#bxrsenthor

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There are so many stars overhead. So many. He’s been to a lot of places, and he’s not sure he’s ever seen a sky that full of stars. … They are stars, aren’t they? They have to be. They’re moving a lot for stars, though. Shaking- No, swirling around. Gently in some areas, faster in others. … It kind of makes him dizzy to look at. For a moment, he can’t look away. 

And then the stars are gone. 

They didn’t vanish. No, not quite. It’s almost like they were swallowed. Something closed over, and it was just dark. As far as the eye could see. 

It’s familiar.

It’s not a good familiar. 

He frowns, pressing his lips together as he continues to look up. He doesn’t get the sense of danger. … Actually, he doesn’t get the sense of anything at all. He can’t sense anything. Why can’t he–? He looks around. Nothing but blackness, and– Oh.

He’s back here. The red path stretches out in front of him, running endlessly into a horizon that doesn’t exist. It’s still flat, still lifeless. Still vibrant against the nothing around him. Another beat, and there’s the same heavy, massive presence from before above him. No, above is still the wrong word. It’s around him. Engulfing him. There’s the low rumble from somewhere in the distance, deep and sonorous. He glances over his shoulder with a frown. Part of him wonders if he ought to wait and see what makes it, this time. The Force nudges him to suggest that’s a bad idea.

Okay. 

He can follow orders. He keeps moving. 

His footsteps echo, louder and louder with each impact of his boot against the path, until it’s nearly deafening. He wants to cover his ears. He does not. That would only slow him down, and the universe itself is advising against it. 

There’s another sound, too. A higher-pitched clicking. More steady and rhythmic than his own footsteps. Over and over and over again, uninterrupted. It gets louder the further he runs. 

And then there’s the door. Well– It’s still not a door, just a door frame. Still perfectly white and angular, a rectangle precise enough he’d almost assume a droid made it. But, no. 

He knew, in the way the Force often made sure a Jedi knew, that this door - door frame - was much older than  droids. Far older, even, than the Jedi. 

There’s none of the hesitation he felt the first time he saw it. Not now. Not when whatever it is chasing him is getting closer closer it’s right behind you RUN— 

His feet leave the path just long enough to launch through the doorway.

He staggers. Almost trips, but catches himself. It’s more instinct than anything else. His breath comes back to him, ragged and unsteady. He wills it to slow. 

In…

… Out.

In… 

… Out. 

Whatever it was that was chasing him, it's gone now. Maybe it couldn’t come through that threshold. Maybe the door took him to someplace far away. Either worked fine for him. Another slow, measured breath.

“Oh,” a voice, ancient, creaking, strong, frail, impossibly deep all at once, “you’re back.” Braig looks up, brows lifting in curiosity. There she is. The old faceless woman, rocking back and forth in that same antiquated chair, knitting with the finger-needles that keep snapping every so often. The matte red of the path stretched up from the ground to her hands. Braig took another few ragged breaths, then blinked, straightened, and took a second to right his tunic as he cleared his throat. 

“I am.” He said, folding his hands behind his back once the last bit of imaginary dust was gone. He rocks up on the balls of his feet, then settles. “You, ah, haven’t changed.” 

“Haven’t I?” The faceless woman asks, looking up from her work and tilting her head, pausing the click of her needles. “Everything changes. From moment to moment, everything in the universe experiences a constant metamorphosis, even if you don’t perceive each minute shift.” Another pause, and she resumed her knitting, though she didn’t turn her face - or lack thereof - away from Braig until her next words. “You’ve certainly changed quite a bit.”

“I-” Braig swallows. His mouth presses into a thin frown as he raises his fingers to the scar carved into his face. … It’s not there. His fingers pass through where the skin should be, deeper and deeper into some place cold and cavernous and dripping–

He flinches back and pulls his hand away. He feels, almost, as though he just saved himself from being bitten. 

“You are afraid.” The woman says from in front of and behind him. Braig starts speaking, then stops again. 

“... I am.” There was no sense denying it - he had the feeling she’d see right through him, even if he tried. 

“You are afraid of the way that you are changing; the nature of what you assume you are to become.” Once again, this is not a question. And once again, Braig feels that there would be little sense denying it. He sighs and pushes his hand through his hair. 

“Is it so wrong of me to blame the war?” He asks with an attempt at a sheepish chuckle. The woman doesn’t answer. The only other sounds are the click of the needles, a distant, behemoth rumbling. “I feel like I’m not who I’m meant to be. That the war has taken something from me that I can’t take back.” 

“Everything takes.” This is said so matter-of-factly it takes Braig a moment before he realises making a counterpoint is even an option. “Everything takes, and everything gives. Through that, balance is maintained, yes?” 

“When it’s equal.” Braig says with a frown. “If you take too much, or give too much, the balance is lost. And I feel like, lately, all we’ve been able to do is give - but if we stop…” 

“It isn’t an option, is it?” The woman tuts to herself as another needle snaps. After a pause, Braig sighs. 

“... No.” 

“Then you must keep going.” The woman says. In the distance, the rumbling starts up again. Deep and abyssal and rumbling the marrow in his bones. Slowly getting louder, echoing itself in the creaking voice of the woman as she repeated those two words. 

“Keep going. Keep going. Keep going keep going keep going keep going keep going–”

The path vanished beneath his feet.