#lightweaver solidarity | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dragon-grunkle · 4 years

Text

impearl

So uh. This is the Jedi dragon story I keep mentioning. It’s uh, large. If anyone reads this the whole way through, I’ll probably cry, or something.

What do you need to know about Star Wars to understand this? Not a whole lot. If you know who the Jedi are you’re already halfway there. Get a quick synopsis of Order 66 and you should be set. There’s a lot of pearlcatcher lore worked into this, on the Flight Rising side of stuff.

Content Warnings: General Star Wars levels of violence, Order 66-related deaths, panic attacks, and repeated use of imagery relating to throwing up.

Final Word Count: 10,651

A snippet to hopefully catch interest:

She drifts.

Her dreams are chaotic and fragmented. She drowns in black tar, sinks in it, all the way up to her neck, all the way until her feet no longer touch the bottom, all the way until she's pulled under and it's like she's swimming in a sea of memories.

Her own memories. Those of others. Memories that have yet to be had.

Someone calls her name. No - not her name, Her name. Lightweaver.

She remembers things she'd thought lost. Sornieth. Sore-nee-eth. Her homeworld. Was that it? No, she...elsewhere. Flashes of light. Flashes of flight. Pearls...pearl-something. Pearl-eater? No. Pearlescent. Pearlite. Pearlize. Impearl.

Imperial.

She wakes.

For the past few months, she's heard whisperings around the temple. More and more apprentices are being knighted, and she thinks she might be next.

She's not ready. She's certain of it, but everyone else seems to think otherwise. Some of the newer knights - those she used to train with as younglings - clasp her on the shoulder as they pass by, a moment of solidarity in the tumbling chaos of war. But their eyes always hold something else within them, something that tastes like a warning. Even her master looks at her differently now, with eyes tinged with sadness, like every time he looks at her might be the very last time he sees her. It's unsettling, not the least of which because he has never seemed so attached to her before.

Many years ago he'd been preparing to become a temple guard. Something changed between then and now that ended with him at the rank of master rather than sentinel, but he'd never lost the sense of ultimate detachment he learned in those years. For as long as she'd known him, he held her at arm's length. She respected him, and he her in return, but she had always known he was not one to turn to for comfort. For that she could talk to fellow padawans and other masters, and he knew about this, but direct involvement in personal affairs was not his way, and so he stayed at a distance and kept it that way for as long as she'd been his apprentice.

It's never strained their relationship as master and padawan until now.

Now he's starting to say things like "I have nothing more to teach you," and "You have done well," and worst of all, "I am proud of you," and it's confusing her, it's getting in her head and she's certain he can feel it boiling off her but he won't say anything, never has and never will, but she can feel his sense of sorrow-regret-fear and she shouldn't, shouldn't be able to feel that from him not because she's incapable of sensing the emotions of others through the Force but because he has never made himself open to her like that, and it's scaring her and she hates it. The more she worries about it, the more often she wakes to little dribbles of blackened spit on her chin and tiny shards of glass in her pillow, so she takes to avoiding him, because she knows what's coming and she doesn't want to hear it, even if she doesn't want to know why she doesn't want to other than that it’s stressing her out and she's afraid that one day she won't wake up and they'll find her with midnight-colored gunk clogging her airway. But that's not the real reason and she knows it. It's about why she doesn't feel ready when she's trained for this her entire life, when there are younger knights than her running around right now saving the galaxy, why she feels incapable when -

She's not. She's not incapable. She knows that. She knows. Doesn’t she?

So why is she so afraid?

---

Everything changes on the eve of her twentieth birthday - or hatchday, as it were.

She feels her master reach out to her through the Force and hears him whisper, It is time, and a deep thread of panic needles its way through her gut, because she knows it's not time and she knows she's not ready and this isn't right.

At that exact moment, a great swell of horror-despair-pain lances through the Force, so overwhelming in its power that it causes her to double over and retch, oily black ooze crawling its way up her throat as it always does in moments like these. For a half second she thinks it's her own fear doing this. Then the static in her ears dissipates and she hears the sirens - and the screams.

Her head pounds and her jaw aches from how hard she's clenching it, and she needs to clean her face off or the substance will crystallize and she'll never be able to get it off, but she ignores all of it and forces herself up off her bunk and through the corridors, her feet taking her where she needs to go.

This morning she expected to be called to the High Council Chamber to be knighted. This is not that. As much as she's dreaded being knighted, she knows that this is much, much worse - whatever ‘this’ is. The closer she gets, the stronger the sense of dread becomes, until it feels like something is physically reaching inside of her and rending her organs by hand, and she has to stop and lean up against a wall to steady herself.

It's a good thing she does. A moment later a tidal wave of unfiltered terror comes crashing down on her and she sinks to her knees, wanting to mash her head into the wall beside her just to make it stop. But it's not her head - it's her heart that's twisting, and she can do nothing to stop it except grit her teeth harder, until she swears her fangs must be nothing but blunt little nubs, and that's when she sees him.

Up ahead around the bend - not far, but far enough that he doesn't see her - the Chamber doors slide open and a figure wrapped in black steps out. She feels acid in her throat at the sight of him, and at the despicable things she knows that blisteringly blue saber of his has done, and at the horror that this day has become. Suddenly she can't breathe, she's choking, this is it, her nightmare has come true and she's coughing up more black than she's ever seen before, black black black until it consumes her vision and -

Her arms fail her. They can no longer hold the weight of her body and her mind and her heart breaking all at once, and she collapses in a puddle of ink. The temple burns around her, but she wakes for none of it, feeling too much of everything for any physical sensation to reach her.

---

Sometime later she wakes, and night has fallen on Coruscant. It's as close to dark as this planet can approximate, which isn't very dark at all.

Her unease is so infinite that the pit of her stomach feels like it's fallen out from beneath her. She works her jaw and finds it sticky. If she doesn't get this gunk off soon her mouth will be sealed shut forever, and then she won't be able to ask what happened and she'll starve to death - if she isn't killed before then. The clones or the fire will reach her at some point, and she suspects it'll be the latter first, based on how warm it is in here and how cloying the smell of smoke is even now, after the worst of the flames have burnt out. Her hands are difficult to peel off the floor. From the consistency of the sludge coating them, she surmises she's been laying here for quite some time. A few hours, at least. The sleeves of her robes aren't clean at this point, but they're better than nothing, so she uses them to clean as much black off her mouth as she can. It's not great, but it'll do for now.

She's stalling and she knows it. Finally she forces herself to redirect her eyes from the cracked and burnt window she's been staring out of and back into the corridor where she'd collapsed, and swallows quietly, pinching her eyes shut almost as soon as they land.

There are bodies scattered around the chamber doors.

Masters, apprentices, younglings alike - all of them slain with the same brutal efficiency. She hopes that, if their deaths were inevitable, then they were at least quick.

She can't process it. All this loss - the sadness, the pure and unabating anguish that now taints the very temple itself - it's too much for her. She wants to go back to sleep, to wake up as if this were some horrific nightmare, but the slick burn of tar crawling up her throat forces her to acknowledge that it is not, that this is real and she cannot stay here, lest she would like to join the others with this hallway as her final resting place.

She considers it for a moment. Resting forever sounds nice.

It sounds like giving in.

She gets up.

