Dahlfes

There's been a lot of change, a lot to deal with. This ship is weird even for Feds.
Dahlfes always tries to do her best to keep it together and carry on, but sometimes it gets hard.

One evening, she makes it off shift just before he does, having brought a bit of food home with her, and having it laid out when he arrives in their quarters. Dahlfes will be comfortably beside his chair.

She unpacked the last of the books when she was between shifts and Kri'Stak was on duty. Once the limited shelf space was completely covered in them, they were officially living on the Federation ship.

Dahlfes found a corner to sit and practice her music for a while, until the door chimed. She set it down. "Who is it?" Old habits. Her master didn't always want her opening the door to just anyone.

It was a popular Orion variation on an old Earth dish served up in the mess hall that night. Adapted to fit the ingredients the ship'd picked up at an agricultural colony. She'd made two batches, one with sausage mixed with the seasoned beans and rice, one without, since so many of the federation were averse to unreplicated animal flesh.
Her master was handling himself well, of course, all things considered. She'd fed him and seen him off again, looking forward to later that night, when she could provide more than a hot meal to ease the stress.
She turned her attention to the next arrival.
"The meat is real, lieutenant. Would you prefer with or without?"

After General Kri'Stak's death, Dahlfes returned to Qo'nos to be the full-time governess to his two young children. Some questioned the Lady of the House about the judgment involved in allowing an alien such a strong roll in the education of Klingon children, but from her tone and expression as she said the decision had already been made, no one asked twice.

And a Klingon education they got. Songs and stories and traditions. They were never at risk of losing an extremely strong respect for their mother, and as for their father... it must be admitted, the stories were told with a passion and fervor alongside those of Kahless. Hey, Kahless had problematic family members, too. As far as Dahlfes was concerned, if she couldn't tell them the truth about their father's accomplishments and leave them constantly bursting with pride, she wasn't doing her job.

And of course, both wanted to serve the Empire as great warriors themselves, so Dahlfes willingly put her all into contributing making these little ones she loved into people that, in the end, she could mostly, but never fully understand. Just like their father.

She allowed the occasional Orion indulgence, though. Keeping it within their nutritional allotment, Dahlfes baked cookies and sold them to the children as any Orion mother would, collecting her cuddles and cheek-kisses with glee.

This was quite possibly the strangest conversation Lady Ovelya of House Noggra had ever been in.

She had to hand it to the woman looking up politely at her; for all her careful, contrived words, she was neither liar nor coward. She had come alone to a house that had not been friendly with "hers" in several generations, and there had been none of the wheedling, misdirection or appeal to greed that might have been expected of an Orion... or many of House Duras.

Still, it wasn't a good idea. Especially not since she knew the woman was far more than a servant. She'd seen, several times over chance encounters throughout the war, how the Orion looked at the General. "Go home and enjoy your love, Dahlfes daughter of We-Don't-Tell. I've had one of my own."

"I know, my lady," she said earnestly, still looking up at her. "I won't pretend it could be equaled. I won't even pretend my master could be all yours." She smiled. "In fact, I've been forbidden. But that doesn't mean you couldn't come to care for each other at all, and... I think the two of you would make wonderful parents."

A pause. "...You were saving that."

"Yes, Ma'am.

"..Well done, Dahlfes. You have now made facing my future mother-in-law's genealogical interrogations seem simple. I trust you won't be trying to conduct the ceremony itself?"

"No, my Lady. I have someone else in mind for that. I have no intention of embarrassing this family before it's even off the ground."

"Well, then I think you, the General, and I have a lot to talk about."

They were in a small suite at the main building of the House Duras estate. It wasn't... so bad, in and of itself. Of course his cousins were discount goods, and B'Etor's apparently most recent lover leered at her no matter how clean she kept or frumpily Klingon she dressed, but that was irrelevant; the only thing that got to her was how much her master hated being here, even as briefly as this.

Her hands kneaded into his back that afternoon. It felt as if months of her work had been undone; he was so incredibly tense.

"Master," she asked quietly. "Where can I go while you're at dinner?" She didn't want to make a single mistake.

It's very rare, but occasionally, he does scare her so.

It's not that she's afraid of pain. She happily deals with some most nights in the bedroom. And if he decided it was necessary or appropriate to whip her again, she would take it willingly.

