Chakotay sat on the ground, he eyes closed, his mind clear. Though his medicine bundle continued home with Voyager, he still continued to perform the rituals that he'd been doing for years. He knew that with patience, he'd be able to attain the same state without the use of his ak-oonah. If anything, he wanted to contact his animal guide and feel like his old self again.

This was more then he expected as far as freedom. Shalmon told them the boundaries, then allowed them a few hours a day to engage in activities that they enjoyed, free of watchful and suspicious eyes. Each day, Chakotay traveled to a spot that overlooked a small lake the sparkled and reflected the deep blue of the sky. Here, he contemplated his life and meditated.

He always wondered about those who got to continue on Voyager's journey. How were they coping? Did Tuvok make an erstwhile captain? Was Harry again trying to create a mutiny to bring himself and Kathryn home? Some how, Chakotay knew they would be all right. Everyone had done a large amount of growing since the voyage began. Tuvok had become more tolerant of those around him; Harry knew how to stand up for himself and when to back down. Everyone would be fine.

Yet today, he wasn't worried about those continuing on. His thoughts were on Kathryn. Chakotay knew that it was pointless to think about her, but he couldn't help himself. He missed her, worried about her. How was she copping? Knowing Kathryn, she would be trying to find some way out of this predicament.

If only he knew if she were all right.

**

Shalmon knew where he'd find Chakotay. It was a daily ritual. As soon as the work time had passed, Chakotay would go with his house mates back to the cabin, then he'd emerge a short time later and climb the hill. After observation, Shalmon noted that Chakotay did nothing up on the hill, other then sit. At first, Shalmon thought that the man was trying to figure out a way to escape the prison.

But the more he thought about it, he deduced that perhaps that the man was more or less biding his time. So Shalmon sought out Chakotay with the idea of telling him the truth. A truth that would possibly hurt in knowledge, but could only help him readily accept the hand dealt him.

Chakotay heard the steps. He had an idea that it might be Shalmon. He knew that Shalmon kept an eye on him, though he couldn't figure out why. His eyes opened and he looked around, then turned slowly to the older man.

"Mind if I join you?" Shalmon asked Chakotay, not wanting to intrude on his time if he could help it.

Chakotay inclined his head and squinted slightly. "Not at all," he said with a smile.

"Lovely view from up here. My son swore that there was no place better to see the world," Shalmon said, sitting down beside Chakotay and propping an arm upon his knee.

"I find it to be quite relaxing," Chakotay said, looking out over the lake. "In some ways, I guess it reminds me of home."

"You came from far away," Shalmon said, not really asking a question but stating it as a fact.

Chakotay turned toward the man. "Millions of miles. Many years. I always hoped to see it again."

Shalmon looked into the sky. "They're never coming back, you know."

Chakotay said nothing. He had entertained the thought of Voyager returning to the planet and rescuing both himself and Kathryn. But each day, he realized that it was a false hope. If anything, they would have been rescued by now.

"I suppose you're probably curious as to how I know this."

Chakotay turned toward Shalmon and let out a small laugh. "The thought had entered my mind."

Shalmon had bandied this back and forth in his mind. He was thinking that telling Chakotay was the best thing. "The moment you transported down here, every trace of you was wiped."

"How is that possible? Kathryn and I are the only two humans on this planet," Chakotay stated.

"They have ways. In the past, those who would stay and try to free their comrades would usually be shot out of the sky." Shalmon ran a hand through his hair and looked up at the sky. "Probably, Talmex contacted your ship and told them you'd been executed soon after your arrival."

"Executed?" Chakotay whispered. "You're sure?"

"I wish it weren't the case," Shalmon responded. "Life here isn't great. A government bent on keeping everyone under their hands. Insurrection not tolerated. A place where there are those who have and those who don't."

"Which are you?" Chakotay asked him.

"I'm one who has," Shalmon replied quietly. "Though not by choice. I run this prison, yes. But I do it on my own accord. As you may have noticed, many are here for small indiscretions, like yourself." Chakotay nodded. "Myself, my guards, can usually pick out the ones that are real law breakers and they are sent to a tougher center."

"So, you work within the system, yet don't comply with their prescribed method of rehabilitation?" Chakotay said.

Shalmon didn't answer. They remained like that for a long while, just looking out across the landscape. "I wish it weren't like that here, but it is."

"Same here," Chakotay said softly. Shalmon stood and dusted off his pants.

"I wanted you to know. I've heard stories about you; where you came from, what you used to do. I thought you should know that you can never leave this place."