---

She hadn't noticed it before, but somewhere along the way she must've twisted or sprained or even broken her ankle. It forces her to limp now, and maybe that's a good thing because it makes her move slow and cautious when all she wants to do is run, run, run until she can't anymore, but she needs to be careful if she wants to get out of here alive.

She's still considering if that's what she wants - to be alive. Is it worth it, now? Is it worth it at this point, with so many lost forever? Half of her thinks that she should let this place become her tomb, like it has for so many others. Her other half - the half from the waist down - disagrees, if the way her legs keep moving in spite of her mind and her pain is any indication.

She makes it two thirds of the way to the hangar bay before she comes across a single clone. He seems strangely mindless, wandering about bumping into walls like a headless tip-yip, and she knocks him out without hesitation, slamming him with a quick and judicious Force push. For a moment he hangs there, up against the wall, and she considers keeping him there just a little longer, just until his airway constricts and the light in him gives out, just to make sure he really won’t be coming back -

A bone-deep chill runs through her. It's not a physical sensation. Though it's something she's only experienced a few times before, the memory of what it does to a person is enough to shake her out of it and make her let go. A thin line of black spit drips onto the cool marble floor, and she pushes onward.

There are a few more clones patrolling the area, more awake than their wayward brother, but these too she dispatches with ease - except she doesn't manage to get the last one before he comms in for backup. She's surprised at how little resistance she's encountered so far, but she supposes the rest of them must've moved on, gone to find more Jedi to kill, and they'd left only a few to guard this now-forsaken place. They must've missed her in the thick of things, seen her lying prone on the ground and counted her among the dead.

It's the last turn before the hangar now, and she hears the uniform click-clack-clicking of trooper boots on their way.

A day ago, the sound wouldn’t have been anything worth noticing. It might even have been comforting - familiar, if nothing else. Now it signals her doom.

She slips out into the hangar and hides behind a metal support structure, counting the seconds until the troopers arrive. Her fingers brush against the hilt of her lightsaber hanging at her belt. The Force is in such disarray around her that she fears she may not be able to wield it effectively now.

Before, when she reached out with the Force, the temple blazed with life. When she does so now, all she feels is emptiness. There is still life if she reaches out beyond the temple walls, of course, but the Force doesn't flow with them as it does the Jedi. If the Force is as a river then the citizens of Coruscant are like stones sitting at the bottom: it flows through them, guides them, yes, but they have no say in the matter, and many never realize it is even happening. But inside the temple, the Force always eddied and twisted in different ways, creating subtly different currents with each individual Jedi. Now there is nothing. It's as if...no, the river is still there, it hasn't dried up. It feels stagnant, a polluted feeling clinging to its depths, but at the same time it is roiling under the surface, uneven with no one left to guide it.

Except her.

Except her, and the twenty or more clone troopers headed directly for her.

Their presence in the Force is muted at the best of times, as it is with all those who are not Force-sensitive. Doubly so for clones, who leave a signature so faint as to be almost unnoticeable when not actively sought out. Now the rock analogy is more fitting than ever; she can barely sense them at all, despite stretching her awareness as far as it'll go. It's hard to tell exactly how many are approaching like this, but it's a lot.

Twenty is more than she was expecting, and that's being optimistic. She can't take them all, and she curses herself for not moving further from the door when she had the chance. All the ships in the hangar are either gone or too badly ruined to be of use to her, but she could've at least used the opportunity to get a little further away. Except she didn't, and now the troopers are almost upon her. She doesn't need the Force to be able to locate them now; they're so close that she can hear them talking to one another.

She doesn't think about it. She knows this is going to give her position away, but she does it regardless, hoping that it might buy her some time. The golden blade of her lightsaber springs from its hilt. Immediately, the clones' chatter increases and their footsteps pick up, but only one blaster bolt makes it through the doorway before it slides shut, the mechanisms that hold it open failing. It won't be long before they blast through, though, so she wrenches the blade from the ruined access panel and begins to climb.

She has never flown under her own power before. Her wings are useless for full-on flight, but they're perfect for helping her climb up this support beam. A few pushes here and there help keep weight off her injured ankle, and occasionally she even hooks her thumb-claws into the beam and uses her wings to pull herself up. It looks frantic and uncoordinated, but it's efficient, and soon she's pulling herself up onto the catwalk. The ladder to this section has already been blown out, so the clones can't get to her here unless they climb. In theory, with the advantage of the high ground, she might be able to stop them before they ever reach her by cutting off their access point - but that’s in theory. The clones are far, far smarter than most people think. They're inventive, and will no doubt find a way to either get themselves up or get her down. They also almost certainly have backup, and she can't stay here for long. Whatever and whoever they send to catch her will no doubt be worse than clone troopers.

She races across the platform to where it connects to another, higher catwalk and begins to climb that too. There's a ladder this time, which she's grateful for in her ascent, but it can't stay. She takes the time to slash with her lightsaber before moving on.

And just in time, too - the clones have arrived. Had she not ignited her blade when she did, she might not have been able to deflect the first few bolts. Even with their minds numbed over like this, the clones are still terrifyingly accurate. As hard as she tries, she can't deflect all of them. A few of her redirects land solid hits, but eventually a lucky bolt catches her in the wing, scoring a hole straight through the membrane. She cries out and stumbles backwards, tripping over her own tail and landing directly on her injured foot. It crunches. If it wasn't broken before, it is now. Her lightsaber flies out of her hand too, tumbling off the catwalk onto the ground below, and a harsh jolt courses through her upon its landing. She can feel the crystal inside dislodge from its matrix. Even if she were to summon it back, it would be useless, and she doesn't have time to fix the alignment.

The clones are still shooting at her. Somehow, aside from the initial shot to the wing, she hasn't been struck yet, but that won't last forever. In fact, if she strains her ears - over the sound of blaster bolts screaming past, over her own breathing - she can hear the beeping of a detonator. She risks a look over the edge of the catwalk. Keeping herself as flat to the grating as possible isn't enough to prevent a stray bolt from singing her hair, but a quick glance is all she needs to confirm where they've planted the bomb: on the pillar directly below her.

---

It's a bad idea.

It's a horrible, idiotic, stupid idea, but what choice does she have?

When that beam blows out - and it will, she doesn't doubt that, it won't take much more than one good hit - she'll go crashing down with it. If the fall doesn't kill her, or the explosion doesn't catch her, the clones will. There's no guarantee that this won't kill her either, but it's the best chance she's got, and it'll at least take out a few troopers with her.

There's only a split second left before the detonator's timer runs out. A split second is all she needs. She pulls through the Force and slides her lightsaber over, right next to the pillar that she knows is about to explode.

The bomb goes off. The platform lurches and begins to lilt forward. Heat seeps upward through the corrugated metal grating she's sitting on, which becomes unbearably hot. Then the fireball abruptly turns inward on itself, and she knows what's coming. It worked. Her satisfaction is grim with the knowledge that this will be her downfall too.

It's difficult to stand on her one working foot, what with the way the platform is leaning, but she pushes herself up and braces. The explosion leaps out again, concentrated and amplified by the kyber crystal in her saber until it's a pure white wave of blistering heat that catches all the troopers below within its circumference.

It's more than she hoped for - and it's rushing towards her too.

---

Fly.

