Disclaimer: I do not own or claim to own any of the following characters, places, or events.

Author's Note: Something triggered this-I don't remember what-and I had to break from my Voyager piece to write it. Basically, a W/D tribute set during the greatest W/D episode ever, "Change of Heart."

by Dax's10thHost

"And when the two hearts began to beat together, they filled the heavens with a terrible sound..."

The runabout is quiet save for the thrumming of the warp core and the muted beeps of the autopilot's calculations when he slips from his seat and makes his way to the back. As he navigates the silence of the transporter pad and the swish of the rear doors, the Klingon's thoughts are silent, his heart fixed on one thing.

The doors slide closed behind him, and the warrior stands, letting the tension seep from his limbs. He feels the band around his chest loosen, and the air moves easily through his lungs. She is here…safe. Of course, he already knew that. But still…

…he had to make sure.

He draws alongside the slender tube and pauses, battle-scarred fingers resting on the warm glass, and drinks in the sight of his beloved.


The cadence of his twin hearts sounds in his ears, their duet of strength sending life coursing through his body.

"Worf. Just kiss me and go."

Jadzia's azure eyes hold before him, pale and strained with the intensity of her pain, their battle between sorrow and love burning deep into his mind. Brave words have drained away, reality has taken hold. They both know she is dying…and this is goodbye.

The image fades, but not the shadow, and his eyes fall to the stasis chamber, tracing her peaceful features.

"If we join together, no force can stop us."

. . .

Jadzia's swift parry, the rasp of metal on metal. The cold bite of the ceremonial bat'leth against his neck, the gentleness of her words. Tempered with wisdom, as old as tradition, yet truer, more meaningful, to him today than any day before or any still to come, he knows…

. . .

He presses his fingers harder to the glass, feeling the vibrations run up his arm and into his chest. He clings to them, as if by doing so he can somehow draw closer to Jadzia, separated from him not by mere inches…

…but by a matter of life and death.

An ache grows deep within him, spreading outward until it consumes his entire being.

. . .

the memory of Jadzia left behind him, propped against the log and clutching a phaser rifle with her reddened fingers. The raw pain ripping through him with every step that he takes. The sundering of his hearts as he pauses and looks back at her, just before the forest halts his vision, perhaps forever…

his throat aching, fingers burning against the mek'leth handle. She had been strong in front of him, refusing help and pressing on even as her blood stained the rocks and trees she leaned upon when she thought he wasn't looking. But now, crumpled against a phaser rifle and blood seeping from her wound, cruel reality has robbed her of all strength.

She is alone.


He sees her shoulders shaking. Sobs wrack her weakened body with a force that shatters his hearts. And still, he must turn his back and continue with his mission…

. . . .

His fingers clench into a fist. Why had he left her? Why?

"Worf, son of Mogh…does your heart beat only for this woman?"

. . . .

…Sirella's eyes, fierce upon him, questioning his love for Jadzia. Anger swells in his breast, and his lips press flatly together. How dare she doubt his sincerity! How dare she defile the sacred places of his heart with this query! Who was she to ask him such a thing? What else could his answer be but the one burning within his soul?

Does your heart beat only for this woman?



How could it not? She is my par'Mach'kai.

. . . .

The memory recedes; he watches the steady rise and fall of his wife's chest, that sweet movement so assuring in its presence. To think that he'd almost given it up…

"And will you swear to join with her and stand with her against all who oppose you?"

All who oppose you.

Lasaran. The mission. Starfleet. Duty. The rendezvous. Completion. Jadzia. Dying.

"And will you swear…?"

. . . .

…the squaring of his shoulders as he prepares to answer. The knowledge that, for him, this is no longer a ceremony for the sake of tradition—this is an assault on his very character, the integrity of his Klingon blood.


. . . .

He remembers the forest, the constant drip, drip, dripping of water all around him, louder and louder, louder than the crashing of the brush beneath his feet, even. He feels the pounding of his hearts: before, always together; now, ripped apart—one within, raging in pain; the other kilometers behind him, draped across a rifle. Weeping into the dirt. Dying.

"It's been a good two months, hasn't it?"

. . . .

