Love and the Pathfinder
The ceaseless night of space is cold.
She feels it as she drifts hazily in and out of consciousness. Even the air filtering through the oxygen mask is chill, albeit a welcome one. The cold mingles well with the relative quiet of the ship, silent but for the soft beep of the machine monitoring her vitals.
She is going home.
This much she knows. She remembers the first glimpse of a human face, blinking down at her through artificial light. She remembers hushed conversation upon being lugged back to the ship, and the gentle hands of a competent healer, coupled with the sterile smell of the sick bay.
Phrases are beginning to stick, too. Things like, "fever" and "half mad," "delirious," "mission," "four and a half years." Planet names echo into her mind as they speak, names that seem more and more familiar as she blurrily shifts them through. They talk of layovers, fuel stops, unsafe routes.
But most of all, there is a name. It is whispered over and over, like a mantra, like a talisman. It is a name not her own, but just as familiar, carrying with it a presence, a push of memories long hidden, teetering like a word on the tip of her tongue.
Her descent into sleep heals her mind, but she always awakes, searching.
He was perched on a tall chair by the door of a dingy apartment, fingers twitching restlessly to the trigger of his blaster, eyes shifting distrustingly from her to the dingily-dressed inhabitants of the building when they ambled by. The scruffy man with the eye-intrusive bangs and clumsily bandaged shoulder, she soon found, did not easily trust. Betrayal and loss had ruined him for such matters of the heart. Pain seemed to drive him moodily through life, so troubled, so easily defensive.
She saved his life—twice—before he would believe her intentions were good. Every time she asked him a question that first week, he all but bit her head off. Frustration would've overtaken any lesser woman—indeed, would've overtaken her under normal circumstances—yet she found herself inexplicably desiring his approval. It wasn't that she was desperate for attention; it simply amused her to watch his preconceptions about her wear slowly away, like the eroding cliff faces of her home world.
There was little time for rest except late at night, when the trials and injuries of the day drove them back to their apartment hideaway for uneasy sleep. They choked down whatever food they could scrounge, swapping superficial war stories and guarding the door in shifts. Not much of a life. Their mission required absolute diligence, pushed to the limit from dawn to smoky dusk, until the day the blaster graze on her arm reopened and she nearly passed out from blood loss.
Why didn't you tell me? he scolded as the medic resealed the wound. You know I can't do this without you.
It had felt good, being needed.
Master?
She hears the voice as if from far above her. Familiar, but she can't remember why. A silent curse rises to the forefront of her mind. Why is her memory forever failing her?
We should wake her up. We'll be there soon. She'll want to be awake when we land.
Not yet, says the original voice. The presence is a pool of light, a serene expanse of open sky. Let her sleep. She still heals.
But he said—
I don't care what he said. Think about it. Won't he be more displeased if she hasn't gotten enough rest? Let's let her be for a time. We can wake her when he calls.
The other gives a reluctant grunt of agreement, and the soft pad of footsteps echoes away from her bedside.
He.
He?
Don't wake me, she thinks. Don't wake me until I can remember.
The three weeks of her training, drifting back to her like a warm breeze. Safety. Energy. Time moved slower there. Somehow she'd never gotten tired during her stay in those hallowed halls. The masters kept her busy all day, but even then she found the time to eat a leisurely lunch with the crew or have an impassioned discussion about the nature of the universe with another of her fellow trainees. It was a welcome bliss compared to the cold, dark skyscrapers of their previous inhabitance, and one that she felt reluctant to leave, regardless of the urgency of their quest.
The night before they'd embarked, the crew threw her a surprise party out on the long, low hills beyond the enclave, to celebrate her acceptance into the order. Crisp loaves of fresh bread, dark berry wine, and other mouth-watering provisions wheedled from the kitchen staff spilled over the length of sheet they'd spread out on the ground, picnic style. They'd even cleared enough ground cover to make a fire pit and roast an unidentifiable shank of meat that tasted better than it looked.
The sun had begun to set by the time they finished eating. Not a cloud dotted the sky, and the slow procession into night was breathtaking. Beams of golden light shifted across the swaying grass of the plains, casting long shadows with the sparse trees until the last ray winked out on the horizon.
And then came the stars, bright and expansive and so clear that they seemed ready to burst into song. They called to her. She stayed, long after the others had trailed their sleepy ways back to the welcoming lights of the enclave and bed. She stayed and stared up at the stars, wondering in silence what dark mysteries these faraway, singing lights held.
