helios

They all should be resting; Jedi and soldiers alike. War gives them little chance to do such.

“About as well as could be expected.” Eryn admitted, though she could hardly hide the amused tilt of her lips as Solus made off with the roll. There really wasn’t any begrudging him that–it was good just to not have only rations for once.

“Nothing too serious.” It kind of sucked that there were no spare robes, but again, hers were still serviceable, if littered with tiny burn holes. Ah well. It was a war zone, after all. One had to make do.

“They sent you pretty far last time.”

 Far be it from him to be picky, especially when on a Republic vessel with a functioning mess hall. He’d take it over ration blocks any day. Crossing his legs in a way that propped his knees against the table, Solus chewed. 

“Belsavis?”

Thoughtfully, he stilled. The creased between his brows deepened.

His nails dig into the leather of his palm, burrowing red little half-moons in his skin. It takes a remarkable amount of self-control in order not to replay the message (and hesitation) in full once more, he aches to hear a voice, anyone’s voice, her voice -- 

It was a mess alright, but it was a mess the Jedi were right in the middle of… and being Jedi, well, there wasn’t a way to just ignore it. Especially since civilians–innocents–kept getting involved, trapped between clones in armor and durasteel droids.

Eryn shook her head, smile barely repressed but glittering in green eyes nonetheless. “If I have a trick to it, even I don’t know what it is.”

Lips twist in a thoughtful manner as she rests her chin on upturned palms. “However it ends up going, it’s just one person’s opinion in the end, okay? You’ve got a good number ready to have your back if it comes down to it.”

“…You’re right.”

A soft, frustrated sigh. Solus rubbed at a dark, bruised arc under his eye.

“I shouldn’t worry about it. It’s not worth it. What I should be doing is resting.”

Not that there was much to sleep off. The healers had taken good care of him, much to his pleasure. No bacta tank for him. Frowning, Solus beckoned the Force – a roll floated off Eryn’s tray and into towards his waiting hand.

dcuble:

“I don’t know.”

He rubbed at the top of his head, fingers passing easily over freshly-buzzed hair. With some downtime on his hands, he’d finally been able to groom himself – though small, red scratches across his knuckles remained.

“I don’t come off as the most…uh…”

“Even so—if there’s an issue you two have for some reason or another… it should probably get cleared out of the air before the next major fight.”

The time at rest was great, until it started to get too quiet. She could sense the unease rumbling beneath everyone’s presences; the soldiers uncomfortable with the lack of combat (and they’d been bred for fighting, it was no wonder), even Jedi wary of how peaceful the standoff has been.

They didn’t need to lose more people to this war because of someone’s frustrations—or dislike.

--Right. Before the next fight.

Solus pressed at the space between his eyebrows, grimacing. He was getting used to the cycle of fight, rest, fight, and that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. The Force was a constant buzz of agitation. Unhelpful, considering the circumstances. It was getting hard to tell who was cracking under pressure and who was a good old-fashioned barve.

Not that he’d ever use that word to refer to anyone of authority.

Eryn prodded the food on her tray with a fork, falling silent as she considers Solus’s question. “I’d hope if you did, he’d bring it to your attention.”

“Do you think that’s the case?”

“I don’t know.”

He rubbed at the top of his head, fingers passing easily over freshly-buzzed hair. With some downtime on his hands, he’d finally been able to groom himself -- though small, red scratches across his knuckles remained.

“I’m—sure it’s just the General.” Force knows if Solus wasn’t capable with a weapon, he wouldn’t be sitting here to complain now. “Maybe it’s his nature to be cautious with Padawans.”

Benefit of the doubt–though they’d surely see soon enough.

“Yeah, well, he seems to like everyone else well enough.”

He stared at Eryn’s tray, watching the dull food with little interest.

“Should I even ask what gave you that impression?”

Of course she would. This was Solus; she cared.

The little bit of chatter that existed in the mess was quiet, echoing each little movement with far more frequency than it ever had in the Temple. She’d gotten used to it in this war.

Solus allowed his posture to slouch, keeping his voice just low enough -- and naturally, a handful of famished troopers glanced his way. He gave a half-smile half-grimace in return, dipping his chin.

Reporting for assignments, especially official ones, left Solus with a sour taste in his mouth. Though many of the troopers were sympathetic, having fought alongside him before, many had not. There was a murmur as he passed down through the mess hall. He stalled at Eryn’s table. Sat quietly with an impatient huff. 

Once, I led armies into battle. They are dead armies now.

“Not all alone; you’re correct. I do not intend to remain that way in this venture… simply not standing aside your Alliance.” Arms cross as she changes her stance, not too comfortable with remaining in one position for too long—old habits lingering, she supposed.

“I get the feeling that they would not be receptive of new visitors, especially those of my kind.” An attempt at humor, lips curving ever so slightly.

Prard’raya’nurudo had seen none of her people, had heard nothing of them since awakening again. For that to be coupled with being part of an Order that actively opposed the Jedi, well…

“--Do what you want.”

His mouth curls briefly, the only sign of his discomfort. As friendly (and as oddly patient) as she may be, Solus doesn’t trust her enough to even turn his back -- yet indifference to the matter doesn’t come easily, either. Caught between passivity and action, he’s like a taut, trembling string.

