Chapter Text
Part One
Klath stood and stared out of the window at the view of the spaceport outside.
It wasn’t an especially interesting view, consisting of little more than a nondescript and mostly empty street branching off from the main shopping area. But that didn’t really matter, because he wasn’t really taking in the view. Instead, he was lost in thought.
It had been two days since the Bounty had arrived on Kervala Prime for some much needed repairs to the damage caused by the infestation of tribbles they had picked up on their mission inside the borders of the Klingon Empire. Since then, while Denella had focused on the repairs, and the rest of the Bounty’s crew had availed themselves of the dubious pleasures of the port itself, the Bounty’s Klingon weapons chief had found himself caught up with another issue entirely.
Something so powerful that there was no direct translation of the Klingon word for it.
par’Mach.
For simplicity’s sake, most universal translators simply took it to be the Klingon word for love, and left it there. But from what Klath had seen about the concept of love in other cultures, he considered that particular mistranslation to be a gross slander against the Klingon people.
A few months ago, in order to quell the boredom during a particularly quiet long-haul delivery, he had resorted to reading through a few chapters of one of Sunek’s collection of trashy romance novels that cluttered up a not insignificant portion of the Bounty’s onboard database.
And while he had admittedly been intrigued by some of the basic practicalities of the story, which had concerned a love triangle between a human, a Deltan and a type of touch-telepathic sentient moss that the other two characters had found growing on the wall of their holiday home on Betazed, he found little to dissuade his opinion that love was a somewhat spurious, fleeting and mostly trifling concept. Something that other humanoids - and, apparently, certain mosses - seemed capable of falling into and out of at a moment’s notice throughout their lives.
And so, he was certain that par’Mach most certainly wasn’t love. It went far, far beyond that.
It was a feeling that, when one was consumed by it, seemed to affect every atom of your body. A scaldingly intense combination of passion, devotion, admiration and lust which one particularly florid ancient Klingon poet had claimed ‘burned in the depths of the cauldron of the soul’.
Klath would be the first to admit that he didn’t have anything like that sort of way with words. But based on how he was feeling, he was also certain that the gist of the metaphor was accurate.
Throughout his life, Klath had felt the blood lust of the battlefield and the searing rage of combat. He had led warriors to war, commanded a crew through countless firefights, and felt the combined pain of dozens of weapons tearing into his flesh. But he had never felt anything like the tumult that currently consumed him. It felt like his soul was roasting above the flames of Gre’thor itself, and not even the strength of a thousand rampaging sarks could pull him away from it.
He was in par’Mach. Big time.
“You look troubled.”
He turned from the window as she emerged from the small sleeping area of the lodgings that she had found at the port, adjusting her tunic top as she finished dressing.
Klath was usually, as the rest of the Bounty’s crew would readily attest, a rather stoic and grumpy individual. But as soon as he saw her face, his own features contorted into a scowling smile.
K’Veth, daughter of B’Eleya, approached him and matched his expression.
They had first met on Mentok colony, where the Bounty had answered a call to help deal with a tribble infestation. There, he had become an unwitting pawn in a scheme by K’Veth’s father to discredit a member of the High Council using a plague of said tribbles. A scheme that K’Veth herself had been an unwilling participant in.
But Klath had discovered the truth in the nick of time. And then, with the help of K’Veth and the blessing of Toran, the council member in question, they had personally dealt with the infestation by slaying every last tribble on the premises. A shared experience that had served to further kindle their growing passion for each other.
Ever since they had first consummated their desires onboard the Bounty on their way to Kervala Prime, they had barely been apart. They had spent most of the journey in Klath’s cabin, and had now transferred their passions to the modest accommodation K’Veth had found at the port. And with every minute they spent together, the yearning feelings of par’Mach continued to spread and consume him, like an army marching through enemy territory. And he was sure that she was going through the same internal battle.
She joined him at the window and idly ran a finger across a deep scratch on his left cheek, left behind by one of her sturdy nails, a remnant of one of the more violent passages of their most recent attempt to sate their desires for each other.
“You should find a dermal regenerator,” she offered, “Otherwise this will become permanent.”
“Perhaps that is what I want,” he countered, “For it to remain there forever, as a mark of our shared passion.”
