Chapter 3: Ruminations

The mass of fabric was a deep blue, silky and fine in texture, a sign of good quality. A little puzzled, Jaina gathered it into her arms and pulled it from the box, holding it up for examination. As the identity of the piece of clothing hit her one hand went instantly to her mouth. She had thought it was lost. "Jag," she breathed, the word calling for him to come and see.

As a wedding gift, Grand Admiral Pellaeon had given the Fels the first model of a new class of ship, hot off the Imperial manufacturing lines. Complete with every defensive and offensive weaponry system available—some legal and some not—the IDY-1000 had also been customized to meet the needs of a young couple with a newborn baby to take care of. At the time, Jaina and Jag had been uncertain as to where exactly they would make their permanent home, so everything they owned had promptly been stuffed in the ship's hold for temporary storage.

Now, almost a year later, Jaina had managed to convince Jag to help her come and go through it all, deciding what was actually needed and what could be trashed. Some things, such as the dress she now held tenderly, had been thought lost during the war or left on Csilla during their hasty exit. "What is it?" Jag called from across the room, knee-deep in memories.

"Come look," she said, the sentimentality evident in her voice.

He carefully extracted himself and came to stand beside where she knelt. "Is that..."

"Yeah," she smiled. She stood then, letting the formal gown extend its full length to the floor. "I had thought we left it back on Csilla."

"You were so beautiful that night," Jag said, in a tone that suggested he still couldn't believe it.

"Your mother bought it for me," she said in a whisper, holding up against her as if to gauge whether or not it would still fit. "You know, it was that night when I first realized I was falling in love with you."

He smiled, the signature cocky half-grin that most people so often missed. "Me too. I think it was while we were dancing, actually."

Jaina looked up at him in surprise, her brandy eyes wide with shock. "That's why I ran away to the refresher. I realized something was happening right then, and frankly it scared the kriff out of me."

He smiled more broadly, then leaned down to kiss her briefly. "I guess it was just meant to be, then." Then, taking the dress from her hands, "Am I to suppose this is going in the 'keeps' pile?"

She nodded, happy with the remembered time. She had loved him that night, and hadn't stopped since. She supposed the never would.

The baby kicked. Jaina's eyes flew open, her dream scattered into the wispy threads of time and unconsciousness, but leaving the feeling of simplistic joy that had come with youth and love. The feeling didn't mask the reason she had been awoke, the restlessness of her unborn son.

Hush, child, we have a long time till morning, she thought lovingly. Unlike the almost instantaneous naming of Hanna after Jaina's father, she and Jag had been unable to agree upon one for their second child. Not that they had had much time to think about it, either.

But he was incurably fidgety, and Jaina was overcome with the craving for...well, for anything she could get her hands on. Throwing the covers off with only minor irritation, she called her robe to her and wrapped it snugly around her form, then padded into the kitchen. After raiding the refrigeration unit, she sat down on the sofa in the dark with a huge bowl of frozen sugarcream and meditated intensely on how screwed up her life was.

She had been dropped at the age of sixteen into a marriage she didn't want a galaxy away from everything she knew, and had come out of it with a husband she loved, a beautiful daughter, and an unborn son. And an amnesiac brother-in-law.

She loved Chak, she really did. She wanted the best for him possible. And when she had first taken charge of his care when Dr. Banks had sent him home, giving up her military career hadn't been as devastating as it was now. She had stayed home with Hanna most of the time anyway. But as the months wore on, and Jag came home every day talking about squadron development and military breakthroughs, new piloting techniques...it had started to eat at her. It made things worse that he seemed incapable of understanding her frustration, the useless feeling gnawing at her gut.

And then he grew more involved with his work, even as she became absorbed in the menial labor of childcare and housework that didn't suit her personality at all. She had been a general, a warrior, a pilot! What was she doing driving a man almost thirty years old to his psychiatry meetings every day with a four-year-old in the backseat whining for her stuffed animal she had left at home? While her husband lived out his dreams, oblivious to her heartache?

She admitted, if just to herself, that Jag was a lot of the problem. If not because of his ignorance to her feelings then simply because she missed him. So many of the reasons they were where they were in life was because they had made decisions to keep them together. She missed the way he used to look at her, and when they both weren't too tired at night to do something other than collapse on the bed with exhaustion.

