Chapter Twenty-Four: Someone, Something

-x-x-x-x-x-

Hurt.

It…

…hurt…

…so much.

Sanar didn't think she had fallen asleep—didn't think it could be possible in her condition. Her arms ached from when he had yanked her hands above her head, and from the stranglehold he had kept on her wrists (as he shoved them into the wall). Her entire body strained from fighting him despite his bruising holds, despite the knife.

Little good it had done her.

But she had found herself here again somehow. The landscape was still dark, desolate and resigned. The rain did not pound or knife this time, but drizzled miserably. And it seeped under her skin. Noxious, creeping, slowing—

—poison.

She wondered if he would come this time, but didn't know if she wanted him to see her like

(a dirty girl; a stupid niftyax; a worthless, faithless, infidel piece of—)

this.

Her pride was battered enough without finally breaking down in front of him. But he was the only one she could cry in front of, and she hadn't been able to do that since… Daddy—

He listened (or didn't) to what she wanted. He came.

She knew when he saw the blood, the cuts, the bruises. Knew when he saw what she was: weak, stubborn; lost, trapped; broken…

(no, not broken, never broken.

just lost.)

But he didn't turn away from her, or show any disgust. He was just there, so close, and his hands were running over her so gently—searching for the wounds

(knowingly: from experience)

almost as if he could—wanted to—heal them.

It made her wince every time his hands brushed over a bruise

(tightening grip, killing hold, now pull and yank out of the way—

you're weak as a fly, little girl, little girl—

weak as a fly)

but then she didn't feel it anymore. The blood clotted, the bruises faded, and the cuts scabbed. Sanar stared at her clearing skin, then at him. "How—"

"I can't fix it." His eyes mourned it, keened with regret and helplessness. "It's just—temporary. Just for now." Tenderly—so tenderly she could feel only its whisper—he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I'm so sorry."

(Beloved)

Her pride flinched—and then ran—and Sanar was left crying in his arms. Left trying to make sense of everything, to hide and never come out, to stop it all from hurting so damned much.

"I—I can't—" Through the tears and the ghost-pain she couldn't make the words heard.

He must have understood anyway, because he held her tighter, and whispered words of comfort and reassurance and someday-vengeance.

"Hold on," he finally said. "Wait for me—"

(please, he begged)

"I'll need you, Sanar Klis."

She saved him, once, on the darkest day of his life.

This time, he saved her.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Miko had never been lucky with women—something his older sister had delighted in teasing him about when he was younger. He could pine for months over a fellow student or colleague, but rarely had any of his infatuations even noticed he was male. But if his love life was tentative at best, he had plenty of female friends. Friendships were his forté—probably because the girls and their boyfriends never considered him a threat of any kind. His reputation had been slightly tarnished when he Turned, but even now, he was friendly with most of the girls he knew.

That Dejah did not fall into the category of "friend" was not surprising, though it may have initially disgruntled him—just a little bit. Miko had seen people like Dejah before, especially at the end of the Second Imperial War. People who fought for the right side, but who became so embittered, and so drawn into the struggle, that they became too hard and too ruthless. They became less—some even transformed into what they fought. It had been a factor in Miko's Turning—not so much that he himself had fallen victim to it, but that he had seen it in others, and had become cynical.

Miko would prefer not to see it happen to any of Mujir's Resistance. He hadn't come to replace one prejudiced regime with another. With that thought, he left the mess hall food line and purposely headed for Dejah's table. According to Kyp and Sanar, they still had a few months before the actual fighting began, but it was never too early to start healing.

Besides, Dejah would have to get used to men eventually. And she was probably too proud to admit his presence might bother her.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" he asked. Without waiting, the Jedi sat across from Dejah at her table.

Dejah only barely stiffened as she looked across at him. "Good day."

"Miko," he introduced. "Miko Reglia."

She merely grunted, and then took another bite of her orange, sludge-looking food.