The sound of a new log thumping down on her dying campfire startled her. But it was only him, armor exchanged for a thick overshirt to ward off the cold. Sorry, he said. Didn't mean to startle you.
I thought you were going to bed, she said, propping herself up on her elbows.
He set another log on the fire and came to her side, flopping down with a gruff laugh. And leave you out here by yourself? Not on your life.
You of all people should know I'd be fine.
Listen, sister, saving my ass a few times doesn't make you invulnerable. You still need someone to watch your back, and right now, that someone happens to be me.
She rolled her eyes and didn't bother to correct him. It was good to have him there that last safe night, good to be alone again as they lay silently side-by-side, staring up at the heart-wrenching beauty of the stars.
The room is empty.
She lays motionless for a while, regulating her breath until her heartbeat is a slow plunk in the center of her chest. She considers sleep, feeling the tug of her irrationally tired body towards the confusion of her dreams. Her head feels heavy.
But something is about to happen. She can sense it. Anticipation snakes through the framework of the ship, as if the crew's seeming anxiousness has given the old girl a life of her own. She can faintly feel their presences, gathered in a tight knot in the bridge.
Sleep will wait.
She lets her eyes drift open and squints against the bright light above her. Gray walls. A row of boxes, the neatly written labels of which appear blurry to her eyes. The little room has a comforting familiarity, despite the cramped space. No time to wonder, she chides herself, but she is still dazed, her mind slugging through a vibrant fog of memory.
Easing to a sitting position, she removes the oxygen mask with unsteady hands and reaches for the robe draped over a stack of medical supply bins.
Heat and sunlight, blinding against an endless expanse of shifting sands. The sand had gotten everywhere—in her boots, in her gear, in her hair. Sweat poured down the back of her borrowed robes, sticking the gritty irritant to her skin. No small wonder that the planet had been so uninhabited.
The sound of a large animal lowing over the next dune prompted her to stop. She sighed and pulled a filthy mass of graying material out of one of her utility packs, sure she could've smelled the old sweat and animal musk from three meters away. Such a disgusting piece of equipment belonged in an incinerator, not on someone's face, but she didn't really have a choice at this point.
Masks on, she called reluctantly to her companion. The two of them pulled the constricting hoods over their heads, set the goggles and breath tubes in place, and clamped on the breath mask. Now she felt even more suffocated than before; she could already feel her own sweat seeping into the wrappings and drawing the old filth down her face. Irritation had begun to well up in the depth of her chest, so tangibly that she almost considered calling the foray off until she could collect herself.
Tell me we won't be wearing these damn things for very long, came a frustrated mutter to her right.
She turned and glared at him through the tinted tubes of her goggles. He was scratching madly at the crown of his head, his other hand balled in an angry fist on his cocked hip in a stance that was so unlike one of the locals that she couldn't help but snicker at him.
What? he snapped.
Nothing, nothing. You just… you have no idea how funny you look right now.
A pause. His arms akimbo.
Oh, do I? And what about you, Miss Upside-Down-Breath-Mask?
She clapped a gloved hand over her mouth, annoyed with herself until she realized that her breath mask was perfectly in place. You nerf-herding little—
A handful of sand exploded in her face. He laughed and danced out of her reach before she could retaliate, protesting when she sent a moderately-sized section of the dune skittering down his robes and boots.
I do not understand organics, commented the droid as they shook hands a moment later in a cautious truce. They grow and grow and claim to gain knowledge, but their inner cores remain primarily the same as when they are small.
She dropped his hand abruptly and retorted with a brusque order to shut-up. But as the three of them trudged over the dune at last, she smiled beneath her mask.
Three blurry faces pitches sharply to meet her as she enters, greeted by mixed exclamations of alarm, worry, and what appears to be excitement.
Master!
My Lord!
You're awake!
We were just going to—
A man, fingers positioned expertly over the controls. A woman, seated in the copilot's chair, datapad in hand. A tall droid packing an unnecessary surplus of weaponry. The image is strangely familiar.
The woman—quite obviously the captain—stands, and in one graceful swoop has pushed her tiny crew back to their places and at attention. There will be time for talk later, she tells them, then turns on the figure supporting herself on the doorway. Master, you should go back to the sick bay. You're not feeling well.
I'm perfectly fine, she rasps in reply, her voice like brushing lizard scales against her esophagus. She reaches a hand to her neck and rubs the hairline scars her fingers find there. She wonders what forgotten battle laid them there.
