Everything that I love turns to smoke // It billows out from nothing
Title: Has Turned to Smoke
Characters: Brianna, Mira, Visas Marr, Mical, and Atton Rand
'Verse: Knights of the Old Republic
Rating: PG-13
Brianna searches through the holovids that Atris had kept collected. She's not looking for anything in particular, just anything she can bring back to the rest of the Council as they begin to rebuild themselves. Her fingers dance lightly over datapads and artifacts. Some are old, broken.
In a way, she thinks that she can feel Atris through them, and through the Force. In the end, regardless of how far her mistress had fallen, Atris had loved what she did.
And Brianna would, too.
She pauses in her work, blue eyes darting to the side. She can see her sisters from this position as they work, and she looks down. Do they dislike her, she wonders? Her grasp on the Force isn't like Meetra's, and though she can feel, searching her sisters for their emotions feels like a betrayal of who they are, and she has already betrayed them enough, she realizes.
For a mere second, her shoulders fall.
The Handmaiden wishes that the Exile was still here, to help her. To help them.
It's so sudden, that she doesn't realize it at first. She's holding an old Jedi holocron in her hands, turning it over in her hands before her knees give out. They strike the ground beneath her, and her body jolts. The holocron rolls away with a clatter as her hands press hard into the ground, as though she were attempting to push it.
Her screams echo in the chamber, and even she can recognize the anguish and pain behind it.
Her sisters come running.
-
Blue highlights the faces of the children staring in awe at the woman wielding the lightsaber. It's a demonstration she's been pushed into, but Mira can't deny that it's a little fun to see them looking at her with respect rather than in fear or as a piece of meat.
The latter, though, was only because Mical had insisted she at least wear robes when instructing.
That had been an interesting battle.
She smiles at the group, so young and different from herself at that age.
“Now remember-”
An intense pain burns through her back, and she gasps, stumbles, the lightsaber falling from her hands. It disengages upon impact, but she still thrusts the closest children back into the row behind them with the Force.
“No!” It can't be.
It can't.
She reaches and pushes and pulls, but there's nothing. No one is there on the other end.
Mira isn't a big fan of emotion in public, but she holds herself and cries right then.
-
Visas bows her head.
The words are on the tip of her tongue, but she can't begin to whisper them.
Instead, she listens to the Force, the quiet calm that flows around her, and mourns the loss of the far-off echo that used to reside inside of her. Now there's only the wound that remains from the loss of Katarr.
All the Miraluka had wanted to do was protect her, gladly put her life on the line in the way she had done for them.
Her feet move with no set goal, but when she finds herself in a hangar bay, she realizes what it is that she must do now.
She rents a ship and inputs the coordinates for Katarr.
“My life for yours,” she whispers on the surface of her home planet before finally seeing what it is that she's meant to see.
-
Mical left the Order once, when she had disappeared. He stares at a wall, body shaking as he feels the immediate cutting of ties between himself and the woman destined to be his master. His eyes close. His heart is broken, yes, but there's something more. He mourns her loss for this new Order.
It was always her meant to lead them, he believes, meant to bring the Jedi back.
A smile twitches to life on his lips, sad and broken.
And maybe she had always known she would continue to defy the natural order of things. Yes, that was it.
Meetra was not a normal woman, but one of extraordinary wonders.
His sight is blurry when his eyes open again, sensing the other presence in the room.
The bounty hunter stomps her way up to him, seething as her fists slam into the table, denting it. He can see that she's been crying, her eyes rimmed red and puffy, dried tears still clinging to her cheeks.
“Tell me I'm wrong!”
Mical takes Mira's hands in his own.
“You are not wrong. We will get through this, Mira. She chose us to do what could not.”
“Because that makes it so much better, Mical.” She rips her hands away from his, snarling.
“Nothing can make our loss better, but we can be better for it,” he whispers, taking her hands again.
“How?”
“By doing what she would have wanted us to do.”