That was mainly what the move was about. A change of scenery, of schedule, something to rout the mundane routine they had fallen into. Hopefully, Bastion could do that for them.

But could it give her a life back? Could it give her Jag back? Had she even lost him, or had they just lost their way? Jaina hoped and prayed that somehow they could find each other again.

Ismene Banks typed the last of her notes for the day's sessions into her datapad, furiously trying to drive the straying thoughts from her mind and concentrate. She had so much to do the next day. They were sending her that new patient from the Coruscant Medical Center, the one who had been hit by a hovertaxi and only remembered the first ten years of his life. And she had to finish filling out Chak's release forms. She should probably send those to Jag...

Damn it, she thought, resisting the urge to throw her datapad. It was no use. No use at all. What the hell was she going to do? She did have a moral standard, after all, it wasn't like she could just do anything she wanted and pretend there were no consequences. If the Corellians were right, she was going straight to the ninth hell.

She was an idiot, thinking something could come of her feelings anyway, even if he did reciprocate them, which was highly unlikely. The situation was far too complicated, and not to mention the fact it would be wrong on so many levels.

Tiredly she wiped a hand over her eyes and rested her head on her hand. Sometimes she wondered why she even tried to pretend she didn't love him. Wasn't it written all over her? Couldn't everyone see when she was around him? Maybe it would be best to just tell him, get it off her chest.

It wasn't as if there was no reason to love a man like him. He was compassionate, and smart, and witty, and had such a bright future ahead of him. But it was a future with no place for her. She often thought it was her lot in life to die alone.

If only...if only somehow he felt even a glimmer of what she did. Was it possible? Probably not. She was a realist, after all, a trained scientist who knew when the odds were against her. Not that she even planned to lay down a bet. Far from it. She would keep it bottled up as long as possible, until she exploded with love and self-loathing.

She was such a terrible person. She was terrible to even think about torturing him with the knowledge.

And yet she did. She thought about it every day, of telling him that every fiber of her longed to be held by him, and watch him tell her he had loved her all along, all along. It was a fantasy that could never become fact, but she relished in the dream all the same. Closing her eyes, she could almost hear his words of acceptance, taste the sweetness of his lips...

But it was never to be, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time. Sitting up, Ismene straightened her desk and gathered her things, forcing her rigid, strict resolve to keep her dirty little secret just that, a secret. No one ever needed to know that she was utterly, completely, devastatingly in love with Jagged Fel.

The first person Jag saw as he strode down the landing ramp was his mother. At the mere sight of him, even at that distance, he could see her eyes well with tears. And as Chak followed slowly, both hands came up to her mouth, covering her sob. Syal Antilles Fel was much as he remembered her. Maybe a few more lines around her mouth and eyes, a few more gray hairs do more to worry than age. But she still looked like a holostar.

It was the people beside her that Jag had trouble recognizing. The first he knew was Cem, even though it was inconceivable that his little brother could have grown so tall. He wasn't a teenager just coming into his own, anymore; he was a man.

Even more painful was the young woman beside him. And that's what his little sister was. She wasn't a little girl anymore, as was apparent by her height and growth. How old was she now? Fifteen? Sixteen? Whatever it was, it was too old.

He walked slowly, unsure of himself. He hadn't spoken to them in close to a year, even though he thought of them all every day. But his own reunion wasn't the purpose of the trip, he reminded himself; it was about Chak. He turned a confident smile on his brother motioned for him to come closer. Warily, he did.

Syal stopped a meter or two away from her sons, arms wrapped tightly around herself as if she might fall apart at any minute. "Mother," Jag smiled, opening his arms to the woman who had made him who he was. She hugged him immediately, fiercely, crying into his jumpsuit with her happiness. He pulled away reluctantly, turning to his siblings.

"Cem," he smiled.

His little brother smile and took Jag's preferred hand. "Welcome home, Jag," he said.

Then Jag turned to his sister, most changed of any of them. She had cut her hair short since he had seen her last, and was decidedly more disciplined in her demeanor. Spine rigid and shoulders squared, he knew she must have already been through the academy's training rigors. "Wyn. You've sure grown up while I've been gone."