But it is a different thing when he's angry. Usually, he tends only to show anger for some discernible reason she can understand, not directly related to her. But even then, Dahlfes sometimes cowers in her corner, terrified of making things worse, of aggravating anything or directing it on her. She just doesn't think she could bear Kri'Stak's hands on her in anger.

Thank the gods she's never had to. He's so careful, even when letting off a little frustration, even when their dalliances leave her thoroughly bruised and bleeding. He never lets her feel worthless, or that she has by her own failures brought something down on both of them. And whenever she dares to come back to his feet when her master's been a little upset, he eventually makes everything feel right again..

Age 5:

Dahlfes was turning cartwheels in the sun outside of the residential complex when her parents called her in. After a bath, her mother'd washed, combed and braided her hair and put her in her other set of clothes.

They'd prepared her a little. She would go to the hutch and learn things like music and dancing, and they would pay Momma and Poppa lots of money, because Dahlfes was worth it. And then when she grew up, she'd be one of the pretty ladies that got to eat all kinds of things, and sing and dance all the time, and after that, she'd be one of those ladies who got to do anything they wanted, ever.

But before all that were the goodbyes -- with no hugging the baby, because he was real sick. Again. And as the approached the large building, Dahlfes asked, "...Momma, what do I do?"

"Just be nice, and keep cool, and do what you're told, Dahlfes, and everything will be okay."

And then was the meeting. The hutch-mistress's pointy nails dug a little into Dahlfes's skin as she held her chin, then asked her questions. And then the papers were signed, and latinum handed over, and a new world started.

Age 10:

One of the other girls had had to be hauled off screaming by the teaching assistants when she'd smashed her dulcimer in frustration and tried to climb out the window. Class continued without her. The girls were expected to keep their mouths shut and pay attention.
Dahlfes had the lesson down first and most thoroughly of the class. The teacher was so impressed. Dahlfes was such a good girl, such a worthwhile investment.

Age 15:

Graduation and Auction Day was one of the most successful in the hutch's history. Only partially responsible -- but still partially responsible! -- for this was the bidding war that erupted between two loud, overfunded explorers over the girl who most initially said looked no prettier than the next, but whose grace on the stage and list of accomplishments had caught definite notice.

"See, dear," the hutch-mistress said, hugging Dahlfes before signing the contract over for substantially more money than she'd spent on ten years of care and education, "Hard work always pays off."


Age 20:

It was a rule. She was pretty sure now that it was a rule. Whenever anything interesting was foreseen on any ship full of Klingons who weren't experiencing a complete lack of morale, somebody would start up a verse of 'Qoy qeylIS puqloD,' and everybody would end up singing. Including people who were about to pointlessly do something destructive to each other.

It was amazing how that never failed to work, but Dahlfes wasn't going to argue with results..

One year since the last of Kri'Stak's most intransigent relatives had died. Ten months since her beloved master had finally been given a decent command. Nine months since they'd
shipped out. Six months since the fighting with the Cardassians had gotten heavy in this sector.

Dahlfes no longer kept her knife locked away, but wore it at her side. Her chances were limited against trained soldiers who somehow got that far, and nonexistent in the case of many enemy forces, but... if worst came to worst, she wanted her knife. Why settle for anything else after she'd had the best? It was one of those things Orions and Klingons could agree on even while saying the other had a completely warped way of getting there.

But she doesn't think that's likely. The end of every battle brings him back to his quarters, and eventually her arms, after enough of the celebrations -- they were running out of bloodwine again. She'd work on rationing it better until they got more.

And aside from the mess hall, and Kri'stak's personal care, Dahlfes had another little project, a list she made with the computer -- the computer could not appreciate the way she giggled like a schoolgirl over it, but despite this, she was actually quite serious about her endeavour.

And one night after he'd come home, and left her happily bruised and bleeding, she lay in his arms and asked, "Do you remember Lady Ovelya, of the house of Noggra?"

Dahlfes was nearly twenty years old; she'd been Kri'stak's for two years. She'd been further into The Dark than she'd ever gone before; he'd been moved about again and again and never left her behind. She'd worked hard both in the kitchen and in caring for him privately.

She'd adapted to Klingon ways as best she could. The clothes. The food. There were even many points of agreement, but just as many that she knew she'd never truly understand, accomodate though she would.

Still...


One night after dinner, after what had long since become a normal evening together, full of music, conversation, and other things, she found herself looking up at him.