Author's Note: Happens every time: I have lots of time to write, and I get writer's block. I only own my characters.
Forgiveness
There was a bit of a commotion outside her room. Amara threw off the light top sheet, pushed her thick brown hair from her face, and crept across the room to the door. She pressed her ear against the cool surface, straining to hear what was going on. She didn't have to strain too hard.
"…I'm the goddamn Vice Admiral!" a male voice boomed, "I think I have the right to see who I had rescued whenever I fucking feel like it!"
"I'm sorry, sir," a calmer voice replied, "but as I said, Ms. Richards is still sleeping, and Sgt. Knight insisted that she was not to be disturbed until…"
"Who, may I ask, is in charge of this damn base, corporal?" The Vice Admiral didn't wait for a reply. "Ms. Richards has been asleep for the past two weeks—she can't very well be tired. Now…"
"But, sir! What she suffered—she's…"
"If she survived half of what I've been told she did, then I'm sure she won't drop dead by being woken up early. I'm not that frightening. Now, I order you to stand aside, Jagger, or I will charge you with insubordination."
Amara jumped away from the door seconds before it opened, narrowly missing being bowled over by the massive man that strode into the room followed closely by two smaller men: a pale, skeletal human with black eyes and twitchy blond boy. (Of course, compared to the first man who she assumed was the Vice Admiral, anyone short of Jabba the Hutt would appear tiny. His personality was crushing.) She remained pressed against the wall beside the door so none of them saw her. She stifled a giggle as the two guards attempted to hold back the Vice Admiral—her first impression of an overgrown pig was dashed by his quickness and obvious intolerance for stupidity. When he saw that her bed was empty, the Vice Admiral rolled his eyes and turned to the guards. "So…she's asleep is she…" he broke off when his sharp eyes spotted her by the door. His round face split into a good-natured grin.
Amara smiled shyly back and wiggled her fingers at him. The two guards glanced at each other and sighed, but the Vice Admiral walked over to her and extended his club-like hand. For a split second, she thought he was going to hit her, but she forced the sensation aside. Amara's own hand was engulfed by his, but his grip was surprisingly gentle. He gave her a little bow before releasing her hand. "Glad to see you've decided to grace us with your presence, my dear Ms. Richards. I'm Vice Admiral Harris—came to ask if you would join me for breakfast, but these mutinous bastards," he continued, nodding his head to the two guards, "seemed to think that a hearty meal was comparable to a whipping. They didn't think you'd be up to it. I hope that is not the case?"
Amara got the impression that he would drag her along no matter how she answered, but she appreciated not being treated like a porcelain doll. He wouldn't give her time to dwell on the past—the nightmares waiting to strike whenever she was alone in the dark. She awarded him with a mocking curtsy (suddenly aware that she was only wearing the equivalent of an over-sized T-Shirt), and said, raising a corner of her mouth, "I would be honored to join you, Vice Admiral, but first I…"
"What is going on here?"
She turned to see Sgt. Knight frozen in the doorway, flanked by the two Jedi and a muscular man with shaggy, light-brown hair. The sergeant's voice, though soft, had cut through the room and chilled her to the bone, but now she saw that he was trying not to smile as he surveyed the scene before him: her in her T-Shirt, blushing, the massive Vice Admiral looking quite outraged by the interruption, and the relieved expressions of his men.
"Sgt. Knight, I will never know how you do that," the Vice Admiral said with an annoyed shake of his head, but his eyes still flashed dangerously, "and don't take that tone with me."
"I apologize, sir, but I don't retract my question."
"For someone who worships the rulebook, you and your men have developed a disturbing tendency towards insolence, soldier." Amara felt like the room was tearing apart, torn between two powers. But while the Vice Admiral filled the room, Sgt. Knight seemed to suck out all the air—the difference between a blazing sun and a black hole. There was no malice between the two though. In fact, she got the distinct impression that both men enjoyed butting heads. "I was just asking Ms. Richards to breakfast. No objections I hope, sergeant? Because I don't give a damn."