The captain's brow creases in concern, and she places a gentle hand on her shoulder and leads her a short way down the hall. Are you sure?
Yes. Of course.
Her vision is beginning to focus. The control lights sharpen in the dull light of the bridge. Stars flash by the open dome of the cockpit, long, clean streaks against the milky black of space. The curves of the ship's metal plating become visible, now the details of the captain's face, concerned, tired-looking, caught up in whatever trepidation she had sensed from her bed. Me, she realizes in confusion. It's something about me.
The ship shudders, a slight vibration that she recognizes. The old piece of scrap metal is running low on fuel. How long… how long have I been asleep?
We found you about a month ago, says the captain. Do you remember?
She shakes her head.
On the other side of the thick glass, the stars suddenly shrink into ordinary points of light. She catches sight of a large planet, blue and dark green and glimmering in the light of a single sun.
Let's go stand by the gangplank door, says the captain, taking a step past her. We're almost there.
She nearly asks, almost where? But as she turns and slowly follows the other woman back down the hallway, her heart thumps an ever-quickening response in her chest.
Home, home, home home…
The engine room had been her sanctuary. With every world they visited, her strange ability to draw others to their cause swelled their ranks, and the little ship sometimes seemed ready to explode, whether from an overabundance of half-cleaned blasters and dirty laundry, or from a grudge over the disappearance of the last piece of freeze-dried fruit, she was never quite sure. She felt suffocated sometimes. She missed the early days, when it had been just him and her, an efficient and hopelessly exhausted team of two.
She told him as much once when he came back to check a reactor and caught her curled up against the hull, frustrated. She could feel his gaze on her, observant, mulling over her presence here in his cautious, rational way as he found what he needed and tightened a few bolts.
She had expected a curt reminder that they were all dealing with it, that they would be to the next world soon and she shouldn't worry, perhaps even a sympathetic thump on the back or a good-natured, cheer up, soldier, we'll get through this. Instead, he knelt by her side and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
I miss it, too, he said. I miss the quiet. But we need their help, all of them. Just like we need you.
He squeezed her shoulder and stood, turning for the door with a quip about someone having to do the dishes around here, but not before she caught the guarded warmth in the depths of his dark eyes and wondered how long ago his mistrust had turned to affection.
The gangplank whirrs and crunches downward, the grime and earth of a hundred worlds caught in its gears. A sliver of the skyline appears, tall buildings against gold and red and orange. The sun is setting.
The captain presses the comm button by the door release. Are you coming?
Not a chance, says a crackling version of the man's voice. You know how I feel about welcome parties.
Suit yourself, says the woman, smiling. She turns back to her companion. You ready?
She does not reply for a moment, thinking, watching the skyline grow larger. Didn't you worry? she says absently.
Hmm? About what?
Your navigator. Why did you bring him with you, knowing there are fates worse than death on the Outer Rim?
The captain blinks, as if the thought has never occurred to her. Well… It'd be painful either way, wouldn't it? That's the danger of love, old friend—it's always painful. You of all people should know that.
Love, she thinks as the gangplank connects to the landing deck with a thump. Love, as she takes her first unsteady steps down the metal surface, hand on her companion's shoulder for support. Love is painful. Love is dangerous. But the depth of it, the strength of it…
A commotion at the end of the dock. An odd mixture of uniformed and robed figures shout in protest as a dark-clothed, dark-haired figure at their head jogs, then runs, then sprints toward the ship, feet pounding, arms pumping, her name torn from his lungs like a battlecry.
And at last, she remembers.
He was a mess. His face dripped with tears and snot and sweat, running rivers down his neck and soaking his undershirt. He looked as if he might crash into the restrictive force field at any time, lost to the world.
It had been a reflex, really, rather than an emotional response. War heroes do not cry—unless, of course, they are being shock tortured. In fact, he had begun with a straight face, reminding her vehemently what was at stake if she told the truth instead of letting him suffer. But under the agony of the electric currents, his eyes became bloodshot, his nose puffy and red. Vulnerable. Human.
I'll ask you one last time, the interrogator barked at her. Where are they?
She closed her eyes, desperate to shut out his torment, but his cries of agony still rang in her ears, and the smell of charred hair assaulted her senses with a pain more terrible than a blaster shot to the gut. She ached to end it. She ached to tell them everything, from beginning to end, but she already knew what answer he wanted her to give.