"Does that taste as unappetizing as it looks?"

The fighter blinked, but she kept her cool. "It is food," she replied deliberately. Condescension hovered, unacknowledged, in her voice. "It is required for survival; I do not eat it for the flavour."

He over-winced. "Don't tell Krista that," he said lightly. "She might feel obligated to dip into her chocolate stash just to convince you otherwise."

Dejah opened her mouth to speak, closed it, and frowned. Her dark eyes now betrayed just the tiniest amount of uncertainty. "'Chocolate,'" she finally repeated. She almost looked neutral, but her pronunciation was awkward, and her accent more obvious than ever.

"It's…uh…do you have cocoa here?" When she shook her head, he nodded. "Right. Okay. Um…well, there are different kinds, but chocolate is usually…a little sweet, and creamy—it's made with milk," he added. "But I guess it's…it's hard to explain. After the revolution, if your government decides to involve itself in galactic trade, you should try it." He grinned and added, "Women have pretty much claimed it as their own." He paused at her strange expression. "What?"

"'After the revolution,'" she repeated tiredly. "You should not speak of it so certainly. It wi—may," she corrected herself. "It may never be completed."

Miko consciously adjusted the way he saw Dejah Salin. "I know it will happen," he told her, firmly. "And, anyway, I don't believe in giving up."

Dejah's temper flared. "And who will finally manage to fix everything?" she hissed. "You? Your—your Kavishka? He is a fairy tale, written by a man who wanted to overthrow a regime. A man, I hear, who is long dead."

"Devnos Klis may be dead, but his sister is a thousand times more stubborn than anyone I know—except for Kyp Durron…the Kavishka. Neither are complete idiots to transfer a silly bedtime story to real life."

"Naïveté does not necessarily demand stupidity," she replied impassively.

Miko laughed at that. "I'm just trying to think of Kyp or Sanar as naïve," he explained at her confused expression. "One grew up orphaned and enslaved in the space mines of Kessel; he destroyed a star system, died, and came back to life. The other grew up here in the household of one of your priests—which, I have no doubt, presents a list of horrors by itself. She killed said priest, was exiled from her home and away from her family, and made her way as a dancing slave from there.

"No," he said. "They are not naive. None of us are. And if I am the only one who wonders if we might die here, I will eat my hat. But we will win. You don't know any of us—don't know how determined Kyp and Sanar are—so I'll forgive you your doubts."

He had meant to firmly reassure her, to give her hope, but Dejah's eyes flashed. She held her tongue, but he heard her response as easily as if she had yelled it: Of course you would think you have that power over me, as a man.

Miko hesitated, unsure of how to fix what she had read in his careless words. After a moment, he simply let it go. Dejah had been sorely mistreated by his gender her entire life. What he said in one conversation could little change how she perceived him.

Instead, he changed the subject. "What do you know of the Kavishka prophecy?"

Dejah's fork had been lightly tapping her food container. At his question, it stilled. "A man said another man would come and save us. With a magical sharp object. Apparently, we are to put our faith, hope and lives in this man's hands."

He snorted in amusement. "You might not want to spout that one for Sanar—the prophecy is rather close to her heart. Family connections, and all. Her brother was the one who wrote it all down. Of course, I'm pretty sure she would phrase it differently."

Dejah looked surprised—then felt wary—when he did not react to her belittlement of the Prophecy. "And how do you see it?" she asked. Perhaps unconsciously, she bit her lip, as if her question had surprised her.

"I think you know more details than you're admitting—definitely about the 'magical sharp object.' But never mind that I've heard that same sword screaming for vengeance. Never mind that I can feel Kyp changing as he nears the climax of the prophecy."

The red-haired Jedi leaned across the table, capturing Dejah's eyes with his own. "I know the people who came here with me. I've seen Sanar Klis on a rampage; I've seen just a little of how far she'll go for what she loves; and I know what she's like when it comes to this place. Kyp used to be my master—he trained me to be a Jedi. He's pulled more stunts—and even more impossible rescues—than you can imagine. He's been fighting someone or something all his life. And he loves Sanar. So now he fights for her, even though she doesn't know. They, alone, could find a way.

