#jerhal

She woke up fully before her eyes opened.

Instead of following routine - roll out of bed, get a pot of caf going, wake up Jerhal - Tynea lay perfectly still, eyes closed, listening to the muffled sounds outside.  The hotel room was decadent, but Vyen'a had insisted on paying for it, pressing the cred chit into her hand with the wide, teasing grin Tynea'd come to appreciate.

She stretched her toes, her fingers, feeling the soft fabric of the blanket brush their tips.  The heavy weight of Jerhal sleeping soundly next to her radiated warmth, and for a moment, Tynea thought about curling back up and sleeping some more.  Any other morning, she would have.  But today....

Today was different.

She mentally pictured the room around her.  Plush bed, picture window overlooking Senate Plaza, its heavy drapes pulled, and the carefully wrought, fragile-looking table pushed against the wall.  On the table, the piece of flimsi.  The one with the signature that made it all true.

The look on the face of the Senator at the hearing the afternoon before had sunk her heart into her shoes.  He had made up his mind before even seeing her; Tynea could tell that just by the look in his eyes.  But something made him change his thoughts.  Whether it was Jerhal's complete removal of her as a partner, instead breaking down her assets on a military basis, or Master Ihlrath's reminder that the Republic had the responsibility to provide all sentient beings sanctuary, or Master Moirianna's recollection of the fear she'd sensed.  

It didn't matter what it was.  Something changed his mind.  And in the end, it came down to a handshake, a signature on a piece of flimsi, and a few appointments in the future.

She was safe.  

They weren't sending her back.  Or to Belsavis.  Or anywhere but wherever she wanted to go.  She could focus on getting better, without the fear of SIS snatching her from in front of whatever little cafe she was sitting at, without the fear of no one coming to help should a Sith or an Agent working for the Empire decide to try and make trouble.

She would take the oath.  She would become a citizen of the Republic.

And nothing would stand in her way again.

A small smile crept across her face, and she opened her eyes.

WARNING: AUDIO ONLY! NO TEXT READOUT!

CONTINUE? Y/N

*The low, familiar hum of machinery echoes through the recording, followed by the settling of leatheris against metal and the gentle swoosh of fabric.  And then, a soft, happy laugh.*

I've got my ship again.  

I...

*Another laugh, the sound of disbelieving joy.*

Everything is all of a sudden working out.

I have a new friend.  Master Moirianna and I have been chatting a bit since she walked me home from the cantina.  She's lovely and it's just so nice to have someone to talk to who doesn't expect me to do anything or fall apart at any given time.  Jerhal doesn't, of course, and Vyen'a doesn't either, but everyone else who knows me seems to treat me like I'm made of eggshell.

And even if I didn't have a new friend, it wouldn't matter.  I have my ship.  My ship!  Vyen'a got in touch with Ludwik - since she's engaged to Lieutenant Teral, and Ludwik's his cousin, it makes sense.  But she got in touch with him.  And found out where my ship was.  He hadn't sold it, even though I told him to.  I owe him huge for that.

Vyen'a had it stripped down to the studs and rebuilt.  She put in an art studio in a third of the cargo hold.  She just... she made it perfect for me, but left a lot of what made the ship mine.  The scarring on the left side of the hull from the run-in with that really angry Mando a few years back.  The dent on the left engine casing from the Jawa drinking party.

*A pause, then another soft laugh.*

Even the paint job she did was perfect.  Just touch ups, for the most part.  But on the tail end... it's magnificent.  I would love to know how she got that drawing; it was based on one of my sketches.  A field of blue, with a red and gold and yellow bird flying up from a floor the color of ashes.  And in the same red and gold beneath, the name.

"Phoenix Rising."

And Jerhal...

*Another pause, this one with an absolutely audible smile.*

He knew.  He knew and he didn't tell me.  Vyen'a gave him the access codes and they teamed up and gave me my ship back - my home for so many years, back - on my birthday.  My birthday.  

And it was the first birthday I actually remember doing anything for.  Before it was usually work.  Or fight.  Or drink.  Last year I think I just sat on my ship and drew. And the year before that.  This year, Vyen'a and Jerhal teamed for my ship, and Jerhal took me out to dinner and just catered to me all day and...

*Another laugh*

And I have a hearing date. It's in a few weeks.  Master Ihlrath... I don't know what he did, but he must have pulled strings because I know people can go years without even getting a preliminary meeting.  I'm just terrified that I'll go in with Jerhal with wedding plans for afterward and leave in cuffs.  I'm still so scared everything will come crashing down.  That I won't get the same clearance for my past others have because I'm not force sensitive, or anyone important.

*A few beats of silence, the rumblings of an engine purring through the feed.*

But Jerhal promised he'd fight for me.  And I know he will.

I'm actually flying to pick him up now.  

