"Your Grace," a female voice called. "There you are."

"Tikhél," Qymaen murmured, then coughed again. "Did we win?"

Nodding, Tikhél closed her eyes. "We have taken the capital. What are your orders?"

He coughed again. "Station the troops around the ruins. If Yam'rii come, kill them on sight." The words were bitter poison on his tongue. But it was their loss for touching Ronderu.

"Any other orders?"

"Contact the doctor at the palace. Get her out here." He didn't want Shia in this war zone—or near Tikhél, for that matter—but she was the most talented medic they knew. She's more resilient than she thinks.

The tents were pitched, and the soldiers were stationed around the ruins of Naha'le Nu'ii. He had been lying in the medic's tent, smelling of excrement and blood when a soft voice called from the entrance. "Qymaen?"

He sighed. "Shia…." He was no longer as chipper as he'd been when he'd had Ronderu nearby—or perhaps it was that their combined energy allowed him to at least function after these battles. Or maybe I'm just losing my touch, a small, terrified part of his head whispered.

She bent near him and removed her mask. Before he could protest, she took his face in her hands and kissed him on the lips. His body wrapped itself in pleasure and demanded more; his mind retorted with a scream.

She pulled away after too long, wiping blood from her lips. "Must I bathe you too?" she said with a coy smile, pulling out some tools from her bag. In the dim lighting, the hump of her stomach was incredibly sharp. That was his child she carried: his blood, his bones, a wonderful life growing inside her.

She took water and alcohol, mixed them in a bowl, and soaked a cloth in it. Pressing the material to his head, she grabbed his other hand, massaging his thumbs with her own. And for the moment, he allowed himself to bask in the love a part of him wished he could return.

She wiped the blood and dirt beneath his scales, then dried his face gently. "You only have minor injuries on the face," she noted quietly. "They should scab over, but we don't know whether they'll get infected by soil or atmosphere." She took a few bandages and pressed them over his forehead and cheek, then sighed. Her hands trembled as her eyes passed over his shirt and armor.

"Shia," he said, forcing gentleness into his tone, "are you afraid of me?"

"Why would I be? Haven't I seen all you are?"

There are things I want to do….that you would be horrified about. He bit his tongue. She was right. She had seen him—all of him. She removed his armor, then his undershirt, to gaze upon the wounded flesh of his chest.

Shia took some ointments from the bag, spreading them across his chest. Tikhél's voice called from outside. "May I come in?"

Before Shia had finished, Qymaen grabbed a shawl from beside him and threw it hastily over his chest. "Come in."

She stooped, coming into the tent and sitting next to Shia. The medic's voice was warm as she regarded the khaneme. "I don't believe that we've met."

"You'd be correct. I am Khaneme Tash. I've been with Khagan Sheelal on this mission." She picked at something on her robes. "I am most impressed by your strategy, Your Grace. Regrettably, you were injured."

"I have him fixed up," Shia said, the warmness thinning slightly. "He should be on his feet soon."

Tikhél swallowed, then pressed something into Qymaen's hand. He opened his palm to find a small silver ring. Her proposal was made without words; he longed to accept it. All he could think about this was more children. More sweet offspring.

Shia's jaw muscles bunched, and her eyes were colder than Abesmi's waste. But in a fraction of a second, her face brightened so widely that the ice was melted. She pulled Tikhél into a hug. "We'd be welcome to bring you into our home! Maybe our children will become friends!"

"I'm sorry—I don't understand."

"I'm married to him already," she said like this should be obvious.

Tikhél, embarrassed by this realization, laughed shakily. Qymaen was flattered by her feelings for him, but as always, his mind was on one woman—a woman married to an ocean grave.

"I suppose I should ask you too, then," Tikhél said to Shia. "Do you think I'd make a good sister-wife?"

Shia inhaled, then put on a tight smile. "It's not up to either of us, ultimately." A tiny slice of venom rushed over her words.

"I…." Qymaen clutched the ring. "I accept, on condition that Shia consents as well."

Someone called Tikhél's name from outside, and she stood. "I must be going. I trust you will consider my request."

