:: Chapter Thirty Eight ::

A faint rustling of the wind blowing through the leaves on the trees introduced a vision of the past. Slowly unwinding a vortex of fragmented scenes to form a single point of focus. A green meadow stretching on for miles until it clashed with the stone-wall border of a luxurious estate propped up high in the mountains.

"I see…" Liyana mused while she rode the waves of her vision.

"Two children laughing and play. The girl in a white cotton dress and she's climbing a tree. She wants to go higher to overlook the city in the distance but the boy warns her it's dangerous…

"A branch beneath her foot snaps and she falls but the boy… young and small but he knows the Force. He leaps up and catches her in time, then whisks her to the top of the tree and they sit together, the girl chattering with joy and him… Raegnar, her hero."

A deep exhale escaped Liyana and the scene faded from her mind, returning her to the present.

"That sounds like Marr and Aurora… not Eliza," sighed Me'ghan.

"I'm sorry. Perhaps this locket holds too many memories, had too many owners. I can't pinpoint Eliza's essence," said Liyana while her thumb stroked the brass design.

"It's alright, at least you tried," Lord Cytharat tried to assure her and took the necklace, tucking it back into Eliza's jewelry box.

"Maybe there's something else in here…"

"My Lord, your gift," Malavai turned to Liyana, "does it only work through objects?"

"Unfortunately. Finding a connection through blood relatives and living beings is too advanced for me."

Malavai nodded and sunk back into his seat.

"What about this?" Me'ghan held up a blue kyber crystal. "It's from her old lightsabers, the ones she wielded as a Jedi."

"She hasn't used those in years," mumbled Malavai.

"No, but that's perfect!" Liyana exclaimed. "Every Force user develops a personal bond with the weapon they forge and wield, her essence would be all over this!"

With the crystal in hand, she put some distance between herself and the group, to exclude their presence and focus solely on Eliza. She'd never met the woman but even just holding the piece of kyber, she felt Eliza's life essence burning brightly. Tickling her senses and slowly overwhelming her mind.

A room came into view—a couple of square meters—nothing too fancy. Big enough to at least fit a single bed, a side table, and two comfortable chairs. A cabinet for personal belongings and at the back of the room was a second door but Liyana couldn't see where that one led.

"She's alive," Liyana mused, loud enough for those sat away from her to hear.

"There are two men in white overcoats, doctors perhaps, escorting her into a room. Crisp white paint on the walls with sea-green borders. The room is sealed off by glass panels and a door that can only be unlocked from the outside via thumbprint.

"They're placing her on a bed, she's unconscious. One of them is fastening something hard and cold… mmm… a single cuff, around her ankle and…"

The journey ended abruptly and Liyana heaved, as though the air had just been knocked clean out of her.

"And?" urged Malavai.

"That's it, I lost the connection. Something cut me off."

"But she's alive? You're sure about that?" Me'ghan felt the birth of hope inside of her.

"Positive."

Lord Cytharat's cautious smile grew into a full grin. "Where do we find her?"

"I don't know. The room it… I suspect it's a prison cell, just not as dank as the ones you have here," said Liyana. "No offense."

"Well, if she was captured then it's likely Arcann who has her locked up somewhere, right?"

"Has to be but where? Did he escape Nathema or was there more to that complex than they discovered?" asked Malavai and he got up rapidly.

"I'm going to find Andronikos or Jenna, perhaps they can shed more light on this."

"Wait! If it was Nathema then, I wouldn't be able to reach her, right? Given the planet's state?" Liyana considered.

"Perhaps not but they did say Eliza had her powers there, the rules might not apply to her," her brother corrected.

"What about Senya? She'd know whether they have those type of prison cells in the Spire, right?" suggested Me'ghan.

"She would but, let's check with the others first. We can't ask Senya without explaining to her what happened on Nathema and telling her…" Lord Cytharat shook his head.

"That her son might be dead. Right. Okay, Jenna and Andronikos first, and perhaps Scourge once he's… I don't know, better, in a way," she agreed.

"And how is my favorite patient feeling today?" Doc tried in a sing songy tone when he approached Lord Scourge's bedside.

"Same as yesterday, same as tomorrow—not."

Doc's face dropped.

Three days had passed since Lord Scourge had awoken on Odessen and in that time, the Sith had grown only further devoid of emotion and sentiment. The initial rage he'd shown toward the incidents on Nathema had faded fast, replaced by emptiness instead.

"Have you tried your breakfast yet?"

Lord Scourge gave him a pointed look and slowly lifted the stainless steel dome off his serving tray, presenting the meal he'd left untouched.

"Ah, I see. Why not?" asked Doc.

"You're a terrible physician if you even need to ask."

"You still believe you're dying so, what's the point of eating anything?"

"Correct."

"Jarak kept many records of his studies and trials. Recorded voice logs, written journals, countless dossiers and all in the universal language of science."

"And?"

"I just mean… ach, nevermind."

What Doc wouldn't give for just one snarl, one venomous barb or the threat of the Sith's fist. He sighed and hung his head down, picking up Lord Scourge's chart to note down his current condition—unchanged.

"Is there any news on your Commander?" Lord Scourge asked, his tone flat.

"Damnit!" Doc slammed the chart down. "Her name is Eliza. Your wife, Eliza!"

"That doesn't answer my question."

"No, there is no news. We know she is alive but not where…" He paused and considered.

"Unless you know of any holding cells in that building on Nathema? Other areas? Fancy, modern, white and sea-green paint on the walls? Glass panels and doors?"

"No. The cells on Nathema were small, dark, and the walls covered in blood spatter and piss stains."

Doc's nose crinkled. "Sounds unpleasant."

"You have no other leads?"

