#much sads

Prompt: “I hate watching you do this to yourself.” (Uncomfortable) Characters: Ma’at Stasma/Talos Drellik Story/Series: Sithy Bunch Word Count: 682 A/N: Set while Tully is locked in carbonite  

“Ma’at?” Darth Imperius looked up at the sound of Talos’s voice. He hovered in the doorway to her study, waiting for permission to enter. With a wave, Ma’at beckoned for her lover to approach.

Talos sat close enough to offer comfort without encroaching on Ma’at’s personal space. “Can’t sleep, darling?” She'd tried not to wake him when slipping from their bed, but Talos always knew.

With a furtive glance towards the dark frame that led to her own room, Ma’at shook her head. She’d shared Talos’s quarters almost every night since Tuathal had gone missing. Ma'at refused to believe that her husband was dead, but the emptiness of that space pushed her to the point of panic. Tully was still out there, imprisoned on the far reaches of their map. She would know if his life had been snuffed out, their connection was too strong for Tully to pass into the afterlife without her knowledge.

Every night Tuathal called in Ma'at's dreams. They battled forces that she couldn't see, and his combined fear and rage were overwhelming. Yet, no matter how strong the sensations in the dream realm, they became muted once she woke. It infuriated Ma'at that she couldn't track him, and terrified her as to what that could mean.

“I miss him too,” Talos whispered into the dark room. Shadows from the fireplace danced across his sharp features, making him look older, tired. Green eyes so different from her husband's turned to greet Ma'at with a sad smile. “But, you must sleep. I hate watching you do this to yourself, and Tuathal would not approve, either.”

Ma’at shifted to lean against her lover, sighing when Talos slid an arm around her shoulders to pull her closer. “It’s been nearly a year. His children no longer remember him past the stories we tell. I don’t know what to do.” The idea of admitting defeat soured on Ma’at’s tongue, but they were running out avenues to search. With Malavai on his own mission, Pierce and Ashara starting a family, and Vette working freelance, Ma’at felt like her world was falling apart. She felt helpless.

“We soldier on,” Talos answered as if it was the most obvious solution. “Lord Tuathal will not give up, and we will find him.” With a gentle squeeze, Talos kissed the top of Ma’at’s head. “I will aid you in whatever way I can, and his children will never lack for love.”

Sliding her arms around his lean waist, Ma’at hugged Talos tighter. “He always respected you.” Tuathal had liked her chipper archeologist from the start. He was the one who urged Ma’at to trust her instincts where Talos was concerned, and had loved Ari as his own. There was little doubt in Ma'at's mind that Tully would appreciate Talos stepping in for his own children.

Talos’s chest expanded in a light chuckle. “He was always something of a hero to me.” Ma’at angled her face to see the almost shy smile on his lips. With a shrug, Talos continued. “Well can you blame me. I’d never met a Sith who didn’t throw his weight around...or mine.” Ma’at snickered, though she had no reason to believe that he was joking. She’d met his brother, after all.

Settling deeper into the cushions, Talos sighed. “It warmed my heart to see him dote on you and Nuada. Then, to know that he openly approved of my seeking your favor. It was more than a man of my station could hope for. And when Ari was born...” Ma'at had sensed her lovers fear when they realized who her second son belonged to. Tuathal could have chosen to destroy the child and Talos, it was his right as Sith. Instead, he'd counted Ari as another extension of their ever-growing family and made sure that none would ever threaten the boy.

some angst because why not

It takes a moment to stop running a crushed piece of some stone over his left arm. It didn't do much damage, it couldn't do much, but it was somehow strangely soothing to hear little noise it made and see chalky lines where it moved. The only missing thing is that he couldn’t feel that. At all. Creaks and crumbs was all he has left of where there should be sensation.

He doesn’t even lift gaze to face Corsac, lowkey glad that his hair grew long enough to shield him from the amber eyes, when he forces his jaw to move, so he can mumble: “It’s irreparable.”

And he doesn’t mean his hand that still misses plating and needs solid tuning at least. The only kingdom with technology and resources to provide that doesn’t exist anymore. The only thing he swore to protect with his life to the very end. Why is he still alive? He let down every single person that survived the Fall. They lost homes and loved ones. It’s his fault they’re nothing but refugees stuck in the desert. There was not a single reason why he should survive while so many didn’t. While so much of it was his fault. And he remembers scraps of the painfully real fever dream that he was more than willing to make it even worse.

He didn’t understand why Corsac decided to drag him along from place to place, while he was good for nothing. A potential danger, if anything, because one can’t cut out just the semblance out of own existence.