then realized its purpose. He was trying to distract her, put her at ease and she was grateful for his efforts, for the comfort his words brought, however slight, and for his selfless strength.

"Try to get some rest, Kes. There really is nothing else you can do. We'll have to wait 'til morning, then play it by ear."

She hesitated a moment longer, not wanting to admit to the tiredness she suddenly felt, but it must have shown in her face.

"Lie down. Use my knees for a pillow if you like."

Kes paused, then lowered herself to the hard packed dirt of the cave floor. Settling with her back toward him, being careful not to jostle his arms, she rested her head against his knees so that he could not read her expression. When morning came, she would find a way to shield him from further harm. She had the means. Slowly, the anger drained from her, and in its place was left unsettling fear and deep sorrow. Unbidden tears formed, slipping silently from her eyes, wetting the fabric of his uniform, until she cried herself to sleep.

"How touching."

Kes sat up, awakened by the voice, and the scrape of boots on the cave floor. She glanced over her shoulder to Paris, and her throat tightened with concern. He remained frozen in place, head tilted backward and eyes closed. She knew he had not rested. His face had gone from pale to ashen, the color drained from his lips, leaving them a drawn, gray line. Despite his lecture to her, he had apparently not slept and when he looked at her his eyes, darkened by pain, smoldered in fatigue sunken hollows.
He nodded at her, the slightest ghost of a genuine smile touched his face, brought a brief light into his eyes. The smile was meant only for her, to remind her of her promise, and was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a deadly calm she found disturbing. He intended on accepting whatever fate, and Melchor, served him, in the hopes that she would escape unscathed. But she would not.
Coming slowly to her feet she stood an arms length from Melchor.

"I've thought about what you proposed..." she began.

"Kes, NO!"

"I'm sorry, Tom."

Kes rose with the fluid grace of a hunting cat, not of someone who had alternately, in the last three days, nearly frozen to death, and spent two nights sleeping in cold caves on stone floors. She was tousled, and her clothing smudged, but she exuded an air of feline vigor he found unexpected and which Melchor, obviously found exciting.

"Kes." Paris called her name a second time, knowing full when what she had in mind, knowing he couldn't stop her if Melchor took her up on her offer, and yet he struggled against the bonds that held him helpless. But she did not, or more likely would not, listen and he could do nothing to stop her.

Kes moved slightly closer to Melchor, close but not quite touching, "I need to go outside," she stated simply.

"You will. We all will."

"No," Kes said more firmly, "*I* need to go outside. Please. It's been a long night, and I need a minute."

Paris shook his head, and despite the gravity of their situation, had to stifle his laughter. When he realized what Kes was actually requesting, the crestfallen look on Melchor's face, though brief, was worth every ounce of discomfort. Melchor was certain he had won, so self assured, convinced Kes was willing to do whatever he wanted. Paris had to admit, he had been convinced himself, and chagrined to admit, he had jumped to the wrong conclusion. Of course, Melchor might still prove to be right. Kes might be planning to go along with his proposal, but for one glorious moment, Melchor lost control of the situation.
Of course the moment was brief and short lived. He nodded to one of his Kazon companions, who roughly took Kes by the arm and led her toward the mouth of the cave.

"Is it dawn already?" Paris asked nonchalantly, covering his momentary urge to laugh with a smart remark.

Melchor's face darkened. "You think you are so superior. Even now." With a nod towards the second Kazon warrior, Melchor said, "Cut him loose."

The young Kazon drew a long knife from his belt, stepped behind Paris and quickly severed the cords that held him bound and immobile. With no gentleness, he grabbed the young Human firmly by the arm and jerked him to his feet. Though he had thought his arms numb from lack of circulation, the sudden sharp movement elicited a tidal wave of pain that left Paris battling to maintain his balance. His stomach churned, and despite his best effort, a cry had escaped him. He quickly clamped his lips shut, his long, in drawn, shuddering breaths the only sound in the cavern, until the silence was broken by Melchor's self satisfied chuckle.

"Not so tough," Melchor said. "Not so tough."

"So what happens now, Melchor?" Paris asked when he could trust his voice again. The Kazon stood close, hand still clamped around Paris' upper arm. The subtle pressure was sufficient to send jolts of pain through arms that hung uselessly at his sides.

"As soon as your lady friend returns, you'll know."

"But it isn't dawn yet. You said dawn."

"Quiet." Melchor snapped. "This is my game. I make the rules." Melchor's hand moved to the phaser at his side, fingers curling around the weapon. His demeanor seemed less boastful. Last night's swagger had been replaced by a nervous urgency.

Something had changed, Paris thought. Something had altered his plans and Melchor was worried.

"She's back," Paris said simply, nodding to the darkness behind Melchor. Then with no warning, he launched himself into the Kazon warrior that held him, driving with all the force of his legs, slamming his guard hard into the side wall of the cave. The Kazon grunted as his head struck a rocky protrusion with a sickening crunch, then the momentum of his body carried Paris sideways and down, the Kazon, stunned, falling atop him. Paris' arms where pinned, and useless, so he pushed with his legs, struggling to break free and capitalize on his advantage, when he heard Melchor's outraged curse. Twisting his head, Paris found himself staring down the length of Melchor's arm. Behind the phaser he held in a viselike grip, was a face twisted with demented rage. Foam flecked his lips and Paris saw his finger twitch reflexively on the firing mechanism.

*That's it, I'm dead*, Paris thought.