Chapter 2

She was there again. He had known that she would be. He had watched the havoc that had overcome the temple as the word of the break-in had spread. And he had wondered if she had said anything. But he brushed the thought away. As if it would really matter, anyway? But as he returned that night, he returned for a different purpose than the one he had had last night.

...

She was waiting for him. Yes, she wanted to get to know him. To hear his voice, no matter how harsh. To see what he looked like. To gauge his personality and to find out more about him.

She was waiting, as usual, in the same room, but this time, she was sitting in a different spot. One that was slightly illuminated by the faint lights from outside.

When he finally came, she just sat, and drew in the dust on the floor. Until he spoke.

"I see that you have come again."

She smiled softly. "As have you."

He let out a snort, but leaned against the wall comfortably and studied her small frame. Her curly hair. And smiled grimly.

"So, I never learned your name, young one."

She tilted her head for a moment. "Kiya."

He repeated the name in his head and crossed his arms. "I see."

"And yours?" He hesitated for a moment. Would he? Somehow, he realized, he felt a strange connection to the girl. And he hated her the more for it. Why? Why did he feel that way?

"Xanatos." The word slipped out almost without his own volition.

The girl whispered the name. He found himself liking the sound of his name spoken by the girl. He shook himself mentally and his eyes narrowed.

"Why?" The girl's question was simple.

"Why what?" His voice was irritable.

"Why are you-" he saw the girl struggle for words. She frowned. "Hurt?"

His lip curled as he hissed from the old wound that the girl's words touched.

"I didn't come here to be interrogated." His voice was durasteel.

The girl sighed. " I'm sorry." Her voice was apologetic, and- he caught a note of sympathy.

"Save your sympathy for one who needs it, child. I have no use for your empty words."

He expected her to cringe, to be hurt at his words, not lift her head and look at him with those chocolaty brown eyes brimming with light.

"Words are what make us. Hurt us. Change us. Words are what makes up the world. There is no such thing as an empty word, for each has a meaning, even as the word empty itself has a million ways to describe it and explain it."

And he marveled. At the sheer intuitiveness of the child. At the wisdom in those bright depths.

He felt a brush of the light enter his mind and cringed, jerking away from the forgiveness, the beauty, the brightness, the promise- no! He mustn't! He panicked for a moment before recoiling away.

"Don't. Do. That." He hissed.

She looked up at him. "Do what?"

And he realized that the light hadn't come from her. But from deep within himself.

"Nothing." His answer was terse.

"I thought you were supposed to interrogate me." Her voice held a touch of amusement. Wha-? Oh, yes.

"Well, I think I've already learned that straight answers don't come from you, haven't I?" He retorted sourly.

A smile flickered at the corners of her mouth.

"Perhaps not. But then, I still answer without fail."

That humor, he snarled darkly to himself. That dry humor. Curse it. It was too familiar, too much like his former master's.

"Who are your parents?"

She shrugged. "Many know my father and mother. My mother's dead." He noted the avoidance of the question and decided to ask another.

"Are you a Padawan yet, child?"

"No. I'm too young." Her voice was patient, not worried.

He harrumphed to himself. Patient indeed. Overconfident, perhaps.

"No. I'm just not worried that I won't be chosen, because I know I will."

He realized that she had read his thoughts and stared. What kind of child could use the Force so well at such an early age?

"Oh? What makes you think so?"

"I know so. Because the Force told me." He smiled. Yes, the Force. Typical answer. One like his master would use. Would his master think it was the will of the Force that he die?

"Who was your master?" The curiosity in her voice drew him out, startled. Then his eyes narrowed in suspicion. His thoughts had been shielded.

"How are you listening to my thoughts that are shielded?" His voice was dangerous.

She looked up at him, confusion coloring her face. "I don't know. I just, heard it. In my head." She drew in the dust again while he stared wonderingly. How? The only answer to that could be that he-no. He refused to believe it. A bond? With this pitiful child?

She sighed. "Yes. I suppose I am, aren't I?" He glared.

"Stop reading my thoughts." Her face contorted for a moment before it returned to a sad face.

"I'm sorry." She whispered, hanging her head.

Pitiful indeed. "And why would you yourself think that you are pitiful?"

Her face took on a pained look. One he knew well. One he could actually relate to. The feeling of being rejected. Forlorn. Lonely. But while he had channeled these feelings into acceptance of the dark side, she had obviously done something else. But what?

"Because of who I am. Whose blood I belong to. The way I live."

Strangely, he felt himself understanding her strange words. Was he not also hurt by whose blood he belonged to? After all, his father had been murdered, and was he not living the way he was because of it?

"I see."

"Do you?"

Insolent- "Perhaps more than you know."

"Perhaps. Or maybe you don't truly understand the heart behind my words. Anyone can take the same sentence in a different way."

And again, he wondered at the nature of this child. So young, yet had wisdom perhaps equal to even that old green troll. He scoffed at himself. He was becoming weak. By what? His mind taunted. By a mere girl, his mind sneered. But he felt himself rejecting that thought. No, here was more than just a girl. Here was an enigma. One he had determined to find out.

"You are wise, young one." His voice held a grudging admiration.

She looked up and his hard heart melted a little, unbeknownst to him, at the expression on her face. One of pure happiness at his remark. He didn't need to see her smile. He could tell by her ever-changing eyes.

"Thank you." Her voice was a whisper.

"And what, then, is the meaning behind your words?"

She paused, then began to speak. "I am the daughter of one who cannot get past his grief. I am the blood of his blood, the flesh of his flesh, of one who blames himself for the loss of one that was a son to him. He blames himself that he never told this son that he loved him. And he cannot bring himself to say it again. Not even to his own. I do not blame him. I know, without words, that he loves me. But I live the way I live because I was stripped of something I had always wanted- never got."

He felt pity for the child. "Yes. I can relate, young one." His voice was melancholy, distant. "I can relate. I also, cannot get past my hurts. This is the only way I know how. To kill, to take what I want, to have my vengeance against the one who has made me live this way. But I cannot change. I have gone too far." He stirred himself and stood. "I will come again. And I will continue to try to solve you, child."

She looked up at him, and her eyes glowed amber in the faint light. "I will wait. For you to solve me, as you say. There is only one way, and you are getting closer."

He scoffed again inwardly, and left. Yes, he would solve that insolent brat. But he couldn't help but admit his grudging admiration and curiosity for her, and for her ways. How she had managed to trap him in this web of finding out who she was. This web, of nothing but a clever spinning of words.