Chapter Six: The Call Back

-x-x-x-x-x-

She may have "grown up" (according to Jaina), and she might have resigned herself to at least trying to do the right thing (even if she inevitably messed it up even before she started), but Sanar still avoided looking the truth in the eye. That just wasn't her style. Instead, she watched as Veras, Braun, and Clayra's son returned to their ship, with a promise to come back the next day, and then she settled down into the comfiest couch she and Jaina owned.

Veras had stared at the comfortable living room for long intervals, unable to reconcile the setting as Sanar's home. The holo-images of genuine friends of both Jaina and Sanar were bizarre, considering Sanar's past. The décor was in warm, cozy colours, but not luxurious, and certainly not pretentious—two adjectives that call-dancers (such as Sanar had once been) used in spades. The carpeting was worn but soft, and the sunset could be seen through two windows. What was more, Sanar liked this room, and the familial, easy atmosphere she and Jaina had worked to create. She enjoyed settling down on the second-hand couch (a piece for which she and Jaina had tag-team bargained for the better part of two hours), wrapped up in the warm, woven multi-thread blanket the Solo parentals had given their daughter and her 'sister'.

Five—even three—years ago, Sanar would never have expected to enjoy the life into which she had currently settled. When Jaina had suggested they live together three and a half years ago, Sanar had laughed the Jedi right out of the room. Eventually, she had agreed, if only because it was a way to save rent and still have dominion over most of the apartment (Jaina, naturally, always out being a hero).

But since then, to Jaina and herself, Sanar had managed to confess a love of her new life, and all its comforts and securities. Sanar's entire life had been fraught with pain and danger; even her childhood had had a hammer overhead, waiting to crush everything, although she had ignored it then. When her father's part in the Resistance had been found out, Sanar's life had been smashed into smithereens—Jarran Klis was sent off to Carida, where he died and left his mourning family; Caesarea withdrew into herself, away from her children; Devnos had changed in ways Sanar had never been able to foresee; and Sanar and Clayra…

Naturally, Sanar had been wary to accept the life that Jaina, Zekk and even Kyp enjoyed—the Galactic Dream, even if the three were all-too-hero even in their daily lives. Only five years ago, Sanar had been not only a slave, but little more than a strip dancer with a good name—if that. She could (quite humiliatingly) admit that she had gone further than that in the case of Lord Onyx, who was now Zekk, who was now the fiancé of Sanar's 'sister'.

Of course Sanar had been wary about this lifestyle, and the family get-togethers (with inside jokes, tacky hats and all), and the accepted-by-association friends, and the "I would die for you" melodramatics that more than occasionally popped out of heroes' mouths.

But, hey, Leia Organa Solo might be a princess, but she made Sanar's nerf-steak exactly the way she liked it, just for her, just because the princess 'cared'. And Cerasy was the best shot Sanar had ever seen, and the red-haired bounty hunter always knew when it was time to just slum it in some nasty bar, and drink until you were under the table, and there were no nightmares or annoyances, just blackness; but she also paid the bartender to make sure no one tried anything. Kriff it, even Durron was a part of this strangely wonderful life, and she couldn't imagine not having him around to hate.

And then, of course, there was Jaina…

Jaina Solo was the worst hero of them all. The younger woman believed in happily ever afters and soulmates, for Mujir's sake! She could (or chose to) only see good vanquishing evil, and never the other way around; Jaina would probably die for some kid she had never met. Just like she would for Sanar—without a thought to the contrary. Sanar, somewhat reluctantly and without thinking it through, had brought Jaina back to life five years ago; Brakiss had almost cracked her head open, and Jaina—being the hero she was—had given in to Death, because she had been told it was the only way for Zekk to come back in place of Onyx. Sanar had followed Jaina into the River that separated Life and Death, barely anchored and anchoring Jaina, when the two women were anything but friends. In return, Sanar had found a new sister, even when she didn't want one. They squabbled and teased each other mercilessly, but they had their moments, too.

And, when Sanar felt particularly honest, she wouldn't trade that relationship for anything.

All of this, the friends and family, the comfort—lafit, even Durron… It was her life now, and she didn't want to leave it. She didn't even know if she could.