-
He should have insisted on going. But no. She had to take that droid with her, the one who laughed at him and stole his-their-ship. He wonders if that little thief tried to help her at all, and he knows that's a stupid thing to wonder. Of course the metal beast did. T3 loved her in the same way that they had all loved her.
He tosses back another glass and signals the bartender to refill it again. Things are hazy, spinning slightly, and the music feels as though it's in his very soul.
Good, Atton thinks.
Because there's a hole there that used to be filled with her.
His breathing goes shaky, and a dark, poisonous anger fills him.
Not because of her, but because someone took her from him.
What good was Revan if he couldn't even protect Meetra? Did he even try?
The glass shatters in his hand and down the bar. He stares angrily at his bleeding hand before signaling for another drink. The rodian hesitates before hurrying up to fill another glass. He's scared. Atton can sense it.
Yeah.
Good.
He should have kissed her, he thinks darkly. And he wants to imagine that it would have been dark and hard, but he knows it wouldn't have been. It would have been soft. Probably softer than any kiss he's ever given any woman before. And passionate.
His anger dissipates, leaving only a sense of despair.
He would have kissed her until she relented and brought him along with her. Or until she realized that she was meant to stay with him, because she loved him as much as he loved her.
He presses a hand to face, and it doesn't even matter that it's covered in blood.
There is nothing he could give her, he knows this.
But Atton loved her. Could Revan have said the same? Could Revan have given her a life?
A dancer swishes her hips as she sashays up to him, one hand resting on his thigh as she inspects his hand with the other. Atton doesn't even listen to a word she's saying as she cleans it up for him, wrapping it in a bandage.
To be fair, he probably could have fixed it with that spare medpac he's carrying, or through the Force.
The attention is nice though.
She whispers in his ear about a private dance, and he's tempted. It's been a long couple of years, he realizes.
“I'm in love with a woman who has died today,” Atton whispers back, words slightly slurred.
The dancer frowns with the appropriate amount of sympathy.
He smirks at her, kissing her cheek before laying credits down on the counter and stumbling from the cantina and into the cool air of Coruscant.
Maybe he'll give Mical a call to come pick his ass up.
Characters: Brianna, Mira, Visas Marr, Mical, and Atton Rand
'Verse: Knights of the Old Republic
Rating: PG-13
Brianna searches through the holovids that Atris had kept collected. She's not looking for anything in particular, just anything she can bring back to the rest of the Council as they begin to rebuild themselves. Her fingers dance lightly over datapads and artifacts. Some are old, broken.
In a way, she thinks that she can feel Atris through them, and through the Force. In the end, regardless of how far her mistress had fallen, Atris had loved what she did.
And Brianna would, too.
She pauses in her work, blue eyes darting to the side. She can see her sisters from this position as they work, and she looks down. Do they dislike her, she wonders? Her grasp on the Force isn't like Meetra's, and though she can feel, searching her sisters for their emotions feels like a betrayal of who they are, and she has already betrayed them enough, she realizes.
For a mere second, her shoulders fall.
The Handmaiden wishes that the Exile was still here, to help her. To help them.
It's so sudden, that she doesn't realize it at first. She's holding an old Jedi holocron in her hands, turning it over in her hands before her knees give out. They strike the ground beneath her, and her body jolts. The holocron rolls away with a clatter as her hands press hard into the ground, as though she were attempting to push it.
Her screams echo in the chamber, and even she can recognize the anguish and pain behind it.
Her sisters come running.
-
Blue highlights the faces of the children staring in awe at the woman wielding the lightsaber. It's a demonstration she's been pushed into, but Mira can't deny that it's a little fun to see them looking at her with respect rather than in fear or as a piece of meat.
The latter, though, was only because Mical had insisted she at least wear robes when instructing.
That had been an interesting battle.
She smiles at the group, so young and different from herself at that age.
“Now remember-”
An intense pain burns through her back, and she gasps, stumbles, the lightsaber falling from her hands. It disengages upon impact, but she still thrusts the closest children back into the row behind them with the Force.
“No!” It can't be.
It can't.
