Chapter Twenty-Six: When Destiny Calls—Run?

-x-x-x-x-x-

"You're everywhere. Why do you have to be everywhere?"

"Do I make you too lovesick to think straight? Because I'm sure it would make being around me a chore." Despite his cheeky response, Kyp's expression was grim as Sanar sat across from him. Between them, the fire sparked.

They had been among the Mirese priestesses for over a month, but only rarely had they seen Niha. Kyp had long since agreed with Sanar's assessment—the elderly "Mother" was avoiding both of them, and hiding something important. The only question now was whether they should pry.

Kyp had no patience for games—it was why Luke had never sent him on diplomatic missions. He either became frustrated and blew up, or joined in and became too aggressive. Now, a large part of him wanted to shake the truth out of Niha, elderly woman or not. The other part, the one that had a bad feeling about Sanar's part in the Kavishka prophecy, would gladly take Sanar and run. Even if she never forgave him, he wondered if it might not be worth it.

The dilemma had led him away from the abbey and into the night. Encouraged by the cold, he had clumsily made a fire. Not a good one, perhaps, but one better than he had hoped for. Apparently, it was a fire that could draw out Sanar.

"But I'm hardly 'everywhere,'" he told Sanar. "And what are you even doing out here?"

She leaned closer to the fire, and shrugged. "Couldn't sleep."

"So you wandered around in the dark, alone, on a hostile planet?" he demanded, incredulous.

"Niha has fighters on patrol, creating a boundary. It's as safe as this planet really gets, at least above ground." Her eyes flashed. "And I can take care of myself."

Something about the way she said it prodded his memory.

So you are the girl who lost her temper and killed the High Priest Horaire.

"Sanar—the High Priest you killed—who was he? I mean, why…"

Kyp Durron did not always think before he spoke. It was a flaw. One that, many a being had reminded him, got him into an awful lot of trouble—more than occasionally.

Sanar's face—and her fists, held in her lap—tightened. "Horaire," she said in a clipped voice, "is the reason I don't sleep well on this planet." She stretched her lips in a gruesome caricature of a smile. "Force of habit."

Kyp's lips thinned at the possibilities offered by her vague explanation. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"I murdered him," she flatly told him. "All but in cold blood. I told myself it was for Clayra, but it was probably just another of his games. Clayra was never really a threat to Pucijir's name."

"I can more than guess that he deserved death, Sanar."

"Death on the Sildar," she corrected. "It wasn't my place. I made it petty."

"And what did he do to you?"

"It doesn't mat—" But not even Sanar could believe that, and she changed her excuse. "It was for my own revenge, taken without thought. And for that, I was forced to leave Clayra. To Gantik, of all people."

Kyp made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. Blood was thicker than water, but Clayra's attitude—more specifically, her attitude toward Sanar—had not endeared the girl to him.

"So now you can't sleep," he remarked. His voice had become thicker. "Because of how you…reacted?"

She snorted at the euphemism. "No. I don't sleep because of the years before that. Horaire—" Her lips pressed together tensely, and she looked away.

As the silence stretched, Kyp showed his own hand. "I'm not really…much for sleep, myself. It was a problem for—years—after," he swallowed, "after Carida. I couldn't…every time I closed my eyes, I could hear them. I could feel it all, happening again and again, and—" Even now, he could feel the tide rising within him. Butcher. Murderer. Weak. Such promise in a boy. Trying to regain his centre, he pinched the bridge of his nose.

Without looking up to see Sanar's reaction, he continued. "Eventually, I—I gained enough control to generally hold the nightmares back. It's amazing, though, what dying can do to your control." He raised his head to half-smile. It was a mere shadow of his normal grin. "Usually, I just go into a trance. Of course, now the Sildar is getting chatty, so…"

Sanar's gaze flew to meet his. "Chatty?" she demanded sharply.

He hesitated only briefly. "Chatty," he repeated. "Sending dreams—nightmares of past events, of their need for Vengeance. 'Hell hath no fury,'" he quoted, almost wryly. "Even during the day it's getting…"

"I thought it was just me," Sanar muttered. "Hearing them sometimes, I mean. But—not hearing exactly…almost…feeling?" She smiled ruefully. "It isn't exactly the clean, noble instrument of myth you might expect, is it?"