"It will certainly be done," Shia said icily as Tikhél exited.

Her voice trembled with anger. "What were you thinking? How long have you known her?" She clenched her fists so hard that her claws cut into her soft skin. "Qymaen, can I ask you something? Swear by Ronderu's deceased name that you will answer truthfully."

He wasn't surprised at her rage. "I swear it."

"Have you been…." she swallowed. "Cheating on me? When I am close to birthing your child?"

"No," he responded. "I wasn't expecting—I didn't know—"

A tear trailed down her cheek. "You were supposed to be mine," she said. "Do you know how much I wanted you all those years you were off chasing unseemly women while I was slaving away at the medical table?"

He relaxed his clenched fists. She didn't mean that, he repeated to himself, forcing his anger to submit to him. She's pregnant. I can only imagine how sick she's feeling.

"Shia, I never wanted this."

"I'm quite aware."

He scowled. "You know what I mean. I never wanted polygyny legalized. However, this war's taken more men than women—it created such an imbalance that we were forced to go against our values."

"So our love means nothing to you?" she said, quivering.

He bit his tongue. You're lying to her, a small part of him whispered, but he quashed it before the guilt could overwhelm him. "I love you both. Isn't it possible for you to conceive?"

"Could you love both me and Ronderu? Qymaen. Could you do it?"

A red haze clouded his vision, and his chest tightened. He kept his eyes on the bulge of his child as he spoke. Please, don't hurt her, he pleaded with himself. "Ronderu….was….different."

After a long moment, her soft hand was on his back. "I…." She sighed. "I'm sorry, Qymaen. I was in shock."

Coldness climbed across his chest. "I forgive you," he said slowly, taking her hand. "Perhaps during our stalemate, while we set up camp and prepare to conquer the rest of the planet, you could get to know Tikhél. She's a good person."

Her warmth and heartbeat should have satisfied him as she lay next to him and wrapped him in her arms. He touched the roundness of her stomach, and his child kicked joyously beneath his hand. A soft smile touched his lips. "What have you chosen to name him?"

"It's a girl," Shia said.

"How do you know? We aren't on Coruscant. We don't have the technology—"

"Motherly intuition, my love. And I've decided to name her after Ronderu—though a bit different. Smaller. Rónderu will do."

And Qymaen couldn't breathe. A little girl, a lovely child for him to hold and care for…. "Rónderu jai Baina. Ronderu….the smaller."

It had been two months since the initial meeting of Tikhél and Shia. The three of them pretended that nothing between them was awry, but in reality, the tension between his wife and Tikhél was as thick as the smoke at Naha'le Nu'ii. Despite this, Shia had done her best to befriend Tikhél and eventually consented to the wedding.

For if Shia could not make him forget Ronderu, perhaps Tikhél could.

Qymaen's robes were cool against his scales as, under the Abbaji Minor skies, he took the hand of his second wife, Tikhél saraal Tash—soon to be Tikhél jai Tash. The shaman stood before them, Shia watching from the side along with Bent and several other companions. The vows passed in a hazy blur; the words "bi amalj"—"I promise"—left his lips. The musical sensibility of Tikhél's voice repeated the exact words.

Yet unlike the cold nothingness he'd felt kissing Shia's half-human lips, he felt too much for Tikhél—too much fire for her, her body most of all.

This isn't healthy, a small part of his brain whispered as he pulled away. Her scales, bronze-colored and bathed in radiance, were hot beneath his touch. This was a mistake.

But he shoved that thought to the back of his mind as he stepped away with his second bride, making his way over to the first. Shia's eyes were visibly joyous as she clutched Tikhél's hands. "You will be welcome in our home as long as you live, my friend."

But out of the corner of his eye, Ronderu's fine form waved amidst the sunny day—her gold eyes hopelessly sad, her hands outstretched in a warning. Don't you still love me, sweet Qymaen?

This was a mistake, the sensible part of him shouted. But he could drown out the sense, the flurry of thoughts threatening to drive him insane, with passion. Passion. Force fed by his bloodlust and desire for Tikhél.

I'm done with you, Ronderu.

