Chapter Twenty-Seven: Again and Again

-x-x-x-x-x-

There was a place, deep within Sanar, that felt like a dream. It was like sleep in sensation and realness—but this one was only a new harbour, and so it gave itself away.

It was where Sanar had unknowingly tied herself to Jaina—her lost-now-found sister (reflection), the person she never wanted to trust, or care for, or take comfort in. It was where she could always find the person still (always) left to her.

Sanar's father and brother were dead, and her love was just a manipulation.

It could explain the sudden breaking Sanar was experiencing.

"Jaina? Jaina, where are you—can you…come, please—"

But even before she had finished speaking, Sanar was held close to someone much like her. Fingers clung to her and let her cling back; lips close to her ear whispered: "Sanar? Sanar, hold on, hold onto me, we'll make it okay, what is it, what's wrong, I'll always be here for you, Sanar…"

And Jaina was real, so real, that Sanar clung and cried into her friend's (.'s) shoulder. She curled up in her, and stayed there, breathing in everything Jaina offered.

"It was all a lie," she later mumbled into Jaina's neck. "All of it—he never loved me, he was never who—they just manufactured everything—"

Jaina drew Sanar up so that their eyes met. "What was a lie? Sanar, tell me."

For no one else would Sanar have explained. No one else—but Jaina's eyes were glassy with her (their) tears, and Sanar knew she felt it all. She was Jaina. Slowly, painfully, Sanar related what Niha had told her.

Sanar was leaning into her sister, so the younger woman was careful not to react when a man appeared beyond them. A metaphorical mist swirled between the (familiar) stranger and the women.

"They're trying to say there's no choice," Sanar muttered. Jaina thankfully noticed that her sister was regaining some of her defences, and more of her fire. "And they tried to make it happen by shoving us together in dreams, and—how am I ever going to be able to sleep again? I used to feel lo—safe there."

"Sanar…"

Both women froze as the man spoke. He sounded upset—sincere—and approached them carefully.

He reached out to stroke Sanar's cheek. "Beloved, what's wrong—"

Sanar slapped his hand away as the torrent began again. "Get away from me! You're nothing but a lie, they just made you up—designed you—" She continued her rant fiercely, caught up in her betrayal. For years she had been made vulnerable to someone she only now

(never again)

liked and trusted. And it didn't mean anything….

Jaina stood and separated them. When she spoke, her voice was quite hard. "I think," she said, turning to look at the man, "that you should—"

Sanar's sister meant to say, "I think you should go," but surprise changed her mind. "Who…?"

The resurrected Jedi—the one who knew things she shouldn't, remembered feelings she had never felt, and heard noises and voices that weren't there—took a step back. "Sanar, this isn't—he's not—"

But Sanar wouldn't listen. Her temper was spilling over like lava, a destructive force that had protected her from being hurt before. She punched the man—

(dark man, sad man, beloved)

—then whirled away from him, holding her grudge tight.

Jaina stayed where she was for the moment; Sanar probably wouldn't want physical company now. Just the presence—the affirmation—of their bond.

"Who are you?" she asked the stranger.

He blinked at her. "Hello, Jaina."

"You've got my never-say-cry best friend sobbing in a corner," Jaina snapped. "Now would be a good time to explain yourself."

His expression was mournful as he looked past her. "I didn't do this—someone must have spoken out of turn…." He rubbed where Sanar had punched him. "Why won't she let me help her?"

Words were the most common lie; facial expressions, the second. For someone like Jaina, however, touch remained honest because few knew how to control it. Fewer still knew how to protect it from beings that had waded through the River. This man—the stranger—looked like her friend, she would give him that. His dark hair was the same; the eyes were the right shade of green-brown-gold. Even the scars traced the exact same map of Kyp's past.

But Jaina Saw him, and he wasn't Kyp.

In a move too quick for him to avoid, she grabbed the familiar stranger's wrists. "Who are you?" she demanded.

"I'm the Kavishka," he snapped, trying to tug his hands free. "Why aren't you helping Sanar? She needs you."

