Sorry the updates have been slow. Husband & I have been preparing for 2 young foster children to arrive, so it's been a little hectic. This chapter's pretty fun, so hopefully that makes up for it. :)

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Chapter 6 – Jailmates

Three things were amiss when Ainar awoke. First was the rock-hard mattress digging into his shoulder blades and aching skull. Second was the stale-smelling air filtering through his nostrils. And third were the unlikely lyrics that roused him from a dreamless sleep.

"…ninety-two wookiees swing down from the trees, ninety-two wookiees swing dooowwn, one gets shot, it happens a lot, ninety-one wookiees left in the trees..."

Wincing from pain and irritation, Ainar slowly sat up, blinking at the pale cell walls. On the far side hummed a force field from floor to ceiling.

"Ninety-one wookiees swing down from the trees…"

His head ached far too much for this. He was in no state to appreciate music, even if it were the finest opera in the galaxy – and this boy's singing was certainly a far cry from that.

"Would you keep it down!" he shouted, rubbing his eyes.

The singing was replaced by the sound of boots scuffling to the edge of their cell.

"Hey! You got somethin' better to entertain us?"

"All I've got is a splitting headache!" Ainar called back. "So save the audition for when you get out!"

"Pardon me, your supreme highness," the voice replied sarcastically. "In case you haven't noticed, this ain't a five-star resort! There's no room service, and there ain't no day shift manager to file a noise complaint! Untwist your panties an' get over it."

Ainar sighed. Today really was growing tiresome, if only for the dreadful grammar he kept being exposed to. First the eye patch man, now this brat? Was there nobody half educated on this planet?

"Then let's take a poll. Who else wants the boy to keep singing?"

There was silence – except for some muffled snickering.

"Ain't no one here but us two womp rats, buddy!"

Perfect. Marvelous. Ainar groaned. His captors sure knew how to sufficiently punish a man.

"Last guy got dragged out two weeks ago for execution," the boy continued. "If I didn't sing, I'd go nuts."

"Would you settle for simple conversation instead?"

"Suppose so. You got a face?"

Dragging himself to the force field, Ainar peered across the aisle to see a boy of about fifteen staring back at him. The shaggy-haired youth was leaning smugly against the wall, arms crossed as he assessed the older jailmate. He smirked.

"Two humans, huh? Lame, 'specially for a high-security joint like this."

"You're not exactly what I hoped for company, either," Ainar retorted drily. "But like you said, there's no hospitality committee we can appeal to."

The boy snorted. "No eye candy either. I keep waitin' for a chick to walk by, but the Empire's just one big sausage fest."

Ainar couldn't help but laugh. "What a shame."

"Tell me 'bout it," the boy scuffed the heel of one boot against the wall. "So what'd you do, anyway? No offense, but I've seen ten-year-olds rougher than you. Heck, I was rougher five years ago!"

"Trespassing," Ainar said simply.

His acquaintance made a face. "Trespassing? That's it? You should be at the day spa across town, where they send old ladies who cheated on Imperial tax returns!"

"What can I say? They took it personally, I guess. What about you? You're a little young to wind up here."

"I'll take that as a compliment," the boy grinned, flipping unruly brown hair from his eyes. "I saw an Imperial shuttle I liked, so I took it. Woulda gotten away with it too, if it didn't have special cargo for some douche named Vader. Guess I picked the wrong ship at the wrong time."

"We both wagered poorly," Ainar gave a wan smile. And that's the second time I've heard Vader's name today. "Well, as long as we're stuck here, we may as well introduce ourselves. I'm Ainar Skywalker."

"Han Solo," the boy saluted.

"Pleased to meet you, Han."

"Pleasure's all mine," Han replied. "Skywalker –why does that ring a bell?" he narrowed his eyes, trying to remember. "I started hearin' that name 'round the time my folks died, when I was seven. Some big shot during the Clone Wars, I think."

Trying not to appear overly interested, Ainar shifted his posture. "What else do you remember?"

"Not much. I was too busy stayin' alive on Shrike's crew to worry 'bout no war," Han yawned. "So are you related, or what?"

Ainar locked his facial muscles to keep his composure. "Most likely."

"Well, good luck findin' him. I heard he up an' vanished when the war ended. Just disappeared without a trace."

Why didn't the Lars say so? Why tell me he's on this planet? Ainar clenched his fists as his neck grew warm with indignation. If he'd been incarcerated over a wild goose chase, there'd be no greater insult or injury.

There'd also be no telling what would become of his mind. Twenty-seven years of agonizing, endless searching, all to end up in a hundred-square-foot cell with this urchin talking his ear off? No. Fate wouldn't be that cruel. He forbade it to be. As long as breath still filled his lungs, he'd never lose hope, even if the entire galaxy believed his quest a futile one.