And are you proud of that? Her ghost said quietly and yet more brutal than the worst fatality.

It was only now that he found tears rolling down his bare face. He snapped harshly back into reality. Shia had collapsed on the floor, her face pale. Tikhél's arms were clasped around the torso of her new sister-wife. "Qymaen!" she shouted again.

He was by Shia's side in an instant, gripping her hand. "What's wrong with her?" But it was only now that he saw the telltale signs.

Shia's stomach protruded largely from her waist.

The fact that it had been six months since she'd brought the news of her child.

The great puddle of liquid resting on her skirt and around the place where she was now hunched in the embrace of Tikhél.

"What should I do?" Tikhél asked.

I'm going to be a father, his thoughts repeated like a mantra. I'm going to be a father.

He hadn't been expecting Shia's water to break when they were this far at home—back on Kalee; her associates could help her give birth easily. There were few women around, and he'd sooner dance like a Tatooinian Twi'lek than hand his wife off to another man.

"I can help her," Tikhél said. "I also have another friend. I'll get her. We'll help Shia."

His hands trembled. "Go. I'll take her back to the medic's tent and await your return."

Qymaen suspected fourteen standard hours had passed before Tikhél finally exited the tent. Her hair was disheveled, her gown was torn, and her hands were coated in blood as she grasped his.

He wrenched them away immediately, thinking she looked like something out of a horror story, and she took a breath. "She's arrived."

He maneuvered his way around the bloodied rags being changed even as he arrived, kneeling next to Shia. Her eyes were crushed tight, creating strange wrinkles where human skin met Kaleesh scales, and she inhaled so quickly that he worried she would pass out.

Her face was even paler than a Mandalorian's, and her fists grabbed great handfuls of the bedding beneath her. She let out a loud wail. He wanted to ease her pain more than anything. It's my fault. I'm the one who put her through this.

He took a hand in hers. "Breathe, Shia. It's all over. I'm right here." He looked back at Tikhél and her friend, who held a bundle. The child howled in her blankets as the midwife passed her to her father.

He gazed upon the tiny being that he had created. Her eyes were tightly shut, and her hands clawed at the world—sweet, darkened fingers that carried his flesh and bones. He sat on the ground and held her close to his heart. A few stray tears came to his eyes, and he smiled so widely his face hurt. I'm a father now.

Shia looked over at him knowingly. He passed the bundle to her, and Rón closed her eyes. The baby faltered for a few more minutes, and the noise slowly died.

He walked across the room, cupping the hand of the woman who had held his daughter in two of his own. "I am grateful," he said. "What is your name?"

"Call me Queru," she said. "Congratulations." Her voice was light and airy as she crossed the room and lay next to Shia. "Is there anything you want?"

She thought for a moment, then shook her head with a weary smile. Queru bowed her head. "Then my work here is finished." She left the room.

Qymaen forced himself to look away from Queru as she left, then leaned down next to Shia. "It seems you were right," he said. "Do you still want to call her Rónderu?"

"Yes," Shia whispered, running a hand over the baby's thin sheen of black hair—my black hair, he thought. "Rónderu jai Baina."

The smaller. "We'll be the happiest family on Kalee—you and me, Rón and Tikhél."

And he believed it.

Trigger Warning: Suicide contemplated.

That evening, he sat in the war tent, pulled off his mask, and massaged his face. The day's troubles had worn into him. The pounding of his head was unbearable, but he still had several tasks to accomplish before bed.

As quick as the dream he'd had when he'd been fifteen, the night before he'd met the lady of the dual blades, his head jerked up. The tent withered around him like a serpent's skin. Wind crashed into his ears. He was knocked down.

The chaos around him churned. The Jenuwaa Sea—the sea of bitter sorrow, of everlasting grief—was a sparkling blur. The ground beneath him was solid stone. A battle raged all around him; a terrific roar filled his senses.

Slicing gashed his stomach, then his leg, then his hand. His face was coated with bodily fluids as he slumped into the ocean. Footsteps pounded on top of his ribs, and he wheezed, coughing blood.

Carapaces sliced at his leg. He kicked a Yam'rii face away, but it was not his own free will doing so. It was like a puppet master using him as a marionette.

