Chapter Twenty: The Nightmare

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(Nearly two weeks later)

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Kyp ducked at the Sildar's command. A split second later, a dagger whispered over his head and landed in the grass.

He snapped into battle mode and drew both his lightsaber and the Sildar. His paxi suddenly folded beneath him with a dying whinny, and the others turned around at the noise.

"Weapons out," the Kavishka snapped, jumping from his dead mount.

As if his call was the signal, two score men charged over the hill. Kyp, Veras, Braun, and—of course—Sanar recognized them as Holy Brothers. Judging by the swords they had drawn, Kyp's killing spree hadn't gone unnoticed. The Kavishka wished, futilely, that Sanar would stay in safety. Unfortunately, she looked positively gleeful as she drew her blasters. Kyp wasn't about to spoile her mood. If worst came to worst, Sanar could insult her way out of just about anything.

The first Holy Brother fought for a minute before dying on the Sildar. When Kyp looked up next, the others had been swarmed by Rafintair's fighters.

The first battle had begun.

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It wasn't the same, shooting Holy Brothers before they could reach her, and murdering a personal monster as the blood gushed over her hands. Sanar could be grateful for that. She didn't expect Pucijir's demons to haunt her after their deaths.

She didn't know why Horaire haunted her more than any of her other sins. Everyone—especially Jaina, who had, in a way, lived the murder—had told Sanar that it had been self-defence. Or, at the very least, it was protecting her sister.

(But Sanar had never stopped Horaire before, and she wasn't sure her only reason for killing him was Clayra's life.)

The Na'Lein woman still preferred killing the Holy Brothers.

(She still saw the blood flow.)

A half-moment before the next one came at her, Sanar scanned the area.

(Kyp) Durron was, of course, everywhere. At front, taking down the second, then third, then fourth line; next, helping Clayra with her own fight.

Near Clayra, Gantik fought viciously. Few made it to Sanar's sister, and those that did soon died. A grudging point in his favour. Clayra was not a fighter—or, at least, not when Sanar had last been living under the same roof as her.

Veras fought for bloody satisfaction. She carried a blaster, but only used that after her foe had been thrown to the ground in humiliation. Sanar shared a wicked grin with her peer.

Krista stayed close to Miko, but her blasters and…was that a rope?...weren't as effective as Miko's lightsaber. The once-Dark Jedi was putting himself in the Brothers' way before Krista could even begin to fail. Not far from Durron, an archer had Miko in his sights. Sanar checked the distance, but her short-range blaster couldn't reach the Holy Brother.

"Durron!" Sanar shot an approaching Brother, and knew her next skirmish would start in half a minute. "Durron!"

Finally hearing Sanar's yell, Kyp barely paused to kill the Brother who had nearly taken off Gantik's head. He whipped his head around, searching—and then finding—her.

"Sniper!" she shouted, pointing toward the Brother.

Durron nodded his understanding. He launched himself into the air; the sniper died in a particularly gruesome way.

Neither Kyp nor Sanar noticed Braun's more dangerous situation. He had been separated from the group, near the cliff but in the shadow of a tree.

As Devnos could have warned them, Prophecy played dirty.

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Braun Yd had never been a fighter.

He grew up on a forgettable, poor Core planet, and supported his ten-member family for years after his father's abandonment. He'd had dreams of higher education, but that would have meant more debts that his family couldn't handle.

Cargo shipping had been the steadiest, best-paying job he could aspire to. At least it had given him experience flying—not to mention, it had been how he met Veras. And how he had stumbled upon his wife's planet. One was decidedly better than the other.

Despite his rougher upbringing, Braun had always relied more on a cool head than a fast fist. Something he probably should have considered. Before he supported his wife into her homeworld's civil war.

Two Holy Brothers had sectioned him off from the others. Actually, it had been three, at the beginning. Braun was rather proud that he had killed one of them. So what if Veras had already pummelled the guy near into oblivion? Braun had shot him before his wife could. Technically, that meant Braun had been the one to kill the guy.

Braun could deal with regular men. His hands weren't entirely clean, after all, and he had survived a war. But Holy Brothers were far from the type of man (or woman, or alien) Braun had dealt with before.

His every move—a limited number, true, but diligently learned from his quite distracting wife/teacher—was countered. Both of Braun's blasters were knocked away in the first ten minutes. They weren't much help in close quarters, so Braun wasn't heartbroken about it. But their loss left him with only a dagger he'd snatched from (one of Veras') Holy Brother kills.

When that, too, was knocked from Braun's hand, he figured he was in for some trouble.

Veras hated it when he was right; this time, Braun agreed with his wife. In a big way.

The blow to his head made his head ring, and sent Braun to the ground. Despite his spinning vision, he tried to kick out. If even one of his attackers fell, the sandy-haired man thought, he might have any kind of chance.