Jaina held firm. "Sanar needs to scream and destroy something," Jaina corrected. "And she needs to do that while knowing I'm here, even though I know everything. Now answer my question."

He glared at her. "I told you. I'm the Kavishka."

"You are not Kyp Durron."

"He's the Kavishka right now."

Jaina's eyes sharpened. "You," she told him, "are not my friend."

Kyp would have made a face and a sarcastic response. This man—the Kavishka?—only frowned. "Just help Sanar."

"Don't tell me that," she snapped. "I'm not doing it because you told me to. She's my—"

But he had already faded from view. Jaina muttered an ungracious series of words, but did not try to find him again.

"Sanar, he's gone—"

Jaina paused, hopefully searched the room, and groaned.

The so-called Kavishka was gone. And so was Sanar.

Sanar, who was ready to tear someone's head off.

Jaina did not need to consider her options before she, too, blinked out of sight. She just hoped Sanar wouldn't anything irreparable.

And if she didn't kill Kyp, well—bonus.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Jaina needn't have worried. Well, not too much. When Sanar had left her haven, she had been ready to hurt anyone who so much as breathed the same air as her. Any of the Mirese adepts or priestesses would do—they'd all known, and not a one had warned her. Fortunately for Niha, Sanar didn't trust herself around the prioress; Sanar stayed away, and simmered impotently.

It was harder to restrain herself from attacking Durron. The part of her that had been initially happy was now buried under her defences, ignored, but still wanting to talk to him about it all.

The rest wanted to demand if Kyp had known and, if so, why he hadn't told her. She wanted to make him not just obey Prophecy's decision. She didn't want to be "loved" because someone said she should be. And she would think less of him if he just stood by and accepted it. Solo was always raving about how Kyp preferred brutal honesty; if he became impatient, he tended to over-join—become too aggressive. If any of that was true, then he wouldn't like being played with.

But Sanar held herself. Beyond her fury, and below even her hurt, was deep-rooted humiliation. How vulnerable she had made herself to a shade! She had forgotten everything she ever learned; she had forgotten that nothing good came of revealing yourself—especially to a man. Whether he knew about the dreams or not, Sanar knew, would always know. She had stripped herself of every mask and every measure of defence. If Durron ever realized…

…Mujir, what a fool she'd been! She may as well have rolled over and let Horaire kill her all those years ago; she would have been in less jeopardy then.

But worse was that—even furious, even wounded, even humiliated…Sanar remembered.

Remembered how her—how Durron had comforted her after her father's death. How she had returned the favour, even at the darkest point in her life. The words (whisper: I love you), then gentle touches and reassurances, every time he helped her survive Horaire and—

Sanar slammed her head back against the wall. A strangled sound—half-scream, half-shriek—escaped her, giving voice to her misery. "Stop it." Her voice cracked. "Shut up and hold up, Klis. Don't do this. Don't."

(I love you.)

It was better for everyone if Sanar stayed away and alone right now. Especially for Sanar, who thought she might be losing her sanity.

How could this have happened?

All that remained—and even that was held slightly separate, because Sanar was too stupid and vulnerable—was her sister, gently easing her way around the shards of Sanar's heart.

-x-x-x-x-x-

The morning the Prophecy Crew finally left the abbey was a chilly, cloudy one. The dawn's vibrant colours were distorted by grey; the wind blew everyone's skin stark red. The mood of the group itself was subdued.

Niha, Dejah and an unknown woman had led the Prophecy Crew several kilometres from the abbey. There, Niha had organized them in a half-circle around her. As she started to speak, Sanar immediately rolled her eyes and left formation.

"You have a long journey ahead of you," Niha told them, her eyes on Sanar. "Not just physically—that you have already greatly finished—but emotionally, spiritually—"

"—Blah, blah, blah, insert more wise, creepy and pseudo-spiritualism here."

At Sanar's interruption, Niha gave her a perturbed look. "You…you must be prepared, whatever happens."

"Why, are you plotting something again?"