She shifted on the couch, stretching out and laying her head on the armrest. Who would have thought that she, Sanar Klis, former Imperial slave, formerly under the care of a sadistic priest, the sister of a Dark Jedi, would have a maroon, well-worn couch that didn't match the carpet just right? Not her. But she didn't have to say it out loud, did she? She could just ignore the signs, and continue to take this all for granted. She didn't need to think about everything she'd left behind; she had dragged herself out of the wreckage (of Daddy's death, Devnos' betrayal, Mama's indifference, Horaire's—oh, stars, don't think about it, don't think about it—). When did she start caring about other people? Everything in her had been devastated, but she'd made something of it all. Sort of. It was enough.

Redemption was too unattainable, anyway.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Sanar Klis was well-acquainted with this exhaustion. It froze everything in her bones, making them brittle to the touch; it turned her blood to slush, until she was driven every second to lay her head down and sleep forever, even though she knew the nightmares were almost as bad as the reality.

But today…today was a little worse than normal. It was the suspense. Horaire had not shoved her into a room, hadn't shredded her down to the nothing she knew herself to be; he hadn't thrown her to the stone floor, or raved about his god, Pucijir, and how Sanar's only hope to avoid the deepest, dankest level of Hell was to submit to him. She jumped at every movement and shadow, wondering if he was particularly fanatical today, and so was going to send one of his adepts for her, one of his boys to join in on the fun.

She didn't even consider that he had grown tired of her; Sanar knew better. In her, Horaire had seen Jarran Klis' pride and rebellion, and he was obsessed with breaking her. He would never let her go.

But, she comforted herself, at least she had not seen Clayra today, either. As much as Sanar loved her younger, fragile sister—wasn't the proof of that love in what she let Horaire to do her, and her alone?—she couldn't see Clayra right now. The tension had to be jumping off Sanar's skin, the terror out of her eyes, and Clayra was too lafit sensitive to Sanar's moods for her own good.

Clayra had been strangely fortunate, in that the husband Horaire had chosen for her (an adept named Kalav) lacked imagination and true fervour for Pucijir. Her little bit of luck had also held in that Kalav lay with the girl once, impregnated her, and had then gotten himself killed. For her young son and "grieving period", Clayra was safer than most women. Not safe enough, of course—never that—but for the past four years, the load on Sanar's shoulders had been just a little lighter.

That time could run out, though; Horaire had always had a sick obsession with innocence, and breaking the already-frail; Sanar was all too aware of that, and so she continued to submit to the high priest. It wasn't, after all, as if she could lose much more of her soul. Clayra's was the only innocence that could even possibly be salvaged.

/"Look out for your little sister, Princess. I love you, and I trust you to do this."/

Always, Daddy.

"Sanar."

She flinched, but turned (weary and wary) to the owner of that cold, indifferent voice. "What do you want, Devnos?"

Her brother scanned the narrow hallway briefly, then scrutinized her impassively. "Where is Clayra?" he queried distantly.

"I don't know," Sanar sighed, barely able to look at Devnos anymore. It hurt too much—even more than Horaire, some days.

Devnos stepped forward, began to say something, closed his mouth, then tried again. "Brown—Sanar, I need you to find Clayra. Right now."

Sanar folded her arms over her chest stubbornly. "Go back to your quarters, Devy-boy," she cranked. "You gave up on me and Clayra years ago; neither of us owes you anything."

"Sanar Klis," Devnos snapped, grabbing and yanking on her arm. "I am not going to say this again: Find. Clayra."

It was the surprising, poorly hidden fear in Devnos' eyes that did her in. Without another word to the protest, Sanar closed her eyes. Easily finding the ties that connected her to Clayra, she traced her little sister's spirit line to—

Oh gods. Oh stars in the heavens, oh Force, oh—

CLAYRA!

Devnos was shoved to the side, where he stared after her, as Sanar chased her sister's presence. Sanar nearly burst a lung sprinting through the compound, into Horaire's wing, and still it wasn't fast enough.

