CODES: TNG, P/f.  PG.  1/1.  SNW Reject.

SUMMARY: Picard finds himself in an uncomfortable position, 
diplomatically speaking, when his duel with an ambassador leaves 
him engaged to the ambassador's -- very alien -- daughter.


'Til Annulment Do Us Part, by Mercutio (mercutio@europa.com)


	"Alouette, gentille Alouette, Alouette je te plumerai."
	Captain Jean-Luc Picard struggled up out of sleep.  He'd had 
the strangest dream.  Beautiful elves had danced around him, 
singing and spinning strands of silk in a gossamer web of 
filaments.  Pink foam floated in the air, champagne flowed in 
endless streams, high spirits filled the night, and he had been 
nearly drunk, despite being raised in French wine country.
	He opened his eyes.  Reality was somewhat less fulfilling than 
his dreams.  Oh, no.  Oh, merde.
	He was tied to a bed and covered with a pink frothy substance. 
 A sticky pink frothy substance.  From what little he could see of 
the ornate room, Picard was certain that these were not his 
quarters aboard the Enterprise.  Among other things, his walls were 
not decorated in red and yellow stripes.  And they were not usually 
populated by a herd of slumbering elves.
	Groaning, Picard laid his head back down.  He remembered now. 
 He remembered everything.  This was the remains of his bachelor 
party.  Barring intervention by a higher power, he would be married 
later today.
	His head hurt.
	Two weeks earlier, the Enterprise had been ordered to Soros 
Four, to conduct a delicate diplomatic negotiation with the 
Ijlowians.  While not a member of the Federation, the Ijlowians' 
planet occupied a prime spot in the trading lanes.  Such a location 
would be equally important in time of war.  That the planet was 
rich in dilithium was an added bonus.
	All that needed to be done was to convince the insular 
Ijlowian government that membership in the Federation was to their 
advantage.
	Picard had been certain that he could accomplish the task.
	Until the duel with the Ijlowian ambassador.  Until Picard had 
realized that the duel was a duel to the death and had killed the 
ambassador as a matter of pure survival.  Until the Enterprise's 
warp core had gone out of control and stranded the starship here 
while engineers from Soros Four and the Enterprise struggled 
together to fix it.  Until the disturbing news arrived that winning 
the duel entitled him to marry the daughter of the slain 
ambassador.
	Until he had seen the bride.
	The Ijlowian race was composed, for the most part, of 
graceful, beautiful elf-like humanoids.  The average Ijlowian stood 
two meters tall, possessed an ectomorphic body structure, and had 
sharp, tapering ears pointing out from under their long, silver 
hair.
	His intended bride was, Picard admitted, tall.  And she did 
have silver hair.  All over her body, sprouting out like ragged 
stalks of recently mown hay.  He had seen her onboard the 
Enterprise, before the duel, aiding Engineering in reconstructing 
the warp core.  He had noted her appearance then, mostly with an 
eye to mentioning the different physiognomy to Dr. Crusher.  But, 
at the time, he had not been about to marry a two meter tall, 
bulbous, dark gray creature who greatly resembled a slug.
	This was not good.
	And there was no way to politely refuse the "honor".  Picard, 
of course, would have felt the same way if the bride had been as 
attractive as an average Ijlowian.  Naturally.  No question.  He 
had no desire to get married, even for the sake of the Federation.
	The problem lay in deciding how to get *out* of the situation. 
 Especially when the Ijlowians seemed to have taken the rather 
sensible precaution of removing his comm badge and then tying him 
up.
	It *was* a sticky situation.  Literally.
	A swooshing sound penetrated the lulling hum of snoring in the 
room.  A Ijlowian came to stand next to Picard's bedside.  The man 
was garbed in silver and red, his legs clothed in tight silver 
breeches, and his silver tunic slashed with red.  Red and silver 
ribbons woven into his hair completed his ensemble.  Picard 
recognized the meaning of the clothing from the research he had 
done beforehand -- this was a high official in the Ijlowian 
government, perhaps a palace courtier.
	"No metamorphosis," the Ijlowian said, a pinched look on his 
face.  "Disappointing.  What a backward species."
	"Q?" Picard asked, ready to believe anything at this point.
	The Ijlowian stared at Picard in non-comprehension, then 
clapped his hands.  "A name.  'Q' is a name.  No, that's not right. 
 My name is Beleebohb."
	"Excuse me?"