Sgt. Knight opened his mouth to retort, but Amara cut him off: "I won't be going anywhere in my night clothes so everyone clear off. Duke it out in the hall if you must." The muscular man with Jonathan laughed and bowed deeply to her, muttering "milady," before swinging an arm around the sergeant's shoulders and guiding him from the room. The others followed, and soon she was blissfully alone and thankful that the door muffled the shouts now erupting in the hall. Her head ached—there had been too many people and no way to escape—and she pressed her icy white hand over her eyes.
But as soon as her eyelids squeezed shut, cold blue eyes, like a blind man's, filled the darkness. She could hear him laughing: "At least I know that when you close your eyes, it's me you see above you, me you dream about."
"Damn you," she hissed aloud, snapping her eyes open. She busied herself with dressing, only half-aware of what she was doing. She suddenly wished she wasn't alone—that Sgt. Knight was there or anyone who…just anyone. The voices had fallen silent outside her door.
Amy wasn't crying when the stormtroopers brought her back. Her face had a blank, dreamy look, but Amara knew—knew with instinctive certainty what he had done. Amy sat down gingerly next to her but remained silent. Amara gently stroked the girl's tousled hair. Amy's mouth fell open and a horrible keening sound emerged from her throat—she…
There was a knock on the door. "Amara," it was Luke, "are you all right?"
"Yes," she shouted. You don't need to know. Stay out of my head. Amara shoved against the intrusion—against that someone else in her mind. "Coming." She thought about not thinking, pasted a smile on her face, and opened the door.
Only the Vice Admiral and Luke Skywalker stood in the hallway. "Sgt. Knight and his squad remembered they had duties elsewhere," the Vice Admiral answered her unasked question, "Master Skywalker, however," here he made a sudden, angry gesture with his hand, and Amara winced despite herself, but the Vice Admiral didn't notice, "seemed to think he has something to discuss with you that cannot wait until after breakfast." He glared at the Jedi. "So, he will join us and ask what he wants in my presence."
Well, this is going to be an enjoyable morning.
Amara shut the door in Luke's face, furious that the stupid sliding doors wouldn't slam. He had asked her—pressed her before she was ready for answers. Where are you from? How do you know? What did he do? Only the Vice Admiral's presence had held him back, and Amara would forever be grateful to Harris for that, but the question's in the Jedi's eyes as he had stared at her across the table had drilled into her head, searching—like him. And she had seen it all, lived it all again while sipping tea and smiling at the Vice Admiral's tales of battle. How dare he?
She went to the windows and stared unseeingly out into space. I have to get out. After breakfast, the Vice Admiral had bidden her farewell, and Luke had offered to walk her back to her room. He had been gentle—ever so gently prodding at open wounds, and it had been his gentleness more than anything that had grated on her nerves. "I will not break," she had wanted to scream at him, "Just beat me, beat it out of me, beat me senseless! I understand that! Just don't you dare try to understand—don't you dare be gentle!" I have to get out…away…home.
Amara leaned her head against the icy pane and worried her lower lip, resisting the urge to bang her head against the window. "The questions never go away, 314," his voice slid into her head, "you will never be safe, never escape me."
Shut up. Her hands clutched her head, and she slid down the wall, curling into a ball below the windows—the hard metal of the floor oddly comforting beneath her.
Afterwards, the stormtroopers seemed kinder—pity somehow registering on their emotionless helmets. But they did not speak to her, and they said nothing to him. They remained stormtroopers to the end, and she never hated them for it.
"Have I won, 314?" he asked, leaning over her crumpled body to whisper in her ear, "Are you finally broken, my beautiful one?" She punched him, her fist crashing into his mouth. The stormtroopers had held her back, but their hands weren't cruel. "Still fighting—good," he sneered, wiping the blood from his mouth, "I was beginning to think you were going to become like your dear friend Amy."
"Don't say her name!" she screamed.
"Don't say 'Amy'? Why not? Amy was pathetic, weak…unworthy."
She screamed again—all her rage and sorrow ripping from her in one terrible shriek. He beat her. They held her…but their hands weren't cruel.
Amara jerked awake. She was still crouched on the floor, her back to the wall beneath the windows. Someone was knocking, but she made no move to answer, instead leaning her head on her knees. The door swished open anyway. She looked up, frowning.