A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "It's good to have you back." Then, if a bit reluctantly, she opened her arms in an offered embrace. He hugged her softly, the kind of polite hug he had seen Jaina give to acquaintances at political functions.

"Jag, aren't you going to introduce us?" Syal asked suddenly, her eyes locked on her lost son.

"Of course," he replied. He came to stand beside Chak, who was decidedly uncomfortable with the whole situation. "Chak, I would like you to meet our family. This is our mother, Syal Antilles Fel. Our brother, Cem Fel. And our sister, Wynssa Fel."

"Hello," he nodded to them each, politely but distantly.

Syal stepped forward, her eyes glistening. "Hello. I am so glad you could come and visit us. I've..." she paused, choking on her emotion. "I've missed you terribly."

Chak scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "I have amnesia. It means I can't remember stuff."

Syal smile sadly. "I know. That's okay. You'll remember in time."

He threw Jag an uncertain glance. "Ismene says I probably won't. It's been four years, and I don't remember anything."

She patted his arm in that mother-knows-best way. "I take it Ismene is your doctor? Well, healers have their use, but they don't know everything. Don't give up."

Chak didn't respond, just looked scared of the intense look in his mother's eyes. Jag thought it would probably be best to stop before he was overwhelmed. "Mother, maybe it would be best if we talked about this at home."

Jag had expected to feel elation upon returning to his childhood home, and he was a bit wistful, but the snowy mansion had only a sad feel to it now. His family was there, but they were no longer his family. He had a wife and children on Coruscant, and they were his family. At least, for the moment.

He had the unsettling feeling that Wyn didn't even really remember him. She knew who he was, of course, but he had left when she was very young. And before then, Csilla had been little more than a short stop in between military tours. She probably regarded him as a stranger.

Cem and he had never been close. Soontir and Syal had kept their fourth son a secret from the outside world, he was their shadow child. He hadn't gone to the academy or had any sort of military training, besides that inflicted on him by their father. They were opposite poles of the same magnet, and most of the time Jag had only idly wondered at Cem's peculiar individuality.

Davin had been Jag's friend, his brother in every sense of the word. They had been only fourteen months apart in age, had joined the academy five months apart, been in the same class, the same squadron. Jag had watched him die. It had been the single worst moment in his life. Even though Chak had been his childhood hero, his idol, the pedestal Jag had set him had isolated them from each other. While he and Davin had been close, Chak had taken Cem under his wing.

"Chak, would you like to see your room?" Syal asked as they all came through the door. Syal had never touched or changed anything in the rooms of her children after they died, but kept them as shrines to their memory. Everything in Chak's room would have been exactly as he had left it.

Chak turned to Jag, who nodded. "Okay," Chak agreed reluctantly.

"I'll take you. It's just—"

"Mother," Jag interrupted. "I think it would be best if Chak went by himself."

Chak gave him a thankful look, then turned to go discover who he had been.

The room was messy, clothes strewn over the chair at the single desk and the bed itself. The closet door was still open, a pair of boots at the foot of the bed. A datapad sat on the bedside table along with a reading light and a stack of datacards. The desk was also strewn with datacards, and a holoprojector that switched images every few seconds.

Chak moved towards the desk, watching the images that must have meant something to him, once upon a time. The first was of the woman Jag said was his mother, only younger. From her dress and smile, Chak thought she could have been a holostar. The next was of—was that him? It was, he concluded, a long time ago, as a teenager. He was leaning against the support strut of a clawcraft, smiling broadly. Then there was a small child that could have been Wyn. She was looking up at whoever was taking the holo, blue eyes wide. The following image was of a stern-looking man with black hair and an eye patch. A flight helmet was propped under one arm, and he was climbing the ladder to a TIE fighter. His gaze was reprimanding, tolerant at the least. Then came one with Jag in it, though he was several years younger, no more than sixteen. Another young man stood beside him, blonde with blue eyes and a holostar smile. He and Jag stood side by side in front of a large transparisteel window, arms crossed over their chests, identical minute smiles plastered on their faces. The final picture was a young woman, long black hair and clear blue eyes. She had one eyebrow raised with humorous cynicism, a witty smile lending her aristocratic features a realistic edge. The cycle started over.