Chakotay looked up at him. "I can't say that my hopes are entirely dashed. There will always be a part of me up there. But knowing, makes the situation a little more bearable," Chakotay said. "Does Kathryn know?"

Shalmon thought a moment. "She was the one you stood guilty with?" Chakotay nodded his head. "I don't know. Probably not." He looked at Chakotay's face and knew the feelings the younger man had to be feeling. "You worry about her?"

"She's my best friend. We did this, not only to save members of our crew, but because we had the knowledge that we'd be together at least. Now, I don't even know where she is. Just a direction," Chakotay said.

"She looks like a strong one. She will be fine," Shalmon told him. After a moment, he crouched down beside Chakotay. "To change the subject, I am curious. What do you do up here?"

Chakotay smiled at the man and began telling him about animal guides.

". . .the animal chooses you, not the other way around. The type of animal, doesn't signify who you are, but is there to guide you and walk with you on your journey through this life. . ."

**

The bar was uncomfortable. It dug into her stomach, pushing against her, making her almost ill. Her arms were stretched out in front of her, pulled tightly as far as they would go. Her wrists were bound by leather straps. The straps were thick and heavy; the edges dug into her skin, creating gouges that bled. Her arms had been pulled forward for so long, her elbows had stopped aching. The unnatural way she was draped over the bar made breathing difficult and movement to eliminate the hurt impossible.

Her dress had been pulled down to her hips, baring her back to her tormentor. She'd been witness to torture, had even been tortured. Yet this was almost unbearable. She was cold, she was hungry, she ached, yet the hurt and pain didn't end. She couldn't even distance her mind from the pain. It was continuous.

thwack

Kathryn's head jerked forward, tendrils of hair not plastered to her head by the cold sweat that ran over her, flipped into her eyes. A low moan escaped from the back of her throat and she bit her lower lip in an attempt to keep from allowing her tears to flow. After a while of being beaten like this, she tried to figure out if it was sweat or blood she felt trickling down her back.

thwack

Her head jerked again, and her eyes closed, wincing. The point of impact stung, then burned. Kathryn had lost track of how many times she'd been hit after thirty. Her thoughts directed that there was probably not an inch of unmarked skin on her back. From her shoulders to her buttocks. Knees were scrapped up, scratched up, bleeding. Rocks digging into them. Calves cramped up from being unable to flex legs.

thwack

Kathryn opened her eyes, looking up to the sky, hoping for a miracle. Much more and she knew she'd bite through her lip. She could already taste the tinny taste of blood in her mouth. One tear escaped the corner of her eye. Only one. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her cry. And did she ever want to.

thwack

'I swear, I'll be good if this stops,' her mind said. 'I swear I won't give them any more reason to beat on me. Why is it so hard to live like I always have? Why can't I fight?' She could hear the sound of gravel crunching under boots, pebbled kicked. Some hit her bare legs, and she knew that the sharp edges were nicking her.

And for a moment, the beating did stop.

"Had enough, Kathryn," the guard said. This large woman admired her stick, walking around Kathryn, looking down on her. Kathryn remained silent, not wanting to give in, not wanting them to defeat her.

"Not this way, her mind cried.

"Hmm, guess not," the woman said. Kathryn hated this particular guard. The woman had been on Kathryn's back from the moment she arrived. Nothing pleased her, except inflicting pain on others. "You know, these sticks do more then beat, Kathryn."

Kathryn winced internally. She absolutely hated the way the woman said her name. Sarcastic, un-melodic. Only one person said her name in a way she liked it said. Again, she forced the thoughts of him away, not wanting to become distracted. At least not now.

'Beat? More then beat? Oh, God, not that,' she thought. Her mind reeled. Not that kind of punishment. Her stomach had already begun recoiling at the thought of her body being so rudely violated. Kathryn wanted nothing more then to just crawl into bed, no matter how dirty, and sleep.

". . .these have many functions. Beating is effective in most cases. But you-you seem to be impervious to it." Kathryn heard the stick whack against the flat of the woman's palm. "My next favorite setting is this one." The sound of a click resonated through the room, echoing off the walls, sounding louder then it actually was.

"If beating you will not make you submit, then perhaps this will." Kathryn's eyes went wide as the silence fell. What was going to happen? She felt the tip of the stick against her shoulder blade. At first, it seemed to do nothing. Then it began. A pinprick at first. It slowly ebbed, spiraling out-coiling around and around. Burning into her skin, searing through her epidermal layer, sinking into the muscle. Kathryn's eyes squeezed shut, her teeth clenched painfully.