His attempt only garnered a sharp kick to the gut. Above him, a sword glinted—

Then all went black.

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Sanar looked up suddenly, wondering at the pain that lanced through her heart.

An instant later, the last Holy Brother died at Durron's hand. About her, Sanar could see only six living people.

The Sildar laughed.

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Devnos grieved.

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When he opened his eyes again, the world had changed.

No sword rushed for his neck. No Holy Brother stared down at him.

For a moment, he let that delude him. Maybe he was safe now, miraculously, and…

Being sprayed with blood shattered such thoughts.

A Holy Brother fell near him as the fighting became louder, more attention-catching. Braun dragged himself up just in time to see: his wife being bashed in the head with a sword handle. She managed to draw and shoot her blaster, killing her foe. But it didn't keep her from falling—the backfire may have even helped.

Braun darted across the vast distance between them, but couldn't make it before—

"Veras!"

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Lera woke with a scream on her lips.

She thought the nightmare might have kept going, but she kept her sobs quiet.

It hadn't been a normal dream. Lera hadn't been some combination of very un-Lera-like characters. Familiar people hadn't suddenly appeared in bizarre roles and with bizarre timing. The plot (if you could call it that) did not change twenty times. The person who died was not family, but she hadn't been unaffected, by any means.

Lera had only been an observer; she had only recognized Sanar, and—after several minutes of thought—Kyp Durron. The scene had stayed basically the same throughout the dream, as had the cast. And time had not played tricks.

Despite that, Lera did not consider even the idea that it might be real. Not until she saw Devnos did it seem somehow, strangely possible.

The ghost sat at the far side of her room. His expression was concerned, but Lera was uncertain of whether or not she would have noticed if she didn't know Nichyn.

"You saw it," he said. "Didn't you."

There was no question in her mind, now, and the truth affected Lera like a punch to the gut. She had somehow nightmared real events. "Why did—" A sob hitched in her throat, and she swiped the tears away even as they fell. "Why did she have to die?"

Devnos' worry became more apparent as he came closer to her bedside. "Someone had to," he said, more than a touch bitterly. "Prophecy decided it had to be either Braun or Veras. After that, it was up to Veras. She chose to save her husband."

"But why? Why did either of them have to die?"

He considered feeding her a dull, overused platitude, but did not. For good or ill, Lera was involved. She had the right to know. "On Na'Lein'yhpaon, seven is a…powerful number. Especially to Pucijir's Order." He looked away from Lera's wide, tear-shining eyes. "Prophecy is fighting fire with inferno—using all of Pucijir's tricks against him. That means…sacrificing anything and everything necessary."

"What?"

"It means…protecting a support group of seven," he clarified. "It means taking away someone who knows Sanar, and who might have been able to…" he sighed, "change something."

Lera sat up and wrapped her blanket around her shoulders. "There are seven in total now. Not seven-and-the-Kavishka."

"They must have plans for the insertion of a stranger."

"It's not fair," she said after a moment. Her expression had become uncharacteristically quarrelsome.

This time, he didn't speak further. She knew the reality of the situation. "You should go back to sleep, Lera. It's over for now—you shouldn't have to see…" anything more.

Lera shot a quick glance through her window. Devnos wondered if the girl was even aware that she looked for some kind of reassurance from Nichyn, across the way. For a split second, the thought relaxed his expression.

"Good night, Devnos."

But her voice was still so very young, despite her dawning understanding.

One more sin—hopefully, not another sacrifice.

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They didn't find the body, but they hadn't expected to. Not when Braun, in a near-catatonic state, had told them that he saw his wife fall over the cliff. Not with a fast-moving river at the bottom of the long drop. Not even with Braun, still bleeding, stumbling along the river's rocky side, searching for his wife's corpse.

Krista didn't think she would ever forget that image: the desperation and grief bleeding from Braun's entire body as he threw himself into denial.

Sanar, on the other hand, had ranted, and raved, and thrown things, and picked fights.

She won't be the last, Krista! What do you think of that?

She had refused any and all sympathy. Knowing Sanar's temper, most were content to give her wide berth. Strangely, though, Sanar let Kyp help her pile and burn the bodies of the slain Holy Brothers.

Krista and Miko stayed to the side watching the pair, while keeping a not-so-inconspicuous eye on Braun. He didn't need to be watched; tears fell down his face into the hollow of his throat, but he remained pale and unmoving. He'd stopped shouting a few hours before. He hadn't moved at all since Kyp dragged him out of the river. Braun wasn't going anywhere. But Krista didn't think anyone should be left alone. Not after something like…this.

She wouldn't want to be.

(But she wouldn't let it come to that, no matter what Sanar said. Miko would survive this fight, even if that meant Krista dying in his place.)

"This feels…wrong."