The dark-haired man snorted. "Not quite."

Again, their silence carried. The fire was slowly dying; Kyp was about to get more wood to feed it when Sanar spoke.

Her face was hidden both by the shadows, and her hair. "I don't like sleeping here, because—because I didn't…don't…like being surprised. Horaire didn't—he wouldn't—" She gave a muffled curse. "He didn't rape me on a regular night schedule," she said, brutally scraping out the truth. "Usually, he worked during the day. He could play mind games, show me off, involve others… But sometimes he came at night. Usually when I was already exhausted, often when I was still sore. He'd wake me up, and start while I was disoriented. I learned not to sleep—and, if I had to, only in light, quick naps in a different place every time. That way, he couldn't exploit my surprise, and he couldn't find me."

"Gods, Sanar." Kyp's jaw loosened in horror. His hand was, for once, not on the Sildar. He could not blame It for the surge of unadulterated fury in his veins.

Sanar tried to deflect some of the vulnerability in her admission by a (cracked) light remark. "Since we're sharing teenage angst."

"Did you ever…talk to anyone about this?" he asked carefully, tensely. "Besides Jaina?" His muscles were still shaking from her confession; he wanted to rip something apart, and spill the High Priest's blood again—

(the butcher of Carida, now of Pucijir's Order)

—and then again still.

Kyp Durron held himself still. Decades of control were finally paying off. Sort of.

Still raw, Sanar flared at his question. "I don't need a shrink. I can handle my own stuff."

Kyp raised his hands in surrender. (His hands trembled, though. Just a little.) "I didn't mean anything by it, so you can calm down." He paused. "Luke," he explained, "made me see a therapist for a while after Carida. I hated it—nearly drove my counsellors insane, except that that would have been 'evil.'"

Her lips curved in amusement, almost despite herself. She knew he was trying to draw her back away from the memories, but strangely she didn't mind. She could just imagine Kyp's sarcasm driving a therapist to the couch.

"Did it…help at all?" she queried after a moment.

He shrugged. "Some. I had to talk about stuff—my parents, Kessel…and the obvious. It probably would have been more helpful if I wasn't shutting out, or teasing, the good doctors whenever I had a chance. I talked to a Jedi Mind Healer a couple times, but my therapy ended up mostly being in my missions. They helped me forget. Sometimes."

"I fought and killed Horaire, then focused on surviving a galactic civil war." Sanar shrugged. "Same difference. Of course, my 'surviving' was tied into the trauma, I suppose, but…."

"If you—" Kyp sighed in frustration, and started again. "I know…everything with Horaire, and Gantik, and—"

She raised an eyebrow. "And being the temple paxi?" she suggested tightly.

He cursed, and shook his head. "Never mind. It's personal."

Sanar looked away. Only the fire's embers remained to light her face; it wasn't much. "You want to know how I could use sex to get my way, after being raped." She pinned him with her eyes, and held him there. "Aren't you?"

"It's none of my business."

"No, it isn't," she snapped. "And you can't build a fire worth a damn, either?"

He blinked at her non sequitur. "It'll be fine once I add more wood."

"And until then, I'm freezing," she said tartly.

Rising, he told her, "I'll go get some—"

Kyp imagined he could see Sanar rolling her eyes. "Just be a gentleman, and give me your cloak, Durron. Wouldn't want to leave me alone here, would you?"

Almost tentatively—except that Kyp Durron was never tentative—he grinned at her. He wasn't sure, after his last probe, exactly where he stood with her. It wasn't exactly a new situation. "You can take care of yourself."

"What else have I been doing for the past twenty-two years?" she agreed. "But give me your cloak anyway. I'm not going to stay out much longer. I think I've pretty much frozen my thoughts in place—I might be able to sleep for a couple of hours."

Kyp obediently removed his cloak. Coming around to her side of the fire, he gently placed the thick material around Sanar's shoulders. She was nearly swallowed by it, but not hidden—not to Kyp, who had had at least one eye on her for the better part of five years. Her hair fell forward—tempting him to brush it behind her ear—but he could make a better-than-average guess at her expression.