But exhaustion wore him down. The sun was oddly hazy before his eyes. A Yam brutally tore at his hand, ripping it off with his bare teeth, but he couldn't feel the pain anymore.

The world rushed around him—hazy blurs. My lady, you must live, a voice called. You must live. You're too important to our army to die.

He shouted, crying and screaming bitterly like a madman, burying his face in the stone as he was carried away by an unknown soldier. He cursed, foamed at the mouth, shouted till his throat was torn apart….

His dream shifted. He was in a Bacta tank, scratched up and mutilated beyond recognition, a tube over his nose and mouth. He had become made of pain, made of despair, and grief.

Choose, young Grievous. Choose.

He blinked, then spoke. His mouth was almost completely shut, and a metal tube was wedged between his lips. "I don't understand," he said. His voice was not his own, not the deep and quiet melody. Mechanical, disgusting….

Like a droid.

The voice cackled. "In time, that will change. In time."

He blinked, and the vision was gone. Trembling wracked his body, and sweat cascaded down his back beneath his armor and clothing. He settled his face in his hands, his eyes wide. What had just happened?

What was the voice?

Young Grievous, he thought. How valid the name was, but he was still Sheelal. Even after Ronderu's fate, he still had dreams. But not of the greater good, what he could offer to Kalee….about her. Always about her.

He picked up a Lig sword. Her hands had touched his the day she'd helped him cunningly wrought this hilt, made of bone instead of metal like hers, but just as deadly. He tried to kiss her cheek but ended awkwardly, banging their masks together. That was how she'd found out he was interested in her, to begin with.

A slow smile came to his face. He ran a finger over the blade, ignoring the few drops of blood that spurted from his skin. Not for the first time, he ruminated on ending his own life. Wouldn't that be more fulfilling than living, being emptied of his sanity and resolve, and being forced to live a lie—the lie that he'd moved on from loving her?

He pressed the tip to his midsection, just below his ribs and prominent breastbone. No, he thought to himself. Your daughter was just born today. This is a happy moment. You'll have Tikhél and Shia and Rón. Everyone will be glad.

She would never forgive him for committing suicide. Giving up now would brand him a coward.

He prostrated himself to the ground, stretching his hands out, and spoke to the empty room. "I accept it. You're gone."

And within him, the breath of Sheelal was snuffed out. It shriveled and wrinkled before him, a corpse decaying in an instant. And he was left grieving for its remains—Sheelal and Kummar. Qymaen and Ronderu.

"Goodbye, my Dreamt One," he said. "I will love you always. But now I am awake. And I call myself Khetsuu." The Kaleesh analog of the voice he'd heard in his dream—Grievous. The giver and bearer of sorrow.

He was no longer afraid to be in pain. But that was just it—grief was a scar, a feeling overcome. Sitting in front of the monitor, he pressed a few buttons with renewed confidence, and a significant burden was lifted from his chest.

He went to Tikhél's tent in the wee hours of dawn, finding her asleep and lying beside her. She slowly opened her green eyes, then yawned and closed them again. "You look….sunnier."

He pulled her into his arms, taking off her outer cloak and finding only her linens. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. But I have news."

"What sort?"

"We have to go to Tovarskl. It is just a few planets away."

"Didn't you already send Sk'ar to subdue that planet?"

He swallowed. "They've encountered complications. These Yam'rii are much more organized than they were here."

"Why do you think that is?" Tikél asked. The heat signatures from her face contorted as she frowned. "Are they getting help from somewhere?"

"I don't know enough about Yam'rii politics to be sure."

"They carry ties with the Trade Federation," she said with a halfhearted shrug. "But the Trade Federation doesn't have authority to act without the approval of the Senate."

Khetsuu frowned, shaking his head. "We will solve this mystery soon. Saikhan had a stellar report. Her troops have taken Elke and are moving on to its moons."

"Will she aid us at the battle?"

He shook his head. "She is an overly zealous warrior—I doubt the rest of Elke can stand against her forces. We'll get Tovarskl, and the moons will fall right into our hands."