The voice startles her into action. Without hesitation, she snaps open her wings and leaps off the edge. For one horrible moment she sinks, feeling the air catch on that stupid new hole in her wing, and she wonders why he told her to jump. She wonders why she listened.

Then a scorching updraft catches her and rockets her forward and up, up and over the wreckage below. The speed is too much for her. At the last second, she manages to angle herself towards one of the open landing platforms, narrowly avoiding the wall. At first she thinks this is where she's going to have to land, but as she passes the threshold and shoots out into the open air, she realizes her momentum is too great and if she tries to angle herself down now, she'll crash and break even more bones than she already has. Her shoulders scream as she pulls against the wind, angling her wings so that the air catches under them more and sends her careening upward. She's used her wings to glide many times before, but never like this. Never so fast, so freely, so urgently. They are always a last resort, but never like this.

There's a whistling coming from her right. It's the hole in her wing. It's still searing with pain, especially now with the tension in her wings pulling it wider, but it'll hold. Probably, anyway. It's not as bad as her foot, at least, and it's not as bad as she thinks her back might be tomorrow - if she lives that long.

She risks one last glance behind her as she glides away from the temple, and her heart skips at the sight of it up in smoke. There is a distinct lack of speeders flying by. Were the citizens told to stay away, or did they feel it too? Did they feel the cold radiating off this structure even as it burned? Did they feel the pain, the terror, the rage and the suffering? Even someone as Force-sensitive as a rock must've felt something, she thinks, if it was strong enough to put her out like that.

Her glance turns into a look turns into staring, and it takes her a moment to realize the sensation of her stomach hollowing out isn't just because she feels like her soul has left her body but because she is quite literally falling, her left wing dipping down and her right angling up after spending too long looking behind her instead of watching where she's going. The wind no longer catches under her wings, and she's pitching down while panic rises in her throat, and she's about to fall into an active speeder lane and she has no idea what to do and -

Her body moves ahead of her sluggish, lagging, overtaxed mind. Her wings beat hard, either of their own accord or perhaps by instinct, at first frantic and trying too hard to compensate for her utter lack of a brain, and then too little as her thoughts catch up and she overcorrects. Finally she figures it out - exactly how often she needs to push her wings down in order to keep flying - flying, not gliding, flying - at the same height she is now. Every time she sinks far enough she gives a swift downstroke and levels out again. Counting the seconds between strokes gives her something to focus her mind on and she sinks into the rhythm of it, feeling down two three four five push and down two three... It's sloppy and she has no finer control over where she's going but oh - she never imagined her wings would take her anywhere but down.

It'd be exhilarating if not for the ominous sense of being watched that keeps her moving forward.

She's leveled out enough now that she thinks she can glide for a few minutes without having to use her wings again, but she's too exposed here, so she leans carefully to the left and pitches into a controlled turn that brings her wingtip less than a foot from the building beside her. Flying may be new to her, but gliding is not, and as long as she doesn't move her wings the controls are the same, so slipping under the cover of the building is easy for her. Fewer speeders can see her here, and well - how often do the drivers look where they're going anyway? How often do they expect to see a person flying alone, under their own power, passing silently above them? Never, that's how often. A few police speeders pass by, lights and sirens on. She holds her breath, but they don't see her either, obscured by the shadows of the night and the building's overhang.

By now the temple has disappeared into the distance, obscured by thick smog and endless highrises, and though she still sees the temple's image on billboards throughout the city, these don't make her start heaving midair like the sight of the real thing would do. Images are comfortably null in the Force, if still unpleasant to look at with the knowledge of what they represent.

She knows she can't count on it now, and soon the events of today are going to catch up to her and she'll probably break down and come back with black oil gumming up her maw, but for now she's starting to feel a glimmer of hope. For now, she lets her mind drift, feeling more than thinking what she needs to do to keep aloft. For now, she is safe.

---

It's not until she wakes up that she realizes she ever fell asleep.

And that she fell asleep while flying.

She doesn't remember if she crashed or if she glided to safety. Is she safe? Her brain registers information in pieces, and the last ones it picks up are what her senses tell her about the location. White. Sterile. Her nose catches bacta. Her ears sense monitors beeping. A droid, softly clicking and whirring. She's laying down in...a bed? Medbay. Hospital.

Hopefully they don't know who she is. News coverage of the event was scattered from what she could glean off the holoscreens she flew by, so she doesn't have a solid grasp on what the citizens of Coruscant do or don't know regarding the attack. If her identity, her chain code was scanned, then it could easily be looked up by - the Republic. The Republic could look her up and track her here and she'd be dead.

It's getting hard to breathe, and she does what she can to keep from coughing tar up onto the sheets until she sees the trash receptacle next to her bed. Her movements are clumsy and jerk at the line inserted at her elbow, which she hadn't even noticed before now, but she manages to grab the bin before her mouth inevitably opens and gunk spews out of her. Someone had wiped her face off before this, and she's undoing all their hard work. Pity.

It's a long minute before she stops, and the sides of the can are completely coated in sludge by the end of it. Her breaths come uneven and ragged. It's only after she lifts her head that she begins to notice other details about the room: the way the walls aren't perfectly white but have dirt and grime settled into the corners, the way the screen displaying her vitals fritzes out every few seconds, and the way the dented medical droid's wheel creaks every third turn as it approaches her.

"Are you alright?" it asks, pausing at the foot of the bed. It's carrying a tray with what she assumes is water and some ration bars.

No, she wants to say. I just watched my entire society burn, felt every single one of them die, betrayed by those we trusted, and I am being hunted. I am the furthest thing from alright.

She doesn't say it. "I'm better," she says instead, which seems true enough. Her back and shoulders are sore, as expected, but her foot doesn't feel like it's about to explode and her wing feels alright too. "Who are you?"

"I am PT-2901," the droid titters in response, dipping its head. She notes the slight bobble in its movement, like the axle there hasn't been greased for a long time. "You may call me Peetee." It wheels over to her and sets the tray down on the table beside her.

"Thanks...Peetee."

"You are welcome. May I ask who you are?"

Her jaw locks up. Her fingers tighten on the trash can, threatening to tear the plastic liner. How much do they already know?

She must be taking too long, because Peetee speaks up first, its voice a rough approximation of soothing. "That's alright. We don't need your true name. At least an alias, so that we have something to call you." It pauses. "And pronouns, please."

She relaxes slightly. That's...reassuring, maybe. Polite droids mean...well. It could mean anything. She's probably not in police custody, anyway. The few times she's come across them, police droids have been business-like and efficient, verging on rude, and leave no room for pleasantries. She's never met a police medical droid before, but she can imagine it'd be much the same with those as well; she's pretty sure they wouldn't ask for her pronouns.

She racks her brain, trying to think of an alias she can use that won't link her back to the Jedi. For a moment she considers using her master's name, but the second it gets entered in any system, they'll know who she is.

Unbidden, a moment returns to her.

---

She sat on her father's lap, huddled into his tunic. A loud boom echoed through the sky and shook the windows of their house. She shrieked and burrowed further into his clothes.

"Shhh, it's alright," he soothed. "Don't worry. The gods will protect us."

"Who are they?" she asked between sobs, too afraid to open her eyes.

"They are the Eleven. They watch over our world and protect it from all manner of evil."

"Eleven? That's so many."