Abruptly, she pushed away her own hair, and met his eyes challengingly. "For years I didn't," she said bluntly. "I can tease men for what I want, and it was enough—to a point. But I had too little education, no references, no connections, and very little in the way of official experience. Eventually I wasn't left with any other option."

Stunned that she was answering, Kyp dropped down to sit beside her. Sanar's eyes were raw and dark, and she slanted them away just the tiniest bit.

"So I did it. I decided that it was—it was just sex. Just physical, cold, and base. Not for my pleasure—but it never had been, so there was no adjustment required there. Necessary for survival. It didn't have an emotional or psychological side. I was the one inciting lust, and I wasn't fighting prejudice or hatred, so I could have the power. And then I did it."

Kyp flinched at her flat, cold monologue. "Sanar, that's not—"

She continued, heedless of his interruption. "I left as soon as I could, afterwards, and threw up in a waste disposal unit. Eventually, I got over the sickness, too." She shrugged, appearing considerably more blasé than Kyp knew she had to be.

"By the time I came under Onyx, I was used to it. Of course, my belief that I loved him—however false—helped quite a bit. I almost enjoyed it, a little."

"It's not supposed to be like that." The words clogged in his throat, and he had to haul them out and past his lips. "And don't tell me I only think that because of my gender, either," he snapped, when she rolled her eyes. "Sex—making love—isn't like that. It's not rape."

Sanar tossed her hair moodily. "Whatever." At his expression, she smiled thinly. Unconvinced. "Maybe someday I'll find out. Maybe."

The fire went out.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Give us death. Give us our revenge.

Do you know what they did, Kavishka? Vengeance-bringer?

We are judge and jury; we find this planet guilty. Now be the executioner…

(The butcher of Carida, now of Pucijir's Order.)

Kyp swore and nearly dropped the candle he was holding. Some of the hot wax spilled on his hand, and he cursed again. Switching the candle to his left hand, he wiped some of the already solid wax off of his hand. "Force," he muttered. The burned skin stung for a long moment, then suddenly healed. A perk, apparently, of being thrust into the role of a mythical hero.

(Butcher

The same way you came to us, now work for us)

A door opened down the hall, and Kyp watched as Sanar slipped into her room. On their walk back to the abbey, Kyp had used the Force to slowly soothe her mind. Jaina had taught him the trick early in the Second Imperial War, when the apprentices had begun to have regular nightmares. He hoped it would help Sanar sleep through the night. Love-tinted glasses aside, she looked like hell. He doubted she had slept well since they crashed on NLY.

Sighing, he pushed away thoughts of the complicated Ms. Klis for later. He had left the abbey for a reason. By the time he returned, he had finally come to a decision. Paranoia or no, elderly prioress or no, Kyp refused to simply jump when told how high. The 'Prophecy Crew' had rested, refuelled, and restocked. Now it was time to force Niha's hand.

Heedless of the late hour, Kyp knocked on the door to Miko's room. Impatience quickly turned to chagrin, however, when his former apprentice answered the door with sleep-mussed hair and sleep-fogged eyes.

Well, nothing to do about the time, now. Miko could sleep in, if he had trouble catching up.

"Aren't you well-prepared for any threat," Kyp remarked dryly.

Miko was shirtless, and weapon-less. His feet were bare; one hand rubbed his sleep-softened face. "Shut up," he muttered. "If I slept with a weapon under my pillow, you would have died and re-died years ago. Whaddaya want?"

Before Kyp could speak, he noticed a movement further in the room. Despite Miko's attempt to block the Jedi Master's view, Kyp caught sight of a head of pale blond hair.

"Miko," he said, almost calmly. "What is Krista doing in your room at this hour?"

Miko flushed as red as his hair. "Sleeping," he said defensively. Judging by his resulting expression, it was The Most Idiotic Answer Ever Given.

"Krista Harif is sleeping in your—" Kyp rubbed his eyes. "Sweet Force, I am getting too old for this."

"First of all," Miko rallied, "we're both adults, and I haven't been an apprentice in years."