	"Is your universal translator malfunctioning?"
	"No, I understand you perfectly well.  Beleebohb..." Picard 
hesitated a moment, then accepted it.  He'd called people by 
stranger names.  "Can you untie me?  I must get back to my ship."
	"Untie, yes.  Ship, no."  He took out a small device and began 
deftly removing Picard's bonds.  "You will ready yourself for the 
wedding ceremony."
	"I will do nothing of the sort."  Untied, Picard sat up and 
began rubbing his wrists and then his arms and legs.
	The Ijlowian ignored the comment and moved to the center of 
the room.  He began clapping his hands, walking around and kicking 
at the recumbent, slumbering Ijlowians.  "Rise!  Lazy drinkers!  
Time for sleeping has ended!"
	One by one, the no-longer merry revelers awoke, some with 
muttered imprecations in the direction of Beleebohb, but no one 
protesting openly.  Beleebohb pointed at Picard.  "I want the 
helpmeet cleaned and dressed in one cycle.  Begin!"
	A swarm of elves descended upon Picard, stripping him as he 
attempted to refuse.  "Excuse me.  No, please let go of me.  No!  I 
do not wish this attention.  Please."
	Beleebohb stood by the side of the spectacle, idly braiding a 
long lock of his hair.  "You are polite.  But it is tradition to 
ready the helpmeet.  You cannot refuse."
	Picard pulled his arm away from an Ijlowian and tugged his 
sleeve back on, rigid in his dignity.  "I can and I will."
	"Cannot and will not."
	"You..." Picard began, and then felt another pull at his arm. 
 His shirt had been successfully removed, leaving him standing in 
his trousers.  Unfortunately, his boots had already been removed 
sometime previously, most likely after he had been tied to the bed. 
 Picard planted his feet solidly on the floor and crossed his arms. 
 "I do not wish to continue further in the farce.  Stop this now."
	One of the Ijlowians crossed to Beleebohb, who smiled 
indulgently and passed the other man the device that he had used to 
sever the bonds holding Picard to the bed.
	"What the..." Picard started to say, as the man ran the device 
down the length of his pants, neatly cutting them off of his body.
	With a heave, Picard was lifted and carried out of the room, 
through an archway and into another room, this one filled with 
steam and smelling of salts.
	Then they tossed him into the hot water, laughing and pointing 
as Picard flailed his arms, gasping for air and trying to get out 
of the nearly boiling liquid.
	*If I ever get out of this, I am never negotiating a treaty 
again.*  Picard surfaced, pulling himself up out of the water -- 
and the Ijlowians pushed him back in again.
	This time, when he came up, sputtering for air, they poured 
cold water over him.  Steam rose in even greater quantities as the 
cold water met the hot.
	Before he could start shivering, he was yanked out of the 
water and rough cloth rubbed over his body.  Much better.
	When he was tolerably dry, Picard grabbed one of the towels 
away from its owner.  "Thank you, but spare yourselves the trouble. 
 I do not appreciate the attention, and I can towel myself dry..."
	They ignored him, and hoisted him up again, carrying him back 
into the bedroom.
	"I can walk, you know," he said dryly, as they set him back on 
his feet there.
	Beleebohb appeared from behind a large curved object -- 
probably a sculpture -- that appeared to be inlaid with mother-of-
pearl.  "It is not traditional."
	"However..."
	Beleebohb sighed impatiently.  "You would insult the queen and 
the queen's ambassador?"
	"I have no intention of insulting anyone."
	"Good."  He clapped his hands.  "Dress the helpmeet.  Quickly 
now."
	Picard groaned inwardly, but stood still as they dropped a 
white robe over him.
	After putting the robe on him, they stepped back and returned 
with a long width of dark gray fabric, as thin and opaque as a 
veil.
	They then began dressing him in the dark gray material, 
cocooning him in the nearly weightless fabric.  The Ijlowians 
circled him, wrapping him in the cloth.  Each layer of the fabric 
made the previous layers progressively darker; many layers would be 
impenetrably thick.
	Then they laid the first layer around his face.  "Excuse me," 
Picard said.  He tried to move, and then realized how tightly he 
had been swathed -- he could not move his arms.  If he attempted to 
move his legs, he would overbalance and fall onto the floor.
	"I would not talk," Beleebohb said, slowly fading from sight 
as more layers were draped over Picard's head.  "I do not know your 
physiology, but I have been told that the thickness of the 
wrappings can suffocate one of your kind if precautions are not 
taken."