"But Krista and I fought a decade-long war; Braun is after vengeance for his wife's death; the Whilems are already involved in the Resistance. You don't have to believe me right now; proof will come soon enough. Until then, you can tell me what kind of help we'll get from the ones who have made anything at all possible."

"Hey, Miko. Dejah."

The light voice broke Miko and Dejah's staring contest, and he looked up with a little surprise as Krista appeared by his shoulder. What kind of look had she sent Dejah? he wondered. For a brief second, she had looked…uncharacteristically, bluntly, cold. "Hey, Kris," he greeted, raising an eyebrow at her. Her expression had already returned to normal. "Why don't you take a seat? Dejah and I were just talking about the Prophecy—"

"Kyp's still got his apprentice doing his mouth work?" Krista teased, taking the seat next to him. "You know, if he wasn't so hot, he wouldn't get away with half of his laziness."

Miko mock-glared at her, prompting her to widen her eyes in attempted innocence. "What?" All sweetness and light, of course. As if she hadn't just called his former master "hot" (how traumatic), or labelled Miko a puppet.

"Anyway," he said. "We were talking about that, and now Dejah is going to tell us about Mujir's Resistance. Dejah?"

As he returned his eyes to the MR fighter, he saw that she was carefully peering at Krista. The Jedi realized, with a distant kind of horror, that she was checking for evidence of some kind of abuse—bruises, or a cowed spirit. He knew it was to be expected here, but—damn it, of all the girls Dejah might expect him to hurt….

When Krista shot him a bemused look, Miko consciously curbed his temper. "So, Dejah?" he prompted. He almost sounded normal.

"Mujir's Resistance has been fighting this war for decades," she finally said. "The stakes are being raised constantly. Open warfare is not yet in Quatroc, let alone the Holy City, but we remain on the brink. No doubt, news of your intentions will eventually reach the emperor, and we will be pushed into battle."

"Quatroc—that's your capital, right?" Miko asked.

"Yes," Dejah concurred after the briefest of pauses. "It is in the area of the emperor's residence, and it is where most of our trade takes place. Within Quatroc is the Holy City. Women are not yet allowed past its walls, though."

"I assume MR headquarters are in Quatroc?" Krista asked, almost idly. Miko wondered if she was aware that she sounded exactly like their old director when she had been debriefing them.

"Yes. It is in the middle of everything. There, the Quatroc fighters number almost three thousand."

Miko and Krista exchanged a look; coming out of a galactic war, they were used to numbers far larger than that. The corners of Krista's lips curved downward. "And your opponents number…?"

Dejah raised her chin defensively. "Three thousand on-duty soldiers, a thousand in reserves, and one thousand five hundred Holy Brothers call Quatroc or the Holy City 'home.' However, they are sent out by the hundreds at any given time. When they are distracted—and they usually are—we are nearly equal in strength."

"How well-trained are your fighters?" Miko demanded.

Here, Dejah admitted weakness. "Many of the women are married, and almost none of them are free by…your…standards." She looked vaguely sceptical, but Miko refrained from reacting. "We are as trained as our situations allow. For some, the difference is…staggering."

"And, I suspect, many are not always…a very picture of health?" Miko asked as delicately as he could.

"Some are routinely injured." Weariness was etched on Dejah's face. "Yes. That does not increase the numbers of our fighters." She gave them a thin smile. "But, supposedly, with nothing to lose in a fight for our freedom, we are the fiercest fighters. That's something."

She sounded sarcastic—almost bleak, but Miko smiled. "It's most of everything," he corrected her.

"Listen to Miko," Krista casually added. "He grew up just outside the Hapes Consortium. They aren't quite where you guys are, but…"

"Speaking of places we don't want this to turn into," Miko hinted broadly. He playfully elbowed the blonde.

