He remembers warm sunshine and wisps of her hair curling along his collarbone as they nap in the creche, a tangle of snoring bodies in a puddle of limbs too long and hearts growing full with their new found family. He remembers laughing at the menagerie of animals sheâd bring, showing him with beaming smiles and innocent eyes, and remembers twining flowers around her braids.
He can see her now, half feral and afraid, superimposed over the images of the little girl he called sister. He wonders, sometimes, if she would smile at him still if she remembered who he was against who heâs become. Nonetheless, sheâs his sister and Fein knows better than anyone that second chances are too rare to pass up. If she wants to remember, heâll help her do that, or heâll sit with her in fields of bantha letting the faux peace heal them both.Â
In and out, Little Dreamwalker, thatâs it. Deep and slow, in and out. Even steeped deep in nightmares, with the taint of their pain and foul wrongness coated over him like a second skin, Dorian smiles when he seeâs Fein. In that sightless gaze, he is both a child and a man, both a knight and a killer, both lost and found.Â
In the active silence of the jungle, they travel along paths of time and vines. On the wood floor of a cabin set solitary and calm away from the frenzy of rebellion, Feinâs no longer too long for his body knees knock against Dorianâs and they center back to each other. Home. In the midst of blood, of pain and loss, they find their way home.Â