He shifted his gaze to the datacards, reading the label on the first one. CORELLIAN FIGHTING TACTICS. Frowning a little, he went to the next one. TIE/CLAWCRAFT INTEGRATION. Obviously, he had been a very militaristic person. And not very interesting.

Laughing it off, he opened one of the desk drawers. Inside was a single object, a medallion hanging on a thick blue ribbon. Gingerly, Chak picked it up and turned it over, laying it face up in his palm. On its surface was engraved the cross-section of a clawcraft, and written around the edge were the words 'Presented to Commander Chak Fel, warrior of the Hand, for extraordinary bravery and valor at the Battle of Presgon'.

With a sudden sharp pain to his temple, his vision constricted into a tunnel that reminded Chak of jumping to hyperspace. A flash of alien words and red eyes assaulted him. He was kneeling, blue hands hung the ribbon and medal around his neck, the weight was heavy, noise—

He returned to the present, only he was now on his knees there too, clutching the desk tightly in one hand and the ribbon in the other. He blinked a few times, unsure of what had happened. It had been many times faster than reality, confused, random, jumbled. But—could it have been a memory, a memory of his past?

He didn't know. Looking at the metal once again, he now felt a much greater affection for the thing, if only because it could have sparked the beginning of his road to recovery. Hurriedly, he tucked it into his back pocket and stood. Until he knew for certain, he wouldn't bother or excite Jag with the news. He would bide his time, and wait and see.

"How is he?" Syal asked as soon as Chak was out of earshot.

"Health wise? He's completely recovered. But he doesn't remember anything. The person we knew is completely gone," Jag answered straightforwardly.

Syal looked devastated, but it was Cem who spoke next. "Is there any trace of our brother? The way he acts, is his personality the same?"

Jag considered the question carefully before answering. "Sometimes, he'll say something that's so characteristically him it gives me chill bumps. Or he'll give you one of those looks, the one he always gave us when he caught us doing something wrong. But the man we knew had been shaped by years of hard edged training, years of battle and commanding troops, of responsibility. He doesn't remember any of that now. He's much more innocent and naive, even child-like at times. It will be a very long time before he regains the experiences he's lost."

Cem stared at the floor, his expression an emotionless mask, covering his despair. Wyn laid a comforting hand on his shoulder but remained silent.

"Why did you bring him here, Jag?" Syal asked suddenly. "You've had four years to bring him home to visit. Why now?"

Jag took a deep breath and suppressed a wince. "He was just released from his therapist's custody. And he still doesn't even have a trace of memory. Jaina and I thought this place, his home, might trigger some sort of memory that Coruscant wouldn't. I haven't told him yet, but I'm hoping to stay a few days, and when I leave convince him to stay here with you for a while."

For a moment, he thought she might cry again. "I couldn't imagine anything better than having my baby home again," she whispered finally.

"Mom, did you call Dad yet?" Wyn said suddenly.

Jag looked at Syal in confusion, and she explained. "Because we didn't know you were coming, we didn't have to time call Soontir and tell him you had arrived. We weren't positive who you had brought with you, either," she added darkly.

Jag nodded slowly in understanding. If he had brought Jaina, it might have been better to keep her presence a secret. Even though he had no personal vendetta against her, Soontir might feel obligated to turn her in. "Speaking of," she continued a little more brightly, "why didn't you bring my granddaughter? I've never even seen the dear child. And you're about to have another one!"

"I'm sorry. Hanna needs her mother, and besides, I'm sure the Four Families won't be happy when they realize I'm here. She doesn't need to be here in the middle of it. And Jaina definitely doesn't, especially in her condition."

"How close to term is she?" Syal asked eagerly.

"Two more months," he told her.

Chak emerged suddenly at the bottom of the stairs, looking pale and nervous. "Chak, are you okay?" he asked.

He nodded, smiling falsely, and handed him a small holoprojector. "This was on the desk. Who are those people?"

Jag watched images flash by, each one making him relive a different painful memory. "That first one is of Mother. Then there's you...and that's Wyn as a baby. And that is our father. Then this...this is me...and our brother Davin. He died shortly before you disappeared. And that is our other sister, Cherith. She was killed a few months later."

He nodded, taking the device back and switching it off. "Just curious. Is it time to eat yet?"