This is the second post of the day :)

x-x-x-x-x

Chapter Thirty: Choice, Fate, Fiction

x-x-x-x-x

They didn't return to the group camp that night, even once Sanar painfully reconstructed her control. Kyp went back briefly to tell the others that he and Sanar would return in the morning. Clayra had been predictably…irritating, and Gantik had glared, but the rest remained subdued. Dejah and Braun must have explained the situation.

Kyp returned with sleeping bags and a side of meat. Sanar, having found secluded access to Afaloque's river, greeted him with wet hair and tears-and-cold-water blotchy skin. Well, greeted in that she looked up from the ground, and moved over to share the log on which she sat. In a testament to her earlier, complete emotional meltdown, she did not instantly try to reset the boundaries of their prickly relationship. She only took the sleeping bag he offered her, unzipped it, and wrapped it around her shoulders.

"The water is cold," she explained. She stared, unseeing, ahead of her; she hadn't let their eyes meet since she pulled out of his embrace an hour earlier.

Cautiously, he raised the edge of her blanket to cover her neck and ears. He didn't know quite what to do for her now that she'd finished her catharsis. Kyp Durron was good at breakdowns—both his own and, in a rough way, others'. The aftermath, which tended to require more delicacy, was not his forté.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, awkwardly. "I brought back some meat, and we have the fruit—"

Sanar didn't reply.

"Okay, then, uh, I'll start a fire…."

"You did it on purpose. Didn't you."

Kyp blinked, and looked at her. "What?"

"You got me mad, then switched gears on me. To…why?"

He thought of a time, over a month ago—If no one needs me, why am I here?

"Yes," he said. "I did what I had to."

"Oh, you've never abused that excuse before." She shook her head, frowning at her hands. "But why? I don't—"

Kyp grimaced. "You won't like it."

She snorted. "What, is that a new thing on this trip?"

"Do you really think you could have kept going the way you were?"

She slid off the log to sit on the ground, and leaned back. "So, what, you're the resident snarky therapist now? You know what I need to maintain emotional stability?" As she burrowed further into her sleeping bag, he doubted she desired any kind of response.

"Sanar, what did Niha tell you?" It occurred to him that this might not be the wisest time to ask, but the question was out before he could stop it.

Gripping her blanket, Sanar's knuckles turned white; her expression grew pinched. "I don't want to talk about it."

"And I don't want to have to—to chase you around, begging you to talk to me," he rejoined, a little peevishly.

When she remained rebelliously sullen, he sighed and absently began preparing their fire. "Sanar, you've known more than me about this prophecy from the beginning. And now, apparently, you know something else that makes you refuse to acknowledge my existence. C'mon. I know there's something everyone is hiding from me, and it's starting to freak me out."

"Well, excuse me for not just falling all over myself to make your life a little more comfortable," she snapped. Still drained from before, however, her response lacked true sharpness.

"Why do you always have to—" He released a frustrated sigh, and switched gears. "I'm just worried about you. Is that so awful?"

"Yes, actually," she retorted. His question had roused the chill in her voice. "Given when it stems from, and all."

"What?" He stared at her until her expression, and meaning, sank in. "Oh Force," he groaned. His head sank into his hands.

How long had she known? Had she figured out on her own? —It was possible, true, but after three years of ignorance…. Or had kriffing secret-keeping Niha spilled the beans on the one subject she had no sithing right to touch? And was this what had upset Sanar (oh stars), or was there something worse? And—

"It was just one of the many delightful things Niha decided to drop on me without warning." Sanar's expression twisted into something peculiar, indescribable. Only the fact that she had not yet started attacking him kept Kyp mute.

When she did not further explain, however, he cleared his throat. "So she told you that I love—"

"Please don't," she interrupted, almost tripping over her plea. She sounded strained.

He flinched.

"I—I can't…" She rubbed her face wearily, and he noticed that her hands were unsteady. "There's more. I can't process you right now. So you can just—stop looking at me like that."