I don't know what you're talking about, she whispered.
Electricity crackled violently as the technician flipped the switch for all three enclosures. She felt her hair stand on end, heard her own voice rupture from her chest as every molecule in her body shook with searing torment, felt her mind numbing slowly into—
Nothing. Blackness. Emptiness.
She woke what seemed like hours later, all her limbs on fire, to glimpse him watching her, listless, from his own enclosure. His eyes were still swollen, his shirt still soaked, but he smiled at her with that all too familiar rueful grin. You did it, he said, his voice weak.
Pride. How could he be proud of her for allowing him to be tortured? I'm so sorry, she choked out, hot liquid intruding in her vision. It killed me so much to watch you suffer…
No, you did what you had to. You were strong. I don't think I could've held up if it'd been you being tortured. I'm proud of you.
It was his flawed humanity, his humbleness, his tears that stirred her heart. She concentrated on knitting her frazzled nerve endings back together, chalking the intense tug in her chest up to anxiety and pain until she realized, quite suddenly, that the feelings were not going away. Stronger than anger, deeper than hate. Could it be?
How strange, she mused, feeling a bit lightheaded. How strange that the first time she realized she was falling in love with him was the first time she ever saw him cry.
She falls.
Her legs go numb. Her arms shake. Her head whirls, caught in a maelstrom of memory and emotion and pain and love, always love.
She falls, but at long last, he is there to catch her.
His face has more lines now, she observes as she stares up at him, and there is a stray sprinkling of silver at his temples. Yet the warmth of his brown eyes has not changed, the grip of his arms around her weakened body familiar and calming and safe.
He presses his forehead against hers, his hand cupping her head, and chokes out a laugh that sounds more like a sob. Hey there, Beautiful. I was wondering when I'd see that pretty face of yours again.
She grasps for words, wanting to beg his forgiveness, wanting to express how deep the ache of leaving him has been, but her heart beats so fast that she can barely breathe, her temples pounding in time with the flash of memory through her brain until one last fragment slips into place.
They stood at the gangplank door, fumbling with sabers and blasters and grenade packs. Trip mines, left pocket. Medpacs, right pocket. She had geared up to explore in the same way these long weeks, an act as second nature as breathing or sleeping. Only this time, they disembarked for their final destination: that last, inexorable collision with fate.
Her mind spun out of control. Escape. Betrayal. Anger. Chaos. The discovery of her true identity had come at a great cost. It was all she could do to hang on as storm after storm had battered her fragile heart. Victory. Death. All that mattered now was that the end came swiftly.
Outside, the clash of sabers echoed off the high ceilings of the docking bay and through the thick metal plating of the ship. The final battle was already at hand. She had only to hit the release lever, and they would pelt down to the cool surface of the landing deck in a blaze of blaster fire and swinging blade.
He stayed her hand centimeters away from the lever, curling her thin fingers gently into his grip. Wait a minute.
The simple gesture brought a curious rest to the dark chaos of her mind. Her heart fluttered.
Just… just in case, he stammered. Just in case I don't…
Then he kissed her, with such fervor and passionate tenderness that the bottom of her stomach dropped, sending her heart crashing against her ribcage, turning her knees gelatinous, his strong arms drawing her closer until suddenly she was kissing him back, her tongue entangled, her eyes closed, faint with euphoria as for one long, sweet moment nothing in the universe mattered but him…
Their lips parted. He clutched her so tight to his chest that she could feel his heart beating wildly through his armor.
I… I love you, he whispered hoarsely into her hair. No matter what happens.
I love you, too, she breathed. Always.
They stood together, fingers entwined, hearts still thumping loudly, as the gangplank slowly lowered.
He smiles down at her, that familiar, lopsided grin, his warm eyes glowing in the dying sunlight. He lifts her so easily, so carefully, that she barely knows she's aloft until he begins to walk, cradling her like a small child exhausted from a day of play.
I hope you found what you wanted, he murmurs fiercely in her ear, because if I have my way, then dammit, Rev, I'm never leaving your side again.
She rests her head against his sternum, breathing in the scent of him, that distinct musk of sweat and soap and leather. The smell of home, of love, of memories.
She closes her eyes and smiles. You'll never have to, Carth.
The last sliver of sunlight blinks out on the horizon as he carries her inside, ushering in an endless expanse of shining, singing stars.
All characters (c) BioWare. Star Wars (c) Lucas.