Not Never
He'd had this dream before, too many times, but there was no escaping it: Taris, the stench of it – rakghouls and death and dead rakghouls, plague and decay and rakghoul shit – the pure, grinding nastiness of the entire planet. Anticipation coiled like a viper in his gut. The traitor needed to die. Faded blue eyes stared up from a weathered, beaten face; Jicoln Cadera kneeled in the mud, blood and muck and war paint dripping down towards the corners of his mouth like tears, like regret.
But something always, always went wrong when he raised his blaster to finish off the traitor: the weapon didn't fire, or misfired, or exploded in a rain of shrapnel in his fist, blinding him. Other times his father changed faces, trading one mask for another; sometimes he saw Mandalore, stern and betrayed, more often he saw his own face, reflected there like a mirror.
Most often the very last thing he saw was a room full of red lights blinking on and off in darkness like a night sky filled with malevolent stars, blinking faster and faster until the dark exploded into light and flames, throwing his body back, leaving him crumpled and broken on the floor.
The Champion wasn't there, was never there, as if he had never met her, as if she had never hunted the traitor, as if she had never existed at all.
He could feel himself starting to sweat, staring down into his father's faded blue eyes again. The traitor needed to die. He tried to turn away, dread in his chest like a physical weight, tried to punch that mask of tears off his father's face, tried to do something, anything, else, his mind filled with dream-panic, his arms and legs refusing to obey him, as unwieldy and useless as stumps.
"Shhhhhh."
Warmth and softness beneath him, a touch against his hair so gentle his sleep-addled brain couldn't process who could be touching him in such a way, couldn't remember if anyone ever had, until she kissed the corner of his mouth and he could taste her.
"Cyare." He wasn't sure where he was; his eyes refused to open, the nightmare trapped behind his eyelids, lying in wait for him.
"Torian." Soft lips brushed his forehead drowsily, her voice scratchy with sleep. "You're dreaming. Bad dreams?"
His lips wouldn't work right. He mumbled the words into her hair. "Don't leave me, cyare."
He felt her blink and then swallow beneath him.
Then she dipped her head to kiss him, her lips meeting his with so much affectionate reassurance, so much love, that he felt relief all the way down his body in a rush of warmth, his muscles immediately relaxing, his heart unclenching like a fist becoming an open palm.
"Never, sweetheart." She kissed him again; another promise. "Not ever."
"Nu draar." He corrected her blearily, his mouth barely moving against hers. His lips felt bruised, as if he'd taken a punch.
"Noo-DRAR."She imitated his pronunciation, her fingers slowly ruffling his hair. She sounded as if she were smiling. "You're stuck with me, kid."
"Nottakid." The words slurred together. He wasn't sure why he kept correcting her when he was so tired and his mouth was broken.
"I know." Hands traced his shoulders, his back, the line of his spine. "Believe me." He knew where he was, then: in her bed, with her, really with her, skin to naked skin. She kissed his temple, whispered into his ear, husky and warm. "Sleep, Torian. I'm not going anywhere."
Belief followed relief: warmer, brighter, all pervasive, like sunlight; the warmth and welcome of her, of her body beneath him, around him, reminding him that he was home.
He wouldn't forget again.
Heaviness dragged at him, her cradle of warmth bringing him down slowly into grey, then deeper grey, then black, then more than black.
He'd had this dream before, endlessly. There was no escape from it. Rakghouls and destruction, death-stench: Taris. The traitor needed to die. Faded blue eyes staring up at him through a mask of regret. As if Jicoln Cadera had ever regretted anything. As if regret would grant atonement, redemption. As if anything but death ever would.
The blaster aimed at his father's face. His arm was so heavy, his chest tight.
"Torian. You're dreaming."
She was there, war paint darkening her eyes, her lips, highlighting the points and angles of her face. She held her body like a weapon; she was a weapon, as keen and deadly as her smile. Her expression was serious now, her hand on his shoulder, steadying him. "Look."
When he looked back his father was dead, the killing shot between his eyes, right where he had put it so many days past his dream-mind couldn't count them.
This time the traitor stayed dead.
He felt relief like a warm wave, all encompassing, a breath held for so long and finally, finally exhaled. When his heart unclenched like a fist becoming an open palm she reached out to him and took it into her own: hand in hand, heart in heart.
"Nu draar." She whispered it against his lips, his hands, his heart, with him, really with him. "You're stuck with me, kid."
He wouldn't forget again.
Translations from mandoa dot org:
Cyare
Beloved
Nu draar
No way. Absolutely not. Never in a million years. Not on your life. [Emphatic disagreement and doubt. Literally: "Not never." Mandos use double negatives for emphasis.]