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In retrospect, he knows he shouldn’t have come.
He’s kept to the rear of the room, near the exit, away from the other mourners. He’s in pain. It’s as evident to me as the nose on his beautiful face. Yet, there he stands, in full dress uniform, putting up the brave front, not a tear to be seen.
He knows his presence will not be welcome by Kira, by Worf. By Bashir? The prototypical Starfleet officer, cool under fire, stoic in his grief, loyal to the end. Not his end. Not this time.
Garak bites back the fear interloping on his usually sardonic inner voice. I shouldn’t have come.
But, he knew Jadzia, knew Dax and she still, even in death, deserves every honor which can be bestowed upon her. He has to pay his tribute, however small and in the background. Federation she may have been, but she was so much more besides, so much more to all of them. So much more to him.
Shaking his head slightly, Garak cuts back an instinctual sigh. He’s going to cry himself to sleep like a child tonight. The former spy wonders why the thought makes him sad, rather than disgusted as it should. Such weakness. And I value and envy him for it. He shakes his head again.
He says the chant under his breath barely loud enough for his own limited Cardassian hearing, slices into his palm with subtle fingernails, and carefully drips a spot of dark blood on the floor before he turns to leave. Tain would find the nearest closet for me if he knew.
He imagines in his peripheral vision a honey-toned face turning to see him, but he knows it’s impossible. The officers’ attentions are rapt to Sisko’s eulogy.
No one saw Garak enter as surely as no one will see him go.