We have a whole lot ahead of us.  But he's worth it.

I'm beginning to believe again that I'm worth it, too.

Ty'nea sat in her comfortable chair, blanket wrapped securely around her shoulders, and stared out the window into the vast nothingness of space. For an hour she had sat perfectly still, the cup of tea in her hands growing cold, her mind racing in circles around the night's events.

It wasn't the crowd that got to her. It wasn't that Jerhal had walked away to speak with someone. It was the voice. The woman's voice, dripping with the elite crispness found nowhere else in the galaxy but Dromund Kaas. She could steel herself to hear it on Nar Shaddaa, maybe even Coruscant. But she had her guard down. She was unprepared to hear the tone cutting through the air on Carrick Station.  The harsh yet melodic Imperial accent that spoke of Sith and the terror buried deep in her heart took her out right at the knees; the blood drained from her face and her arms went tingly and she was in a panic before the voice mingled into the sound of the cantina.

She was amazed she had held it together as long as she had. She had watched Jerhal walk away with the woman with the voice. Everything went sideways then; the sounds of the cantina blending together in a roar of cacophony against her ears. But she had managed to stay standing. To finish her wine. It was only when her hand began to shake so hard that the graphite she had been idly using to sketch a bottle of brandy cracked between her fingers that she knew she couldn't hold it together any more.

Master Moirianna had walked her home; the Miraluka woman didn't know her from anyone else other than as Jerhal's fiancee and yet she didn't flinch as Ty'nea's resolve broke and she sobbed herself into sickness, didn't cringe when the vomit hit her boots.  Instead, the woman had merely held her until she calmed down with no questions, had helped her and Jerhal clean up, and had quietly took her leave afterward.

It was the afterward that worried her the most.  The hour was late, but it was even darker than usual; Ty'nea had never seen that look on Jerhal's face before - the absolute abject terror he usually held in check had bubbled up to the surface and into his eyes as he saw her.  

And now, in the dark hours afterward, she sat in her chair quietly, tea gone cold in her hands.  Jerhal slept soundly in the other room; so exhausted from the absolute emotional dump of a talk they had both had that he didn't even stir when she left their bed.  And like when she sat in the office at Coruscant, waiting for them to call her name, the what ifs began to creep around the corners of consciousness.

What if he decides I'm not worth it?

What if he finds someone else?

She looked toward the dark room beyond the doorway, listening to the even sound of sleep beyond, and took a shaky breath, looking down at the cup cradled in her hands.

Then you fight, you stupid bitch.  You fight.

You should never have stopped fighting in the first place.

She set the cup on the table, looking out the window again.  The stars twinkled against the black velvet that stretched out to infinity, darker than any other night she could remember.

But she knew then.  She remembered the old saying.

The darkest hours are just before the light shines through.

She stood, looking toward the door again.  Master Ihlrath had offered to talk to the immigration officials for her; to see if her could prod her paperwork into the fast track.  He had offered her use of an extra ship the Marran had in their growing armada.   She would comm him during the next day to accept both offers.  But first she would curl up with Jerhal until morning.

And his love would help her start to shine.

FULL NAME: TY'NEA SARAI KORBIN

SEX: FEMALE

PARENTS: [intentionally left blank]

DATE OF BIRTH (STANDARD GALACTIC): 30 DECEMBER, 14 YEARS BEFORE CORUSCANT FALL

PLACE OF BIRTH: NAR SHADDAA

HEIGHT: 5'7"

WEIGHT: 145LB

HAIR COLOR: RED

EYE COLOR: BROWN

SPECIES: HUMAN

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: THREE SMALL TATTOOS ON FACE, TWO ON FOREHEAD, ONE ON CHIN.  SCAR CROSSING RIGHT CHEEK FROM EYE TO JAW.

PLEASE LIST THE PRIMARY REASONS FOR REQUESTING ASYLUM (USE FORM 122-A.2 IF MORE ROOM IS REQUIRED):

Sith torture

Political asylum

I'm in love

They'll kill me if I go back

...

***

Ty'nea sat still, staring down at the form in front of her.  How?  How could she put to words why she wanted to become a Republic citizen?  There were so many.  Jerhal's love. Escaping the hell the Sith had put her through.  Finding herself, her true self, for the first time.

She looked out the small window in the intake room, wishing someone was there with her.  Jerhal.  Vyen'a.  Even Rythe's disdainful laughter would be comforting; something to focus on other than the buzz of the lights overhead and the forms in front of her.  This was the appointment she'd waited for, the one she'd hoped to finally have.  And now that it was here, with pen in hand and form after form in front of her, she was terrified.

Worse than stepping into the ring against an opponent over twice her size.

Worse than going up against a bounty that could kill her.

Worse than when Jerhal left and she knew she'd have to face the Sith alone.

