The smell of dried blood mingles with orchids, strong. My drowsy smile turns to an expression of alarm.
Something is wrong, terribly so. I feel smothered as if by a great weight – sleep, but not only that. As my blurred eyes strive to focus, I experimentally flex my arms. The grime on my cheeks stings as sweat breaks out, from the heat this chamber, wherever it is. I am still in my clothes – whereever I had been a moment ago, I must have fallen asleep in a hurry.
What am I doing here?
My motions seem heavy, lethargic. It is as if I am wrapped in inertia, as if my body were immersed like an insect in some intangible but viscous liquid. And, as I fully take in the scene before me, I realize I'm in an upright position. No, things are most definitely not as they should be.
There is little in the way of illumination – my cell, for it must be called that, is cold, burnished durasteel, the pale light of my repulsor prison its sole source of light. The manacles encircle my throat, my ankles and my wrists, wreathed in trails of energy, keeping me afloat. I remember now. The hatch above me is the sole entrance or exit. And as my eyes slide over the flowers… I know who holds me now. Yes.
Patience comes easy when one has the luxury of security. I do not. And striving with all my strength against the field does nothing, for there is nothing to strain against and nothing to break. So I remain in the center of the room, gently revolving in the air above my glowing podium. Floating. Immobile. Caught. And the fear simmers within me. I know it for what it is, but resistance is no small task – I am hungry, weary, and the drugs used to render me unconscious still cloud my mind.
Still, it is not until the metallic sound of bolts being withdrawn that I know true fear. Suppressing it is more than I can do now; I must hide it from my face entirely. Because the man descending on the repulsorlift platform toward me is one I recognize, and the fact that I can still fear him is good. It means my sanity has not yet fled, even when I did.
He steps off the platform, his feet lost in a swirl of dark fabric. His face is long, angular, and in the light I get the impression that his skin is sculpted, polished rock. Hard, unforgiving and unforgiven, so difficult to reconcile with the man I once knew. Harder still, the eyes; emerald, glinting in deep sockets. The hair is a dark spill, blending into the confines of the hood. I look at him and wonder if the darkness has already consumed him entirely.
"Alyra," he greets me without preamble. I know that voice almost more than I do him; it seems a throwback to older, safer times. Times and memories that seem far away now, phantoms that have no place on the dungeon ship Carnifex.
"Kellin." I can say nothing more. Everything has been said already. He does not know it, but inside, I'm not awaiting his words, his accusations, even his pleas. They mean nothing to me now when compared to an end to the running and the terror of death.
He looms before me now. Without having moved, his prescence fills the room. If I could shrink back, I would. But my bonds still hold me in their gentle, irresistable grip.
"Alyra. You were wrong to run." A ragged breath, then. "We were meant to be together. You said that to me. Made me see it. Together, always."
When I don't answer, he takes one step toward me. His face twists.
"Why won't you answer me? Will this be like last time? Must pain be my only path to saving you?" His gloved fist clenches. Even after everything he is still hesitant to hurt me, his anger turned to impotence. I know it will not last long, and so I attempt to stall him with the truth.
"Once there was a man known as Kellin Thorne. A brave man, a loyal friend, a man who saw the path of the Jedi as a way to help all.
"I met that man. I loved that man. I saw him die."He flinches. I know him so well, even what he has become; I can see how deep my words have affected him.
"He is still here." Kellin pauses, as if he's testing the words for truth. "Changed, but he's still the same man at heart."
Is it a spark of light in those eyes? I do not dare to hope. But still, I must know. "The Kellin I knew... he would never hunt his own kind. He would never oppress, exploit, murder. He would be dead rather than serve your master."
"He isn't dead." His voice is almost choking now, and his cheek muscles are rigid with tension. "He came back for you."
"If you are him, then let me go."
That familiar face, floating in the shadow of the hood, clouds. When he answers, all hesitancy is gone. "No. Not now, not when I've found you. If only you had come with me from the beginning, none of this would have happened."
And weariness sweeps over me as I lower my head. "You still don't understand."
"Understand what?"
"That we wouldn't have been together even if that happened. That the only way for us to be what we once were... is if you would follow me."
Silence is my only answer. Eventually, I raise my head. The hatch is closed, and, but for the smell of the flowers, the cell is empty.
As am I.