Silence graced them for a while. His hands trembled at the thought of taking her with him, of losing her. I'll change my plans once I meet up with Bent. He said he was at the city they'd already taken. I can accomplish this mission alone with three hands tied behind my back.

He kissed her neck, and she sighed, her hands tugging his clothes in the dark. Against her scales, he whispered, "I'm leaving you in charge of Abbaji. Can you handle this job?"

She pulled his outer armor off. "It's not what I'd prefer," she said, "but I'm certainly able to."

"What would you prefer?"

"To go with you," she whispered.

"I can't do what you ask. But the rate we're going at, we'll have the whole Huk system conquered in half a standard year," he murmured. "Then we'll be together. Me, you, Shia, and our Rón."

Tikhél lowered her eyes, accepting his final answer. "Will you at least stay with me till dawn?"

"Of course." He drank in the sweet fragrance of her lips as he began to unravel her linens.

Morning came all too quickly. He gazed upon his wife, sparks of energy still soaring through his body. "Tikhél," he whispered, pulling a robe over his linens and clothes. "Get up." She slowly opened her eyes in the sparkling light against those sharp cheekbones and dark skin that matched his own.

She sat up, strapped her outer clothes, and folded her fist over her chest. "At attention, Your Grace."

"General Tash," he said, his voice tight as a commander's should be. "Rally our forces to the center of the steppe. Leave only our guard standing."

"Yes, sir!" she replied, dressing and running toward the barracks. He waited till she was a fair distance away before going in the opposite direction, toward Shia's tent.

Shia was pale and faintly breathing as she slept on the cot, Rón nestled against her bosom. His heart pounded as his eyes landed on the blood spilling around her bed.

"Shia," he said quietly, sitting beside her, but she didn't respond. He took a shuddering breath. "Shia!"

Her eyes opened slowly, and she frowned. "You're not….Bent…."

"Shia, it's Qymaen. It's your husband. Wake up!"

"Don't be silly," she said, the words slipping out like raw eggs. "I don't…." she inhaled sharply, clutching Rón to her chest. "I haven't contacted him in a standard week! Now he'll be furious….and I'll be punished…."

Hasn't she contacted Bent in a standard week? His nose scrunched up. What is she doing with him that I don't know about?

He took Rón away from her, terrified that she would harm their child somehow, and the baby began to scream. Oh, gods. Not this too. "I'll….I'll get help," he muttered. He took a comm out of his pocket. "Khaneme Tash, send Queru to Shia's tent immediately."

He did not wait for her reply before shutting off the link and kneeling next to his wife. "Shia, look at me. It's Qymaen."

She inhaled. "It hurts."

"I know," he said, forcing his voice to remain level. "It'll be okay, Shia. Stay with me." His body grew icy. What if he were to lose her, too? Was that what the gods had in mind?

Queru burst through the door, taking several clothes and stuffing them beneath Shia's skirt. "She's lost much blood," she murmured, looking at Shia's blanched face. "Have you just been standing there?"

"I'm not sanctioned to help with female issues! It's against orthodoxy!" I would have helped Ronderu. Why couldn't I do the same for Shia?

"Sometimes people's lives go before tradition. Would you let your wife die because of a futile code that has caused more harm than good? Bi chamd chadakhui!"

Of course, she can't believe me. But he would not allow himself to be shouted at by one of his subordinates. "You dare speak to your khagan like that?"

"Just because I submit to your rule militarily does not mean I support all your choices." She swallowed. "I can't guarantee that we can get her medical care here. She may need to be shipped off-world to a Republic planet."

He swallowed. Would he be willing to overcome his hatred for the Republic if it meant that Shia would live?

"Very well," he said, passing Rón to her. "Stay with her. Who is your most trusted page?"

"Dalain," Queru responded immediately. "Must I leave her in charge?"

"No. Leave her here with Shia." He shouldn't have brought her here. It was foolish and reckless—everything his mentor had said he needed to fix. "I'm going. I must rendezvous with Sk'ar on Tovarskl. Guard this planet, and you both will have earned my respect." He caught Queru's head tilting inquisitively at his last words as he exited the tent, meeting with Khaneme Tash's forces.