Worse than when Book dove into her head, to find out what had been done.

At least there, she thought, she knew what would happen.  She knew that it would be one of two possible outcomes.  Here there were unknown variables.  Jail.  Exile. Execution.  Getting lost in a paperwork maze.  Never hearing.  Never knowing.

She took a breath and looked at the paper again, muttering to herself.

"How do I answer a question that effects the rest of my life?"

Ty'nea rubbed the space between her eyes, willing away the headache that was creeping around the edges, and looked out the window again.  The view, at least, was magnificent; she could see the ships landing and taking off from the spaceport.  It made her long for her own; the battered D5-Mantis that she never got around to naming and was now scrapped, most likely, at the bottom of Nar Shaddaa's docks.  The only place she had of her own, before the apartment on Carrick.

Her home for so long, stripped and gone by dock rats.  She hadn't been able to get a hold of Ludwik to find out what happened to it, and didn't feel right asking Lieutenant Teral to call him over something so trivial.

And even though she loved her apartment, she missed flying.  She missed sitting in her captain's chair, counting the stars, completely in control of her own destiny.

She hoped she'd have that again someday.

The pen rolled between her fingers, and she looked back down at the paper, staring at the question field.

HOLO 44.2.248://

TEXT READOUT

DISPLAY? Y/N

I'm getting real sick of the attitude of a lot of Jedi.  Just because me and mine aren't force sensitive doesn't mean we aren't worth a little bit of common decency.  We're more than just meat shields for their reindeer games, or targets to mind fuck when they get irritated.

And unfortunately, it's starting to feel like some of our allies in the Marran don't see it that way.  That just because we're not special snowflake force sensitive darlings, we don't deserve the basic respect that jedi practically demand just by their presence.

I'm getting really sick of people idly throwing around references to "mindkriffing" people like they're talking about picking up a cup of caf.  Getting really sick of patching up my boys in blue because they took a force blast to the chest and took to the air like a bird in an Alderaan spring, just to make some space for a jedi to run in and start swinging with their glowbat and get all the credit and glory.  

Sith bleed just as good from blaster fire as the next fucker, and I don't care how all powerful they are, one Sith can't deflect sustained fire from a dozen blasters at once.

And I know I ain't the only one who feels this way.

Bald nearly went to blows with Ihlrath on the Hyperion last night.  Because one of Ihlrath's people told Oz to go home... and Oz tried to walk out the airlock on their hangars.  Put that idea right in his head.  I might not like Oz - shit, that's the understatement of the year - but I've saved his ass enough to know how he bleeds. They tried to say it was "just a suggestion", but with everything Bald's going through, dealing with Red...

It was nasty.

And the thing is, I don't think any of the forcers get why he was so angry.  They don't - or refuse to - see the ramifications of being able to just look at someone and make them think "Oh, I should go" but not have any control over how they're going to do it.  To just idly affect someone's actions like that, to take away their control?  It makes them no better than Sith.  Absolutely no better than those fucks who screwed up Red's brain so badly.

And it didn't help that Bald and I were in a little tiff not thirty seconds before Oz came wandering by, brain all scrambled.  About Red.  Because I guess I don't know when to stop poking the bear when it comes to her.

And Nia's probably mad at me now, too.  I told her I was trying to track down where Dhen fucked off to when he transferred out.  I want to drag his ass back by that busted nose of his so Nia can properly kick it for treating her like shit.  For fucking off without even saying so much as goodbye.  I deserved a goodbye, and she deserved a whole lot more than a shitty letter.

tick.

tick.

tick.

Ty'nea smoothed a wrinkle from the simple skirt she wore, looking up at the chrono on the wall.  For hours she'd sat, listening to the steady tick of the wall heater outside the small waiting room door, marking each second as it passed her by.  The file she carried with her sat forgotten in the empty chair next to her, sketchbook resting on top.  Today, she hoped, would be the day they called her number, shuffling her into a little room to look at her paper, her face, to hear her words and decide the next step in her future.

She twisted the golden band around her ring finger nervously, focusing on steadying her breath.  You killed people in cold blood without batting an eyelash, you idiot, she thought disdainfully.  Why are you so scared for a stupid meeting?  Even as she thought the words, though, she knew the answer.

Because this means more to you than they ever did.

She took a deep breath, letting the air out in a rush through her nose as she thought of the events of the last week.  She had been nervous, almost scared, to let the Sith-turned-Jedi attempt to fix the mess in her head.  And for good reason.   Even with Jerhal there, standing and holding her hand as Book prodded her mind to search out the damage the Sith had inflicted as a final cruel trick, the pain that shot through her head was almost unbearable.  Book said afterwards that whatever the Sith had done was complex and absolutely, invariably dark.  But Book had put up wards of some sort, and Ty'nea's nightmares had lessened slightly.