In her terror, Sanar threw doors open heedlessly, searching for Clayra and Horaire. When she saw Nichyn ambling innocently around the antechamber of a sanctuary, Sanar knew she had found the right place, and she nearly died on the spot. Barely pausing to direct Nichyn into a corner with orders to stay put and cover his ears until his mama came, Sanar threw the far door open and raced in.

The first thing that made its way through the haze of her terror was Horaire's shouting. The high priest for Pucijir had always loved the sound of his own voice—always he went on and on, even as he shoved Sanar down to the ground and ripped away her pride.

But he hadn't started on Clayra—not fully, not yet.

Not ever, Sanar vowed.

Something clicked in her that moment, some vestige of sanity left her, and instinct and hate and fear took over. While Horaire screamed about Pucijir's might, and female degradation, and how Clayra could only be saved by him—

The protector in Sanar shattered into something far more dangerous—waiting, by the skin of its teeth, to pounce and tear, tear, tear.

Sanar barrelled down that aisle to where her sister cowered beneath the high priest. Clayra was ripped from Horaire's grasp, and pushed back to the door. "Run," Sanar ordered.

Clayra didn't dare look back.

Only when the entrance to the antechamber slammed shut, did Sanar straighten and turn all of her rage on Horaire. "I told you," she said, "to stay away from my sister."

Horaire eyed her in disgust. "You are a waste of my time, niftyax. There is nothing more I can do for your inferior soul. Perhaps your sister can still be salvaged. I will take her under my care."

Sanar almost staggered under her own hatred. "If you even think about touching her, I will—"

"You'll…what?" Horaire's black, void-eyes travelled to a large tapestry of the Mother Goddess' defeat under the heel of Pucijir. He smirked. "It is much too late for you to do anything. Your petty attempts to hide your sister's corruption have gone to waste."

Any remaining restraint snapped. All Sanar knew was Clayra, and hate, and fear, and blood—so much blood. Fingernails, scraping; fists, smashing; hands, throwing; glass, shattering; and always blood.

And then it was all over, and Horaire was spread across his damned, holy steps, in front of his god's triumph-tapestry, and the hilt of his long, ceremonial dagger protruded from his unmoving chest.

And blood streamed.

Sanar couldn't move, couldn't breathe, or shout, or run, even though she knew she should. She had killed Pucijir's High Priest, the Emperor's spiritual guidance, and she had done it with his own knife.

Years passed before she could see anything but her bloody hand around that dagger hilt, and then oxygen scraped and flamed into her lungs, forcing them to work. She fell back, scrabbling away from the corpse and the weapon, barely able to move, and already feeling the horror streak through her blood.

Clayra, she had told herself she was doing it for Clayra, but Sanar didn't believe that anymore. She was nothing; Pucijir's void had swallowed her soul, and now she had murdered her enemy.

But it wasn't over.

Sanar tried to stop screaming, but couldn't, and Holy Brothers and other men heard her shrieks, and they came to see what had happened. They understood the scene instantly; they trussed her up in chains and threw her into the torture cell adjacent to Horaire's chamber.

But Clayra was safe, and—ironically—with Horaire dead, Sanar was treated better in this prison than she had been when she was "free."

She knew they were going to execute her (by stoning? by burning?), so she didn't worry about it. When the door was thrown open, she didn't look up, only buried her face in her knees. Flecks and trails of Horaire's blood had dried on her hands, and she dragged the fingers and palm of one hand across the rough walls, half-heartedly trying to remove the crust. It made no difference.

"You'll never be rid of it."

Sanar's head snapped up in shock, and her surroundings changed, and she was sprawled out in the mud, far away from any habitation. And before her stood Horaire, the dagger hilt still protruding from his black heart. "No," she muttered in denial, shaking her head with increasing speed. "No…no…no, no, no! I killed you! Go away! You can't…you aren't allowed to…" She shoved her hands over her ears, and squeezed her eyes as tight as she could. "You have to leave me alone now," she whispered pitifully.

He yanked her hands away from her ears. "I will never leave you," he rasped directly into her face; then he laughed, and the sound assaulted her. "By killing me, niftyax, you tied me to you. You became me."