"But they have hot guys!" she protested. "And boy harems! And boy—"

"Don't even," he pleaded. "Please. Don't finish that sentence."

But she did. "And, boy, do they have one of the best education systems in the galaxy, or what?" she finished, her face the very picture of innocence.

As a horrified Miko dropped his head into his hands, Krista leaned over the table. Earnestly, she told Dejah, "Your eyes are ready to fall out of their sockets. Did you know?"

The fighter slowly blinked, then shook her head a little. "I do not believe it is physically possible for your eyes to simply 'fall out,'" she said, almost reflexively.

Miko shot his fellow Intel agent a look. "It's just an expression, Dejah. And Krista was only teasing. Don't worry about it.

"What is the Resistance leader like?" he asked, switching the subject back from its tangent.

"Our leader?" Dejah missed a beat, then straightened her back. "Geneva Tal stays mainly in Quatroc, though she is occasionally forced to travel. She succeeded Trice Gallix nearly nine years ago, and has since shown remarkable determination, energy and devotion to the cause."

"So she's a strong leader," Miko summarized to himself. He thought for a moment about how to pose his next question. "How is she, psychologically?" At Dejah's bemused expression, he tried again. "That is, is she exceptionally…bitter? Cynical? Ruthless?"

Dejah's defiant expression gave him his answer even before he spoke. "Only as much as she has to be," the dark-haired woman defended. "And far less so than any of them."

"I hope so," he replied quickly. "I really do."

Dejah's expression became dark even as she deliberately leaned across the table. "Close to eight hundred years ago, an organization began twisting our religions, our society, to make my gender distasteful—if, unfortunately, still necessary—to yours, Miko Reglia. They perverted a little known tribal god named Pucijir, and began burning barren and otherwise 'defective' women alive.

"They then fashioned an army of fanatics and warred for years. But the war wasn't the point, even though they triumphed over each kingdom on this planet. They sent spies to report weaknesses; agents to find high positions in our armies and society; and priests to seduce men into their beliefs. And they kept 'cleansing' our world of excess women.

"Since then, Pucijir's Order has completely taken over this planet. They have destroyed anything good we might have had for seven hundred seventy-six years. Women are no longer the only ones who burn, but no one will say it out loud. No one is allowed to say it. What could be worse than that?"

"The possibility of an honourable cause destroyed so that the past's vengeance can be carried out for a thousand years." Miko's voice was hard. The history recitation had not left him unaffected, but he refused to just excuse the cruelty of revenge. "It will have to stop eventually, you know. If you want to make a better world."

The anger left Dejah's eyes, leaving only bleakness as she leaned back. "Why?" she said. "Is there really anything left to save?"

-x-x-x-x-x-

Kyp had been enjoying an early morning stroll, one of the few times he set aside to actually think, and at least attempt to plan. Neither had been his forté—especially not before he acted—but he'd made a promise to Jaina to at least fake responsibility. Since he had woken up, however, his mind had been a mess of scattered information and possible connections. Sanar's dream man, Onyx, himself…those, especially, were hopelessly jumbled. He had long since lost any partiality, or even focus on the details, but he couldn't stop his brain from circling it, trying to find the key to unlock the mysteries.

Fortunately for his brain, however, his inner arguments were cut short by a very angry, very familiar voice coming from down the hall.

"I just want to talk to her!" A beat. "No, I won't wait quietly as you just—qieqia calif'nan ado!"

Rounding the corner, Kyp was just in time to see the berated novice escape into a room. Sanar must have known the door was locked, but she kept yelling in Na'Lein anyway.

"What's wrong?" he dared to ask.

Sanar spun to glare at him. As testament to the early hour, her hair was still loose and crumpled—and, at best, only absently brushed. She was dressed in a woven poncho with cotton loungewear underneath. Cotton loungewear, Kyp was almost certain, that Jaina had once bought for her. White, cartoon banthas made smart aleck comments against the blue background.