K’Veth studied his deadly serious expression with a trace of amusement. “On top of everything else, it seems you have a way with words, Klath, son of Morad. I did not realise that about you.”
“I did not realise that about myself,” he conceded, “It may be something that being with you has…brought out of me.”
Suddenly feeling a little self-conscious, and silently cursing his par’Mach for making him speak so openly and frankly with this particular Klingon, he elected to change the subject.
“What are your plans now? My ship will not remain here forever.”
K’Veth stepped away from him and considered the question, taking in the modest confines of her current accommodation with a hint of sadness. It was a question she had spent plenty of time considering over the past few days, when she hadn’t been otherwise occupied with Klath. And it wasn’t one she had found much of an answer for.
“I do not know,” she admitted, “Not exactly. I know that I cannot return to my father now. So I will remain here while I can, and look for passage elsewhere. I hope to find a…suitable colony elsewhere to live out my exile.”
“We can provide you with transport. If you wish.”
“You and your crew have already done enough for me. At some point, I must find my own path.”
Klath paused for a moment, doing his best to keep a lid on the fire that was burning with fresh intensity inside his soul as he looked at her. And he also considered his own exile, and the miserable time he had endured trying to find his place in the universe, and how empty his life had felt. How he had drifted without direction, from one colony to the next. And from one fight to the next. A dishonoured exile to his people, and an unwanted outsider to everyone else.
Until he had found the Bounty.
“If that is what you wish,” he replied eventually, “But…perhaps you have already found your path.”
“I do not require your pity, Klath,” she replied curtly, sizing him up with a sudden edge of distrust, “I know that I am dishonoured, so do not waste your time with empty words.”
Klath shook his head firmly and stepped back towards her. He didn’t know if he was being driven by the par’Mach itself, but he had become increasingly certain during his contemplative staring out of the window what the right path was.
“I am not offering pity.”
“Then what?”
He stiffened slightly. And at the critical moment, his earlier way with words seemed to let him down, and he reverted to a less passionate angle.
“Given what has happened, it would be for the best if we were…joined.”
K’Veth’s expression cycled through several expressions. She covered shock, incredulity and amusement in double quick time, before settling on simmering defiance. None of which were really what Klath had been hoping for.
“You want to take me as your wife?” she scoffed.
“That is my wish,” Klath affirmed, despite her tone, “But the decision is yours.”
She stared back at him and shook her head. “So, what? You would have us find a Celebrant at this port? Light the candles, recite the vows? And, before all that, you and your crewmates would perform all six trials of the Kal'Hyah ritual, I assume? Yes, son of Morad, I have been taught all about this part of our culture. Even in exile.”
Klath picked up on the mocking edge to her words, but he remained deadly serious, powered by the fire inside him. “I am willing to…forgo some of the ceremonies,” he conceded, “But it is the right thing to do. As I have tried to tell you ever since we first met, it is important that Klingons maintain their ways and traditions. Even two Klingons like us.”
“I think our mating has blinded you, son of Morad.”
Klath shook his head, more aggressively this time. He felt his mood beginning to sour.
“My eyes are open.”
She stared back at him, searching for a trace of a sign on his face that he was anything other than serious. But she saw nothing. She glanced at the wound on his cheek and realised that she was going to have to hurt him even more this time.
“In which case,” she sighed, with a hint of reluctance, “As per our people’s…proud traditions, I decline your request.”
Klath’s chest imploded. He felt a sudden, uncontrollable urge to collapse to the ground under the weight of the loss he felt. When experiencing par’Mach, the times of loss hit home just as hard as the times of joy.
But whatever he was feeling inside, he was still a proud Klingon. So he internalised all of that, and digested all of his swirling, conflicted feelings down into a simple nod, accompanied by a slightly displeased grunt.
“That is your right.”
With that, he turned on his heels and made for the door without another word.
“You do not need to—”
She didn’t get any further before he walked silently out of the door, and kept on walking. With each step he felt the aching sensation of his par’Mach-infused heart inside his chest. Which now felt more like a disease infecting his every fibre rather than a proud army marching onwards.
And K’Veth could do nothing but watch the door slowly close behind him.