She reaches and pushes and pulls, but there's nothing. No one is there on the other end.
Mira isn't a big fan of emotion in public, but she holds herself and cries right then.
-
Visas bows her head.
The words are on the tip of her tongue, but she can't begin to whisper them.
Instead, she listens to the Force, the quiet calm that flows around her, and mourns the loss of the far-off echo that used to reside inside of her. Now there's only the wound that remains from the loss of Katarr.
All the Miraluka had wanted to do was protect her, gladly put her life on the line in the way she had done for them.
Her feet move with no set goal, but when she finds herself in a hangar bay, she realizes what it is that she must do now.
She rents a ship and inputs the coordinates for Katarr.
“My life for yours,” she whispers on the surface of her home planet before finally seeing what it is that she's meant to see.
-
Mical left the Order once, when she had disappeared. He stares at a wall, body shaking as he feels the immediate cutting of ties between himself and the woman destined to be his master. His eyes close. His heart is broken, yes, but there's something more. He mourns her loss for this new Order.
It was always her meant to lead them, he believes, meant to bring the Jedi back.
A smile twitches to life on his lips, sad and broken.
And maybe she had always known she would continue to defy the natural order of things. Yes, that was it.
Meetra was not a normal woman, but one of extraordinary wonders.
His sight is blurry when his eyes open again, sensing the other presence in the room.
The bounty hunter stomps her way up to him, seething as her fists slam into the table, denting it. He can see that she's been crying, her eyes rimmed red and puffy, dried tears still clinging to her cheeks.
“Tell me I'm wrong!”
Mical takes Mira's hands in his own.
“You are not wrong. We will get through this, Mira. She chose us to do what could not.”
“Because that makes it so much better, Mical.” She rips her hands away from his, snarling.
“Nothing can make our loss better, but we can be better for it,” he whispers, taking her hands again.
“How?”
“By doing what she would have wanted us to do.”
-
He should have insisted on going. But no. She had to take that droid with her, the one who laughed at him and stole his-their-ship. He wonders if that little thief tried to help her at all, and he knows that's a stupid thing to wonder. Of course the metal beast did. T3 loved her in the same way that they had all loved her.
He tosses back another glass and signals the bartender to refill it again. Things are hazy, spinning slightly, and the music feels as though it's in his very soul.
Good, Atton thinks.
Because there's a hole there that used to be filled with her.
His breathing goes shaky, and a dark, poisonous anger fills him.
Not because of her, but because someone took her from him.
What good was Revan if he couldn't even protect Meetra? Did he even try?
The glass shatters in his hand and down the bar. He stares angrily at his bleeding hand before signaling for another drink. The rodian hesitates before hurrying up to fill another glass. He's scared. Atton can sense it.
Yeah.
Good.
He should have kissed her, he thinks darkly. And he wants to imagine that it would have been dark and hard, but he knows it wouldn't have been. It would have been soft. Probably softer than any kiss he's ever given any woman before. And passionate.
His anger dissipates, leaving only a sense of despair.
He would have kissed her until she relented and brought him along with her. Or until she realized that she was meant to stay with him, because she loved him as much as he loved her.
He presses a hand to face, and it doesn't even matter that it's covered in blood.
There is nothing he could give her, he knows this.
But Atton loved her. Could Revan have said the same? Could Revan have given her a life?
A dancer swishes her hips as she sashays up to him, one hand resting on his thigh as she inspects his hand with the other. Atton doesn't even listen to a word she's saying as she cleans it up for him, wrapping it in a bandage.
To be fair, he probably could have fixed it with that spare medpac he's carrying, or through the Force.
The attention is nice though.
She whispers in his ear about a private dance, and he's tempted. It's been a long couple of years, he realizes.
“I'm in love with a woman who has died today,” Atton whispers back, words slightly slurred.
The dancer frowns with the appropriate amount of sympathy.
He smirks at her, kissing her cheek before laying credits down on the counter and stumbling from the cantina and into the cool air of Coruscant.
Maybe he'll give Mical a call to come pick his ass up.