Tovarskl's hazy gray atmosphere was the perfect hiding place for Yam'rii forces. Khetsuu had to commend them for that when his ship touched down on the small surface of the gas giant.

The atmosphere weighed heavily on his scales, and his breathing was labored and raspy. The fact that Bent, a brilliant tactician, had needed assistance told Khetsuu that this was a severe problem. He could almost feel the evil here, hissing like a serpent when it sinks its fangs into its victims.

He pressed his com. "Sk'ar. I'm here."

He was ripped off the ground and abruptly found himself staring at the blue-violet eyes of his old friend, hidden behind a facial veil. A great laugh coaxed its way out. "Sheelal! Reporting."

He ignored nausea at the name Sheelal. "You needed assistance?"

"We can't see squat in this fog," his friend said, a frown in his voice. "I was hoping you could find a way."

"It's hopelessly thick," Khetsuu admitted. "Can the Yam'rii see any better than us?"

A shrug. "Doubt it, but that won't stop 'em."

Khetsuu longed to talk all day to his brother-in-arms. Tell him that he was a father, that Shia was ill, and that he was no longer Sheelal but eternally Grievous, and ask about his recent contact with his wife. But they had a duty to do, so he pushed all these questions aside and made a mental note to ask about it once all of this was over….once they'd conquered Tovarskl.

"It's strange," Khetsuu said, stretching out his hand in a murmur. "This planet has nothing. Why would the Yam'rii want to colonize it?"

Bent's mouth lilted ruefully. "Got some good places for a military base, which is why we haven't taken it yet."

"Any reads on the terrain?"

Bent shook his head. The men could not see past a meter in front of them. All around, violet fog flowered the atmosphere, trapping them. This planet was a wasteland, a barren terrain, and the Yam'rii wanted it anyway.

It sounds like how they were when they invaded Kalee.

"Should we wait for them to find us?" Bent asked.

"Poor idea." He frowned. "Send another scout out—well-armed. Get a reading on how big this planet is."

"And then we wait?"

He shivered as the violet fog ebbed to gray black. Perhaps night was falling on this world. He inhaled. "Yes, my friend."

As they rallied the kolkpravis and prepared to slug the door open, Khetsuu spoke to his friend. "Why didn't you check for underground bases beforehand?"

Bent sighed. "Didn't think of it. They're getting smarter. I fear they're getting help."

"That's exactly what Tikhél and I were thinking."

"Zogsukh!" Bent ordered the kolkpravis sternly. "Halt."

The kolkpravis obeyed his command. The silence was palpable enough that Khetsuu heard the whispers of the fleshy atmosphere. But amidst that noise came a chilling click-click-click from below. The sound that had haunted him from the day he was born.

He pulled out his slugthrower, loading it. "Snipers," he said. "On my mark."

The soldiers loaded their rifles. The sound made a loud snap-pop in the cool air of Tovarskl.

"Be prepared," Bent added as they aimed at a weak spot. "This is most likely a hive. Who knows how long they've been camping out here?"

He has a point there, Khetsuu thought.

"Gurvan…." he began counting down. "Khoyor…."

The clicking sounds grew louder.

"Neg!"

Every slugthrower rifle cracked in the crisp air, firing rocks surrounded by beams of energy at a single point in the ground. The dry rock crumbled beneath thousands of slugs, opening the mouth of horrors that awaited them below.

A sickening vein of ebony black against gold soil sprouted at his feet, and he realized his mistake. "Fall back!" he shouted. "Fall back now!"

It was a mistake Ronderu or Bent would have made. It was a simple error; a minor deter to their progress. But Khetsuu would never forgive himself for what happened at the siege of Tovarskl.

Hazy blurs passed through his mind. He had trouble recalling it after the fact—his voice rasping through the dust for his soldiers to fall back; his nails peeling as the earth rumbled and threatened to pull him into the Yam'rii hive; his fingers bleeding, scratched, and bruised; Bent pulling him upward.

The sound of a thousand slugthrowers worked desperately to save their khagan. His mind was full of panic and adrenaline; his body drenched itself in sweat.