Kyp's face tightened, despite himself. Upon finding one of his most vulnerable places, she had not torn into him, which was what he had expected. She was ignoring it—far from the worst possibility. But part of him—okay, a lot more of him that he wanted to admit to—resented that she could just brush him aside. That he could matter so very little to her, when she meant so much to him. It wasn't as if he had chosen to fall in love with the one woman in his acquaintance who had very little right to forgive him. His masochistic tendencies did not extend so far as that.

"What's 'more'?" he asked after a pause, not looking at her.

She shot him a look filled with bitterness. "I'm surprised they didn't tell you."

His eyes flicked up to hers, briefly, almost sharply. "They wouldn't tell me anything, I assure you. Why else would I be trying to drag it out of you now?"

She scowled. "Well, it's just that it all works out so nicely for you."

"Forgive me if I doubt that," he interrupted, "as it would be most uncharacteristic of my life." Despite the tension rising within him, Kyp maintained a dry tone.

"Of yours?" she sneered. "You chose all this! And I'm constantly stuck with your consequences."

"What," he demanded in a cold voice, "did Niha tell you?"

Suddenly, the fire seemed to go out of her, leaving only bitter embers. "You were never supposed to be the Kavishka," she told him. "It was my father's job, and Prophecy made sure he had everything he needed. You killed him—you became his replacement—but you don't fit."

He gaped at her as ice invaded his veins. "So…this…all of this…is a suicide mission, as far as Prophecy is concerned. We're—we're on our own, charging a regime without—"

Sanar, a queer expression on her face, finally interrupted him. "No. Mujir. No." She paused, and winced just a little. "Not…exactly."

He thought of Veras' death and Braun's grieving, and Kyp's face became stern. "Explain."

"You don't fit the requirements."

"So you said."

Her jaw tightened. "You aren't Na'Lein."

"No, I'm not."

"So you have no ties to this planet."

An idea sparked in the back of his mind, but remained undefined. "Not in the traditional sense."

"So they had to make sure you would." Sanar gave him a strange, hard look, then focused straight ahead. "They had to give you a connection. And the closer the better, as far as they're concerned. Who cares if it's just—"

She wouldn't look at him, but Kyp couldn't take his eyes off of her. "'The closer the—' My Force. Sanar—?"

"I can't decide which possibility is worst," she told him. Her voice was flat; he didn't know if she really meant for him to hear this. "That you chose the who and how of your 'connection,' so it's all your fault; or that Prophecy decided for us, and you had no choice whatsoever."

Kyp's mouth was dry. He swallowed, and started in a hoarse voice, "I would never expect you to—"

"No," she interrupted, "but Prophecy does. Vengeance, Mujir, whoever is in charge of this mess, does. They expect me to be grateful, and you to deserve it."

"In Basic, Sanar!" he demanded. "I don't have a kriffing clue beyond what you've told me. I can't afford to guess—let alone assume—about something as important as this."

"If I don't fall in love with you, then it all goes to Hell," she snapped, finally looking at him. "Because I'm my father's daughter, because this planet is my home, because I have seen the ugliest sides of your gender. Either I love you, or you don't deserve the Sildar. That is the last and most difficult, most important requirement of being the Kavishka."

Kyp fell back as if he'd been slapped.

She stood, deliberately turning away from him. "It was never a choice, Durron. For either of us." Her voice was hard, but he thought he heard deep hurt hiding behind her cold manner.

"I don't believe that."

He thought of the first time they had spoken—he a ghost, she the only person besides Jaina to whom he had appeared in months. He remembered their first and only kiss, desperately stolen (Where are you?) after he had come back to life.

But he also recalled a thousand fights, countless moments—the skitter of his heart, not hours ago, when she had clung to him like he could save her. Like she could forgive him.

"I can't believe that." His voice was firmer this time, almost hard. Sanar wouldn't have often—if ever—heard him use this tone with her; it was a common choice when another Jedi attacked his choices.

"So you decided my fate, then?" she queried. She only almost succeeded in appearing unaffected. "Because I don't appreciate being relegated to the grand destiny of being a tool."

"And I think even you know I wouldn't choose that for you, even if I didn't love you," he tersely pointed out. "Yes, Prophecy decided whatever role it wanted you to play—I supposedly don't have a lot of choice in this, either—but that has nothing to do with—with my choices or…or my heart, okay? I fell in love with you because—"

She shook her head sharply, and crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't want to hear this," she almost snarled. Her voice still sounded hoarse from her earlier tears.

