Chapter Forty-Four: Prophecy's Secret

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"It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves."
~William Shakespeare

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Gantik Whilem forged himself anew in the battle against Rafintair. He refused to leave the Holy of Holies as the same man. As was becoming typical of his life's changes, Sanar Klis was the cataclysm.

(Thanks to Kyp Durron, of all people, he now knew what she looked like when in love. He even knew what she looked like when she had been loved. It burned, but it—no, that couldn't matter anymore.

Sanar Klis always changed his life.)

In this battle, Gantik killed a lot of his father's comrades. Those he had not grown up around were familiar through the late Executioner's introductions. Gru'loq's son fought next to Geneva as the Holy Brothers fell. (Geneva more often than not did not cover his back the way he did hers. She had never liked him much.) He knew the anger, the disgust they felt when they looked at him. These men were a shadow of how his father would have reacted, had he survived to see this.

Gru'loq Whilem would have hated even more what his son did next. He really hadn't liked Sanar.

(It always came down to Sanar.)

Holy Brothers were swarming on Sanar, not too far from where Gantik fought. Maybe Rafintair had told the Holy Brothers how important Sanar was to Kyp Durron. Maybe they remembered her for murdering their High Priest. Either way, Sanar's chosen hero was too busy with Kavishka business to help her.

(Sanar, Gantik thought spitefully, really could pick them.)

Gantik left Geneva's back to help his once friend. His choice saved her life—only moments later, he was seriously injured in her place. In recognition of his help, she pushed him to the sidelines, and then led the fight away from him.

(Also: further from Kyp Durron. Gantik wouldn't think of it until later.)

Gantik Whilem would leave the Holy of Holies a different man.

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Krista was surrounded by dead bodies. Fighters, priests, Holy Brothers, adepts, maids…so many, all dead. When her last opponent gave its final shudder, she came back to herself and was more concerned about the one person still breathing. Her knees wobbled as she slowly made her way to his side. She crouched—then had to sit down properly, on her knees, because she couldn't keep her balance otherwise. But she sat next to him; she could take his hand and watch his dim eyes.

She swallowed, opened her mouth: nothing came out.

Nothing. Came. Out. She choked, tightening her grip on his hand and sliding closer to him. Finally—"M-Miko."

He blinked at her, very slowly. "Kris," he said. Rough and breaking, it came out only with great effort. "Hey."

Still alive. She could look at his injuries now—they weren't as bad as she had first thought—he was still alive, after all—but that chest wound continued to bleed.

(So much blood.)

Her eyes had respected her mascara for a while now; she felt salt water start to defy it. "No," she told him, recovering her voice. "N-no, see, you—you can't, so—oh, hells." She wiped her eyes dry with almost brutal movements. Her eyes stung, but she kept them clear. It wouldn't happen. He wouldn't—and so there was no damn need for those, and she wouldn't—she just couldn't cry. Couldn'tshouldn'twouldn't.

(Krista, I know at least one person will never leave this planet alive.

It should have been her.)

Miko's hair really was too bright for his face. It kept getting darker and darker red over the years, but his skin was always too pale or too tanned and it had always looked a little silly on him. No freckles to stand out on the pale now—she wondered if he had ever had them as a kid. His lips stood out, very bright. Unlike his hair, though, this vibrancy suited his skin. She had never kissed him.

Oh, stars. Krista stared at his lips, feeling dizzy. She hadn't even kissed him. She hadn't even said—and—oh, stars.

"Hey." Miko's breathing rattled a little, but he shook her hand to bring her attention back to him.

Kriff. Okay. So now she remembered why she didn't like messy things like love. Great. Wonderful. Good for you, Harif. Now focus. She cleared her throat, shook her head. She concentrated on his face, and didn't think about childhoods or lips or futures. Just the right now. "I-I can—I can—" She inhaled deeply, and bent her will on doing it properly. "Jedi healing stuff," she enunciated carefully. "You need to tell me how to help you with them. Then you'll be all better and—" Her voice broke, so she moved along. "So, how?"

His muddled blue eyes tried to concentrate on her. They slipped around the room; she grimaced, and turned his eyes back to her. There was a lot of death in this room. One didn't have to be a Jedi to cause heavy damage with a lightsaber. Krista had had help from the fighters for a while, but—oh, he didn't need to see any of this. Not now. They could talk about it later.

He let her distract him. Slowly, fumblingly, he talked her through a technique that gave his cheeks more colour and his voice more clarity. When she sat back, face now slick with sweat as well as blood, Miko struggled to grin at her. It crumpled too quickly into a grimace. Krista's throat clenched. "Thank you," he said.