"I know. Would you like to hear about just one for now?"

"Will it help?"

"I hope so."

"Okay."

Father began his tale. He told her of the Beginning, the First Age, and the nothing that was Before. He told her how the gods came to be, briefly touching on the names of the other ten before telling her about the one they serve - the one who granted them yellow eyes like the color of the sky at dawn, and magic like glistening sunlight.

He told her of the god's brilliant light, of Her shining courage in battle, of Her splendor and Her beauty. He told her about the Shade - not enough to frighten her, but enough to color the story - and likened the storm to it. Then he told her that after every storm, an arc holding every shade of Her light burst across the heavens, to remind them that She is still with them and watching over. He told her that Light always reigns supreme over the Darkness, and to always look for it even when all hope seems lost.

"Look," he said, and at first she thought he was still telling a story. Then he nudged her shoulder, and she turned to look out the window. The sky was still dark, but not as much as before, and the rain and thunder was abating. It was less frightening like this, especially now that she knew about Her.

At that very moment, things changed. Golden skies burst from behind gray clouds, revealing the sun in shades of orange and yellow, and just as Father said, a beam of light containing every color imaginable sprung forth, reaching from one end of the sky to the other.

She gasped and turned to face him. "Papa - it's Her! Just like you said, it's Her!"

He chuckled and nuzzled her fondly. "I know. Beautiful, isn't it? Just like you.

"My little Lightweaver..."

---

It's been a long time since she thought about this memory, one from before the temple. How many years has it been since she last thought of her father and the planet she came from? She doesn't remember its name now, if she ever knew it, and had never known his. He was always just Father to her. She barely even remembers what he looked like, just that he looked like her. She thinks he might have had golden hair, but she's not certain. It doesn't matter. What she does remember is the story, and it's enough to give her what she needs.

The name doesn’t translate well into Basic, so she does her best to approximate. "Sunspinner," she decides. "And uh. She and her, please."

Peetee dips its head again and wheels backwards towards the door. "Thank you. I will inform Kaaduu that you are awake. Please wait here, ma'am."

She doesn't get a chance to ask who Kaaduu is before it rolls out the exit. She'd assume a doctor, but why leave out the title if that's the case? Whoever it is, hopefully they'll let her go without trouble. As nice as it is that they've patched her up, she needs to be on the move again soon, and fighting her way out isn't an appealing prospect. Her bones itch beneath her skin, both from lingering pain and general unease. She reaches for the water and takes a sip. It helps with the acidic feeling biting at her throat, and then she registers that she's hungry too, so she eats one of the ration bars. It's as bland as it looks and a little stale, so she sips more water to help soften it. It still doesn't taste very good, but it does help, and by the time she's done she feels a little more settled.

There's a knocking at the door frame. It's open - was never closed to begin with - but the person waiting there waits for her to look at them before entering.

It's a trandoshan, with patterned orange scales and a simple white tunic. "Greetings, Sunspinner. I'm Kaaduu. They and them."

"Are you a doctor?"

Kaaduu shakes their head. "No. But I am a healer." As if sensing her next question before she says it, they add, "You're in our clinic on Level 4302."

Her eyes bug out. That...was almost a thousand levels down. How had she gotten here? Had she fallen this whole way? How had she survived? Had she been taken? What happened?

Out of nowhere, Kaaduu is at her side and gripping her hands, counting and telling her to breathe. She must've lost a few seconds. Black threatens to crawl up her throat again, and she fumbles for the bin. Predicting her needs, Kaaduu hands it to her. Though she doesn't hack anything up, the feeling still takes a minute to go away.

"Easy there. What happened, if you don't mind me asking? What level are you from?"

She weighs her options. If she gives away something Kaaduu doesn't already know, she could be turned over. They seem kind, but she can't afford to trust freely. "Farther up," she decides. "How did you find me?"

Kaaduu shakes their head. "I didn't. My assistant did. I sent him out to bring back supplies and he came back with you. He said he saw someone carrying you, but they disappeared. I can't make sense of it."

"...Can I speak to him? Your assistant."

Kaaduu nods and taps a button on their wrist gauntlet. A light flashes. Moments later, a young human boy, probably around thirteen or so, sticks his head around the corner. "You needed me?" he asks, holding up his wrist to show the matching light on his gauntlet.

"Yes. Vestan, this is Sunspinner. She was hoping to ask you some questions about how she got here."

"Oh. I...don't know how much help I'll be," he says, rubbing the back of his neck as he steps fully into the room. "I just...I turned a corner and there you were. There was...a figure. Almost glowing, kinda transparent. It's like they weren't really there. I blinked and they were gone. You looked hurt and you didn't wake up so I…" He motions with his arms, indicating that he'd picked her up and placed her on something - a transport cart. She could piece together the rest.

"Sorry. That's all there is to tell."

"Is that enough?" Kaaduu asks her. She nods and they dismiss the boy, who offers a sheepish grin and disappears around the corner again.

"So? Anything useful?"

Her silence is enough of an answer for Kaaduu. They press a button on their gauntlet and the door slides shut. She tenses momentarily, eyes automatically scanning for escape routes, but there are none.

"You're from - you're one of them, right? I can help you get out of here. Vestan still needs to pick up supplies tomorrow. There'll be a cargo ship leaving from the dockyards that you can slip aboard."

Startled, she furrows her brows. Kaaduu knows, and they're...helping her? She gapes at them. "Why?"

The trandoshan's eyes flick towards the door. "The boy. He's like you."

She reaches out - and immediately pulls back when she feels her presence brush up on another's. It's true. "But - why wasn't he…?"

They offer a wan smile. "The galaxy is large. Your Order is few. There are trillions of beings on this planet alone - is it really so unbelievable that one small child would slip past them?"

Elsewhere, maybe. On Coruscant, the very home of the Jedi, not so much. She tells them this. Kaaduu only shakes their head.

"It's my understanding that there are certain...requirements a child must meet to be trained as a Jedi," they say. "Age and ability, mostly, from what I've heard. Vestan...didn't meet those standards."

She can only look away. She remembers this from when the Jedi came for her. They tested her ability to lift a few stones, then told her to say goodbye to her father. Her response to that had been measured too. That was the last she ever saw of him, and the pain of leaving faded along with her memory of him.

Reminding herself to unclench her jaw, she looks at them. "How did you know?"

"Well, Vestan could tell, but he's a bit dense sometimes. I don't think he's realized exactly why it is he was drawn to you. As for me…" They gesture to her robes, which she belatedly realizes have been folded at the foot of her bed this entire time. Well - folded is a generous word for it. The nacre-coated sleeves are calcified and stiff to the point of being unbending; it's no wonder they took them off her. Instead she's dressed in a white cotton shirt and soft pants, not unlike what Kaaduu themself wears, which makes her think the clothes might belong to them. Special slits have been cut into the sides of the shirt for her wings - a courtesy she hadn’t been expecting.

"That and the whole…you know." They point to a spot by their cheek. Her hands trace a path to the corresponding spot on her own face. Fingers land in the fur lining her cheeks - and her padawan braid. Heat floods her face. How had she missed that? At least Kaaduu can't see her blushing, since her scales give nothing away.