This time, Niha subsided. In the Prophecy Crew's last few days at the abbey, Sanar had been impossible to find. Nevertheless, she had shown up to leave on time, with her share of the supplies packed. Niha's attempts to fix her mistake had garnered a murderous glare. When Kyp had tried to talk to the prickly woman, she had simply walked away. Needless to say, his concern had not been assuaged—especially since he knew Niha had finally spoken to Sanar.

"To help you, I am sending along Dejah Salin. She will be the seventh member of the Kavishka's allies."

Braun levelled Niha with a stony glare. "Veras' replacement, you mean." A derogatory remark was implied by his tone.

Niha prevailed. "She will put you into contact with the Resistance when you reach Quatroc, and ensure that Geneva trusts and works with you. Until then, she will serve as translator and guide. With her connections, you should have an easier time finding supplies, through Resistance cells."

She moved as if to touch Kyp's shoulder, but withdrew when he scowled at her. "You will find that, despite our dependence on your victory, you are not alone in this struggle. Take advantage of that, and all…" Her eyes flickered to Sanar, "will go smoothly."

"Like it has up to this point?" Miko pointedly asked.

"You are all being tested," Niha reminded him sharply. "Nothing worth having comes without sacrifice. The gain, itself, is worth the risk."

"Says the old lady staying at home," Krista remarked. She casually linked arms with Miko. "But, hey. Not everyone's meant to walk their talk. Speaking of, who else is ready to blow this joint?"

"Be warned, golden girl," Niha snapped. "Your irreverence will not save you. Not now that you have been Marked."

"Every time you open your mouth, all I hear is 'blah, blah, blah.'"

But despite her flippant comment, Krista looked unnerved. The arm hooked with Miko's tightened as she shifted just slightly closer; her free hand ran through her golden locks. "Marked for a divine future?" she cracked, even uncomfortable. "I think my irreverence will keep me modest. And restrain me from scaring little children—unlike some."

"And now Braun is the only one who hasn't been given some kind of creepy prediction for his future." Miko raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Now, that won't do. Niha, spin up another. C'mon. Do your worst. How is he going to die?" The red-haired Jedi rolled his eyes, muttering, "Doom addict." Without waiting for Niha's reply, the pair left formation to gather their bags.

"You may not like me for the truths I present, Kavishka, but you would be wise not to discount them."

Kyp had been about to approach Sanar. At Niha's words, however, he turned back to scowl. "What did you tell Sanar?"

"I told her the truth of her role in the prophecy." Niha's eyes rested on Sanar's impatient form. Her expression sank, became moodier, before Kyp's hard eyes. "She did not take it well."

"Obviously," he bit out.

"I can't tell you her part," the elderly woman apologetically told him. "Unless she wants you to know, you do not yet require that knowledge."

"Then I want nothing more to do with you."

Again she stopped him, this time with a tight grip on his arm. "One last thing."

He wanted to throw her hand off him and stomp away to bluster his way out of the intricate, secret-laden web in which he had found himself. The look in her eyes, however, held him still.

Niha looked scared, though not in a way most people did. "Beware the Sildar," she said. "If Sanar does not… The Sildar is not just a toy. You work Vengeance's will; you do not control It. Be careful."

"What do you expect It to do to me?" Kyp's attention was now firmly caught. Immediately, his mind flew to the whispers, and the moments when he could feel the Sildar's burn. "Niha?"

She hesitated, stared at him, glanced at Sanar. "You are the second Kavishka, Kyp Durron. You are not the original; you are not a perfect fit. Be careful. You need Sanar on your side."

(The entire planet—the entire galaxy—could be against you, but if you have Sanar's aid—you cannot lose.)

(Do you love Sanar?)

When Kyp refocused, Niha had left his side and gone to Sanar's.

"Great," he muttered, catching Braun's attention. "Just what Sanar needs: to talk to Niha again."

Braun glanced over; Sanar looked ready to explode in Niha's face. "I doubt she'll put up with it much longer. Look."

Kyp sighed when Sanar pushed Niha away from her. "I have a bad feeling about this."