Her breath gusted out in relief. "You'll be okay," she said.

(Krista didn't really care about mystics and faith and crap. She believed in what she could see, touch, feel.

Krista prayed: Miko will be okay.)

Miko's eyes evaded hers. "Kris—"

"No," she insisted. Her voice rose in panicked pitch. "No, you'll be fine. You can't—"

His eyes were a little brighter than before, with a little more of their usual warmth and gentleness and Miko. "No death. Just—just the Force. You know…that."

The tears thumbed their nose at mascara, and made their escape. She used her free hand to scrub them away, but they were replaced just as quickly. "But y—you can't." Her fingers useless against the salt water, she tugged them over her hair, sticking the frizzing strands back together. "I won't let you."

He was still so weak, even with that stupid strengthening technique that she had sweated herself into clumsily making. She could feel the conversation draining him—there, in that little bright spot of her friend where he kept getting stronger over the years. Despite that, he tightened his grip on the hand he held. He reached up for the one she had kept from him. She threaded her fingers through his. There were still flecks of blood on them. "'m sorry," he murmured.

"You're…" She blinked at him, then found herself flinching back as if he had struck her. "No, just—damn you, Miko. D'you hear me? You are not allowed to die. You just aren't, so—" There were more tears (any other time she would have wondered how mere soap would clean her face after this, but: Miko). Surprising even herself, she freed her hands from his. She cupped his face in them, and leaned close, sprinkling hard, desperate kisses along his jaw, nose, eyes, lips. "Please don't," she said. It was weak, practically a whimper, but she didn't care. "I love you," she whispered somewhere between his chin and his neck. "I love you, I love you, IloveyouI—"

His fingers slid loosely around her neck, and he fumbled with her ponytail. (It was an absolutely gross ponytail—sticky, sweaty, bloody, and stars, even the worst date warranted washing her hair. What was this?) She looked up, still close, and bit her lip. His eyes were getting brighter now—too bright with pain, though she hoped for at least some joy. "I'm sorry," he repeated numbly. He was shaking now—she didn't know when it had started, but the shudders were getting harder with the cold, the pain. Was he sinking into shock? "Sorry I—that I—hurt you—didn't mean to…"

The shaking continued, but his head lolled in her cradling hands. The shudders became twitches. His breathing slowed, skipped turns. She had to look away, retreat before he died right on her watch, right in her arms. She muddled her movements, sprawled across the stone floor. She couldn't get up.

Surrounded by the dead and dying, Krista Harif just couldn't get up.

Not yet, not this time.

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Kyp Durron could feel each diminished second as they raced toward Prophecy's deadline. Tick-tick-tick as the end closed in around them, crushing them under destiny. He had walked in with Sanar, Braun, Geneva, Gantik, and a handful of fighters. Braun had smuggled out three children, and returned to fight alongside the four remaining sacrifices. The latter group of women were all dead; half of the fighters were dead or dying; Gantik and Braun had both been injured—and still tick-tick-tick. It sounded almost like the Sildar again, but this voice was growing angrier instead of more agreeable.

The Sildar's voices were growing quieter; they no longer demanded so loudly. A distance had grown between the Kavishka and his weapon. (That wasn't right, was it? This couldn't be how it was meant to be, could it?)

When that tick-tick-tick told him that there was only twenty minutes left, Kyp became desperate. Instead of fighting to kill, he spread his strikes widely and indiscriminately, anything to push the Holy Brothers aside so that he could reach Rafintair.

(Part of him stayed with Sanar—but there was so little time, and he couldn't think too much about anything else, not even his lover.

Partners, he had told her. He had promised they would fight together. He had to trust Sanar to take care of herself. Clayra wasn't here to hinder Sanar's well-honed survival instincts.)

There was more blood, more bodies, more Holy Brothers at his back (never turn your back on an enemy), but finally Rafintair stood before him.

"Oh, good," the emperor said. His eyes gleamed. "Jarran Klis couldn't even get this far."

Then Kyp had a problem, because there were a dozen (more) Holy Brothers at his back, and Rafintair was charging, and Kyp Durron finally met his match.

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Lera's fingers swiftly twirled a stylus as she watched Jolesp hammer out filming technicalities. She was surrounded by the business of others, but she felt detached from them all. She could feel Nichyn's eyes watching her, even from across the room. Shanya and Arelyk's gazes occasionally joined his. She fumbled the stylus, and only just caught it before it flew. Is it time yet?

Devnos was there, his anxiety matching her own. Almost. Not quite yet.

She gave Shanya, Arelyk and Nichyn each a quivering smile. She didn't try to reassure them that it would all be alright. She couldn't, not anymore.

