prompts:
- If the ocean can calm itself, so can you: we are both salt water mixed with air.
- Shipwreck
- Still Waters Run Deep
- "Why did you save me?"
Festus's latest pursuit of Allana ends in disaster.
(year TBD, though probably between 55 and 58 ABY; I imagine this AU branches off sometime after Forces of Gravity, but before In Dreams We Dwell, and possibly before the duel on Reialem)
.
Crash
.
Her first breath after the crash fills her lungs with fire.
The smoke is thick and blinding, and it burns, and she pulls the collar of her shirt up over her mouth as she crawls through the flames, skin blistering, fingers slipping against slick, slanted durasteel. Water rushes in to meet the inferno, and the only way out is up, the only way out is to keep going, keep climbing.
When she finally frees herself from the twisted carcass of the ship, she finds herself tumbling through the air, landing head and shoulders first in a warm, turbulent sea. She shuts her eyes against the sunlight glancing off the surface and the saltwater splashing in her face, and she coughs as some of that water makes its way into her throat— Force, she can't see, she can't breathe…
That's when she feels it: an arm around her torso, pulling her backward through the waves. She remembers the moments before the crash, how he pursued her, how their ships entered the atmosphere too close, trajectories overlapping in a blazing spiral. Before she can chase that thought any further, her feet scrape against sand, and the waves knock her about as he drags her toward the shore. "Stand up," he orders, and without considering whether she should obey, she struggles to extricate herself from his grip and stand on her own two legs.
Another wave crashes into her, nearly knocking her over, and she feels him wrap an arm around her waist as he drapes one of her arms over his shoulders. He all but carries her to the shore, and when they reach it, he deposits her on the sand and falls to his knees next to her.
"You're injured," he says after a long moment, his voice ragged and waterlogged – how can a voice be waterlogged, that doesn't even make sense – and his form partially blocks the sun as he looms over her. Panic blooms in her chest, and she tries to sit up and back away from him, only to collapse under the weight of a terrible, searing pain shooting through her left leg. She lets out a sharp cry and reaches for the source of that pain, and discovers a hand already pressed against her thigh.
"You're still bleeding," he tells her. "I need to see it."
She sucks in a breath between her teeth. "What?"
"The wound." His voice is absurdly steady, almost matter-of-fact. "I need to get a better look, to see how deep it is." He punctuates that sentence with a signifying tug on her pant leg.
Oh. Even in her heat- and smoke-addled brain, she experiences a moment of intense embarrassment and indignation and fear all rolled into one. It's not quite enough to override her more pressing survival instincts, but it's enough to make her groan as she nods and lays her head back against the sand.
The sound of ripping cloth reaches her ears, distinct from the crashing of the waves, and seconds later she feels the pressure of his hand again, squeezed tight around her inner thigh. She thinks distantly that no man has ever touched her there, and if she wasn't so fuzzy from the crash and nearly drowning and apparently losing blood, she'd have a lot more thoughts about that, just like she'd have a lot more thoughts about the fact that he's currently kneeling between her legs.
He slides his other hand up under her knee and lifts gently, maintaining pressure all the while with his other hand and propping her leg up against his side. She realizes he's attempting to elevate the wound. She tries to hold still, but even with him supporting her leg, she trembles from the effort.
"How bad is it?" Gods, her voice is shaking, too; there's too much energy bound up in her body.
"You missed the femoral artery," he answers, "so that's good."
She can't help the low moan that slips past her lips. "If it's good, then why can't— why can't I stop shaking?"
"Adrenaline. I can keep applying pressure, but we need to close the wound."
"There's a medkit in the ship—"
"Not an option now." He pauses, and she hears him take a deep breath. "Here, put your hand here." Sandy fingers grasp her left hand and draw it down to her thigh, where she can feel a damp scrap of cloth covering the gash. He holds her hand firmly in place. "Keep the pressure on; I'll make a bandage."
"With what?"
"With this." He steadies her leg against his body, and there's a tug and another rip, louder than before, as he tears off the rest of her pant leg at mid-thigh. The sun is still too bright to look for long, but she sees him hold up the dark material in his hands before tearing it into smaller strips.
"Great," she mutters, trying not to wince as he wraps the cloth around her leg and ties it in place. He repeats the motion with two more of the strips, nudging her hand out of the way as he does. She lets her arm flop onto the sand beside her, annoyingly aware of the blood coating her fingers and how each tiny granule sticks to it. She didn't think she'd be so eager to return to the water after what they went through, but now she can't wait to rinse off all the… everything.
"There," he says, and she senses him lean back on his heels, and hears him exhale loudly. "You should keep that elevated until it has a chance to close up more."
She realizes she's still trembling. Stupid adrenaline.
"I thought you wanted me dead," she blurts out. "What changed? Why—" She pauses to wet her lips, and tastes salt. "—why did you save me? Why would you do that?"
Amid the crashing waves and the blowing wind and the distant sounds of sea birds calling out to one another, she feels him go very, very still. "Would you rather I didn't?"
That eerie stillness and the edge of steel in his voice only makes him loom larger in her perception, makes his proximity all the more visceral and dangerous. It makes her wonder why he's still kneeling between her legs.
"Please move," she whispers.
He doesn't move, not at first; he just stares back at her, his mouth parting as if to say something. Then his gaze shifts down to her body, and without a word, he stands up and backs away from her, turning toward the water. He says something she can't hear.
"What?" She wants to slap herself for how feeble she sounds.
He looks over his shoulder, his expression inscrutable. "I said we should find some freshwater."
"We? I thought I was supposed to keep this elevated." She gestures toward her injured thigh.
"I meant me. I'll go. You stay here."
Alone? She doesn't dare voice it out loud, but the thought of him leaving her here is nearly as frightening as the thought of him staying.
"I got a look at the island before we crashed," he says. "It's not that big; I'll be back before dark."
She meets his eyes despite the white-hot glare, and he doesn't look away. Why are you doing this? she wants to ask again. What's your game?
Why don't you just kill me now?
He breaks eye contact, looking off toward the treeline. "You should try some of that Jedi healing while I'm gone."
She shakes her head. "I'm not a healer, I can't just…" Stars, why is she even bothering to explain? She doesn't owe him anything when he's the reason she's in this state. "Whatever. Just go."
He gives her the barest of nods and heads up the beach, leaving her there without so much as a parting word. She lays her head back and shuts her eyes, listening to the water lap against the shore as an insistent breeze kisses her skin. Breathe, she tells herself, and opens her mouth to obey that unspoken command. Those breaths are quick at first, but she forces herself to fill her lungs slowly, deeply, exhaling in a controlled and steady stream. With each repetition, her pulse slows, her muscles relax, her fear dissipates. It doesn't go away completely – she's not sure it can, as long as she's here with him – but it feels smaller now. More manageable.
Her leg is still throbbing, and she calls upon the Force to ease that pain, to bond the torn edges of her wound together enough to stem the bleeding. It's slow work, and not completely successful, but as she lies there under the blazing sun, listening to the hypnotic lull of the waves, a strange calm washes over her, a certainty that whatever happens, she will survive this. She won't let this be the end.
.