Braun grunted, and threw his bag over his shoulder. "This whole mission is cursed," he muttered darkly. "What's not to have a bad feeling about?"

"Well, I'd feel better if Sanar would look at me," Kyp said, frustrated. "She's never acted like this before—"

But Braun had already walked away. Kyp didn't really blame him.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Braun's pulse thudded in time to his paxi's steps. Sometimes they drowned out the echoes of the past, but only sometimes—Veras' laughter now carried by the wind, her face now a mirage before him. Whispered plans and "I love you's"; the curve of her neck; her bounty hunter strut.

Stop it. Thoughts of revenge tried to stem the pain, but they were still only marginally successful. Maybe in another month, or another yet after that….

Or maybe it would only heal with oblivion. Suicide missions could cause a lot of damage; it might not even be so bad an end—but no, Braun wouldn't give in like that. He wasn't a coward; he'd fight until there were no enemies, if he could.

"I've seen that look before."

Braun looked up, startled, when an unfamiliar voice interrupted his thoughts. The Mujir Resistance fighter—he was almost certain her name was Dejah—had fallen back from the front of their line, and she now studied him. Her expression was aloof, but not unkind.

"And I've seen that look before," he rejoined.

She gave him a look, but he thought she appeared a little thrown. "You're planning on death."

"I'm not a hazard, if that's what you're wondering," he snapped. His mount snorted, causing Braun to give it an unimpressed look.

"It appears your paxi does not agree." Dejah's smirk crept even into her eyes.

Her eyes were dark, like Veras'. Braun glanced away. "I speak your language fluently," he told her in fluid Na'Lein. "You don't have to struggle through Basic if you don't want to."

This time, she did not even try to hide her surprise. "How?" she asked. Whoever his teacher, they had been thorough; his accent was clean enough to all but hide his foreign birth.

"I'm good with languages," he said. The sandy-haired man would not look at her. "My—my wife—taught me."

Dejah's mind checked Braun against the others. "Your wife is not…with us?"

"Not anymore." His jaw tightened. "She died here. Just before we came to the abbey."

"Oh." Dejah took a moment to process the words and emotions. "How did she die?" There was no "I'm sorry"—not yet, if ever. If she made a rule of it, Dejah would never stop the sympathetic platitudes.

"Holy Brothers." He didn't look at her, but stared straight (blankly) ahead. "They attacked us en masse, out of nowhere."

Dejah had always been sceptical of a man's ability to deeply grieve for a woman. Their sons, of course, were seen to deserve emotion, but wives and daughters…. There were stories—myths, and "personal" accounts of the friends of friends of allies. Dejah didn't trust stories. Looking at Braun, however…she believed.

"So you're out for blood now."

He gave her a faintly impatient look, as if she had asked the stupidest question in the universe. "My wife—whom I loved, still love—was murdered in front of my eyes. How can I do any less?"

"You are not Na'Lein by birth, are you?"

He glanced at her quickly, and she thought—no, not a native, but familiar enough to well know our xenophobia.

"I am not born of this planet," he admitted as he returned his gaze forward. "And knowing many of the men here, I am glad of it. But my wife was fiercely Na'Lein, and we came here more than I think—" His voice broke a moment, but recovered, "—than either of us really liked."

"She died fighting?"

Leather creaked as Braun clutched his paxi's reins. "She died saving my life."

Dejah's face became masked, but her heart softened. She could realize that Braun had loved his wife; he was not like many of the men she knew. "Then she died fighting for our cause, and for her love. There are worse deaths; I, myself, would choose no other. Grieve and fight, but don't…. Allow yourself forgiveness."

The final thing that painfully convinced her of Braun's decency was the sight of his damp eyes.

Dejah rode forward again, holding in her weary sigh.

Mujir, why? Why?

The goddess did not answer; Dejah had never heard Her voice.

She doubted she ever would.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Sanar Klis, Kyp thought resignedly, certainly never did anything by half-measures. It was one of the many traits they shared, but he wasn't appreciating it at the moment. For the past week, she had completely avoided him. To his amazement, this entailed such extreme measures as talking and gossiping with Krista, trying to deal with Clayra, and volunteering herself as a sparring partner from Braun. Recalling the latter disaster, Kyp couldn't help but wince.