They give her a warm smile and a light clap on the shoulder. She tenses again at the touch, but relaxes quicker this time, which Kaaduu seems to appreciate. "It's late. You should rest," they say. "There's a sink here if you need it. Fresher across the hall, but try not to get up if you can avoid it. You're quite dehydrated and we'd like to keep that drip in you if we can. Tap this button if you need help. Peetee will check on you through the night, but he won't wake you."

The door opens and closes, and then she's alone in the dark. To no one in particular, she says, "Thank you."

---

She drifts.

Her own memories. Those of others. Memories that have yet to be had.

Someone calls her name. No - not her name, Her name. Lightweaver.

Imperial.

She wakes.

---

The room is dim. She takes in long, gasping breaths, trying to remember what her master taught her about meditation and failing terribly. She thinks of Kaaduu and their technique, and fails at this too. She reaches for the water by her side, but her shaking hand hits the call button instead and knocks the glass over too, spilling water across the floor. It's enough to snap her out of it.

She's cursing her incompetence when the door opens, but it's not Kaaduu who enters. Vestan steps in instead.

"What's wrong? Are you okay?" he asks. Concern broadcasts off him like a generator. She clamps down on her connection to the Force, because she knows he doesn't realize he's even doing this and if she doesn't do something to stop feeling it so much it'll overwhelm her. To have this boy, this stranger feel so deeply concerned over her well-being - it's a lot, right now.

"I'm fine. Just hit the button on accident. Don't worry about it."

"If you say so," he says, unconvinced. He checks the monitor just long enough to know that her vitals are still okay, then moves to step out of the room, but he pauses in the entryway.

He crosses over to her in a few quick steps, places something soft in her lap, and backs off again. In the dark, she can't quite make out what it is. A plush toy, of a sort, but what creature it represents she can't tell.

"It's a bantha," Vestan says. "They're from Tatooine."

Maybe he's younger than she thought, if he still has one of these and carries it with him out of bed. It's clear that giving it to her was unplanned: an afterthought, but not one he regrets. Or maybe he just doesn't care what others his age would say about it. He's not embarrassed. In fact, he's very certain this will help her.

"Thank you," she says, unsure of what she's supposed to say to that.

"You're welcome," he says, and then disappears with the hallway light.

---

Somehow, the stuffed bantha helps. She wakes several more times throughout the night, plagued by disjointed dreams and visions, but every time she does she remembers the toy and clutches it until the lingering memories peter off and she can rest again. Each time, she's able to fall asleep again quicker. Sometimes Peetee is there when she wakes, sometimes not, but true to Kaaduu's word, he never interacts with her, and, crucially, he never mentions the toy either.

It's not very Jedi of her to allow a physical object to calm her like this. She should meditate or center herself or use any one of the multitude of techniques she's learned over the years to ground herself. Without fail, however, the Jedi methods don't work and she resorts to the bantha every time.

As long as she doesn't think about why that is, it's fine. She can allow herself one night of lapsing. If it helps her sleep and recover, it's fine.

It's fine. It's not, but it's fine.

At some point, she wakes and doesn't fall back asleep. She stares into the darkness, fingers falling into the repetitive motion of stroking the bantha's synthetic fur, until she registers that the room is gradually getting brighter. Simulated sunrise, she thinks. Does it match with the actual time on Coruscant, or is it the middle of the night on the surface? Down here, without any viewscreens of the surface, she'd never know, and it wouldn't matter. Coruscant never sleeps; there's always someone awake.

After some time of doing this - sitting and watching the lights turn on - Peetee rolls in and announces that it is oh-six hundred hours. He informs her that Kaaduu will be by shortly, and that she and Vestan will need to leave at seven if she wants to catch that cargo ship. Maybe it is morning after all. He gives her a tray with fresh water and a nutrient packet this time, instead of the ration bars, and then retreats, allowing her to eat in private.

The nutrient packet is somewhat better than the ration bars. At least the soupy mash inside isn't dry, and it tastes like something too, even if that something is only the vaguest hint of imitation meiloorun. It's still disgusting though, and she chases it down with water.

After, Kaaduu enters, holding a cloth bag. "This is for you. It's got some ration bars and extra clothes, plus a few other things. Toiletries, for the most part." They pause and glance to the door. It seems they don't want Vestan listening in. They continue in a quieter voice. "There's a blaster at the bottom. It's not very powerful and it doesn't have many charges, but it should get you out of a tight spot. There's a knife too just in case."

In spite of the fact that she just drank a full glass of water, her mouth runs dry. This is too much kindness. "How can I repay you?" she asks, knowing full well that she has nothing to offer.

"You don't need to. Just stay safe. You'll be off in a few minutes. Stay sharp," they say.

---

She could just untie it.

She could wet it down, comb it out with her fingers and make it lie somewhat flat with the rest of her hair. That would be easier, she thinks, than getting rid of it entirely. But she digs the knife out of the bag anyway and holds it as close to her cheek as she dares. It's going to look uneven, but it's for the best. This way, she won't be tempted to rebraid it, and no one will see the telltale signs of where it had been either. True, she could braid another section, after she's safe, but she won't. It wouldn't be right. Not that this is either - she hasn't been knighted, still doesn't feel ready to be, but her master is dead along with everyone else, and that's reason enough for her to do this. There's no one left to knight her even if that's what she wanted - which it isn't. She just can't bear the thought of being a padawan still. Not after everything.

Before she can doubt herself any further, she yanks. The knife slides through her hair like bantha butter, and the braid rests in her hand.

She shoves it into the trash receptacle, the sides of which are now encrusted with shimmering opalescence, and drowns it under a fresh layer of tar.

---

She takes the pistol out of the bag before they leave and tucks it inside her robes, which remain at the end of the bed.

It's hard for her to leave the clothing behind, but she has to do it in order to retain her anonymity. Giving up parts of her Jedi identity is a necessity at this point, like removing the braid. That, at least, is easy to rationalize, even if her doubts about the way she went about doing it are resurfacing.

The blaster causes much less internal strife. Although she appreciates the thought, it isn't something she's willing to compromise on. With no lightsaber and only a knife to defend herself, it would be a good idea to take it, but... she's already given up enough of herself today.

Renouncing the Jedi entirely is not something she intends to do.

The weapon stays at the clinic on Level 4302.

---

It’s a long way up to the docking bay. A lift takes them most of the way there, and when they arrive, it’s nearly empty. No one asks why the tiny medical clinic a thousand levels down has an extra helper today. Vestan tells her that they do this fairly often - find strangers in need of a way out, take them in, and send them on their way in the back of a cargo freighter. He says they never get caught, youthful idealism making him certain, but he has no way of knowing what happens once the ships leave. She tries not to let it bother her.

They enter and exit several times with various supply crates, and on the last trip she just...doesn't come back out. Vestan is long gone by the time the ramp closes, and no one bothered to interact with them earlier, so the crew is none the wiser that she didn't leave with him. She hides behind some other crates, but no one comes to check.

She has no idea where this freighter is headed and she doesn't care so long as it's not here. After a long while, the ship lurches and moves into orbit, awaiting permission to leave. It's as if nothing has happened for these people - which she supposes is true. Like Kaaduu said, the Jedi numbered in the mere thousands compared to the trillions who inhabit this planet alone, and the chances that the events of yesterday have affected this cargo pilot in any tangible way are slim. Another indeterminate period of time passes - shorter than the first, but still long enough to set her on edge - and then the world lurches, the telltale jerk of a ship entering hyperspace.

