I hear her.
A piercing shriek, calling to me.
I hear her.
An urgent cry, tainted with agony and terror.
I hear her.
An echo, wafting in and around and here and there and everywhere.
I cannot see her.
Visionless, I move through smoke and ash and dust.
I cannot see her.
Through grey brume, my limbs drive me.
I hear her.
Louder and louder the signal is sounded, its source more proximate.
I hear her.
A voice faltered, as if with fading strength.
I see her.
An initial mirage, darkly blended with surrounding smog.
I see her.
The vision opens and haze breaks as I draw near.
I see her.
Oh, the horror of a mangled figure, contorted and twisted in a heap of flesh and fabric and steel and glass.
Blood of rich crimson, dripping and trickling, amalgamating into a swelling pool.
My hands, marked with streaks of the vital fluid as I embrace her form.
Her deep coffee irises, hidden by the shadow of half-hooded lids, and stricken with fear and pain.
My name, a frail gasp from her throat; a dying whisper brought forth by a final breath.
The dulled eyes, bereft of sentience, her figure inert.
Still, I hold her, threatened by the flood of grief that dare conquer me.
It breaks, and alone I cry, tears trickling for her.
"Nyota..."
I see her, perished.
He wakes in silence, conscientious of she alongside him, lain as she always had during his vision. And, what frightful vision had dared perturb him on this twilight? Images of the ship, her innards broken and twisted, ablaze and choking with smoke. A conflict of sorts, yes; the opponent unknown. Or, perhaps a calamity of some kind, terrible and tragic. Yes, such things might indeed occur, and their countless tales oft retell themselves in his mind, over and again. Yet, within him, there also contains a hope that those stories will not play their terrible song.
A glance toward his courter, softly taken by slumber, and he returns to his own, rapt in covers of warmth and shelter.
And yet, the images continue their sickly dance in his mind's eye, unimpeded and incessant.
And cruel.
END