At first he had humoured her. Kyp wasn't a particularly…patient person, but he thought Sanar worth it, as long as he could hold his temper. They had known each other for years, and she had stopped seriously threatening his life (barring failure as the Kavishka) a while ago. Further, on their journey, Kyp had realized she was unexpectedly opening up to him. She had become more honest—more vulnerable—with him. Somehow, they had achieved a new level to their balancing act known as a relationship.

But now—Kyp cursed as he tossed on his bed roll. Now that was just gone and he had no idea why. Tonight, he had given up on waiting and had tried to talk to her. She had completely ignored him.

And you just gave up because you didn't want to push. Moron.

Kyp snorted. No, he hadn't pushed. Sanar's problem could be as easily-fixed as general dislike to counter-balance her short-lived affection. Or, he thought, chilled, being on NLY has reminded her of Carida and she's regressed to never forgiving me and all the ground I won is lost.

Or Niha said something the complete opposite of helpful.

He had a feeling it was the latter—if only because, despite his thorough check of his bedroll—he had not found a fatal booby trap.

Kriff it.

-x-x-x-x-x-

They had been travelling for just over a week, mostly a few dunes separate from the well-known roads and markers. For that, at least, Krista could be grateful for Dejah. If she just stopped talking to Miko all the time, of course, Krista might like her better, but—

The blonde shook her head. And there she went, again, being feather-brained and ridiculous. What did it matter if Dejah and Miko talked a lot? Who cared if Miko was making a point of entertaining and engaging Dejah throughout their trip? He was probably gathering information, or something. That said, when she noticed that Miko and Dejah were travelling side-by-side, not speaking, ahead of her, Krista rode up to them quickly.

It was late evening now, and Krista supposed they would be stopping soon to make camp. Just as she was about to greet Miko and Dejah, however, she noticed something that had her perking up. They were approaching a walled city—primitive compared to Coruscant, of course, but the most significant proof of human existence this planet had offered. Dejah had mentioned their next stop at large city, but she had said they would only arrive the next day. As if to prove what the city offered, Krista caught sight of guards walking along the parapets, and a sparse crowd entering and exiting the gates.

"Ooh, other people!" she exclaimed, purposely over-excited. "Dejah, there are other people, with whom we haven't spent the last several months!"

Miko hid his grin. Dejah, for her part, blinked at Krista's earnest, bright face. "There are," she said, almost warily. "This path, as we continue upon it, should take us through Afaloque. Just as we planned. Remember?"

"I know, but there are other people." Krista smiled widely. When Dejah looked away, the blonde winked at Miko. "And shopping! Because these outfits totally cannot be the in the latest fashion, and we have to put that right a.s.a.p. Fixing a planetary government draws attention, after all; all the little anarchist wannabes are going to think we're cool. And cool people set good trends."

Dejah looked both ill and completely confused. Out of sympathy, Miko stifled his laughter, and clapped her solidly on the shoulder as if she was a new Intel team member. "Don't worry, Dejah. She's only kidding—teasing?" he elaborated wryly.

The MR fighter looked at him for a moment, then allowed a flicker of an understanding smile. She looked forward again. Miko felt he had made some progress.

Krista made a face at him. "Spoil sport. And I could totally not be kidding. There are so wannabes in our future. Don't you think there are?"

"There will always be wannabe Krista Harifs," he teased her. "For better or for worse."

She gaped at him, mock-hurt. "And what does that mean?" She leaned to the side, reaching out as if to tickle him as her voice rose in volume. "Huh, Miko? What did—"

"For Mujir's sake," Dejah snapped in a hoarse whisper. "Keep your voice down."

Startled, Miko realized that they had caught the attention of the approaching lone traveller. The man's expression was a mix of confusion and disapproval. He made a strange sign, and tossed a few droplets of his water canteen at Miko.