"Two years," Kyp dryly clarified. "Miko—"

"And second of all—" Miko's voice dropped in volume to keep from waking Krista, "—it's not what you think. We're just friends."

Kyp stared at him, gobsmacked, before dragging Miko out into the hallway. "Just friends," he repeated in a harsh whisper, "who sleep together? Do you have any idea how that sounds?"

"It's not how it sounds!" the Jedi Knight snapped. His cheeks were still suffused with red, but he met Kyp's eyes without flinching. "We're sleeping in different beds! The only time we touch at all—"

Now, wasn't there a half-truth.

"—is when she has nightmares from her imprisonment."

"But you're in love with her."

"Did you wake me up to lecture me on Krista?" Miko almost snarled. He always had been rather attached to his sleep.

"Have you even thought this through?" Kyp continued, undeterred. "Never mind that her brothers will kill you. Krista is—"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence."

Kyp raised his hands in a placating surrender. "I wasn't going to say anything Krista wouldn't admit herself—and half of it proudly, even. She likes flirting, and runs from commitment." His voice softened. "She's a nice girl, but nothing is likely to come of it. I don't want you to get hurt."

"I'm doing a sight better with Krista than you are with Sanar," the red-haired knight snapped. "At least Krista doesn't hate the air I breathe." He regretted it immediately, and dropped his eyes to the floor. "I didn't mean to say that."

"Well, you did. And the reason it's different is because I'm not pursuing a romantic relationship with Sanar."

"Aren't you?" Miko challenged. The drowsiness had completely left his eyes, and his arms were folded across in his chest.

"I didn't come to talk about this."

Miko rolled his eyes. "Fine, then. Avoid the tangent you started. So long as you actually talk so I can go back to sleep, I don't care right now. It's too late at night to think straight, let alone deal with your denial."

"You're addicted to caffeine, aren't you?" Kyp commented. "I don't remember you being this grumpy in the morning. No wonder we went through caf so quickly."

Miko shot his former master a lethal glare. "You've got thirty seconds."

"How long do you think we should give Niha to talk before we leave?"

At Kyp's words, Miko straightened. Contention fled as professionalism took over. "You think she's hiding something?"

"I know she is. And it's almost certainly about Sanar."

"Which explains why you look ready to kill something and run."

Kyp shot him an aggrieved look. "How long?"

"A little under a week?" Miko shrugged. "I'll talk to Krista, but…about five days. It should give us time to prepare, and let them know we're doing it. We might even be able to find Braun while we're at it. If he hasn't already left on his crusade."

"He's going to get himself killed," Kyp muttered. "As if this mission needs a confessed suicidal aspect."

"He might cool down. You've got to give him some time." Miko glanced at his door, no doubt thinking of Krista. "Braun and Veras were friends even before they fell in love. He's lost his partner, best friend, and lover for senseless hatred—and while she saved his life. He can't be balanced right now; I might even think less of him if he could. But maybe later he'll come back to himself. As much as anyone can, after…."

"Maybe."

"At least he wants to deal the most death possible," Miko offered with forced optimism. "He can't do that without some calculation."

"As long as his calculation doesn't involve his suicide at the end." Kyp sighed. "I'll let you get back to sleep." He didn't apologize for the sudden wake-up, but it was implied. "First thing tomorrow, we'll spread the word. We'll need, uh, food, maps, water…"

"Hey." Miko gave Kyp a look. "Intel, remember? I've done this before. And your thirty seconds are beyond over. Right now, you're instigating whispers at a late hour, with no one around. Get going before someone gets the wrong idea."

Kyp blinked, then quickly stepped back. Without consciously realizing it, his gaze flitted to Sanar's door.

Miko's lips curled in amusement. "Actually, I was talking about the heartbreaking imp who just woke up in my room, but…"

The Kavishka shuddered. "Right. I'll leave you to deal with her innuendos."

"So generous." Miko rolled his eyes. Free to move from the wall, he made to return to his room. Briefly, he paused and turned around. "I know what I'm doing, Kyp. This isn't impulsive."

"I know." Kyp wondered if, through the doorway, Krista was staring at Miko, or if her mind was drifting amongst the memories of her numerous ex-boyfriends. "I just—be careful."