	Oh, good.  Picard glared in Beleebohb's direction, then closed 
his eyes.  There was no point to becoming angry.  He could not be 
seen, and could not make himself heard without risk to himself.
	Picard felt himself lifted, and placed on his back on a soft, 
cushioned surface.  He could not see what was happening, but he 
felt it as the surface under him began to move.
	He could hear horns, distant music, and the ringing of bells. 
 All around him was silence, his attendants -- he assumed he was 
yet again being carried -- hushed and quiet even in their 
movements.
	The procession moved through a building and outside.  Even 
through the shroud, Picard could feel the brightness of the sun.  
He silently thanked his bearers for having shrouded him.  Despite 
the indignity of it, it did perform a valuable function.  An 
unprotected human could not safely experience the light of Soros 
Four's sun without skin damage.
	Now he heard sounds, as the music grew louder and more 
distinct, and a low hum, almost a rumble filled the air.  The 
clamor of the bells had risen to an almost unbearable level.  The 
jubilant melody of the horns melded with the bells, a happy song 
Picard could not share in.
	The rumble became voices as they drew nearer to it.  He was 
being taken through the city then, displayed as he made his way to 
be sacrificed... er... to be married.
	Picard stared at the blank grayness of the shroud, attempting 
to concentrate.  He needed to find a way out of this mess.  He 
could protest again -- not that it had been an effective tactic so 
far, and assuming that the mere act of protesting did not suffocate 
him.  Merde.  The gray shroud prevented him from taking any action 
at all, didn't it?  The ceremony could be over before he was able 
to draw a deep breath of air again.
	The only option left would be... what?  Annulment?  Picard 
doubted that they had such an institution on this planet, and 
rather feared what Starfleet might say about this.  He was not 
looking forward to writing the report.  How would it go?  "After 
murdering the ambassador with whom I was assigned to negotiate, 
circumstances forced me to wed his daughter.  I immediately 
divorced the bride because of coercement on the part of the 
Ijlowians, causing them to reject the treaty."
	No, that wouldn't go over too well.
	The surface he was lying on tilted, and then the sound of the 
bells were suddenly muted.  Another building.  This must be the 
location for the ceremony.
	He was carried forward, and then, abruptly, his bearers came 
to a halt.
	Quiet rustling around him told Picard that he had an audience. 
 All watching his prone body.  How flattering.  If only he could 
get out of this mess.
	"Ijlowians.  Federation citizens.  Other guests," a deep, 
booming voice began.  "Ijlowia invites you to the wedding of her 
incandescence, the lady Tfu, and the Starfleet captain, Jean-Luc 
Picard of the Federation.  Today is a joyous day as our lady and 
her helpmeet metamorphose from their pupal states and become mates 
for life and beyond."
	A cheer rose from the crowd, and Picard shuddered.  This was 
most definitely *not* a joyous occasion.
	"Prepare the lady and her helpmeet."
	The surface he was lying on suddenly slanted, and Picard felt 
himself being carefully picked up and positioned on his feet.  
Hands held up until he had gotten his balance, and then let go.  He 
felt helpless and exposed standing there without any idea who was 
looking at him.
	"As I read the words of transformation, the bodyservants of 
the lady and her helpmeet will remove their coverings, so that all 
may see their readiness for this new stage of their lives.  From 
child to adult, from young to old, from..."
	Layers of fabric began to disappear.  Slowly, Picard began to 
be able to see his surroundings.  He was in a dark -- well, that 
might be a function of the fabric -- cavernous hall.  People were 
seated on either side of where he stood, in long rows stretching 
down to an end that he could not yet see.  Almost directly in front 
of him was the man with the booming voice, reading from a large 
book.  Picard could not see the "lady" whom he was supposed to 
marry, and guessed that she must be beside and slightly behind him.
	As more and more of the wrapping was taken off, Picard was 
able to look around surreptitiously.  He spotted several Starfleet 
uniforms in the audience -- if he was able to signal to them, he 
might be able to escape this.  However, at this late time, an 
escape would be diplomatically embarrassing and as damaging to any 
hopes of a treaty as divorcing the bride after the wedding.
	"...forever," the man conducting the ceremony said, as the 
last of the wrappings were removed and the bodyservants stepped 
away.  "Now, I must ask..."
	"Excuse me," Picard said.
	"Yes?"
	"I must respectfully decline this honor."
	"Wait."