"Does it hurt, Kathryn? Burn? One word will release you from this. One word," the woman said. Kathryn's body shook. Her arms pulled at the restraints. The burning hurt worse; on top of the bruises, it was just about unbearable. Blood began dripping from the cuts to her wrist. She struggled as much as she could.

Kathryn looked up at the hateful woman, her eyes narrowed. "You bitch!" Kathryn hissed at her. For a brief moment, the burning stopped. Then Kathryn realized that she'd made an error in judgment.

"You are nothing," and Kathryn watched as the stick came at her from the side, impacting with the base of her skull.

"No-ooooo," her voice yelled as the world closed down around her.

A thankful darkness. . .

**

. . .Chakotay snapped out of his trance. His eyes immediately began searching. He knew he'd heard something, but searching with his eyes revealed nothing. Shalmon, too, opened his eyes and looked around.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I could have sworn I heard Kathryn," Chakotay said. He then shook his head. "I guess I couldn't have. I know she can yell pretty loud, but not over this kind of distance." He looked up into the sky. "Must have been a bird."

Shalmon looked at him. "Can we try to find my guide again?"

Chakotay again began walking Shalmon through the ritual.

**

Kathryn stumbled into the barrack, shortly before dinner. Marcole had been waiting, wondering what was taking Kathryn so long. When Kathryn appeared at the door, Marcole rushed to her. Legs could barely support her any longer.

Marcole led Kathryn to her bunk and helped her lie down. Kathryn fought weakly, managing to tell Marcole that it was her back. Lying Kathryn down on her stomach, she left and returned minutes later with some water and some rags. She gently removed Kathryn's dress, tending to the wounds.

"What did you do?" Marcole asked, gently running the cloth over the back.

"I told the guard that her stick would be put to use better for leverage then beating people for minor indiscretions," she said, inhaling sharply as Marcole tended the coiled burn. "Then, I helped Azaral with stone that was much too heavy for him. Borthow kept telling me to go back to my own pile, but that stone..." Kathryn inhaled deeply again. "I wouldn't. I couldn't. Leaving Azaral to do that. He's lucky if he can straighten out his hands in the morning."

"Kathryn," Marcole began, cleaning the legs that had been nicked by the sharp gravel. "You can't keep disobeying. Sooner or later, they'll kill you."

"I can't let the old suffer. It's not my way."

Marcole tenderly probed the lump at the base of Kathryn's skull. "I'll bet you have a headache," she said, then applied a cold cloth to the spot. "You're bloody lucky, Kathryn. Borthow could have killed you."

"I know," Kathryn said, pushing herself up on her arms and sitting up. "Believe me, I know."

"Don't aggravate them. You keep this up and you won't make it."

Kathryn pulled the hated jumper back on and slid her feet into the boots. Her head throbbed and her back ached. The coarse fabric of the dress rubbed against the coiled burns lying across her shoulder blades. She stood up shakily as Marcole stood ready to catch her. In a way she'd adopted as a Starfleet officer, she waved Marcole away.

"I'll be fine," she said through gritted teeth.

" I hope so," Marcole said, walking beside her. "Don't let them see you in pain. They'll inflict more."

"I don't know how much I can tolerate," Kathryn said as they made their way outside and began moving toward the dinner table. "I just want to sleep."

"You will soon enough."

The two made their way into the line, Kathryn limping less and less as she moved. Her back remained straight and she made no unnecessary movements. Her head throbbed to the point that even the small tinny sound of metal against metal; even muted with foot, hurt her head. The chatter of the guards, the muted whispers, made Kathryn want to hold her hands over her head and just scream.

All through the meal, she sat in silence. Marcole had taken her silence as it was meant-painful. Kathryn pushed around her meal, its smell sickening. Her stomach coiled and gurgled at the scent; a reminder that she had a concussion from the blow she took at the hands of Borthow. But Kathryn knew she had to eat; if nothing else to continue her fighting.

They retired that night, Kathryn slept fitfully. Her body hurt too much for her to find a comfortable position. She couldn't lay on her back because of the beating and finding positions on her sides and stomach were almost as painful.

Entwined within her dreams, her mind kept repeating the same phrases over and over again. "You're nothing here. Your former rank, your former position---mean nothing here. . .nothing. . .nothing. . . nothing. . . nothing." She laid there, her head cradled on her arms and one tear slid from her eye.

She was nothing here and she was beginning to feel it.