"No…"

"What now, niftyax? Will you cry? Will you deny it? Scream at the top of your lungs, lie the way your impure heart tells you to? You are weak…foolish…hopeless."

Sanar's wrists were pulled out, until her arms extended, and she realized she was manacled, ankles to the muddy, soggy ground, and wrists to posts. Her brown eyes flew wide in panic, and she struggled against the chains desperately. Above her, thunder rumbled, lightning etched the sky with white light. "Let me go—stop it!" she sobbed. "I'm done here, I'm done—I have a new life! I have…I have…Jaina, a—and Cerasy, and…"

"You have nothing, because you are nothing," Horaire sneered cruelly. "As it always was, as it always will be."

"I'm not here," she muttered feverishly. "A—a nightmare! This…this has to be a nightmare," she half-remembered, half-pleaded. "Wake up, Sanar, wake up, wake up, wake—"

"You will always be brought back here," Horaire growled mercilessly as the rain began to pour down in icy sheets. "You were born here, and you lived here, and you will die here—just…like…me."

And the storm raged, and Sanar—her father's Storm Fighter—was lost in the sleet, and the wind, and the thunder and lightning, and the blood that would never wash off of her soul…

Sanar!

With white fire, three sevens were carved into the skin above her heart.

Sanar, wake up!

Through the rain, Holy Brothers gathered, and brawled on one man, utterly focused on tearing him apart. And Sanar felt her heart stop beating at the thought of living without him.

Sanar, it's a dream.

Then burning, and all that she was made of fell apart, until only He remained, and Sanar was loosed into nothingness…

Wake up, sister.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Sanar woke up.

She was mostly on the floor, only her feet still tangled up in the couch's cushions and blankets. Her head was in someone's (sister's) lap, and through the Force, warmth drifted around her soul. "It was just a dream, Sanar," Jaina murmured, looking down compassionately.

Abruptly sitting, Sanar straightened herself out and avoided Jaina's knowing look. There was no way (every way) that Jaina actually saw the dream, and she could only be guessing about what had happened—right?

"Do you want to—"

"No," the older woman snapped. The last thing she wanted to do was talk about it. Talking was for heroes, or even normal people.

You have nothing, because you are nothing. As it always was, as it always will be.

"Okay…" Jaina watched her kindly, then stood, and helped Sanar up. "Would you like some hot chocolate, then?" She grinned, well aware of Sanar's fondness for the sweet drink that she had only discovered while living with Jaina. "I was about to make some—"

"I don't want any," Sanar growled. "Just leave me alone, Solo."

Worrying her bottom lip, Jaina reached to touch her sister's shoulder, only to have it slapped away. Two pairs of brown eyes flashed. "Don't you have some babies to kiss, Princess?" Sanar all but snarled.

Jaina rolled her eyes in irritation; Sanar always had been a downright hag when she woke up, especially after a nightmare. Usually, though, she brought herself down after a few minutes, and with a little cajoling… "You're right," the Jedi retorted, heading towards the closet to grab her coat. "Babies to kiss, old men to suck up to…and why isn't your coat down on this cheap, middle class floor?"

If Sanar regretted insulting Jaina's stereotype, it didn't show, and Jaina yanked open the door with a little more force than necessary. "The chocolate mix is on the counter if you want it. I'll be back in a few hours."

"Wait!" Sanar called, just before the door slammed shut.

Exasperated but catching the hint of remorse in Sanar's voice, Jaina turned around. "What do you want, Sanar?"

"Where are you going?"

Jaina sighed, but smiled a little, the way she always did when she thought of her fiancé. "I'm meeting up with Zekk at Ta' Loiss Café. Then we'll probably head back to his place for a while. You can reach me on my com-link."

Sanar grinned weakly. "Have fun," she offered.

"I will," Jaina replied happily, willing to forget about their argument until later. Love, she'd found, was like that, when it wasn't a cavern that held the thunderous echoes of sobs, or a storm of unrequited feelings, or…well, just a mess, which it could so easily become.

Sanar sat on the couch for ten minutes before she stood again, and headed for the kitchen. The milk and hot chocolate mix were both out, as well as a long stirring spoon. She considered them for a moment, before shaking her head and putting the milk away.