"Nothing," she muttered after a brief argument with herself.

"You're yelling at a girl half your age over 'nothing'?" he asked, now thoroughly amused.

"It's nothing to do with you," she corrected with a snap.

"Okay." Despite his verbal surrender, Kyp stared at her until she became uncomfortable, and gave a little more info.

Sanar bristled. "You're worse than Jaina, sticking your hero-nose into other people's business. Did you know that? You really are."

"And I'm just as stubborn as her, so you know you may as well just tell me," Kyp replied with a smug grin.

"I'd sooner make out with—with Miko," she sneered. "Or," she added, "one of—Jaina's brothers. If one of them was still alive."

He made a face. "That's really…kind of gross. Unless your soul-tangle with Jaina has suddenly disappeared, and the feelings all magically vanished." His expression cleared for a beatific smile. "But I'm glad you rank me so high."

She took the bait. "Rank you—" Her face turned furious and indignant a second too late. He had seen the quick, fierce grin that betrayed her. It was the proof he needed that she had passed hating him to get off on their sparring. He might go crazy wondering if Sanar mixed Onyx up with him, but at least he'd have the memory of that look in her eyes.

"You're impossible!" she finally hissed. "You—just—are so—insufferable—"

"All that and more," he agreed impishly. "But what got you so upset with that novice?"

"She was a priestess," Sanar grumbled unhelpfully. "Not a novice. Sithspit. What's wrong with your eyes? Novices wear the light green outfits."

"So sorry. Priestess. I was blinded by the sight of you in the early morning, with your hair still—all…" deliciously undone as it filtered light and darkness, he thought but didn't say. Kyp couldn't say anything; he had made the mistake of really looking at Sanar, and now his brain was becoming rapidly more muddled.

"Durron?" Sanar interrupted his daydreams. Her expression was strange. "Shut up."

Kyp shook himself out of his daydreams. "You wish," he was quick to respond. "So, do I have to annoy you about that scene with the priestess all day, or are you going to let me in on the 'nothing'?"

She rolled her eyes irritably. "It is way too early to argue."

"For everyone else," he concurred, smirking. "But you and I are special. Find a perfect moment, and we'll start bickering just for the heck of it. Now, stop trying to change the subject. What's going on?"

"Niha is avoiding me."

Recalling how the priestess had first reacted to Sanar, Kyp said, "And you care because…? The two of you didn't exactly hit it off last week."

"Exactly!" Sanar exclaimed. "Last week! I've waited seven days for an explanation—for something more—that should have been laid out the second we came here. If Niha knows so much, then she should damn well be talking! Explaining, warning—something."

Kyp processed her frustration before realizing, "You think she knows about your…your part in this, don't you?"

"It's the only thing I don't know about, but she just—the way she looks at me—she knows. She knows, even though she probably doesn't care. I deserve to know why I'm here!"

"Isn't it a little early to be existential?" Despite his words, Kyp's voice was too gentle to bring her into a sparring match.

In fact, he was much too gentle—Sanar glanced up at him, took a step closer—but then blinked, and her expression demanded to know who the hell he was. But she said, "I told you. I need to…I've always been—needed—until now. And this story—prophecy—it's mine. Somehow, it really is mine, and if it needs me…" She swore, but cut herself off from speaking for another moment. She was working up a full load of steam now, and he couldn't tell if it would end in tears, a screaming match, or even one of their rare moments of understanding. He never could, not until after she had raced away. But she never looked lovelier.

Kyp didn't think, only framed her face with his hands. Her lovely, beloved, spirited face, that he had no problem identifying as hers, and not Jaina-and/or-Sanar's. His thumb, as it slowly brushed her cheekbone, traced a barely visible—but never forgotten—scar. "Sanar…"

Beloved, are you listening? Listen. Hear me.

She stared up at him as if dazed, or as if she was trying to see him through a dense fog. Kyp?