Krista looked sharply at her former partner. It took her a second to reply. "Of course it does," she said, more harshly than she had intended. "It's—Veras is…" She glanced uncertainly at Braun. "Nothing about this is right."

"That's not what I meant," Miko replied testily. He struggled for words for several minutes. "I meant—there is something wrong here. Something we're missing, or ignoring, or—" He cursed.

"What…kind of something?" she asked, becoming increasingly subdued. She leaned closer to him, and placed her hand on his arm. At his continued, silent scowl at the grass, she pressed, "Miko?"

It seemed to be the last bit of pressure he could take. "I don't know!" he exclaimed. With a frustrated growl, he stood. "I just—I don't know, but there's something… We're caught up in some game, and we think we know the rules, but we don't. There's some—unknown factor—and I feel like we're getting lost in it. And—" Miko stopped his rambling then. When he continued, his voice was quieter, almost resigned. "There's something wrong, or—or at least foreign."

Krista stared at him. "Miko—" This time, she was the one to cut her words. She glanced at Braun again before standing. Coming up beside her friend, she continued. "It's too late to go back now."

"Do you think I don't know that?" At her startled look, Miko softened his tone. "I know, Kris. We have to keep going. But…."

When he didn't finish, Krista squeezed his arm. There was nothing to say.

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Sometimes, during Veras and Braun's romance, there had been moments that went too fast/slow. Their first real argument, for example, had gone too quickly for him to realize what he was saying, but too slowly for him to escape unscathed. Her (bridesmaid) walk down a friend's wedding aisle had been another. She had been wearing an atrocious green dress with far too many ruffles, and had one (visible) blaster strapped to her ankle. It had been the first time he consciously thought, I am going to marry that woman.

The end of their life partnership was ending with such a moment.

His thoughts were fragmented—confused—chaotic. It all went unbearably fast, but he couldn't react to anything. Not since Kyp forced him to stop looking for—

That stage of his reaction had scared him. Denial, wild and crazed, as he scrabbled for proof or respite. For something. Anything. She couldn't be gone, she couldn't—he'd promised her the nightmare was over, never coming back. It isn't a dream, but it's not a nightmare; it's real, it's real—

He'd read somewhere about the five stages of grief; several times, Braun had even experienced them. This, though… This was not like losing his long-sickly younger brother, or like watching a man he respected die fighting his war. This was Veras, his wife, the woman he had pledged to spend the rest of his life with. It was utterly sudden and shocking. He'd never gone through denial/anger/bargaining/depression/acceptance so quickly. Practice helped that way, but somehow it seemed the worst for it.

Veras had still been vibrant, if more than a bit worn from life. She had believed in what she died for, but she wouldn't have come on her own. Yet Braun had never stopped her, nor even let her think that they wouldn't make it out alive.

She and he had had such plans—of someday slowing down, and maybe even having a family. Those dreams had—

(died)

—with Veras.

Sometime during the stage of acceptance, things had become clear. Jagged shards of reality were thrown into his face. Cold, sharp, stinging, and making everything throb—like the first hard, windy snowstorm. Icy horror had swept over his soul, stripping it of all its defensive trappings.

Time had passed since then. Reality's shards were beginning to penetrate, to scrape along his stunned mind. They had started to compartmentalize his thoughts, and wash away some of the blood. Locked away the murdered dreams, the unspoken conversations, the never-shared adventures.

Reality's storm left behind something hard.

Veras is dead.

His wife had been murdered by vicious, evil men. The same such men who had made her life Hell for so many years. They had done everything they could to break her, and then they had murdered her.

To them, she was just one among many. Not even that.

My wife is dead.

It was far more than enough.

Braun had always prided himself on keeping a cool head, on knowing his limits. It was a hard galaxy—he looked out for himself and the ones he loved, and tried to do the right thing whenever possible. He had seen more than he wanted to, and he usually stayed out of fights he couldn't win. At least, so long as no one he knew was involved.

NLY had been a special case. It was a ruthless, powerful empire—Braun knew what such places could do. If Veras had not agreed with Sanar about coming, he would not have broached her about it. Heroics were great for stories, but they rarely paid off. Happy endings were few and far between, despite what children were taught.

Braun wasn't thinking about survival anymore. His wife—his lover, his partner, his friend—had died while saving his life. He would take revenge, as bloody as it could be, on any and all of Rafintair's soldiers.

See if he left anything but the actual killing for Kyp and the Sildar.

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Sanar watched, a scowl on her face, as Kyp threw his things together. "We haven't even had Veras' funeral yet, and you want to leave?"

He returned her glare with one of his own. "We can't stay here."

"Well, no, I hadn't planned on it," she snapped. "But we won't get anywhere tonight. The sun is setting in an hour, Braun is grieving, everyone is exhausted—" She sighed loudly in frustration when he didn't stop packing. "Durron! Are you listening to me? We fought nearly forty Holy Brothers, and lost one of our own, today. We're on our last reserves. And I can name a few people who won't take well to even a few hours of traveling."