Sgt. Knight frowned back, anger flashing briefly behind his eyes before the wall descended and his face became inscrutable.
So now you are here, great defender—where were you this morning when I needed you? "Normally, when a person does not answer their door, it means they do not wish to be disturbed," she said acidly.
"And normally, I do not knock," he replied, his voice emotionless. A heavy silence choked the room. Amara stood and turned her back on the sergeant, pretending to gaze at the stars. He stepped beside her, their shoulders inches apart. "I came to see if you would like a tour of the station," he said softly.
Amara almost declined, almost told him to beat it, but just as she opened her mouth she realized she was being unreasonable—he just wanted to help, he'd saved her. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. His face was drawn, but when he caught her looking at him, he gave her a little smile. She couldn't help but smile back. I trust you. "All right." He nodded, but made no move to touch her, and she followed him out of the room.
In the hallways they walked side-by-side, and he was careful to avoid large crowds, taking her by seldom-used routes around the base. Sgt. Knight made a few comments about the station—some interesting facts and stories—and never brought up the subject of her past or even the breakfast that morning as if he knew it had been terrible for her. They came to a stop in front of a floor to ceiling window that provided an expansive view of Belkadan.
Amara unfocused her eyes, imagining that the sparkling planet below her was Earth, and leaned against the window, feeling as though she could fall out into space if she lost her balance. She felt the sergeant's eyes on her back—something nagged at the corner of her mind…a memory. "The Vice Admiral said I was asleep for weeks."
"Yes."
"And you talked to me, didn't you, Sgt. Knight?" she said without turning around, "That whole time?"
"Yes." His voice sounded distant, defensive.
She faced him. His leanly muscled arms were crossed over his chest—he stood as if waiting for a blow. His blue eyes were dark and veiled. I won't ask you why, Knight, don't worry. "Thank you," she whispered. Sgt. Knight blinked. "It…meant a lot," she finished lamely. It had meant more than a lot—that kind voice had kept her alive.
He nodded his head once, but said nothing. What did I expect? At last he lowered his arms to his sides and asked, "Is there anything else you would like to see?"
Amara sighed. The base wasn't all that exciting—it was like a high tech office building sent into orbit. But then an idea struck her: "The stormtroopers from…" she shook her head and continued, "Did you capture any? Are there any here?"
Sgt. Knight seemed surprised by her question—why would she care about stormtroopers who very likely caused a lot of her suffering? He frowned. "Yes."
"May I see them?"
He wanted to ask her why—she could see it in his eyes—but he simply nodded his head and led her to an elevator that would take them to the prison level.
Jonathan stood tensed outside the door of detention block 2C where a number of stormtroopers that had been captured on IARF were being held in individual cells, waiting for Amara to reemerge. When they had walked in to the large, low-ceilinged room, the unarmored stormtroopers had turned around with dull interest to see who had entered their prison, but when they saw Amara, they had instantly jumped to their feet, crowding against the bars.
How strange and naked they all looked without their helmets—many emotions had flitted across their faces as they looked at Amara: trepidation, relief, shame, wonder… And Amara had insisted that he wait outside while she talked to them. He had reluctantly agreed, somehow knowing that she needed to see them, be with them now that their situations were reversed, and she was the one standing outside the cage looking in.
But now, after half an hour, he questioned his judgment. There was no rule that said she couldn't see them, they couldn't get out and harm her, but he was worried all the same. He didn't like not knowing. He wouldn't go in though—he wouldn't disrespect her privacy again. He had known the breakfast had not gone well that morning, that the Jedi had pushed too hard, and he had gone to check on her. When she didn't answer his knocks—I actually knocked, dammit—something in him had clenched with fear. She wouldn't hurt herself would she? No, she had just been sitting under the window, leaving him to worry outside.
What is she doing in there? His fingers were a breath away from the door controls when the door slid open, and Amara stepped out.
She wasn't smiling, but her face had a thoughtful, contented look. She noticed his hand still hovering by the controls and raised an eyebrow. "Thank you for resisting, sergeant." He lowered his hand. His mouth twitched. She looked away from him down the gray hall, her eyes unfocused. Her voice was soft and faraway: "I forgave them."