Miko smirked a little. "Is waiting nearly five years careful enough for you?" He didn't give Kyp a chance to reply. "I'll see you in the morning."

He disappeared into his room.

Kyp cursed.

…definitely too old for this. No more apprentices who can fall in love with women almost as complicated as Sanar.

With a last glance at the door, he walked away.

-x-x-x-x-x-

The first proof of success was the arrival of a too-pale girl. She was physically young—perhaps only sixteen. Her eyes, however, followed the Na'Lein mandate: they were far older.

She approached Kyp in the "privacy" of his room, where he had been packing. Briefly, he looked up at her entrance; it was the only sign he gave of knowing she was there. Niha had waited until the third evening before she acknowledged her secrets, even in this way. Her messenger could stew for a few minutes.

Kyp knew when she grew impatient; her discomforted fidgeting gave her away. "Well?" he prompted without looking at her.

When she spoke, her accent was very faint—nearly as much so as Sanar's, when they had first met. "They say you love the daughter of your predecessor." The girl watched him steadily for his reaction.

He pitched her an annoyed look. "Sanar," he corrected. "Her name is Sanar. So?"

"Do you?"

She looked far more curious than he had expected. Kyp decided that she must have lived most of her life underground—hearing everything, but seeing only some of the aftermath. She did not have perfect control over her mannerisms and expressions. It was a trait he had not before seen in a Na'Lein woman.

"Do I love Sanar?" he repeated, deliberately ignorant. He wondered if she would let her reaction to that show.

"Yes. Are you in love with Sanar?" Sure enough, her frustration (and curiosity) had visibly increased. Either she wasn't used to games, or she had no true, reflexive fear of men. The latter had rarely proven true for him, even in the planet's rebellious abbey. Or, he considered, it could even be both….

"What's your name?" he asked thoughtfully. He finished folding the last of his clothes, and sat on the bed. Only then did he clearly give her his full attention.

Her brow puckered faintly, but she answered. "Élin. I am Mother Niha's…daughter."

"Daughter as in blood kin, or daughter as in intimate protégé?"

He could almost see her carefully translating the question. Before she answered, Élin asked, "Why?"

"I know nothing about you, and yet you've been sent to dig around in my heart." He gave her a tight smile. "The least you could do is tell me about yourself."

"Niha has been my closest replica of a mother since my own died. I am Niha's daughter. I am also her—her heir, I believe the word is?"

"Her heir. And are you prepared for that future?"

Élin's jaw tensed as if in anger, but he thought he saw distress under her frustration. She was still very young. "Kryntath, do you love Sanar Klis, or not?"

"You are persistent." He smirked. "That's good—you'll need that. But you can't be so visible."

Finally, he took pity on her. Better to save his games for Niha, who deserved them. He was too aggressive for this girl. Eventually, she would have to adjust, but he did not want to be the one to prepare her for such a thing. "Yes," he softly answered. "I love Sanar. I have been told I am quite obvious about it, even."

"I wouldn't know what to look for." As soft as his admission had been, hers was far quieter.

The honesty was brushed aside for her questioning. "Truly?" she checked. "Truly, madly, die-for-her in love?"

Not trusting himself to speak, Kyp nodded. Part of him wondered if she even knew what "truly, madly, die-for her in love" could possibly mean.

Élin gave a sigh of relief. "Good." She smiled, pleased. "That is how it should be."

"Why?" he demanded, agonized. "What does she—who I love—have to do with the prophecy? This—anything I may have with Sanar is my own. Why do you people keep trying to drag it in?"

Élin fell short of completely hiding her knowledge.

"You," he wearily told her, "should never go into politics." Taking a deep breath, he let it out unsteadily. "Élin, tell me, please."

"I'm sorry." Her face softened in apparent sympathy. "That is the only thing I can't talk to you about: Sanar."

"And yet you can pick through my love." He snorted bitterly. "Of course. And you all are supposed to be the good guys?"

"Good is relative. You have been denied what you want—but do not yet need—to know. That does not make us evil. You have confused 'good' with 'always honest' or 'forever telling secrets.'"

