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The Trill homeworld is far colder than Dosan, the little border planet that has been her home for so long that she has almost forgotten how warm she found it at first. Pel draws her coat tighter across her shoulders and tries to calm her shivering. She reminds herself that it would be even worse if she were on Ferenginar – wet as well as cold. Also, at the very least, she is allowed to wear clothes here.
Besides, it isn't like she's come here for pleasure. Rather, she has an appointment to keep.
She comes every year.
Nonetheless, she still has to bite back a little flare of anger when she arrives at the right tree. Just a tree, like so many others around it. Growing infinitesimally slowly, as trees on Trill are prone to do, decades old and still too young to bear fruit. On Ferenginar the dead are compressed until the carbon of their remains yields up a valuable diamond, and if the deceased was particularly admired then their family might use a part of the profits to erect an impressive memorial. Given her way, Pel would have commissioned an enormous marker for Jadzia, huge and phallic, the finest Cruikan white marble inlaid with sackfuls of Orklese fire diamonds. The expense would have been wild and extravagant, leaving no passer-bys in doubt of the value of the woman to whom it was dedicated. But instead there is this...plant, slowly sucking up Jadzia's precious nutrients, oblivious to the treasure it desecrates.
Never mind. This is not her world. And even on her world, she has never been given her way. She has had to travel a long, long way for that.
As is her tradition, she lays her annual reports at the base of Jadzia's tree, proudly pointing out the particularly profitable fourth quarter her latinum mines had last year. She doesn’t know if this is a permissible thing to do here, in this sacred place, but it puts her mind at ease a bit. This is tribute as she knows how to pay it. Besides, she may be flattering herself but she likes to think Jadzia would want to know that she's doing rather well.
As if mocking her for her earlier ruminations on Trill and Ferenginar, a cold rain starts to fall. Pel curses and pulls up her hood, crushing her feathers beneath it. She winces and wonders what Jadzia would think of the implants. She isn't trying to look Dosani, not really. In addition to the feathers, Dosani have prehensile tails and compound eyes, and she decided long ago that that's a hell of a lot of work, discomfort and money just to avoid some odd looks from strangers on the street. Not to mention how she would be miserable at having to take so much medical leave away from her business interests.
She's just trying to look... well... less Ferengi, she supposes.
She wonders what Jadzia would have thought of that. Would she have been saddened that Pel feels like she needs to change her face and body (or, in this case, her scalp) to feel happy with the reflection in the mirror? Or would she applaud Pel for taking the initiative the change the things she doesn't like about herself? It is difficult to know? Jadzia had so many opinions, about so many things. And Pel had only known her for a very short time.
Honestly, considering their brief acquaintance it's amazing that Jadzia came to mean enough to Pel to merit the admitted workaholic putting her various enterprises in the hands of her deputies for two weeks every year to cross the galaxy and talk to a hunk of wood. On Ferenginar, the very idea of putting so much trust in others to participate in a tradition that has nothing to do with profits would be more than laughable. It would have been enough for her subordinates to seize control of her companies, claim that Pel was clearly insane, whisk her away into obscurity while they tear apart her legacy.
Of course, on Ferenginar, she wouldn't have had companies or subordinates or any legacy worth speaking of.
She doesn't have much spare time, but she often likes to devote that little she has to this private bit of research, trying to find answers to the questions she would have asked Jadzia if she had had the time. She has looked into the Trill culture fairly extensively, seeking out the knowledge that her friend never lived to pass on to her. She had been astonished to learn that Trill society had no history of institutionalized discrimination based on sex or gender. She hadn't believed it at the time. Even if she could conceive of a civilization without those kinds of built-in prejudices – and that took all of her undeniably impressive imagination – how was it possible that Jadzia had understood her so well? So much better than her Moogie or her sisters or any of her own people ever had, without any first-hand experience?
In the end, she had simply decided that in a dozen or so lifetimes the Dax symbiote must have seen all kinds of things. It is a logical enough conclusion, and there is no one there to tell her otherwise.
The reality of that hits her hard, all of a sudden. It still does sometimes. She will never show the real Jadzia the extent of all her successes, never take her to her private club or show her all that she had acquired. She will never show Jadzia that she had been right, that Pel was indeed capable and competent and, truly, even more than that. Jadzia Dax will never see the wealth, the gleaming, gold-plated wealth that Pel keeps in custom-built, beautifully designed vaults – evidence of all that an entire world said she would never do.
She will never get to talk to Jadzia again. She will never see her face.
She had tried, at one point, to contact the new Dax host. Sisko had done it, Jadzia had told Pel. He had transitioned his friendship from Curzon to Jadzia, and maintained their bond. But Ezri Dax, so nervous and well-meaning and not-Jadzia, had stammered her way uncomfortably through a comm-call that had felt far longer than the fifteen minutes it had actually taken. Neither of them had tried to get in touch again after that.
Pel wonders if Ezri is as relieved about that as she is. She wonders if Ezri is still alive. If she is, she would be far older now than Jadzia ever got to be. Nearly as old as Pel herself.
An icy wind snaps her back into the moment, and she is instantly angry with herself. This is happening more and more lately. She comes all this way to visit with Jadzia and only leaves more fraught than she was when she arrived. The serenity that she seeks – the serenity that was so much a part of Jadzia – seems to just get further and further away. And she can’t stay out here much longer. There is clearly a storm coming and, after all that she has seen and done, she refuses to die because she contracted some kind of exotic Trill ailment standing in the sleet and talking to a tree.
Still, she reaches out to touch just one of the branches. The bark is knotted and rough, so unlike Jadzia's perfectly smooth skin. What an inadequate tribute this is! The tree is more like Pel's own complexion; running an empire doesn't leave her much time to moisturize. Maybe she should skip this pilgrimage next year, go to one of those high-end Tabnorian spas to get some of the years and worries lasered off of her.
Or maybe not. Possibly the Trills have things right with their trees. She leans forward and touches her lips to the bark.
Very often, it is the rough that endures.