She liked this life.

You will always be brought back here. You were born here, and you lived here, and you will die here—just like me.

Scowling viciously, she exited the apartment, still in her socks and sleep-rumpled clothes. Crossing the hallway, she went right into Durron's home without knocking.

The Jedi Master, once dead, resurrected by Jaina and Sanar, sat on his long, black couch in the centre of his living room. From hand to hand, he moved a terrible sword that Sanar had seen only twice, but never forgotten. Left hand, right; the blade showing the inscribed JUSTICE, then VENGEANCE. The sword sang warning to all, and Sanar, who knew what it was, flinched. But Kyp Durron was completely unaffected.

Of course, he would be. He was the only one who could carry it, now that Jarran Klis, Sanar's father, was dead.

Realizing her presence, Durron looked up, the sword hilt stilling in his right hand. "It's time," he intoned.

Sanar liked this life.

Too bad Na'Lein'yhpaon would always drag her back.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Traffic was worse than usual, and Jaina arrived at Loiss' Café almost fifteen minutes late, despite the head start she had given herself. A glance across the street confirmed that the GA Intel branch had shut down with its customary speed, and Zekk would be waiting for her. Chagrined, she scanned the first level of the café, hoping to spot her fiancé. When she saw not a single patch of black hair (living on Hapes made it so easy), she approached one of the familiar waitresses.

"Do you know what floor Zekk's on?"

Mevara looked up and grinned. "Fifth day already, is it?" the blonde said knowingly. "I swear, you two are like a calendar." She handed Jaina a tray of dishes. "Hold this for a second, would you?"

Following her peer to the side counter, Jaina waited patiently for Mevara to take the time to point out Zekk. When the dishes were safe, Mevara turned back to the Jedi. "Now, what did you…oh, right, Zekk. He's on the second floor, left wing—one of the girl's put up a fight about serving 'Onyx' a cup of coffee while he waited, so they sent me up. Anyway, he's right by the window. I thought he'd be down here as soon as he saw you, but I guess his…companion has him occupied." A mix of disapproval for Zekk and pity for Jaina clouded the Hapan's aura.

It's nothing, Jaina knew, but couldn't stop herself from asking, "His companion? A hunchbacked Gamorrean with bad teeth?" She grinned, to show Mevara that she was unthreatened, whoever it was.

"Sorry." More pity. "Female, pretty…looks human, but maybe she's one of those new robots—you know, the ones that…" Mevara stopped and blushed, as if suddenly realizing that bringing up the new line of artificial girlfriends didn't help.

Jaina chuckled. "Oh, one of those. Well, if Zekk's cheating on me with a droid, I'll just have to re-circuit him. Did you catch a name?"

Oh, for Force's sake, it's probably just Krista. Get over the irrational jealousy.

And rip out her entrails if she tries anything…

"P-something," Mevara thought out loud. "Purdy? Perda?"

"Perdita," Jaina supplied wryly. "They're just co-workers."

And, of course, until Jaina met this lovely woman, she could neither like nor dislike Perdita.

Would-be manstealer.

Alright, so she had kind of passed judgement. But only because Zekk talked about Perdita so much that Jaina felt she already knew her.

Still, she felt ridiculous.

Thanking Mevara, Jaina followed the waitress' directions up the stairs, and blocking out Mevara's unwanted (and certainly unwarranted) pity. Upon taking the left door, she immediately spotted Zekk's lean frame and dark hair by the window. His back was to her, giving Jaina an almost perfect view of the stunningly pretty woman who could only be Perdita (as last nameless as Zekk himself). Straight auburn hair was pulled back in a stylish knot, and in her form-fitting black ensemble, the former Imperial assassin looked classy, mature and collected.

Although, from the look on Perdita's face, the other woman had seen Jaina, she remained in her (Jaina's) seat, chatting with Zekk. While the lack of reaction on Perdita's part needled Jaina's pride, the same thing also reassured the Jedi. A girl on the side (something she would never see…right?) would have been scared, embarrassed or smug; Perdita was only dismissive.

Still, when she reached Zekk's table, Jaina's hello kiss was closer to Zekk's mouth than usual in a public setting. "Hey," she greeted softly, her lips still brushing Zekk's.