"None. Zakuul would be the next most logical place. The others are discussing their options to mount a rescue but without knowing for sure…"

Lord Scourge nodded and indicated at the kolto tank stood on the far side of the medical bay. "And him?"

"He's… fighting and has a long road ahead of him. Stable but it's still very touch and go." Doc glanced at an unconscious Theron suspended in kolto.

"Did she do as I told her to?"

The repeated change of subject left Doc partially confused. As though Lord Scourge was crossing off topics on his list during a business meeting without a single care for detail and further elaboration.

"Huh?"

"Did she move on?"

"Oh, uhm…"

"With him?" Lord Scourge once more pointed in Theron's direction.

"You know, it's not really my place to—"

"That means yes. Good."

"Good?!"

Who was this stranger sitting before him?

Even as he witnessed it, he found it unfathomable just how much Lord Scourge had changed. How far removed he was from the man he used to be, to the point where he barely even resembled the Sith he'd met on Quesh. A Sith who, even through his suffering, had always been fiercely passionate and protective where Eliza was concerned, long before he gained the ability to love her.

Lord Scourge said nothing further, merely rolling onto his side in a dismissive gesture and frustrated, Doc stalked off. He had work to do, a lot of it and preferably fast if he was going to restore the Sith to his former glory.

A deep well of molten gold, shining bright yet tainted by the crimson veins crackling through its center and surrounding the outer ring of his iris—of the one good eye he had left. A composition not too uncommon for those who'd trespassed on the Dark side and were marked by its corruption.

On the other side of his face, a cybernetic mask lined with a leatheris material, hiding his disfigurement. Covering up the mouthpiece that gave his voice the mechanical twang she'd come to loathe so strongly.

Eliza didn't need to look at him to know the face of the man who'd come to observe her for the umpteenth time that week. His image was seared into her mind and never failed to amplify her hatred of him.

"Every night you appear looking for answers, and every night you're met with my silence. What makes you think that'll ever change?" she said on the fifth day when he came to see her again.

"You're speaking now," retorted Arcann. The door to her cell slid open with a hiss and he allowed himself entry.

"That was all you're going to get, too. You should have saved yourself the trouble and stuck me in carbonite."

"I couldn't, you're pregnant."

Eliza finally glanced his way while she propped herself up on her elbows against the mattress. "Bullshit."

"So, you didn't know," he deduced.

While her cell was roomier than the kind she'd kept her own prisoners in on Odessen, and offered two comfortable chairs, Arcann made no effort to sit. Instead circling the center of her cell with his hands clasped behind his back.

"I'm not pregnant and even if I were, do you expect me to believe you'd give a damn about me or my unborn child? How many expectant mothers were killed when you assaulted those five planets, huh? Care to wager a guess?"

His feet froze mid-step and he looked away. His jaw clenched. "They were traitors to Zakuul."

"They were innocent people—my people!"

"Your Empress failed to live up to our agreement and spied on my dealings in the Spire. An example had to be made."

"Acina was not my Empress and she had no idea about the spy equipment planted there! I gave those orders, few people knew!"

Arcann spun on his heel and growled his accusation, "Then those untold deaths are on you!"

Without wasting another word he strode off, escaping her cell before she could retaliate. Before she could see the tinge of remorse in his eye.

"Bastard!" Eliza hissed long after he'd gone and sunk back into the bedding. "Pregnant. As if I wouldn't have—"

Flashbacks to the recent weeks suddenly invaded her mind and she jolted up straight in bed, palming her forehead.

Her nausea and constant fatigue, the way she'd picked up on, and often got sick over, any scent that reached her nostrils and then there'd been the tenderness of her breasts and occasional mood swings. All classic signs she'd dismissed entirely because her first pregnancy had come so easy and free of the more common symptoms. Because she'd been so wrapped up in her concerns toward everything else and had refused pay even an ounce of attention to herself.

She rushed for the glass panel that sealed off her cell and pounded a fist against the material. "How far along am I?!"

No reply came and the unwelcome face who'd delivered the news was long gone.

'It has to be less than seven weeks, it has to. Please.'

The image of Theron she held in her mind, that she'd prayed to each night hoping for his survival, slowly deformed until she found herself staring into Ravage's eyes instead. His lips curled into a devious smile as though he'd won after all and she immediately felt sick to her stomach.

"I'll rip it out myself if it's yours," she spat at the figment of her own imagination.

'But it could be Theron's…'

She slid down to the floor, hunched by the glass panel with her knees drawn up high and she sighed.

'You have to survive, please, Theron, I wish you were here. I need you, I love you so much and if this is true… I can't raise another child without its father.'

The thoughts were accompanied by a painful reminder of Lord Scourge and the suffering he endured. That he may still endure now if he'd even survived the trip and Eliza closed her eyes while her tears flowed anew. Her mind conjuring up fresh demons.

Horrifying visions invaded her with ease. They found her stood by two graves, holding a toddler by the hand and a baby on her arm as the children's respective fathers lay buried in their coffins. Raising another child alone. Watching her unborn child grow up to be the spitting image of Ravage—it was all too much.

She needed answers and an escape and once more her fist pounded the glass, screaming, "Arcann!"

For hours on end, she called his name, yelling, shouting until eventually, exhaustion swept her away and she slept on the floor of her cell.

Arcann never visited her again the next day or the one following and despite her situation, she welcomed the reprieve. Slowly coming to accept her pregnancy even while the 'whose is it' of it all continued to plague not only her waking moments but her dreams. Resting in bed and spending her time trying to come up with ways of returning home while occasionally fleeing to the refresher adjacent to her cell as her nausea continued.

The cuff around her ankle had grown heavier too, or perhaps it merely seemed that way because she resented the device so much. It left her cut off from the Force, just the same as Ravage had been when she'd had him in lockup and she grimaced bitterly at the irony.

How he would have delighted to see her like this now.