…her voice, pale and trembling, willing herself not to cry. Her skin, sickly yellow, dirt-smudged, lips cracked and fighting to smile. Striving to make their final moments ones of happiness, their parting words ones of celebration. Celebration over the brief time they shared together…time that very few ever have, time that he knows he will treasure forever. He looks at her, takes in everything. Mud, sweat, blood, jaundiced skin and sunken eyes. Shining eyes. Loving eyes. His heart breaks.

Beautiful. Beautiful.

He aches fiercely, so fiercely he can't breathe.

"It's been a good two months, hasn't it?"

Breathe. Remember. Jadzia.


. . . .

The memory steals his breath away, and he stands motionless by the chamber, fists clenched and eyes bright. Bright with anguish, bright with pain, bright with the agony of choosing between family and duty.

But had he chosen? Had it really been a choice? Jadzia or Starfleet? What kind of decision was that? Was his job really that important to him? So important that he would leave his wife to die in a rainforest?

A coldness creeps over him, and he looks down. Down, through the glass, onto the face he knows better than his own. How close he had come to losing her!

His hearts pulse strongly, and the chill slinks away.

. . . .

…a kaleidoscope of images tumbling past him, memories of love, of discovery. Glorious memories. Memories of Jadzia.

…her emerald gown rustling, mixing with the clicks of the dabo wheel and the barking of Klingons behind him. Her dark spots mesmerizing him, prompting Curzon's name to spill from his lips.

"You used to be Curzon Dax."

"Yes, and…I don't usually dress like this either."

That queer churning in his gut as he looks at her. It is…unsettling. "His name is an honored one among my people."

Jadzia, blue eyes dancing, dipping her head and grinning in a way that turns all three of his lungs into vacuums. And then…

"Louk, a jeek CHIM'ta law." Yeah, but I'm a lot better looking than he was.

His eyes widening at the remark, the heat rising to his cheeks. His utter loss of words, and the flare of…something. He doesn't know what…



The sound of her voice, soft behind him, the humor glinting from that single word as she surveys the stark quarters, the bed devoid of a mattress and walls bare as a sand-blasted skeleton. The sudden shyness overtaking her as she extends the isolinear rod—a collection of Klingon operas, her favorites. A thoughtful gift. But that sparkle to her eyes—is it more?...


…"Te'doQ roos ka Mech'TOH!" The explosion of light in his brain as he comprehends what Jadzia has been trying to tell him for so long; the clash of her bat'leth against his own…


the feel of her lips against his as she clutches him to her, channeling everything he won't let her say—everything she can't say—into her embrace. The sudden emptiness as she pulls away, whispering. Eyes shining.

"Have a glorious death…or don't. It's up to you." And then she is gone, taking the operas with her. And...the realization that she never wanted them.

She just wanted to say goodbye.


the warmth, the strength, the reassuring squeeze of her fingers about his arms on their wedding day, standing before Sirella and all those important in their lives, and yet…the feeling that they are the only ones in the room.

Lost in each other's eyes. Twined with each other's hearts. Joined in a way that defies all resistance, that supersedes all else.

. . . .

"Jadzia, daughter of Kela, does your heart beat only for this man?"

He smoothes his fingers across the glass, Sirella's words echoing within his memories.

. . . .

…he remembers the way her eyes locked with his, the bright, steady love shining from those pools of blue, and the parting of her lips as she smiles, saying…


Sirella's voice again, regal, yet somehow softer, as if…as if she knows. "And do you swear to join with him and stand with him against all who would oppose you?"

A beat. The steadiness of Jadzia's gaze, the impossibility of the love pouring forth from her eyes. She is radiant, certain, pausing only because her heart is so full.

And at last, emotion rasping her voice to a whisper, her answer:

"I swear."

. . . .

All is quiet as the warrior stands over his wife, hands resting on the glass in an embrace born of true, unshakeable love. He has made his decision, declared to everyone what is most important to him. And as the runabout warps past the stars, away from the rendezvous, away from the now-dead Lasaran, and towards the certain wrath of Starfleet, the warrior's eyes are bright.

Bright with love.

"And to this very day, no one can oppose the beating of two Klingon hearts."