The smile she felt from him was even more comforting, in that Perdita disappeared completely from her mind. "Hey," he echoed, and the tingles raced up and down Jaina's spine, just like they always did. She wondered if it would always be like this.

A polite cough broke into their world, and Jaina straightened sheepishly.

"Sorry, Perd," Zekk said lightly, not sounding at all remorseful. "Perdita, this is my fiancée, Jaina Solo. Jay, Perdita."

Perdita's eyes were fog grey and impassive as she nodded. "You look just like you do in the tabloids."

Jaina's polite smile dimmed briefly at the disdainful tone. "Nice to meet you," muttered the daughter of a princess. "Zekk has told me so much about you."

Now Perdita looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Oh. He has?" She glanced at Zekk almost nervously before returning her gaze to Jaina. "I didn't know. He talks about you, obviously, but with all the work, and the overseers…well, you know."

Alright, just because she was strangely nervous with talk of Zekk's regard in front of said man's fiancée…that didn't have to mean anything, right?

Don't think about Onyx's harem. Or how many women Zekk's body has slept with. Don't.

"The distrustful overseers-dictators putting a lock on the mouth zipper," Jaina babbled. "Right. They wouldn't want you to talk about your personal lives during work."

Perdita raised an eyebrow, regaining her composure. "Yes, well, we've managed to find time outside of work to talk."

Zekk—sitting across from Perdita, and in Jaina's head through their bond—was still perfectly at ease, so Jaina refrained from going primal, possessive female on Perdita.

Kriff it, Zekk only thought of Perdita as a friend—Jaina knew that, without question. And even if, in some bizarre parallel universe, Zekk wanted to pursue Perdita, Zekk would never cheat on Jaina to do so. Onyx was the one who played games, not Zekk.

So why the kriff was her jealousy going haywire?

Oh, maybe because Perdita was gorgeous; because Perdita could understand Zekk's darkest side, Onyx, in a way that Jaina never could. But what it all came down to was that Jaina recognized the look on Perdita's face when she talked about Zekk: it was the look about which Sanar constantly teased her, the one Jaina had seen in the mirror many, many times in the past fourteen years.

"Well," Perdita said, abruptly breaking the silence into which they had fallen, "I have an appointment to make—I can't really afford to miss my sentencing—and I'm in your spot. I'll see you tomorrow, Zekk, if I haven't been imprisoned or executed. Goodbye, Jaina."

Jaina smiled politely as the other woman gathered her purse and coat. "Goodbye, Perdita."

When the ex-assassin had exited the room, Jaina situated herself in the seat across from Zekk. "She seemed…" All over the place, actually. "She's very pretty."

Zekk shrugged. "I guess." He eyed her suspiciously. "So, what was all that about?"

"What was all what about?" she asked innocently.

His look said it all.

She studied him for a moment, trying to regain her equilibrium now that Perdita had left. His shoulder-length hair was as dark as ever, even in the twilight sun and the café lights. As Intel missions (and, since the war had ended, officework) offered little exposure to the sun, his skin was still only a little darker than it had been when he was 'just' a Coruscant undercity scavenger. The contrast of pale face framed by dark hair only made his vibrant green eyes stand out even more than they would on their own. With varied (and often painful) amounts of experience under his belt, Zekk was still sweet, loyal, compassionate, and…so many other wonderful things, about which Jaina could babble forever, like the lovestruck girl she was.

Of course Perdita was sort of in love with him. What girl in her right mind wasn't? Especially when they could see past his dark past, and understand how far he had come since then?

But Zekk loved her, Jaina Solo, as much as she loved him. She couldn't even doubt that anymore after half a decade, and even considering his stubbornness.

"You know exactly what I mean," Zekk said. "What did I miss between you and Perdita?"

She shook her head, chuckling at her own groundless insecurity. "Nothing. It was just a silly girl thing." Unable to resist, she leaned across the table and kissed him.

What was the point of being in love if you couldn't flaunt a few examples of PDA in the faces of disapproving coffee-drinkers?

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Please R&R!

.Tjz