As reluctant as he was, Kyp realized he had to let it go. He was getting nowhere with her, untried girl or no. "Well, what will you tell me?"

"What do you wish to know?" she returned.

He studied her for a moment. "What is the Sildar, exactly?"

"Vengeance's instrument." She replied seriously, as if she truly thought it was an acceptable answer. At his irritated glance, however, her cheeks pinkened.

"I am aware of that," he said slowly. Quite deliberately, he held his temper. "What is it?"

"J-just that," she stammered. "A small embodiment of Vengeance, meted into an instrument. The gods, at Mujir's behest, created it. The Sildar's Voice is that of Pucijir's victims. It is part of the Light that you never want to have turned on you."

"And beside the obvious, the Sildar does…"

"You know what it does—I will not believe that you have not been warned." Élin's expression was grim. "Vengeance cannot be quenched, Master Durron. Anyone—other than yourself, of course—who touches the Sildar will feel their own damnation. No one alive knows what it feels like—but it is awful, even for an innocent. And none are innocent."

"And the Jirs?"

Élin blinked at him. "What about them?"

"Sanar said that they can't be killed by normal means."

She nodded slowly. "I have heard as much, from several expert death-dealers and spiritual leaders. It would not surprise me." Her gaze sidled away for a moment before returning to his face. "Of course," she said, "do you think Vengeance would see the Jir line end through anything but the Sildar? The Jirs have created much suffering."

Kyp sighed. "Sounds like a more loudly justified Carida."

"Justified." Élin's brow crinkled. "From the root of…'justiss,' yes?" She smiled mirthlessly. "I assume the meaning is not perverted, in your government?"

"When the courts are working right, yeah. They don't always."

She nodded. "Then you will appreciate it."

"Just punishment is not always 'right,'" Kyp snapped. "Why do you refuse to admit it?"

Élin flinched, but surprisingly didn't fall back. "It is the way of things. Justice is right, by definition."

"But think! Will a slaughter bring back the women that have been lost?"

"No. It will, however, give life to the countless women alive on this planet."

"Stop being Niha's daughter, and start thinking for yourself." As her eyes grew cold, Kyp muffled a curse. His temper was getting away from him, when he should know better. These people—like his younger self—did not want to think about right and honourable. They didn't care if they acted for the wrong reasons. At least they had more cause than Kyp had. At least they were fighting for a future, and not just to avenge wrongs.

He consciously softened his voice. "I do not argue with the cause," he told Élin. "I would not be here if I did. What I do protest is…is how this is being done, and how I think you are viewing it."

None of Élin's earlier softness showed now. In the end, Niha had chosen well. "It is important for the Kavishka to have a solid view of what is right and what is wrong. It will serve you well."

"Two wrongs don't make a right."

"No, they don't. But sometimes you have to—what is the phrase?—fight fires with fires."

"And after?"

Understanding flooded her eyes. It was what the victors would do with Kyp's victory that worried him—and justly so. "I do not know," she replied. "This war will not end with your triumph; it will only give us the tools and chaos to try to make things right."

"Who will lead?"

Élin rested a hand on his shoulder. "The victors' leader, Kavishka. For us, that is Geneva Tal."

"The Resistance leader?" Kyp demanded, aghast.

"She is extreme. If she can successfully hold the position, she will bring many necessary changes."

"Yet I can think of few who are less likely to be just."

Her head tilted to the side—again, just a sixteen-year-old girl who heard everything and saw only propaganda. "It bothers you. War."

"Of course," he said through gritted teeth.

Élin smiled, faintly, but it lacked emotion. "Then Prophecy knew exactly what It did," she murmured cryptically.

He was sensing a common trait among Niha and what she touched.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Ah, there you are. I wondered when you would come barrelling through—

You demand? Really, dear. Horaire is dead—you killed him. There is no need to put up this antagonistic façade. You shouldn't draw such attention to yourself….

Well, you do have quite the mouth on you, don't you? Where did you hear those—oh, never mind.

Your role…you wish to know of it now, do you? —And stop looking stop self-righteous. You've caused a considerable amount of trouble, trying to throw Prophecy off course. It can't be done; you only annoy It, and sometimes incite It into ruthlessness. The results are never pretty.