"Oh, for the love of—"

"I'm tired!" she all but shouted. He noticed, with only a little relief, that she had finally looked at him again. Her eyes gleamed in the firelight. "I'm tired of all of this, and a dozen more things beside it, and I—I just had everything I thought I knew crushed by Niha, and today—" With desperate hands, she grabbed her sleeping blanket from the ground, and then backed away from him with a sallow complexion. "I can't do this tonight, alright? So just—just pick another girl. Who's not me."

Part of Kyp—the part that wasn't shuddering under this rejection—was suddenly very glad that the Sildar was protectively wrapped a few feet from him. He wondered, too, how much time—if any—he had to fill his list of "requirements" before he failed. The idea of using the Sildar could now only make him even more uneasy than had been usual.

This was all so dreadfully wrong—twisted, really—even for his life. If the love of his life loathed him, he shouldn't have to die for it, and millions of women shouldn't have to suffer the consequences of his own shortcomings.

Not, he admitted as Sanar made her retreat, that the last part was particularly new. How nice, he thought, that that's a constant theme.

x-x-x-x-x

In the morning, Kyp and Sanar rejoined their companions. Kyp hadn't slept more than a troubled hour's worth; Sanar looked as if she had deliberately avoided even that much. Neither was very hungry at breakfast.

Across the galaxy, Lera found Nichyn's com-link.

x-x-x-x-x

Times like these, Gaffil dabbled in petty thoughts. Thoughts like: why was everyone so sure that Gaffil, not Rafintair, was the bastard son? His half-brother knew the flash and dance of his politics—and he even dealt with the priests, portraying (their demanded) fervour. Or insanity. Gaffil only publicly lied about Rafintair's "impending" madness, after all.

Privately—well, Isra had probably shared his opinions within her first week in his quarters. Not that her Resistance had ever said the opposite, as far as he was aware.

Speaking of Isra, he thought with something like amusement, there she goes. Gaffil stood off to the side in Rafintair's antechamber. It gave him an excellent view—not a secret one, but that wasn't the point—of his imperial half-brother and his own maid.

Isra had scrubbed her face until it looked almost raw; her solemn blue-and-grey outfit hid her figure (not that there was much of one to hide), and washed out any beauty the spy might have had. Rafintair's eyes gleamed at the sight of her. Gaffil only smirked.

In Rafintair's eyes, Isra was an apology for her gender. She was too angular and bare to be attractive (how had she successfully landed in so many royal beds? Perhaps she bled too prettily for her own good). Temptation seemed to come awkwardly—and only distastefully—to her. And Isra knew how to twist it just to her advantage.

It was too bad, really, that she worked for a petty goddess—such a waste of potential. Gaffil would have liked to see her free of the galaxy's lies.

—It was profitless exercise, though, to think such thoughts. They were brought on by dealing with Rafintair's new target for his insanity. Impatience caused Gaffil's petty musings, usually about Rafintair or Isra. What ifs had no true purpose; he had no desire to take his brother's gaudy throne to have to ingratiate himself to the priests for his power. He could control Na'Lein'yhpaon without a crown. And Isra…

Isra was playing her part perfectly, wincing just so as she poured Rafintair's wine. He could almost see her lips (blood red from being scrubbed) pulled tight as she desperately kept a strong grip on the jug, and murmured cringing apologies. Rafintair looked like he could shove her down to the floor right then and there.

With a cursory look around, Gaffil entered his brother's room at a crisp stride. "You wanted to see me," he interrupted, allowing just the smallest hint of his irritation into his voice.

Isra cringed away from the throne and Rafintair. It brought her surprisingly even with Gaffil for a moment, before she submissively took a step behind him. She had an excellent view of Rafintair from there. Clever girl, Gaffil thought, not for the first time.

When his half-brother showed no signs of starting their meeting, Gaffil raised an eyebrow. "I assume you called me here for a reason?"

Isra's amusement stirred behind his back. Her snort—silent but heard, if only by him—brushed the ends of his hair, by his ear.