Solus adjusts his holster. Every man for himself, right?

“Just leave me out of it. I’ve had enough dealings with the Empire to last me a lifetime.”

dcuble:

“–Thanks.”

He fumbles with the bottle momentarily – then is struck by the normality of it. Or the abnormality of it. He’s not sure. Everything seems so muddled. He’s hardly had time to sleep, let alone meditate, let alone tug the knots in his mind free. 

At least now he has the time, he supposes. But at what cost?

Solus doesn’t move. Just stands there, plated shoulders and leather jacket and fighter’s build and all. It’s the start of something. He’s just not sure what.

“Do you feel safe here?”

It’s a messy way of eking out an existence, but it’s manageable. For the moment.

“I don’t feel safe anywhere.” Eryn admitted, “This is–sanctuary for others displaced since the—” Since the purge, she was trying to say, but a lump had formed in her throat, choked off the rest of her voice.

Instead she only stepped forward, embracing Solus, burying her face in the worn leather and linens. With the market and the startled reunion behind the two of them, she just feels—overwhelmed and relieved.

I missed you.

He teeters slightly -- uncharacteristic of him, considering his build, but Solus is practically dead on his feet. (Aren’t they all? If there are any more of them left out there?)

Arms fold around her. The gesture is awkward, at first. The empty bottle rests against her shoulder. He can hardly remember how to walk without a hand at his lightsaber, let alone stand in a simple embrace. How they’re meant to strike the balance, he’s never been entirely sure.

Their friends, scattered, have no wisdom to offer them -- and suddenly Solus is painfully aware of their solitude, two deer in a galactic wood full of wolves.

“I know,” he says hoarsely. His cheek rests against her hair.

“Then please, by all means—elaborate on your point.” There was no missing that discomfort, the subtle shifts in posture, at the mere mention of this Empire’s supposed Force-wielders.

Even the Force felt different here. Heavier, wilder, like someone had tried to bend it to their control and failed. There were no Jedi left, no Sith of the caliber that had been fighting at her side.

Slender fingers clasp in front of her, the Sith (refused to call herself former) breathed softly out.

“You can’t -- do it all on your own.”

Solus is close to rubbing at his temples, now -- this is bringing all sorts of sithspit into his head that he doesn’t want. Dreams and clipped flashes of Rebellion starfighters, a glimpse of a Kamino-manufactured lightsaber, and though it is eerily similar, it’s not his. 

It takes all he has to withhold a groan. He doesn’t need this right now. It’s like sprinting and never getting anywhere.

“The Rebel Alliance is–” It was a ragtag group, handfuls of people from all corners of the galaxy. It wasn’t a place for a former Sith to be a part of– “not somewhere I should go.”

Arms fold, more a wry acceptance of what she is than any kind of frustration. “I highly doubt the idea of a formally trained Sith will appeal to such an Alliance.”

An Alliance that sought to emulate a Republic with their Jedi.

“Let me put it in perspective. You are aware of your Empire’s… watch dogs, of sorts, yes? They are like children, fumbling on a path they do not have teachers for.”

His lip twitched. Watchdogs. He -- no, Starkiller had been one himself, even closer to the Emperor and Vader than the rest, he knew that stumble on the road like it was his own. 

It was, very simply, like being an animal: frenzied hunting, bringing back a prize, waiting to be rewarded.

Repeat and stagger along.

People will wonder, speculate…. but no questions are asked. All these people are hiding for one reason or another, and the communes are too small for the Empire to worry about. A perfect place for former Jedi to hide, short term, at least.

A scuffle breaks out behind them, a kid chasing a hound of sorts—nothing out of the ordinary. If one could look past the situation, look past the events that drove each person here… it could look normal.

“There’s a stream just outside the city limits.. a couple minutes walk from here.” Before she speaks again, Eryn ducks beneath the canvas, brushing the colors briefly and becoming lost in them. When she emerges not a moment later, it’s with a tiny bottle clutched in her hands—tossed to Solus.

“That’ll help.”

“--Thanks.”

He fumbles with the bottle momentarily -- then is struck by the normality of it. Or the abnormality of it. He’s not sure. Everything seems so muddled. He’s hardly had time to sleep, let alone meditate, let alone tug the knots in his mind free. 

At least now he has the time, he supposes. But at what cost?

Solus doesn’t move. Just stands there, plated shoulders and leather jacket and fighter’s build and all. It’s the start of something. He’s just not sure what.

“If I must.” From what she’d gleaned, what she’d observed—the Force-wielders left in the galaxy had nothing near the caliber of training she’d fought through. There were no tombs, no k’lor’slugs, no tuk’ata.

Drayan snorted, an uncharacteristic showing of emotion, “Even the Republic I remember was better than this charade.” And she’d known some Jedi who were not far off the mark from Sith—in fact, her apprentice’s (former apprentice) Master had been one.

He wish he’d known the Republic. At this point he was doubtful it would make much of a difference -- there would always be conflict, he would have stayed near the Outer Rim worlds anyway -- but he could certainly fantasize.

“The Rebel Alliance has been in movement for years.”

His head shakes. The thought of the red crest makes him feel displaced. Like an intruder.