You're a very lucky girl, you know. It's true, so don't huff at me. Throughout your life, you have been loved by Mujir, Who presented you to Prophecy. It judged you worthy.

—Stop interrupting me, or you'll never find out. I haven't done this in decades. Develop some patience; Mujir knows you have very little….

Do you remember when the messen—your brother scribed the Kavishka prophecy? You adored it, and professed your love for the hero. You even wanted Devnos to write you into the story. But your brother was too overprotective of you. Apparently, he resisted. He didn't understand. He wanted you to stay his little sister, his "Brownie," forever.

But as I said, Prophecy found out about you, and appreciated your fervour for the story. It granted your wish.

Don't you understand, daughter? You have everything you wanted. You were written in. You have the Kavishka's love, just as you wanted. Everything depends on you now.

-x-x-x-x-x-

There are moments that shape and define you. Sanar Klis had already experienced many of hers:

Hearing the Kavishka story for the first time.

(This one's my favourite! Thank you, Devnos.)

Losing her father—to exile and, more traumatically, to death.

(Daddy, Daddy, where are you whereareyou, I need you, they're coming, Daddy.)

Meeting her dream lover for the first time.

(Wait for me. I'll need you, Sanar Klis.)

Murdering Horaire on the platform of his perverted chapel.

(I will never leave you. By killing me, niftyax, you tied me to you. You became me.)

Saving Jaina Solo's life, and thereby tying them together forever. Finding the person who never left her, who knew her better than anyone and still cared.

(Sanar could have let go—should have, even, considering how quickly her strength was waning. Instead, she anchored Solo's life force to her own, and opened her mind, taking Solo deeper and deeper—the girl's only hope of survival. As she saw everything Solo had lived, fought and died for, she knew Solo could see the same for her.)

Discovering Devnos' secret, just as he died.

(What would you say…if I told you that every one of these stories is true?)

And now.

(Prophecy granted your wish.)

-x-x-x-x-x-

Initially, there was a queer, breathless kind of euphoria. She forgot who the Kavishka was, and thought—the Kavishka, I was written in, he loves me, I'm needed.

But seconds later, reality cascaded over her in an icy waterfall.

Kyp Durron was the Kavishka.

She had come to terms with his "murder" of her father; she no longer hated him, and had even forgiven him. Recent conversations even had part of her admitting that…that there was something familiar and strangely wonderful about Kyp Durron.

As a girl, she had been girlishly, foolishly in love with the Kavishka. He had been the perfect hero. He fought for the purest of reasons; every battle was perfectly righteous, always against evil. And he always won.

Frankly, at this point in her life, Sanar thought that someone who always won would be kind of…annoying. Especially in a romantic relationship. Jaina was the only exception, and only because she was Jaina, and she could pull it off because she was perfect only in that she was perfect for Sanar.

Sanar wasn't a little girl anymore. She adored the story; she loved the cause; she would help (Kyp) Durron in any way she could.

But

"I'm sorry," Sanar said, staring at Niha. "What."

"The Kavishka loves you, and—"

"No."

Niha puffed up like a bird that had been sprayed with water. "Excuse me?" she demanded testily.

"He's in love with someone. Else. Someone else. Who is not me."

"You are a blind and foolish girl, and have given him no reason to enlighten you."

(You know her. If I told you much more, you would know everything.)

"But—" Sanar's hands (fists) were tight against her forehead. She was almost doubled over against the wall. When had that happened? Sanar couldn't remember moving. "I—I'd—I'd know," she protested. It was feeble. "What are you saying?"

Niha did not spare her. "You were written into Prophecy. You must love him, or he will be judged unworthy of the Sildar."

There were…no words. "What."

To her credit (not that Sanar, even when in her right mind, was keeping track), the prioress did not explode—probably because she recognized just how well Sanar would take this news. "There are certain requirements for being the Kavishka—"

"I know that!" Sanar's voice took a turn towards shrill.

