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Symmetry and Imperfection

Prologue

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Moving down the industrial gray Departures corridor at Damned Far Station, the young woman looked much like any other refugee. Her clothing, though of good quality, was the worse for wear. The dark brown tunic and buff undershirt hung from her as if she had recently lost significant weight, and her leggings were bagged at the knees. The braid of black hair was disheveled, and her skin dulled by days spent under artificial light. Her worldly possessions were slung in a duffel across her back and her tiny infant rode in a carrier on her chest.

Shouldering her way through the crowd, she paid little attention to the odors of the aging station. Poor ventilation, and too many bodies of too many species washed with minimally recycled graywater contributed to an oppressive atmosphere. Touts and hawkers lined the spaces between departure bays, selling over-priced and questionable food and drink. Recruiters called out promises of grand adventure on myriad new worlds or promised mountains of platinum to be found in this or that asteroid belt. The young woman passed them all with not so much as a glance.

Like so many others, she was running away from or running to, seeking refuge in the wild space beyond the most far-flung Imperial outposts.

With scant hope in her blue eyes, Abhaia scanned the schedules of departing ships, bound for worlds with names like Last Chance, Bastard's Luck, and Pair O' Dice. The prices for steerage transport were exorbitant, even if she dropped her baggage and went aboard with the clothing she stood up in, she would never have enough to ...

Tears formed in her eyes and she looked down at her sleeping daughter. The Sight had been true; her daughter was destined for another path.

With bowed head, she retreated into a corner, unslung her bag and sank onto it. She had not chosen this path, and it made her deeply angry. Even as she had felt her child's life begin from the forced seeding of her womb, she held no anger toward the innocent. When she realized that her child's life would be lived as breeding stock, she knew she had to escape.

Even the pain and blood that accompanied her arrival had kindled no anger or hatred, only determination to protect the new life.

The anger and hate was reserved for Abhaia's grandfather and his adherents.

"I will bring to him what he fears most," she told the sleeping infant "I will bring to him that which he has become."

Her escape had been bloody, too. In fleeing, she had killed her own father and several others. In her erratic run across the Outer Rim, she left a trail of a dozen dead Jedi in her wake.

"Not a bad tally for a worthless Healer, eh?"

The child opened her blue eyes and yawned, staring placidly up at her mother. A wave of fierceness and love swept through the young woman as she regarded her child. This was her child; wholly hers as the man who had sired her died at her father's side.

A smile curved her lips. They had been stunned when she drew her grandmother's lightsaber and charged them. The will to destroy her tormentors and a primal fury so deep and basic had driven every other thought out of her head. The meek little healer whom they so scorned had fought like demonspawn, and killed without hesitation.

Abhaia had even removed her rapist's tender bits with a flick of her blade, just before she removed his head.

Some would say that she had fallen to the Dark, but she would say that she had embraced Dark without forsaking Light. Certainly, her grandfather claimed that his deeds were all for the Light, done out of love for the Jedi. Breeding an army of Force-strong warriors was his goal, and he took all women who showed even a glimmer of sensitivity.

He also killed whose spirits he could not break, claiming that they were of the Dark and had to be destroyed.

If anything, he rivaled Darth Vader in evil. At least he never claimed his actions to be anything but of the Dark.

Banishing the thoughts, she instead filled her mind with her child. Hiding on the world of Heca in the last trimester of her pregnancy, she had time to study some ancient texts of the Danu that had been her mother's. A name in those texts called out to her and she had named her child Arien - which meant shining or enduring pledge.

This little one, who she had never expected to truly care for, had come to fill her life. Lifting her out of the carrier, she smiled at her daughter's enthusiastic kicking and wriggling. Even in the womb, this one had been restless, impatient to come out to the world.

So impatient that she had decided to come out early by a month and had been in a tearing hurry ever since.

Arien made sounds that anyone would associate with a happy baby, but to her mother, they were more than simple noise. She bent her forehead to her child's and reached for the Force. Arien was content in a dry, clean jumper, she was getting a little hungry, but mostly she wanted to look around.

::: You are Arien, daughter of Abhaia, daughter of Keille, daughter of Esabail :::

She immersed herself in the bright glow of the infant's spirit and against all her mental preparation for this moment, she began to cry.

Almost a year of running, fear for their lives, anger and hatred for their pursuers had taken their toll on Abhaia. A tear splashed on Arien's face and she began to cry thinly, echoing her mother's distress.

"Shhh, sweeting, shh. It's going to be all right."

And it would be. Arien would grow to adulthood with her Force potential locked away, free of the Jedi and free from fear of the Empire. The texts of the Danu had been specific on how to block the use of the Force, seeing to it that while the sensitivity would remain, the ability to use the Force would be contained. It would take exceptional power to break the block that she had placed even while Arien was still growing inside her.