Rafintair gave Isra a dismissive gesture. "Not with the maid."

Out of the corner of his eye, Gaffil saw Isra drop a hasty, embarrassed curtsey. Her shawl, tightly drawn around her sharp shoulders, brushed his back as she hurried out of the room. Gaffil knew he hadn't noticed, and she hadn't been careless.

Once the door shut behind the Resistance spy, Rafintair descended from his dais. "I have been informed that the terrorist band—the one led by the Kavishka—is growing in popularity. The Niftyath are planning; they are becoming brasher."

Rafintair didn't need any more splinters for his empire. Usually, however, he didn't recognize or admit it. This change struck Gaffil as…rather odd. But Rafintair had been acting strangely over this whole matter. He sent too few troops or a clumsy army to take care of the "problem," and even hired a man to try to kidnap one of the Kavishka's party in Afaloque. Gaffil was beginning to wonder if his brother's insanity was deepening.

"Is there anything so different about this Kavishka?" His question was deliberately too nonchalant.

Everything casual was offensive to Rafintair. He glared at his half-brother. "The Kavishka is the niftyax's bedtime story, Gaffil. This—this rabble will stir up notions in the Resistance, they will give the women the necessary tools to spread their lies."

Gaffil made a note to see what—if anything—he could discover about this "rabble" from his spying maid. After all, Rafintair could be dashed to his final raving-mad-for-religion's-lie-paradise, but there was a planet to consider.

"So kill them," he absently told Rafintair. "Discretely as you can, as insignificantly as you are able, without keeping it a secret. Is that all you needed me for?"

Rafintair's eyes flashed. "No. I want you to be the one to cut them down."

There's a twist. "No," Gaffil refused, quite firmly. He reminded himself that annoyance was a mere indulgence. "Thank you, but I have business here that takes precedent over your thugs' job." Admittedly, sarcasm was a weakness as well, but sometimes he just couldn't help himself.

The emperor inflated with his self-importance. "I'm afraid you don't. The anniversary of Pucijir's Order is approaching; I want no annoyances. The so-called Kavishka and his party must be annihilated before then. Pucijir will protect you, of course, as a servant of the faith."

Of course. Wonderful. Sometimes, Gaffil almost thought Rafintair was smarter than he appeared. Or at least more sarcastic, despite his speeches on Pucijir's honesty and blah, blah, blah. "By sending me, you elevate their mission," he pointed out. "You become the desperate, evil dictator who needs to send his brother to kill a single foreigner."

"You know nothing of spiritual lore," Rafintair fairly spat, "and I have let such failings slide. When I give a command, however, I expect you to follow the path Pucijir—through me—has given you. A man who does not obey has no place in my kingdom."

Gaffil snorted at the threat. He had nothing that Rafintair could take from him, clumsy and over-fervent as his supposedly powerful brother was.

Briefly, though, his mind went elsewhere. It was of no true consequence, not really, but Rafintair's tantrums could create a conflict of interest. He wasn't prepared yet—nor sure he wanted—to destroy Rafintair. After all, he'd have to deal with the priests on a daily basis. They were like lafit cockroaches.

"There are many, then," Gaffil said aloud, "who are barred from your empire." Silently, the bastard son thought of how Rafintair could not see his problems for all the seers he had chained up in his torture chambers.

x-x-x-x-x

Gaffil sent his valet to the kitchens for travelling fare. Because he focused on self-reliance where possible, and desired a wide spread of spies at all times, this left only he and Isra in his rooms.

Perhaps sensing something of his intentions, Isra had paused in her chores to stand and face his stare. She had loosened her hair just slightly from the earlier penance-tight bun, and it grudgingly allowed more softness to her face. Despite it, her features had not magically become prettier, nor her complexion much warmer. She had discarded the over-layer of her outfit; her shoulders and arms were bare, under-fattened and over-muscled for her sex. She met his eyes with her steady grey gaze.

Rafintair had no idea what he tried to subdue. Gaffil couldn't imagine preferring the cringing, broken mask to Isra.

"Have you ever thought of what will happen to you, when I die?"