"For this Kavishka, your love is one of those requirements. Kyp Durron is foreign, and he gained the position as Kavishka by killing his predecessor. Vengeance can deal with that—if he meets all the mandates. But if you deem him unworthy of your returned love, then the Sildar has no trust in him. It will turn on him."

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

"I—I'm—" in love with someone else. "I can't love him."

"This isn't time to squabble about his crimes of over two decades ago. Think, girl." Despite her merciless words, something like pity peered out from Niha's eyes. "They've already prepared you, Sanar Klis. You fell in love with him before you met him, when you did not recognize him."

Sanar's eyes went blank; her face, slack.

(When will you come for me?
Soon. Very soon. You could almost say I'm…already there.)

"No."

Sanar Klis was a fighter, a survivor. She did not call for help, she did not cry, she could do it all on her own—she hadn't had any other option, save for when she was with Jaina, since she was young. Sanar Klis, the girl who lost her temper and killed High Priest Horaire, did not whimper.

The sound she made just sounded like a whimper.

Of course it was just that.

"Shut up. You're lying—"

"All that is left is for you to admit you love him. It is time to stop playing with all your cards hidden, Sanar. You no longer fight for yourself."

(Don't—believe—the love story… Please, Brownie.)

That was Niha's mistake: Sanar had never really fought for herself, beyond basic survival. But now, the challenge had been presented. If Niha thought she wouldn't (couldn't), then Sanar could just show her how wrong she was.

Sanar Klis, her father's "storm fighter," never backed down from a challenge. And she never did what everyone told her to do.

(Don't believe the love story.
I'm sorry.
I love you, Brownie.)

"So you're saying," Sanar said, "that all the dreams I've been having…they were manufactured."

"They were allowed."

Oh, Mujir.

"Allowed."

"He doesn't know about them." Finally—finally—Niha realized she should have been doing massive damage control. Sanar was too calm, and too cold. "He doesn't know any of this. But he has been visiting you since you were a teenager."

Sanar's rising temper tripped—just a very little—at the word "teenager."

Her dream lov—no, Kyp Durron—had first come when she was twelve. Had Niha…?

Sanar's thoughts were swept away when Niha interrupted them.

"As soon as Prophecy would receive him," Niha continued, more cautiously, "he was allowed to visit you."

"So it's all been a lie."

(Oh gods, oh Mujir, oh stars, Daddy, Jaina, Devnos, Jaina, my lov—nonono)

The tears pressed for room to spill, but Sanar Klis did not cry. Not awake, and only ever (sometimes, maybe) in front of Jaina or her belov—

NO.

(nonowhy can't I stop screaming?)

Niha reached out. She placed her hands on Sanar's shoulders. "Dear girl," she said.

(Sanar Klis was not a girl; she was barely a woman. She was a fighter/survivor. She could not be in love anymore; how could she be a girl?)

"Dear, dear girl. It is your destiny. Embrace it, for all it is, for every drop of love it symbolizes…for the love it brings. You've earned it."

Sanar Klis met Niha's eyes.

Niha's hands dropped as if they had been burned. "He never knew," she whispered, vehement despite the fear-like emotion in her eyes. "Think, girl! It was the only way Prophecy could ensure—"

Sanar Klis slapped Mother Niha twice. Once to shut the blasted woman up. Once as a present for Prophecy.

"Congratulations," she sneered, and Horaire's Stubborn Niftyax was back. "On your unprecedented level of sheer stupidity. I'll never be your puppet, and I'll never trust any stirrings of ignorance of my relation to Kyp Durron—not even if it was possible.

"He killed my father. You decided he would love me, and that I must love him back—which means that there is no real love between us at all." Sanar's voice didn't break. Not so Niha could hear it.

(Don't believe the love story.)

"You succeeded only in ruining your own damn Prophecy." The Niftyax bared her teeth. "Congratulations."

Sanar Klis marched back to her room, ignoring everyone who called out to her. She flew past Kyp Durron's dawning smile

(What would you do for her?
Anything. Everything.
Then what are you doing here? Why aren't you with her?)

and every drop of concern.

Sanar Klis didn't need anybody. She never cried, never broke, never called for help.

Not until she was hidden in her room; and then she broke completely, and cried, and screamed for the only person still left to her.

Jaina.