She had destroyed those texts just before she left Heca, and one of her grandfather's Jedi who had determined what she had done.

Under her attentive soothing, Arien quieted, then began to root about for a breast. Abhaia adjusted her cloak and tunic, then slid cross-legged to the floor, and opened her bag.

As her daughter nursed, Abhaia sorted though what she would take with her, and what she would leave as a legacy for her daughter. Sadly, there was not much. Clothing for both, all the sundry accoutrements of an infant, toiletries, and that was about it.

There was nothing left of her mother or her grandmother to give to her daughter. It was as if they had never lived. All that was left were Abhaia's memories of those strong, proud women.

::: Arien :::

The child's mind responded to her touch with an expression of utter contentment. Abhaia cleared her mind of everything except her love for her daughter, of her joy in knowing that Arien would grow up strong and free. Images of her mother and grandmother were next, given to her with feelings of pride. If this to be the legacy that she had, if all her child would have were dim memories of feelings and images, she wanted them to be the very best ones.

Arien's mind accepted each imprint with wonder, and then with growing sleepiness as she began to digest her meal.

Using her healer's talent, Abhaia coaxed a ringing belch from the baby and tenderly wiped a dribble of milk from her lips. Infants of eight weeks were simply not long on conversation.

"You could have stayed awake long enough to finish the other side," Abhaia mock-scolded.

Sorting though the clothing, she pulled out a simple hooded robe in a rich cinnamon brown. After some consideration, she set it aside. Nothing that could be remotely associated with the Jedi could go with her daughter. She hastily divided her things from Arien's, bundling the child's clothing and other items into a large scarf and tied it pack-style. Her own clothing she pared to three changes with socks and undergarments, and hid her grandmother's lightsaber in the spring-loaded clip in the loose sleeve of her tunic.

Everything else went into the trash chute.

A ripple in the Force nudged her. Familiar power signatures faint with distance came to her perception.

It was time.

She stood slowly, marking every moment as she slung the light pack with her clothing on her back and picked up Arien's bundle. She moved down the corridor for the area reserved for light to medium freighters, looking for one of the Oathkin.

Oathkin never ventured past the Outer Rim, never carried - and in fact seemed to dislike - Jedi, and stayed far below the notice of the Empire. Composed largely of females, they escaped the notice all but the most paranoiac sector commanders.

The Oathkin would also take on any infant or child given to them, raise, train, and care for it. The ones that she had spoken to carried it as if it were a holy obligation.

It was Arien's best chance for survival. In her meditations, she had come to this point repeatedly. Each time she did not leave Arien with the Oathkin, disaster followed.

A young woman dressed in the colorful garb of the Kin stood talking with two older women. No more than twenty, her short brown hair set off a pair of mischievous brown eyes and a wide, warm smile. To Abhaia's Force sense, she gleamed with good health, intelligence, joy, and a kind heart.

This one.

Abhaia look one long look at her sleeping daughter; her fine dark hair was just starting to curl and her perfect lips were pink against her fair skin. The tears rose from a knot in her chest. She was so little! So perfect! It was not right that this was happening!

Now with the choice upon her, Abhaia felt that the pain must surely kill her. She sank to her knees, gasping for air against the tearing sensation in her chest. If there were gods to listen, she sent out one last plea for mercy.

The gods were silent, the Force flowed on as she rocked her daughter.

When she could see past the tears again, she found herself looking into the face of the young woman. There was no mischief in her eyes now, and the smiling mouth was solemn.

"She's a very pretty baby."

Abhaia nodded, "S-s-she's a good girl. I love..." She choked on the words and sobbed. "Her n-name is Arien."

"Arien. That's pretty. What does it mean?"

Abhaia gently lifted the still-sleeping child from her carrier and cradled her in her arms. "Shining promise. Enduring pledge." Like so much of the Danu words, her child's name had more than one meaning.

The young woman held out her arms and Abhaia placed her daughter in them, stifling the wail that bloomed behind her breastbone. "We'll take care of her. I'll give the Word of my Clan Mother on it. She'll be like my own."

But I want her to be mine!

Instead of screaming, Abhaia set Arien's bag next to the woman and bent down to kiss her daughter.

::: Your mother loves you, my precious one. I will always love you. May the Force be with you :::

With the Force, Abhaia sent the baby a little deeper into sleep; she prolonged the contact, burning Arien's scent, the feel of her skin, the gentle puffs of milk-breath into her memory.

Then she was spinning, tearing herself away and running down the corridor as fast as her legs would carry her. She slammed into beings, tripped over droids and finally just lay where she fell, weeping.

In time, she came back to herself. Arien's Force signature was already far away and she should be, too.

Not even bothering to wipe her face, she stepped up to the nearest ticketing kiosk.

"Put me on the first ship to anywhere."

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