At last.

At last she's on her way out of this nightmare.

At last her memories catch up to her mind, and she breaks.

She keeps her sobbing as quiet as she can. It's a good thing she's had practice. Occasionally a sound slips out, but it's always masked by the sound of crates shifting in the hull, and isn't enough to draw anyone out of the crew compartment.

She's crying and she can't stop. There's no stuffed bantha to sink her fingers in. Kaaduu isn't here to steady her breathing. Her master can't distract her with training exercises. There's no end in sight. Not to her tears, not to her sorrow, not to this horrible awful insane sequence of events. It's still happening and she can do nothing, has no say in any of it, and she has never felt more incapable in her life.

Feeling incapable is nothing new to her. Feeling it to this degree is - unusual.

If she was faster, she could've protected the younglings. If she'd paid more attention, she could've reached her master, wherever he was. If she was smarter, she could've thought of a better way out of the Temple. If she was better, she could've stopped herself from even thinking about choking that clone to death. If she was stronger, she could've…

Could've what?

Done something. Done anything.

She's weak. She's incapable. She'll get caught. She'll be turned in for the bounty she knows is on her head and that of every other Jedi who escaped. She'll be tortured and imprisoned and killed and there'll be nothing she can do because she's a slow, absentminded, stupid little wretch.

No wonder her master never told her he was proud of her. Why would he be? He must've been embarrassed to have such a terrible padawan. Except for that one time that he did say he was proud of her, which must've been a mistake.

To think - Master Kanda Ibora, bastion of Jedi non-attachment principles, who walked the line between sentinel and soldier, and his disappointing little padawan who let physical items soothe her to sleep. She cries harder at that, at the thought that she's letting him down and breaking all of his expectations. All the lessons, the training, the wisdom he'd impressed upon her - wasted on her worthless, incompetent brain.

Her throat burns.

A sharp wedge of anxiety drives itself into her stomach. If she leaks black sludge now, it will get everywhere. The pilots and workers will see when they land and look for the cause. They’ll be able to track her. She thinks about getting up and finding someplace to dump it - an empty crate, perhaps - but her legs are too weak to stand and she's too scared to leave her hiding place. She considers the bag. It's cloth. It will leak, and the rest of her things, the very nice things she was gifted, will be ruined. There's nowhere else. She's out of options and out of time.

She tries to swallow it down, as she has many times before, knowing that it won't work, that it has never worked before, and yet still hoping that it will this time.

The oil recedes. Her head spins. She's never been able to swallow it before. Why now? She pants hard. Her head spins. The ship spins. Are they spinning? No. Her eyes. Her eyes are spinning in their sockets. Her head spins.

She closes her eyes.

---

Okeli.

Master?

Yes.

I'm sorry.

What for?

Everything.

Why?

I wasn't enough.

Then I am the one who is sorry.

But...why?

Because it was never my intention to make you feel that you are not enough.

No - no you didn't, you didn't, it's me, it's my fault, you didn't -

But I did.

Not on purpose!

No. Never. But I did, and I am sorry.

No, no no no no, it's not - you shouldn't - I can't -

Be at ease, young one. You did exactly as you were supposed to. What more could any of us have done?

Something. Anything.

You survived. That is enough.

I lost my lightsaber. I lost you. I lost - everything.

As did we all. But you gained something as well. You flew.

I...yes. I did.

So fly now, and make your own way.

I don't want to forget what you taught me.

You will not. But...my apprentice, some of what I taught you...some of it was not right.

You taught me to be a Jedi.

I did. But I also taught you that you could not rely on me. That you were inadequate, that you were unprepared, that you were too sentimental. Intentionally or not, that is what I taught you: if not through lessons, then through my words and actions. If anything, padawan, it is I who was not enough.

You were, though. Enough, I mean.

And I am proud of you.

You mean that?

Always.

Thank you, Master.

And thank you, apprentice, for teaching me as well.

Me? What could I have taught you?

…

Master?

…

...Master…?

---

The ship exits hyperspace, and she wakes.

The world around her shifts from the strange weightless not-weightless moving not-moving half-state of hyperspace to the sudden realness of actual space. Traveling through the inertia of not-quite-reality always makes her feel off-kilter. She doesn't remember the dream encounter at first; having to adjust muddles her already fatigued mind, and as she wakes, splinters of a conversation start to return.

Master -

...but survive...

So fly now...

...own way - enough -

She rubs at her aching skull, at a pressure point just behind her eyes. Remembering is...difficult, but not impossible. It just takes time. It will come to her, as it always does, but not right away.

They're still flying, approaching orbit. That means there should be plenty of time to adjust and prepare for her escape before they descend into the atmosphere. She reaches over to double-check her bag and stops with her hand hovering over the strap.

Force visions always end with her waking in a puddle of sticky black dribble. One as intense as that should've left a veritable ocean of mire beneath her, coating every nearby surface and all her limbs. But her fingers aren't stained with black - there's not a hint of it anywhere. Her matte brown scales are as clean as ever. With her other hand, she reaches up and feels at her face. Nothing there either, not even a little bit speckling her mouth.

A second realization hits her. Usually she has trouble breathing afterwards, a thick syrupy feeling preventing her from getting enough air. There's a prickling sensation at the back of her throat, but it's dry as bone, and breathing is easy.

The prickling increases as she focuses on it. Something - something is stuck there, lodged in her windpipe like a bad piece of food, like a - a croaker in her throat, where had she heard that expression before? Not the Jedi. Not Coruscant. Nowhere she's familiar with - anymore, at least. The prickling turns into stinging turns into biting and tearing and stabbing. Her throat feels like it's being ripped apart from the inside out. Whatever it is that's stuck there, she needs to get it out now, it hurts so much. It's burning, it's burning and she wants to cough, but if she does she'll alert the crew.

Her heart races. Tears obscure her vision. As quietly as she can, she tries clearing her throat, and the object inside her moves the tiniest bit. The pain abates just a pinch. Little by little, bit by bit, she repeats the process. Over and over again she flexes her throat and coughs into her hand and huffs and pants and it's exhausting her, but she has to do it to get it out. It's almost loose, almost unstuck.

One final push and it's free. Her throat feels raw but it's done. It rests on her tongue now, a tiny sharp object she estimates is just over two inches long. She's careful to breathe through her nose so she doesn't inhale it by accident and start the whole thing over again. Its edges are uneven and the ends of it sharp enough to draw blood when she probes it with her tongue. She's shaking still, and afraid to draw it out of her mouth.

What is it? How did it end up in her throat? She'd trusted Kaaduu, hadn't noticed anything unusual in the ration bars, but what if they'd slipped something in her while she was asleep? No, impossible. She feels guilty for thinking it. And anyway, this item is rough and definitely not man-made. Her best guess is that it's a piece of debris she swallowed somehow - maybe when she fell from the sky.

It's not debris. Whatever it is, it's more significant than that. She tries to convince herself otherwise and, as usual, fails.

Her curiosity overcomes her trepidation. She reaches up and takes the item from her mouth.

---

In her hand rests a crystal.

A thousand pastel colors dance inside the vaguely oblong, opaque white stone as she turns it over in her hand, letting its edges catch the low light of the cargo hold. It is beautiful, but she knows what it is. Something cold and dreadful sinks into her gut.