Vanished didn't mean dead. It meant cleverly hidden, and well worth the effort to find.

Seeing Ainar's pale complexion, Han felt a sting of compassion. "Sorry, thought you knew."

"I know very little compared to most people," Ainar said hoarsely. "My ignorance would shock you."

"Hey, I wouldn't know much either if I'd stayed in my cozy little yard on Corellia. I learned more in eight years on a pirate ship than I ever woulda in school."

At least Han provided Ainar adequate distraction from greater troubles. "A pirate ship?"

"Ever heard of Captain Garris Shrike?"

Ainar shook his head apologetically.

"Consider yourself lucky!" Han bellowed. "Cross him once, you might walk away with your pants. Cross him twice, you don't walk away."

"And yet you somehow managed," Ainar cocked his head.

"That's right," Han beamed. "Only took me eight years to do it, too. Most guys take twice that long. Most don't make it half a parsec before ol' Shrike puts 'em in their place, either."

"How many parsecs was it before the Empire put you in your place?"

"Hey, old man's got a sharp tongue!" Han crowed. "You ain't the sweet ol' grandpa I took ya for!"

It was Ainar's turn to smirk, though with more sadness than Han displayed. "Age is a state of mind… and I've yet to learn whether I'm a grandpa or not."

Han looked at him like he was crazy. "You don't know if you've got grandkids? Ain't that like not knowin' if you've got kids?"

The unfathomable expression on Ainar's face told Han he'd struck a nerve he shouldn't have. Unable to verbalize a reply, Ainar was about to retreat from the boy's line of sight when Han rushed to apologize.

"Hey, wait – I'm sorry. Promise I won't say nothin' else stupid like that. It's none of my business."

The teenager's contrition touched Ainar. Eight years of having a pirate as his role model hadn't stripped him of all decency. There might be hope for him yet. That, along with the soul-crushing weight of twenty-seven years of emotional solitude, impelled Ainar to face him again.

"It's not your fault. You could never guess my burdens," he avoided Han's eyes. "Even your wildest, darkest nightmares can't compare."

Waiting in respectful silence, Han slid into a seated position, wrists locked against his knees. Something in the old man's presence had shifted dramatically. Han anticipated neither of them would be exchanging sarcastic barbs anytime soon.

"What's the furthest you've been from the Core?" Ainar began, rubbing his eyes.

"All over, from Kessel to Utapau an' everywhere in-between," Han answered proudly. "Even Rakata Prime, out in the middle of nowhere."

"The Outer Rim," Ainar summarized. "No further?"

"Nope… that's pretty much the limit. Any further an' it's the Unknown Regions, or worse."

"By 'worse,' you mean the hyperspace disturbance surrounding the galaxy?"

"Yeah. Ain't no way through it."

Ainar smirked ever so slightly, but his eyes remained vapid. "A pervasive myth."

"What, you're gonna tell me you've been to the other side?" Han guffawed, forgetting his resolution to remain polite. "Sorry old man, but I think you've inhaled a few too many hyperdrive fumes in your time!"

"I'm surprised," Ainar crossed his arms. "An accomplished traveler such as yourself hasn't heard of the Helska portal?"

Han frowned. "Helska? I've been there. Couple of times. Never heard of no portal."

"It's just northwest of the planet. Given our present confinement, you'll just have to take my word for it."

"And if I don't?"

"Then you're as good as hallucinating," Ainar said flatly. "Because if it weren't for that portal, I wouldn't be in this cell now, trying to convince some lop-haired punk I've been to hell and back, with a million detours along the way."

Crazy or not, Ainar's conviction burned enough to make Han blink. The lens through which the boy viewed him was shifting.

"Are you saying you ain't from this galaxy?"

"Do I look like I am?"

Han squinted, unsure if it was a trick question. "Uh, yes? Wait… no?" he second-guessed the semantics. "I mean, you look human. But for all I know you could be one of them shape shifters."

"I can think of a lot more intimidating species to mimic than human," Ainar chuckled. "Sorry, but what you see is what you get."

"Then what'd ya mean by saying that portal's the only reason you're here?"

"I never said it's the only reason," Ainar replied cryptically. "It's more complicated than that."

"So let's hear it."

Suddenly Ainar's desire for catharsis vanished. Full, candid disclosure seemed so appealing minutes ago, yet now… the idea of speaking the truth aloud, after so many years of keeping it sealed within his skull, made his stomach churn. Who was this boy that he should be the first to hear? Why should a wayward teen have the privilege of knowing Ainar's poignant legacy before… before the one he'd traveled countless light years to find?