Kyp threw his bag to the ground, and stomped over her. "They know where we are, Sanar. Rafintair found out about us, and sent those men to kill us. When they don't report back, Rafintair will send another group—this time of more. We need as much of a head start as we can possibly get, and we need to get out of here in case there are reinforcements already summoned."

"What?" Sanar stared at him. "But—we've been keeping such a low profile. How could they know about us?"

Kyp turned away, caught momentarily in his indecision. After a pause, he continued his packing. "Don't mention this to anyone else yet. I think I'll tell Miko, and perhaps Krista, but I don't want panic."

"Whatever." This time, Sanar was the one to stomp across the distance. "I want to know how the Jirs found out about us, and I want to know yesterday. I swear, Durron, if you hold out on me…"

"Do you remember that village from two weeks ago?" he abruptly asked. "The—the one we were supposed to stay at?"

She swallowed, but kept her voice steady. "Yes."

"That's how."

"Meaning what?" When Kyp didn't answer, Sanar growled, and yanked his elbow to make him look at her. "We stayed out of sight. I watched that girl die. They didn't see us."

"No, they didn't," he admitted uncomfortably. "Not then."

Sanar's eyes narrowed. "What…did…you…do?"

"After I took you to the camp, I went back. To the town."

She stared at him. "And?"

Kyp sighed. "I just—the Sildar—I slaughtered them, Sanar. All the soldiers, and the Holy Brothers with them. I thought I killed them all, but one of the soldiers must have escaped, and reported it to Rafintair."

Oddly, the first thing Sanar wanted to scream at him for was that he had put himself at risk, not for leaving her behind. She reassured herself that it was only because Durron was the Kavishka; his death would mean the failure of the Prophecy, and the non-salvation of her planet. "What happened to there being too many of them?" she demanded.

"I don't know. I barely realized what was happening. I just couldn't—couldn't bear seeing you so upset. I just did it. And then the Sildar—"

Sanar had been dealing with confusion about her being a reason, but her eyes became grim at the mention of the Sildar. "What about it?"

"It's— You have to understand, Sanar. It's alive; I can always hear it, demanding revenge. And when I gave it what it wanted… It was like it couldn't get enough." Unconsciously, he rubbed his sword hand. "It burned with impatience."

Sanar stared at his hands. Before she caught herself, she almost reached out to him. "It…burned?" she repeated uncertainly. "Literally?"

He swallowed, but didn't reply.

"Durron—"

Kyp had no intention of continuing this conversation, and he interrupted her. "We never found Veras' body; we can have the funeral elsewhere. But we need to get out of here, and quickly. Let the others know when you go to pack."

She blinked at the abrupt subject change, but began to walk towards the others. At the last moment, she turned back around. "Kyp? About the Sildar…just…be careful. Alright?"

"I will." He tried to smile for her, and it came just a little easier than he had expected. "Sanar—I'm sorry about Veras. She was a good person."

Sanar's grin was just as weak as his. "She was."

The thank you remained unspoken, but he heard it anyway.

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It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Lera should never have seen Veras' death, let alone the events right before after it. It made no sense.

Devnos, of course, had seen it. He Saw many things, even on this side of life. What he could not See, he watched. Watched for his sister, and for some clue as to how he could save her. Watched as Vengeance marched onward with its blind hatred and pride. Watched as Prophecy played its game. He had seen it. But he was a seer—a messenger—and dead besides.

Lera should not have been capable to see what she had, let alone be forced to see it. She was barely fifteen. Girls on Na'Lein'yhpaon were often younger than her when they first saw their world's cruelty, true. But that couldn't justify how far into Vengeance's mess the Hapan girl was being dragged. Devnos had decided to ask Lera for help, for good or ill—but she should have been on the sidelines. Firmly on the sidelines. Away from nightmares and such.

But putting aside those concerns, Devnos was still left with a puzzle. How could Lera have seen Veras' death?

After she had gone to sleep, Devnos had checked Lera once more for Force-sensitivity. He'd searched far more intently than the first time, and a little deeper. If Lera had potential as a seer, Devnos had to know immediately, before this went too far.

But he had found neither sensitivity, nor potential. Just a friend and writer's receptiveness.

At the back of his mind, a theory began to form. Devnos wasn't sure what to make of it. It had been something he even considered as possible, when he began. But if it was true…

Devnos resolved to keep a closer eye on Lerasina Verili. And…perhaps…guard his own thoughts more intently.

Just in case.

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"It just doesn't seem…real. Seven years, Braun. This is one helluva long dream."

"This isn't a dream, love."

"Then where's the nightmare? There's always one waiting."

"No more nightmares."