It's not just that it's the same material the black gunk she hacks up hardens into. Worse is the fact that it sings to her.

It calls to her through the Force, a million moments of her life sealed within the gemstone before her. How long has it been in her throat, incubating like some sort of memory parasite? Except it's not that, it's not a parasite, it's her and it's the Force and it's everything she's ever known or will know. It's the culmination of all her knowledge and experiences, up to and beyond the events of the last twenty-four hours. It resonates with her in a way that her previous kyber crystal never did, like it's a part of her very soul.

Maybe it is.

Her whole life, she's never known what the stuff her body produces after intense emotions is. Multiple doctors have looked into it, both Force-sensitive and not, and none of them had any insight on the matter. Without knowing more about her species, they couldn't be certain if this was a defect or something typical for all of them. Some theorized it was a defense mechanism. Others said it was a holdover from those days long past, in which her species might’ve built nests by hand. Whatever the case, they all concluded that she produced it naturally, and that it wasn't harmful outside of some mild discomfort and the mess it made. Officially, it was entered as a chronic condition in her medical files, so that whoever treated her knew what to expect.

Her whole life, she's simply dealt with it, preferring to ignore it where she can and move past it when she can't. Sometimes she goes months without incident, if she's lucky, but it always comes back and she always wipes it up and moves on.

This time is different. This isn't something she can just pretend doesn't exist. She doesn't want it, but she can't get rid of it either. She sighs and slips it into her pocket for safekeeping.

It's over. All she can do now is wait for the ship to land.

---

Getting out is simple compared to the way the last few days have gone. It's almost too easy to slip past the dockworkers and crewmen, but she's not about to look a gift fathier in the mouth. Some other catastrophe will come her way soon, she's sure of it, so she'll take what little reprieve she can get.

The area is bustling, and going unnoticed among the crowd is easy too. A civilian transport lands at the same time as the freighter, so all she has to do is pretend to be awestruck and she fits right in. It isn't hard - from what she sees already, the planet is breathtaking. Two celestial objects hung overhead when she emerged from the dim interior of the ship; the smaller of the two is setting now, casting odd double-angled shadows drenched in orange and pink across the shipyards. She learns from listening to chatter that this system is called Ubasi III, that it is a popular tourist destination in the winter, and that the second object is a moon rather than a sun, as most of the tourists assume. It catches the light of the real star so strongly that its name in the native tongue of this world means 'little sun'. It reminds her of what her father used to call her - his Little Lightweaver.

Acting on impulse, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out the crystal. Pulling it out in the middle of a crowd feels almost sacrilegious, now that the overwhelming wrongness of the initial discovery has faded and she understands a little better what this is. She doesn’t dwell on it. Overall she feels better, lighter, and that extends to this strange little gemstone she's somehow created. That feeling won't last, she knows - she's expecting ups and downs, but for now she can honestly say she's doing alright.

She holds it up to the sky, so that it reflects and refracts the golden light of the little sun as it sets. Infinite colors spring from the crystal's heart, a miniature self-contained prism. It's just like he said: after every storm, a rainbow.

A devaronian man approaches her, interrupting her musings. Ornate silver rings encircle his hand-shaped horns, matching the delicate filigree interwoven between the fibers of his silken robes. "That gemstone is exquisite," he marvels, "How much for it, miss?"

She laughs. "For this? You could never afford it."

The sharpness of the words leaving her mouth startle her, but it's true. Nothing could convince her to hand this over - not wealth or weapons or worlds. He's affronted, looking her up and down and scowling at her peasant's clothing. All it does is make her laugh harder, until she's almost doubled over and interrupting the foot traffic around them. The man scoffs and moves on, muttering something in another language that she's pretty sure is meant to insult her intelligence.

It's not funny. It isn't. But the idea of someone offering her riches in exchange for something she coughed up after a panic attack and a conversation with a ghost, something that is all but worthless to anyone who isn't her - it's funny. After everything, she needs this.

Breathing comes easier than it has in months - years - after she finishes laughing. She can't remember the last time she found something this amusing.

Her back still aches. Her ankle still twinges with every step she takes. She can feel a strange breeze that wasn't there before through the new hole in her wing. She's still hollow inside, but she feels less lost - less like she's stumbling.

She flexes her wings. Feels the warmth of the sunlight, breathes the freshness of unfiltered air. It smells - well, terrible, but real. She feels real.

Finally, she feels ready.

#flight rising #star wars #fr lore #my writing #flight rising lore #rip i had to go back and add all the italics by hand because they didn't transfer over #uhhhhh guess i'm establishing a writing tag now uhhhh i'll make it uhhhhh #stanley writes stuff #stanley's lore #stan clan #okeli #PLEASE if you have questions abt anything going on here ask me i will talk your ear off about this #again if anyone even so much as reads the first paragraph i will be happy. if you read it all i will be supremely honored #i PROMISE you this is cool and interesting please to the three people who look at my star wars brainrot posts. you should read this #please excuse the boring title i could not for the life of me think of anything fitting so #also i'll mirror this to ao3 in case it's easier to read on that site but i have to wait for an invite to get signed up n whatnot #OKAY okay. i will stop talking now

15 notes · View notes

spiteweaver · 7 years

Photo

previous | first | next

No.

This couldn’t be happening. No matter how real it felt, the thrum of magic in the air, the heat of sunlight on his skin, the hammering of his heart inside his chest, it couldn’t be happening. It was a terrible dream, and he would wake up from it soon, to his beautiful mate, smiling and reassuring him that all was well.

No.

No, no, no, no--

“Banrai!”

“No!”

“Banrai, stop! There’s nothing you can do for him now!”

“Let go of me!”

Banrai shifted in a flash of light, and Solaire, small even in his draconic form, could do nothing to stop him. The Ridgeback charged forward with reckless abandon, spines flared, head lowered.

Abaddon appeared before him, all glistening thistle scales and bristling obsidian fur. They collided. Abaddon held firm, his feet shifting only slightly under Banrai’s ferocious thrashing. “Do you want to die?!” he bellowed. “Do you want Dreamweaver to come home to a dead husband?!”

“Do I want them to come home to a dead son?!” Banrai replied. “That’s my son--our son! That’s our boy in there! Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same for Junior! Let me go! Please, Abaddon!”

“I won’t!”

“Then you’re killing him!”

“If I let you go, I’ll be killing you as well!”

They clashed. Claws raked skin and scale. Teeth tore into thick hide. Dark blood spattered the ground. “Pull them apart!” someone cried. “For Lightweaver’s sake, pull them apart!”

Banrai went down, his fall shaking the earth beneath him. Abaddon’s foot rested upon his neck. They were both battered, missing great chunks of flesh and armor, but Abaddon more so. “You need to think rationally,” he said. “Banrai, you cannot endanger yourself. Your clan needs you. That’s what it means to be a leader.”

“What would you know?” Banrai spat. “You were a warlord. You were a coward. Your people hated you.”

Abaddon didn’t flinch. If the remark cut him deeply, it didn’t show on his face. He pressed his foot down more firmly. “You need not remind me,” he said, “I was there. Still, I learned a thing or two, both from my own mistakes and from your mate. They would never forgive me if I let you go in there.”