It wasn't right. He couldn't do this. Spoken to anyone but his son, it would be tantamount to an abomination.

"I'm sorry… I can't say any more," he clenched his jaw, averting his gaze.

Han rolled his eyes, making no attempt to hide his dissatisfaction. "Oh sure, I love half-finished stories. Thanks a ton."

Awkward tension followed with both prisoners shifting uneasily in seated positions. While Ainar closed his eyes and hoped to reopen them on any scene but the current one, Han silently studied him. Even with eyes shut and face impassive, the man's mental exhaustion was obvious. The faint lines tracing his forehead ran far beneath the skin, creasing his very soul.

The longer Han stared, the more he felt the unbidden – and somewhat unpleasant – pangs of compassion. This man wasn't some fellow shipmate on board the Trader's Luck. He deserved better than cynical taunting. Though it had been many, many years since Han last encountered empathy, the rusty memory might be useful enough.

"I really am sorry. Shrike always said I don't know when to shut my mouth."

Ainar said nothing, but his eyes slit open.

"Look, we'll both go crazy if we don't keep talkin'. Let's just start over. If you don't wanna answer, I won't give ya a hard time."

"We'll see how long you stick to that promise," Ainar murmured.

"I mean it this time! Pirate's honor."

"In that case, I have nothing to fear!"

Han gave a rueful smirk. "Well, I ain't a pirate anymore, so I guess that don't mean much anyway."

"What do you plan to do instead?"

Han picked at a loose thread on his tunic. "Smugglin'."

Ainar snorted. "One illicit career to another? How creative."

"Not a lot of options for guys like me!" Han defended. "You try pullin' yourself up by your bootstraps when your luck's run out, an' nobody knows or cares who ya are!"

Fixing Han with a level, unblinking stare, Ainar exhaled slowly.

"I have."

Dumbfounded, Han looked at him incredulously, trying to discern whether he was exaggerating or not. Instinct told him the man wasn't.

"So what'd you used to be?" he asked, genuinely curious.

Ainar paused a long moment before answering. With significant effort, he uttered another pair of words.

"A slave."

Han marveled at how constantly his perception of Ainar was changing on a minute-by-minute basis. Partly out of reverence, and partly out of shock, he digested the information slowly before speaking again.

"Wow," the boy rubbed his chin, where faint stubble grew. "You really did make it from nothin'."

"Excluding the error in judgment that landed me here, of course."

"Yeah… but still. I never knew no slave to escape, much less survive on his own. You must be tougher 'n nails!"

The compliment was sincere, but it triggered an onslaught of raw, ragged emotions too powerful for Ainar to speak over. A thin, grateful smile was all he could offer at the moment.

"Bet you hate bein' stuck in here even more than I do," Han reflected. "You get away from one prison an' land in another. Freedom never lasts long, does it?"

Like any teenager, Han assumed more knowledge than he should. He thought a mere eight years marauding the skies made him an expert in the psychology of survival. That it put him in the distinguished position of judging one's tenacity – along with one's inner compass of freedom and captivity.

What he'd someday learn, however, was that the line between those two concepts wasn't always clearly defined. One could float weightlessly in the epicenter of the universe without a single gate or force field in sight – yet such limitless freedom could taste bitterer than a hundred years in chains. One might wish, even beg, to be pursued by bounty hunters and pirates alike, if freedom was a worse fate.

Ainar knew the ironic sting of such circumstances. While he might prefer to be outside this detention cell rather than in it, he knew to be careful what he wished for.

Regardless of where he was, at least he carried one small comfort no one had yet discovered. Folded and tucked under the insole of his boot was a well-worn piece of paper that he quietly extracted now. It had seen better days, nearly falling apart along the creases as he gingerly opened it. A few strips of yellowed tape held it together just enough.

The photograph on the side facing him never failed to bring a tear to his eye. Some force greater than him had kept her image clear and intact all these years.

The hand-drawn sketch on the other side he seldom looked at. There was no point. Drawing it in excruciating detail hadn't magically transported him back to the place, nor had staring at it for endless hours done so either. He'd been tempted on multiple occasions to obliterate it with a dirty eraser, but something stopped him each time. If he erased it, he may as well erase her, too.

And so he carried both images, the weight of which he swore he could feel whenever he walked. One of beauty and timeless love, the other of sorrow and destruction.

The former had a name.

Shmi.

The latter also had a name, though he had yet to learn it.

Mortis.

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Bit by little bit, the mysterious pieces are revealed…

I loved writing this chapter. Teenage Han Solo as comic relief… does it get any better? Don't worry, you haven't seen the last of him.

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