She raised a sardonic eyebrow. He thought she might have picked that up from him, but wasn't sure it was his place to take credit. "I assume I'll be assigned elsewhere," she pointed out. Her double-meaning couldn't be missed. In a rather impudent move, she sat—all angles, bony knees under her skirt and elbows akimbo—across from him.

For far less that that, he had killed people (a quick slash of a dagger in a dark alley, support for an assassin's dart in public). But then, at least he had reasons. Rafintair refused reason.

"Or you could be killed," he told Isra. He stood, and poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on his desk. "Perhaps to make my bed in Rafintair's paradise." He snorted quietly, couldn't help himself. "Or you could be burned to death beside anyone connected to me, because the emperor decides I'm dangerous."

Isra's expression did not falter. He could feel her eyes on his back. "It's possible," she said. "I will die someday—it could be because of you."

He turned around to face her again, and gave her a thin smile. Without warning, his hand whipped across her face. She took it with only the slightest tightening of her jaw. Her Resistance superiors would have been proud of her.

"Get up and start packing," he snapped. "I have a long trip ahead of me."

She stood quickly, sans grace. "Where are you going?"

"Rafintair is sending me to do some of his grunt work." As she began withdrawing clothes from his drawers, Gaffil studied her. "He wants me to kill the Kavishka. And his companions, of course."

She finished transferring a black tunic to his bed. "The Kavishka," she informed him plainly, "is little more than a myth."

He shrugged, but continued to hold her with his eyes. "It doesn't really matter if it's true. You know my opinion of religion. There is a man claiming to be the hero of the Resistance, and he plans to overthrow my dear brother. His claims—however weak—draw attention and support, as I'm sure you know. Rafintair wants the problem solved as quickly as possible."

"Oh," was all Isra said out loud. It seemed almost like she was smirking at him.

"Something you'd like to add?" he growled.

The smirk vanished behind her docile mask. "No, Your Highness." It lasted only a moment. She had dealt with far worse than a careless blow; she snickered none-too-quietly. "You're such an obedient subject."

He did not let himself be goaded into betraying the intricacies of the situation. "You should restart packing my things—unless you have a burning, masochistic desire to deprive yourself of food and sleep because you dragged through your chores."

She curtseyed as if she was just a maid for the emperor's half-brother.

"I'm expecting you to keep an eye on Rafintair while I'm gone, of course," he said briskly.

She had turned to folding clothes, but paused to understand that she was staying. Passing that, she gave him a quick impudent glance. "I always do," she murmured.

Since her back was to him, he grimaced and took a deep swallow of his water. "Maybe you'll be assigned to him when I'm done with you. Would you like that?" He was amused to see her shudder. Apparently, even a Resistance fighter's devotion to the cause had its limits. "Stop packing so many heavy sweaters. I won't be enduring that many desert nights."

"Are they still in the Plasa region?" Isra queried. "It seems early for Rafintair to send you."

"No, I should meet them in the eastern Karsh area."

She returned one sweater to his drawers, and pulled out two pairs of sand pants. "They're pretty close, then."

"You mean your female friends hadn't warned you? Not too religious of them. But maybe they expected your goddess to warn you."

He thought she would make a comment—his hand kept straying to his belt—but she held her tongue. "But your reaction does suggest some…attachment to this Kavishka idea," he remarked.

She shook out one of his jackets unnecessarily hard. "If there was a saviour—or promised agitator, whatever His Highness is calling the Kavishka—coming for us, I think he would have been here a few centuries ago. Anyway, you don't care about the legends, and I don't pin hopes on fairy tales."

"Well, maybe Mujir was catching up on her beauty sleep." Abandoning his chair, he sat on the bed by his clothes. "Perhaps I'm curious—lately infected by this religion bug that's been floating around. Why don't you tell me about this…fairy tale."

"I have to pack," she said, not looking at him.

This, he thought, wouldn't do at all. Grabbing her wrists, he exerted just the right amount of pressure. She dropped his belt. "It can wait," he told her.

His little spy wouldn't tell him much, but she always said more than she meant to.

He told himself that it wasn't mutual. He, not Isra's Resistance, would destroy his brother.