Krista quieted immediately, abashed and subdued, until the traveller had passed well out of sight. Miko was relieved to see that, at the end of their queue, Sanar refrained from both glaring and cursing. In any case, Kyp was watching her concernedly, which reassured the Jedi Knight.

"Sorry," Krista murmured. She took a deep breath, then checked her head scarf. It had come loose over their days of travelling, and she, careless without an enemy in sight, had not seen to tightening it. Both were quickly and methodically fixed.

"At best, such behaviour will label you prostitute with addled wits. At worst…" Dejah gave Krista a hard look. "Try not to talk. Only the educated speak Basic."

Krista's butter-yellow hair disappeared completely under her scarf. Despite that and her submissively lowered eyes, Miko noticed the stiff indignity in her spine. Under the huge, sail-like sleeves of her outfit, he imagined her hands were in fists. It occurred to him that Krista hadn't been on an Intel mission since the one that led to her imprisonment.

When the coast was clear, he led his paxi closer to hers. Then he slipped his hand under the secrecy of her sleeve, and squeezed her hand. After a moment, the tension in her back eased, and she squeezed back.

-x-x-x-x-x-

The Prophecy Crew set up camp not far outside Afaloque's city gates. Krista still wasn't sure why they couldn't stay with Dejah's MR contact, but Dejah had dismissed the suggestion with a faint shudder. "I'll deal with Teigra when we have to," she had said grimly. "Tomorrow."

"Apparently, Teigra's some kind of extremist," Miko told her later. They were sitting by the fire, across from the Whilems, their dinner containers pushed to the side. Clayra and Gantik were murmuring quietly to each other, Gantik occasionally writing something—Krista assumed it was to their son. Excepting Dejah, who was on watch, the others were in their tents. "At the very least," Miko added, "I don't think she and Dejah get along, exactly."

"Dejah told you that?" Krista asked archly. "I thought she didn't like guys."

"She doesn't." Miko snorted, but wry humour lit his eyes. "I think she was trying to scare me."

"Oh?"

"Teigra apparently seduces men, then kills them in the bloodiest ways possible."

"And she's still alive?" Krista demanded. "Talk about hard thrills."

"Yeah, well, it's encouraging that Dejah doesn't approve of her tactics, anyway."

Krista glanced at him oh-so-casually and ignored the strange quirk in her irritability levels. "You have a crush, or something?"

He laughed. "Krista Harif," he said, almost condescendingly. In a move reminiscent of her brothers, but less annoying by half, he ruffled her hair. When her locks were sufficiently frizzy, he shrugged. "She intrigues me."

It wasn't exactly an answer—at least, not one that hinted anything Krista appreciated. "How?"

He raised an eyebrow at her, but shrugged. "I'm not sure she really believes this world will ever change, but she keeps fighting. She's surrounded by extremists, but she isn't blinded by her hatred—she could actually be free once Pucijir's Order is destroyed. And I'm not sure that that's the case for the majority of the MR fighters. If I can help her…show her what could be…."

Krista cuffed him on the shoulder, but shifted closer to him on the sand. Because it was cold, she leaned into him and smiled when his arm settled around her shoulders. "You think too much."

"Probably."

"And you're so obviously a soldier, the way you strategize everything," she continued.

"And you think way more than you pretend." He smirked and winked at her. "Clearly, we're made for each other. Wanna date?"

Why not? a small voice wondered. Why not?

-x-x-x-x-x-

Because she was weak, because she was just another broken toy-weapon, Sanar sat alone by the fire after hours of tossing sleeplessness.

Durron was sleeping or at least leaving her alone, thank Mujir, but how long would that last? Her mind was quieter now, and her heart was throwing another rug over the splinters, but she couldn't deal with Durron now. Maybe not ever again. She could barely even sleep, where he kept looking at her and asking why, why, why?

Sanar had thought she wanted to be a part of the Kavishka prophecy; she was wiser now. Love only used people like her; it spat in her face, and shoved her to the side. And she was supposed to be Durron's stepping stool because he couldn't pick someone else? It wasn't her fault he had bad eyesight.

The hell with that.