	"Excuse me?" Picard asked, startled by the response.
	"Allow me to ask the question first."
	"Uh... yes, of course."  Picard clasped his hands together -- 
what a relief to be able to move again -- and waited.
	"Now, I must ask," the man continued, "if both parties to this 
solemn agreement are in unison in their desire to be wed."  He 
looked at Picard.  "Captain Jean-Luc Picard?"
	"No, I do not desire to wed the lady Tfu."  He braced himself 
for a verbal assault, either from the man conducting the ceremony 
or the crowd.
	"This is your sincere desire?"
	"Yes, it is.  I must respectfully decline this honor.  I do 
not believe that a marriage between us is the right course of 
action.  I would be doing a disservice to the lady Tfu if I acted 
otherwise."
	The other man nodded.  "Marriage is a solemn arrangement and 
not to be entered into by those who do not wish it."  He turned to 
the crowd and announced, "There will be no marriage today!"
	The assembled spectators began talking and leaving their 
seats.  It was that simple?  If all they needed was his refusal, 
why hadn't they listened to him earlier?  He'd certainly objected 
and often to this idea.  On the other hand, he had been trying to 
be tactful earlier.  He might not have said precisely what he was 
refusing.  However, now had been different -- the very urgency of 
the situation had compelled him to be blunt.
	A tinkling laugh insinuated itself into his reverie.  "My dear 
Jean-Luc."
	Picard looked up.  The woman standing next to him, although 
obviously Ijlowian, was unfamiliar to him.  Tall, with silver hair, 
her white dress stood out from the clothing of the rest of the 
people in the hall.  A dress that was remarkably similar to... 
Picard's robe...
	"And you are?" he asked.
	"The lady Tfu, of course," she replied.  "We have met before, 
although my vocal organs were not yet so well-developed."
	"But..."  How could he suggest that the beautiful woman 
standing next to him was not the slug-like creature he had been 
expecting?  The answer was simple: there was no way to say it 
without giving offense.  Fortunately, his diplomatic training was 
there to save him.  "Of course, Lady Tfu.  Please forgive me for 
not recognizing you immediately."
	She looked at him for a moment, and then began laughing again. 
 "You didn't know, did you?  You were unaware that Ijlowians go 
through a pupal stage.  Our marriage ceremony is the traditional 
transition between childhood and adulthood."
	"I... see now," Picard replied, shaken.  Obviously, he should 
have made more time with Dr. Crusher to discuss the Ijlowians.
	"My parent would not allow me to marry.  He wanted me to 
experience maturation without the artificial enhancement that the 
marriage ritual imposes."
	This was a deuced awkward conversation.  "Umm... yes.  How 
odd."
	Picard was about to make his excuses, when his second-in-
command, William Riker approached him with a large grin on his 
face.
	Lady Tfu saw Riker and made a graceful bow.  "My apologies, 
captain.  I shall see you at another time."
	"Yes, yes, of course."
	Riker watched her leave, still smiling.  "You had me worried, 
captain.  I thought we might actually see a Mrs. Picard here 
today."
	"I was also worried, Number One.  My biggest fear at this 
point is that this... brouhaha, as it were, will disrupt the 
negotiations."
	"I think..."
	A large man brandishing a sword and dressed in the palace 
colors of silver and red stepped in front of Riker, interrupting 
him.  "Captain, I would like to be the first to congratulate you."
	"Congratulate me?" Picard asked.  "I don't know what you're 
talking about."
	"On your new status, of course."
	"What new status?"
	"As guardian of the lady Tfu," the courtier said, as though it 
were obvious.
	It wasn't.  "Could you please explain?  I'm afraid that I 
don't understand."
	"You defeated her father, winning the right to marry her.  By 
refusing that right, you have taken on the responsibility of 
arranging a marriage for her.  And her other siblings."
	"Oh, dear," Picard muttered.
	"I respect your bravery, captain.  The Federation breeds 
courageous souls."  The courtier bowed and walked away.
	Riker grinned at Picard.  "Shall I find some glasses of wine? 
 I believe it's customary to toast the father of the bride."
	Picard gave him a severe glance, then sighed.  "Father of the 
bride.  How will Starfleet react when they hear this?"
	"By sending flowers?"
	"By requesting an immediate formal review of my performance, 
more like.  Let's get this negotiation wrapped up as soon as 
possible -- before I end up in loco parentis to the entire planet."
	"Yes, sir."
	
-the end-