She glanced at the chrono again, taking a small sip of water from the bottle she had brought with her.  The first week she came she learned to bring food, water, and something to keep the time at bay.  Coruscant was all politics, and like all houses of politics, things moved as slow as a baby nerf in Alderaan's first snowfall. Every week Ty'nea had come, sitting in the impossibly uncomfortable chairs and watching the seconds tick by.  Every week she hoped that they would call her, look at her paperwork, and grant her asylum no questions asked.

But that won't happen.

She sighed, taking another deep breath as she set the water down and picked up her sketchbook.  The what-if's were the worst, and around hour five they began to creep in.

What if they refuse my request?

What if they send me back to Imperial space?

What if they arrest me?

What if they punish him because of me?

What if they execute me for what I've done?

Each question was asked and filed away to think of at another time, graphite anxiously pulling across the flimsi.  This week was no different, as the time ticked away with each click of sound from the hallway.

What if what if what if...

"Ty'nea Korbin?"

Ty'nea looked up, graphite skidding across the page. A bored looking bureaucrat stood in the doorway.  "Y-- yes?"  The man nodded.  

"You're up."

The acrid smoke hung heavy in the treetops, the smell of burning wood and scorched metal mingling with the coppery taste of blood against the back of her throat.  She shook her head, clearing the stars that danced behind her closed eyes.  How far had the explosion thrown her?  She stood carefully, back against a tree, and did a quick mental once over. 

No broken bones, blasters on hand.  Clear.

She glanced to the right at the buzzing clash of saber against saber, the blue against the red blurring together in a flash of golden sparks through the haze.  At the sight she bolted, dodging blaster rounds and falling bodies.   Her target, she knew, was near.  She had tracked him here and now, in the thick of battle, was enough to ensure a clean kill.

There.  Blue.

The smoke pulled closer, burning against her throat.  She scrambled up a tree, silently stalking the heavily armored figure slumped against a rock, cursing as his weapon lay around him pieces.  His voice was muffled as he spoke, expertly repairing the rifle as the battle raged in the distance, words adding one more layer of camouflage for any sound she might make.  She was close, so close.  

One more step.

She leaned forward, drawing her blaster with her strong hand as she clung to the tree's branch and taking careful aim.  This bounty had been hard to come by, harder to trace.  In the end, however, the man would die like the rest of them.  She sniffed derisively and her finger twitched, the blaster bolt finding its mark and the man falling forward, blood seeping out around the edge of his helmet.

We all die in the end.

She hopped down from the branch, landing silently on the loamy forest floor, and crossed the distance to the body.  Crouching, she took her helmet off, taking a deep breath as she looked around.  The man would have friends.  They would be by soon.  All she needed was the verification.  Her fingers slid along the blood-slicked helmet on the body in front of her, smiling grimly at the familiar click-hiss of its release, and tossed the still-smoking durasteel away.  All she needed were the man's dog tags and datascan.  

Gun and go.

She looked down as the helmet released and froze.

No.  No.  NO NO NO NONONONONONONONO

The scream echoed against the trees as she pulled Jerhal's lifeless body against her chest, begging him to wake up, all while knowing her shot had been true, any words she gasped out, futile.  Hot tears streaked her cheeks as her hands pulled free of their gauntlets, pressing her mouth against the dead man's in a desperate attempt to find herself in the holotales they told children, having him wake up in her arms.  The smoke crept closer, burning her eyes along with the tears, and she knew.  

The still-warm barrel of the durasteel pressed against her temple as she looked up through the haze of grief.  Even through the smoke of battle, the sky was blue.  

Her finger twitched.

***

Ty'nea sat bolt upright in bed, scream choked into silence in the back of her throat as the sound of the blaster firing faded away into her subconscious.  Red hair lay plastered against her forehead and cheeks with sweat as tears rolled up and overflowed her eyes.  She gasped out a strangled cry and pulled her knees to her chest, pressing her face against them as she sobbed.

Her fingers searched out the small horizontal scars on her temples, pressing against them as the headache throbbed white-hot behind her eyes with each gasping breath.  Distantly, she heard her name called, felt the warm embrace of the arm around her bare back and the hand softly petting down her hair as the concerned tone of words murmured against her ear, helping her sobs to subside.

"Whoa, shit, whoa whoa, shhhhh Nea.  Calm down, Baby, you're okay."

She pressed her face against his chest, shaking, and turned her head, desperate to hear his heart thumping against his ribs.  The song of life that her subconscious mind thought funny to rip away from her in the most painful way possible.

The sound was there.  She took a deep, shaky breath, squeezing her eyes shut.  The image from the dream was still there, though fading behind a smokescreen of time.  A deep breath found it's way to her lungs, her words coming out shakily, but true.