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The Sildar focused entirely on one goal: defeating Rafintair. It focused even with the strangewrongwrongwrong Kavishka, and unleashed its havoc.

The Kavishka, however wrong, had succeeded in this much, even if he had nearly run out of time first.

The victims had this much; the rest could wait.

Give us his blood.

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Every one of the Sildar's strikes was parried. Every one of Kyp's lunges was sidestepped. The Kavishka threw everything into this battle. Everything—surviving in the Kessel mines, training at the Academy, fighting in the Second Imperial War. Every instinct he had honed, every trick and strategy he had ever added to his sizable collection. Although mixing the Force with the Sildar could bring worrisome results, he opened his connection as wide as he could with Vengeance breathing down his neck.

He used everything—and so did the emperor. If Gaffil had fought with tricks and cunning, Rafintair used sheer power—something he clearly had in spades. Kyp was by no means a small man, but Rafintair wielded great physical power to overcome the worst traps, and to force his opponent onto the defensive.

Nothing else existed except this fight here—for vengeance and survival, for the deaths and Kyp's own life. Kyp's heart pounded, drowning out all other sounds. He could only barely feel the tick-tick-tick now, as if it were only absent-minded amidst fight and don't forget to breathe.

In the back of Kyp Durron's mind, he knew that he could defeat this monster.

(Rafintair Jir, I name thee: worst of the emperors, one who revitalized Pucijir's Order's most heinous practices, slaughterer of women and men alike.)

He could absolutely do this. But it was a matter of time he no longer had and—

And eventually it had to happen. The dozen-and-more Holy Brothers he had left bleeding behind him got back to their feet and found their murderer. The Kavishka turned just for a second, because he needed more time but he had to prevent these minor (major) distractions from stopping him. It would be temporary again, but tick-tick-tick and he only turned away for a second but he could do this—

The Sildar got very quiet, and Kyp killed two Holy Brothers before the sick feeling in his gut had him looking for Rafintair.

He had only turned away for a moment. Now Rafintair was gone.

And then the Sildar screamed.

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The Sildar's spirit only wanted Rafintair dead. It could have put up with a great deal—with the wrong Kavishka, even with a second-choice man—but it needed Rafintair.

Prophecy dictated the victims accept Kyp Durron. He met the most important requirements. The Sildar had to accept this Kavishka.

But they did not have to accept quietly.

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It didn't last long, but so much could happen in a moment. The Sildar screamed—screamed and burned and ALL WRONG—and turned on its replacement Kavishka. A moment—perhaps only a few seconds—but enough time to change (fit) destiny.

At his back Kyp had a dozen Holy Brothers, bloody and injured but still very much alive. The Sildar would kill them all—but their current wounds (poison) would do so slowly. They had time (Kyp had seven minutes). The Holy Brothers charged.

The Sildar's rejection nearly caused Kyp to drop his weapon, and a Holy Brother's heavy blow forced it that final bit from his slack fingers.

Six minutes before midnight, a Holy Brother was finally stupid enough to pick up the Sildar. Kyp kicked the fool's actual weapon free, and wielded it (quietly and painlessly) as someone else tried to use the Sildar.

The Holy Brother managed to pull the Sildar back in preparation for a blow to Kyp's head. It was more than some would manage. Before he moved any further, the Holy Brother's expression registered horror. Vengeance reached out from the depths. Seconds later, it was too late for screams as the Holy Brother's eyes (and more) bled. His fellow, surrounding Brothers paused to stare.

Five and a half minutes to midnight, the Holy Brother died.

Faintly, Kyp could hear the Sildar—good, blood, we need Rafintair. Whatever the Sildar's displeasure for his earlier failure, it was prepared to keep going for a while longer.

(I love you, Sanar had told him. The Sildar had to accept him, even if it might not like him.)

Before he could reach the Sildar, however, events took an unforeseen turn. A Holy Brother sacrificed himself to throw it across the chamber. (He died even faster than the first one.) Kyp felt his heart stop as he watched it land—so far away that it slid to a stop only a few metres from Sanar, on the other side of the hall. Rafintair, too, he could se now—not far enough away from Sanar as the emperor fought Geneva, but certainly too far from Kyp. Between the Kavishka and all he feared stood perhaps two dozen Holy Brothers, all very aware of his deadline.

Five minutes to midnight, the Kavishka failed.

And Prophecy turned.

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Nichyn was the first to notice the change. Everyone else's eyes were glued to the filming studio, where the friendship of "Lacane" and "Saja"—Zuleika and Hasi's characters, respectively—was ending. It was the final scene, and both actresses were soaking it for every tear it was worth. They bickered, they quipped, they denied, but soon they were clinging to each other in the face of Saja's death. After all too many takes, Zuleika and Hasi were finally hitting the right notes.