“I’ll never forgive you if you don’t!”

“So be it. I would rather you be alive and bitter than dead.”

A shadow passed by overhead. Abaddon glanced upward, and caught a glimpse of orchid against the pure blue of the sky. “Dreamweaver has returned,” he informed. “Don’t let them see you like this.”

Abaddon removed his foot. Slowly, his stomach churning, Banrai pulled his immense body upright. The two shared a look, fierce and charged with a maelstrom of emotions, before Banrai’s eyes softened and filled with tears. Abaddon said nothing, only pressed his cheek against his old friend’s in quiet solidarity.

Dreamweaver alighted before them. Neither was proficient at reading auras, but they could feel the panic in Dreamweaver’s, so palpable and raw was it. “What happened?” they asked. “Banrai, Abaddon--you’re both in shambles.”

“It’s nothing,” Abaddon assured. “Dreamweaver, Phantasos is inside.”

Dreamweaver stumbled, and Banrai rushed forward to support them. They fell limply against his side, heaving enormous, labored breaths as they tried to collect themself. “My--my boy--my boy is in--you let him go--you--”

“No one ‘let him,’” Abaddon said. “He went before we could stop him.”

“It’s my fault,” Banrai murmured. He nudged his mate’s neck gently, pleadingly. “It’s my fault, Dreamy. I should have been watching him. I knew he wanted to act, but I was so concerned with Crucis and the village that I--I took my eyes off of him. I should have never.”

Their gazes met. Banrai cringed. There was sorrow unlike any he had ever witnessed in his mate’s eyes. Dreamweaver reached for him, cupping his cheeks with their clawed hands. “At least,” they said, “you are safe.”

Then they were inconsolable.

“I can go in after him,” Holloway offered.

“You barely made it out the first time,” Solaire said.

“We...” Banrai clenched his jaw. “We won’t ask that of you again, Holloway. You’ve already risked your life once.”

“It’s Phantasos,” Holloway said. “He’s worth risking my life a second time.”

“I’ll go,” Dreamweaver sobbed, “please, let me go after him.”

“Absolutely not,” Abaddon said. “You are the Lightweaver’s most trusted acolyte. The Arcane element is rising over yours--and you are more in-tune with it than any of us. Even being this near to an unchecked piece of the Seat could have severe consequences.”

“However, something must be done,” Solaire conceded. “We cannot let the celestine spread any further.”

“Junior and I rounded up the Arcanites we could find,” Abaddon said. “He’s certain they can contain it, at least until Lutia can come sort it out--but getting Phantasos out is another matter entirely.”

“Why did he go in?” Holloway clucked his tongue. “Foolish boy, what does he think he’s going to do?”

“He thinks he can dispel it, I suppose,” Banrai replied. “He thinks--”

“Gods, I did this!” Dreamweaver wailed. “He thinks he’s me, is what he thinks! I have to go after him!”

“You--will--die,” Abaddon repeated. “Did I not make that clear enough for you?”

“I’m the oldest, most powerful being in this godsforsaken land!” Dreamweaver argued. “If anyone can get him out, it’s me!”

“It’s not about age and power,” Abaddon insisted, “it’s about elemental alignments! I’m no magic-worker, but even I know that! Just because you’re a damned demigod doesn’t mean you’re invincible!”

“Then who is going to save my son?!”

“Quiet.” Solaire held up a hand. “Did you lads hear that? Sounded like thunder.”

“Now there’s a storm on the way too?” Holloway groaned. “The gods of this realm are cruel, aren’t they?”

“I said it sounded like thunder,” Solaire said, “not that it was. I think--I think it came from--”

Suddenly, all around them, there was a horrible cacophony. The colony seemed to shriek in anguish as great chunks of it fell to the earth, shattering and dissipating into fine dust. Holloway gathered his wits and scrambled forward, guiding what he could of it into his jar. The crystal pulsed once, twice, thrice...

Everything went silent.

...

Light.

Warm, and golden, and full.

It bathed Observatory Hill in a chaste glow, brighter than the sun and yet somehow as soft as a candle’s flame. Dreamweaver’s magic responded to it, their eyes glowing, their hair unfurling around them as they shifted forms, mapping out distant stars and galaxies without names.

“It’s him,” they breathed. “It’s Phantasos.”

As the group watched, awe-struck with mouths agape, the pink celestine encasing the observatory turned pale yellow, the color of Dreamweaver’s magic, pulsed one final time, and shattered.

“What’s happened?” Solaire asked. “I’m blind, you know?”

“Get back!” Holloway called. “Everyone get back!”

A cloud of glittering gold shrouded the hill, forcing onlookers down to its base. Dreamweaver had to be pulled away, their shrieks ringing in their people’s ears, “He’s alive! Let me go to him, he’s alive!”

Even as the dust settled, they were screaming their son’s name.

In the silence that followed, they received a weak, wavering response.

“Dede?”

Phantasos appeared at the crest of the hill. His eyes were a swirl of nebulae and comets, his hands still glowing white hot with the power he had unleashed. Finally, Abaddon released Dreamweaver, and they raced forward, tripping, crawling at some points, in their desperation to reach their son. When they did, they hugged him to them fiercely and wept openly into his shoulder.

“You’re alive,” they croaked. “You’re alive.”

“I’m sorry, dede,” Phantasos said. “I didn’t mean to worry you, but--but you were away, and Lutia wasn’t here, and Crucis was wrapped up in crystal, and I couldn’t let the village--”

“I’m going to kill you,” Dreamweaver whispered.

“I know, dede.”

“Phantasos...” The young heir flinched at the sound of his father’s voice, and, timidly, met his gaze. Banrai did not scold him. Instead, he pressed his massive forehead to his son’s and wept as Dreamweaver did. “I’m also going to kill you,” he said.

“I know, da.”

“How did he...?” Holloway pointed to the observatory, now pristine as it once had been, though covered in a thin dusting of crystal remnants. “How...?” Then he pointed to Phantasos, mouth still hanging open. “What--in what world is he capable of--this shouldn’t be--how did he do that?!”

“He’s his parents’ son,” Abaddon said simply. “Looks like we all underestimated him.”

“Jolly good!” Solaire exclaimed. “Jolly good, boy! Fine show, I’m sorry I couldn’t bear witness to it!”

“Honestly, I...” Phantasos stared down at his own hands. “I don’t know how I did it. I don’t even know what I did. I just--I just did it.”

“That’s magic for you,” Abaddon said. “Arcanites have got it down to a science, but most of us--well, we just do whatever feels right, and it tends to work out well enough.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Dreamweaver pleaded. “I think we’ve all had enough magic for one day. Oh, my baby boy...”

“I’m all right, dede,” Phantasos said. “I feel fine. I feel really good, actually.”

“You’re going straight to Aphaster lands,” Dreamweaver informed, “and getting a thorough check-up! I won’t be able to rest until I know you’re healthy and completely in-tact!”

“Oh good.” Phantasos grinned. “I can see the Seat.”

Dreamweaver started to yell at him, call him reckless and foolish and stupid--but they were so relieved that they could see his smug little face once more that they could manage nothing but a tearful smile of their own.

#flight rising #fr #zach writes #clan feldspar #feldspar lore #chapter: heart of darkness #c: phantasos #c: dreamweaver #c: banrai

15 notes · View notes