He wondered why she wasn't screeching and throwing him away. But then he realized that she understood. In this moment, Kyp Durron was not in control: that someone…something…else was. A part of him, or something he was only a part of.

Something/someone Sanar knew.

"Sanar," he heard himself say again. But it couldn't be him, could it? The voice was too hoarse, too open…too desperately and completely in love.

Oh, wait. No, that was about right. Except for the part where it…wasn't. What was happening?

She made a soft, strangled sound, and her dark eyes widened as for a moment she saw him clearly. "J'amla tuksa diosse, Mujir…." Then, so very quietly, "Kyp?"

He leaned in close enough to breathe her in—drink her in—then hovered there. "Wait for me," he heard himself say. "I'll need you. I already do."

Sanar gasped; startled; stared; then suddenly pulled away, breathing too quickly. As dazed and as awed as her eyes had been before, they were now terrified. She trembled; her face was pale, her eyes and mouth stark in their contrast; and he saw the woman he loved completely stripped of her every defence.

Kyp?

(…Beloved?)

Kyp came back to himself slowly. Seeing the sheen in her eyes—

(By the Force, WHAT JUST HAPPENED?)

—he reached out for her. "Sanar?"

She flinched, then took a step back, then—"Mujir"—raced from the room.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Sanar ran.

Desperate, panicked, confused, terrified—she ran.

Sanar Klis, Storm Fighter, had never run like this before—not since her father….

As a teenager, she had fought a High Priest; as a woman she had been thrust, alone and lonely and lost, into a strange world. She had not run then.

Now, she ran.

Ran, ran, ran, ran until she couldn't anymore, and her reason for running was hiding again—but hiding behind the swirl of all the emotions she would never, never, never be rid of—and then she pushed through a door.

The door led to a small worship room—one of many, no doubt, in the abbey. Sanar did not notice the tapestries, or the softness of the rugs, or the religious relics. She could barely stand, and she collapsed in a pew. Her heart wouldn't stop pounding—racing unevenly, jumping every-which-way-and-stop-start-again.

What had happened? What had just happened?

By Mujir—the Force—oh, gods, Daddy—

Where was Jaina? Sanar needed Jaina right now—not just the part of Jaina that she always had—everything; she needed all of her best friend, the only person she could—

(Jaina, please, please, where are you?)

—and, gods, Jaina was a hero, she'd know, she had to know—

My gods, Mujir, Force, stars, all holy lafit hell what—

"You have to stop this."

She looked up wildly before focusing on a stranger's face. Dark honey hair, green eyes, young—Sanar filed the information away somewhere, but it didn't process. "What?" she gasped. "I mean—" She gulped, and tried to make it all stop spinning. "I mean, what?"

"By denying it, you're only putting it off," the girl said, leaning forward to squeeze Sanar's shoulders. Her eyes were wide with carefully—but not carefully enough—suppressed pleading.

Desperation.

(Wait for me. I'll need you. I already do.

Sanar, Sanar Klis, Daddy's darling storm fighter—

Beloved.)

"If you're too late—"

Sanar forced herself to get a hold of herself. Kyp Durron had—

No. Thinking about it would drive her insane.

(But I saw—I felt—

NO!)

But here, now—clearly, this girl either knew something, or was completely mad. Or both.

"What are you talking about?" Sanar demanded suspiciously.

Right. Right. Demand it; be The Niftyax. Nothing's changed.

(Everything—

No.)

Nothing's changed. It can't have changed.

The colour rose in the other girl's cheeks, but then she visibly shut down. "Nothing," she said through gritted teeth. "You should talk to Niha." She turned with a flip of her light brown hair, and all but strode briskly from the chapel.

"I've been trying!" Sanar snapped after her. "She's been avoiding me. Doesn't anyone just say what they mean here—"

The door slammed shut behind the young girl.

Sanar's heart still hadn't stopped hammering.