Don't leave me, Lacane pleaded.

Nichyn was more focused on his own friend.

When Lera fell, Nichyn was the first to her side.

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Sanar was pretty sure her heart stopped altogether when the Sildar clattered near her feet. Had Kyp—? Was he—?

No.

No, no, not dead—she could feel him, see him now, fighting his desperate way through a score of Holy Brothers. He was being reduced to ruthless, brutal murders on his way to the Sildar, but she knew (knew with absolutely no doubt) that he wouldn't make it before midnight. Prophecy had failed the instant Kyp lost hold of the Sildar. Sanar Klis and her Kavishka were going to die in the Holy of Holies—and she had noticed that enough women had died here, tonight, to make a perfect Pirese sacrifice—and Pucijir's Order would survive for who knew how many more centuries. Everything would be left up to Mujir's Resistance, and if they lost tonight, as Prophecy failed— The Resistance would be decimated. It would take them decades to regain their proper strength.

As insult on top of injury, Sanar saw Rafintair casually pass Geneva—looking terrifyingly, furiously red—off to three Holy Brothers. As soon as Geneva was too busy to even watch her opponent dismiss her, the emperor detangled himself from the fight. He stood apart, surveying his carnage. When he saw her, Rafintair smirked and then looked away. Words from LeraDevnos' message came to her mind.

Suddenly, things became very, very clear for Jarran Klis' daughter.

She killed her three opponents with lightsaber moves stolen directly from Jaina's memory. There were three minutes until midnight.

(Three minutes. One hundred eighty seconds. Plenty of time, when things became this obvious.)

Sanar could have seen the Holy Brothers swarming triumphantly in the hall's centre, or continued to watch Rafintair's sneering. She could have noticed how Braun finally fell to the ground in exhaustion. The way Gantik's eyes were closing in a way she had once wished to see. Geneva's frustration—if Geneva fell, who would replace her? The corpses of her sister-fighters, or the ones who still fought because they couldn't do otherwise for even a second longer.

Instead, Sanar saw Kyp, fighting towards her—or to the Sildar?

Any other time, she might have heard the Holy Brothers yelling judgement, Rafintair condemning them all to death and the fiery pits of his hell, or even Kyp screaming for her to escape a battle they couldn't win.

Instead, Sanar heard Niha: You were written into Prophecy. You must love him, or he will be judged unworthy of the Sildar.

Sanar's gaze fell to the Sildar, only a metre away, then up to Kyp, and finally back to Rafintair.

Kyp couldn't reach Rafintair in time.

But Sanar could.

She thought of her sister, mother, brother…and always of her father. She thought of her sister-fighters—of Jaina, struggling through the hero's path with too little fear and too much suffering; of Veras, whom Sanar had brought to her death; of Dejah, who had lost all faith; of Isra, who had become a stranger. She thought of Horaire, and the Jirs.

Sanar thought of waking up this morning, reaching out for someone she shouldn't miss. She thought of that one night, and this evening, the worst possible time for love's confession.

Jarran Klis tried to raise a fighter; for a long time after his death, he had left only a survivor. A liar, a prostitute, a murderer, a slave—and a selfish girl? There had been Clayra, true, but no one else for years. Not until another sister brought the survivor into her heart.

Jaina Solo had resurrected the fighter—and Kyp Durron, of all the people in all the worlds, had brought the finishing touches.

Not waiting for her survival first, maybe a few others later mentality to kick in, Sanar stood. She took one step and then another towards the Sildar and crouched next to it. Still just a metre away, Rafintair didn't even notice her as he crowed victory. Exactly as Sanar wanted it.

Somewhere, she could hear the Sildar beginning to panic; she ignored Its voices. Kyp must have heard them, though, because he froze and stared at her. She regretted that he had to watch.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING? the Sildar screeched.

She thought of something Kyp had told her: I love you. You don't have to say it. That's separate from Prophecy. But if, as the Kavishka, I need you, it doesn't have to be… I can't do this without you. You're a partner, not a strategy piece. She remembered his words, and Devnos' warnings, and Niha's proclamations, and the Strings' shudders, and she knew this was right.

DO NOT DARE TOUCH—

The corners of Sanar's lips lifted briefly as she blocked out the Sildar's voices. No one but the Kavishka was supposed to touch the Sildar. She had seen the consequences of it herself—death. Horrifying, damning death. Even Kyp was affected by the Sildar's mindless demand for vengeance.

Sanar didn't touch it.

Sanar Klis grabbed the Sildar with both hands, and swung it as hard as her strength would allow.