I swear to the gods, I will burn them all alive, he remembered his lips mumbling. I will.

CRACK!

Screams from the impact tore at his throat. His vision exploded in color, the pain blossoming like the flowers on Kalee, and faded to black.

He awoke in the medical frigate of his freighter, his head soaring with tortured sensations, his eyes wracked with visions. Black spots swam in his sight, and his face was wet with tears.

The siege of Tovarskl could have been a dream, like those that swirled in his mind. Dreams had punctured his mind—of a female Kaleesh, unmistakably Ronderu, with….

A Jedi.

A human Jedi.

Something from her past, perhaps, for she had no future. But the idea of her being anywhere near a boy from the filthy Republic spiked burning in his veins.

Tikhél walked into the bay, sitting next to him. She smiled sadly, gathered his battered body into her arms, and kissed him on the jaw. Usually, he'd have allowed himself to break into tears, but he was no longer Ronderu's softened dreamer.

"You lost," Tikhél said, pressing her cool hand to his forehead. "But that's not the only problem."

"What?" he growled, his voice twisted into something almost animalistic. The dream where he'd been given a vocabulator instead of a voice box came to mind, but he pressed it aside. "Is Shia in danger? Is she all right?"

Tikhél pressed her fingers to his lips to silence him. His skin itched, inflamed with fever, and he wanted to claw his scales off. But her calm voice shone through his sorrows. "Shia is fine. She has been for a time."

"How long has it been?"

"Three standard weeks," she said. "Qymaen…." she took a shuddering breath. "Coruscant demands to see you there. They threatened us with force if you refused."

"Why would Coruscant want to see me?" he asked, though the horrible truth began to dawn upon him.

"It appears that we were right. The Trade Federation has connections with the Huk system. They have accused the Kalee system of offensive warmongering, and their punishments will be deadly if confirmed."

And to Khetsuu's surprise, another woman entered the room—Queru, Shia's midwife. She nodded to Tikhél, then came and embraced him as well. He wept silently against her shoulder with gratitude. "Thank you….for all you did…."

"I want to marry you," she blurted out, and he was ridden with shock.

"Why?" he croaked, leaning back and wiping his eyes. His head pounded again. "What do you see in me?"

She laughed gently. "Hero of the Huk War? Tamer of Ronderu lij Kummar?" He was tempted to laugh—no one could tame Ronderu—but she went on. "Someone I want to take care of? Any of that ringing a bell?"

"That was a dramatic proposal," Tikhél remarked dryly from across the room, though her eyes had a playful glint.

And all he could think about now was how he was indebted to her for saving Shia's life. He would repay her for all of that. "I….I'm flattered. Yes." A slight blush came to his cheek.

"Perhaps we could marry on Coruscant," she said. "If you're planning to confront the Senate, of course."

"Why wouldn't I?" he said with a renewed scowl. "How long did they give me to show up?"

"A week."

A week. He didn't know what was wrong with his head, but whatever it was, a week was not enough time.

"Very well," he said. "Where are we?"

"On our way back home," Queru said. "They've asked for Kaleesh forces to evacuate the planet. Saikhan's going to be mad when we get back."

"And you just listened to them?"

"You did leave me in charge," Tikhél pointed out from across the room.

He rolled his eyes, feeling bleak and empty now. All my progress, even if Kalee is vindicated….will be for nothing. Those soulless bugs will intrude again, and I'll never escape the war.

Gods, I'm so sick of this senseless conflict.

Did you know…

● It is a standard theory in the fanon that Qymaen named one of his children after Ronderu. However, I did put a twist on it - that Shia was the one who named the child.

● Although Unknown Soldier says that he changed it directly to Grievous, I tweaked it because it wouldn't make sense for Qymaen to defer to a Basic name. He associates the language with the scummy Republic.

● This marks the first proper tussle that Grievous has with the Republic - that they called him to account at Coruscant rather than the Yam'rii.

Tell me what you think…

● Why did you think Shia named their daughter after Ronderu, who was keeping them apart?

● What do you make of Shia's mumblings?