what do I put here

As we all know, nautolans are semi-aquatic oviparous mammals. The growth of breast tissue seems to suggest that they do have nipples contrarily to the other oviparous mammals we know of. (I did not define if as genitals they had four-headed penises like echidnae or cloacas with hidden genitalia inside like platypuses but I'm sharing these very specific informations about the only two known oviparous mammals for the perverts (affectionate) who want free headcanons)

Now, in legends canon, nautolans spend two years chilling as tadpoles underwater, before growing limbs to become a fully-fledged humanoid toddler. And even then, they still spend a little more time underwater because their muscles are a little too weak to support them on land properly

BUT I want to draw fucked up freakish amphibian newborns so here's MY take on nautolan babies' development:

Underwater growth vs land growth:

As semi-aquatic creatures, nautolans have the ability to survive both on land and underwater. However, for baby nautolans to develop right, they require a strictly underwater environment from after the egg hatches to the end of their second to third year.

The first reason being that they come out of the egg without any way to breathe on land, and the second being that even out of the tadpole stage, the mortality rate is higher when they are taken out of the water before having developped a higher bone density (second year of development, see below). And if you need a third reason, they develop numerous problems later in life if they do manage to survive: nautolans who grew up on land have a higher risk of articulations hurting and being hard to use as they grow older, a higher risk of developping bone structure and muscle mass issues, a higher chance to develop heart and lungs problems, and without fail, lower sensitivity in their tendrils, and troubles with the underwater motion that they should have learned as newborns. It takes years for a nautolan who grew up on land to get a full reeducation to underwater motion, and very few of them get the sensitivity back in their tendrils.

A nautolan baby is usually forced to develop on land because of slavery. As soon as they're out of the tadpole stage, they are either put in an underwater work camp, or straight on land. Getting a baby out of its underwater environment a few months in its development has a lower mortality rate, but a higher chance of causing issues to the bone structure.

Some parents raising their child on land have tried to develop alternatives to help lessen the risk of their offspring developing life-threatening issues later in life, like always keeping a source of water close by to keep their child in as much as possible, making them drink more water, etc. If it does make a change, it is only a small one, as statistics tend to show that these practices as wishful thinking at best.

Mobility:

The nautolan babies develop mobility faster than human babies.

In their underwater development, they are already able to easily move around a few weeks out of their tadpole stage, and get more and more agile every month. They become casual swimmers by the end of their first year, so the next one can be about developping communication through speech and their tendrils while practicing swimming a bit better.

They develop the bone density necessary to go on land by their second year, after which they learn how to move on land. They are very disgracious at first, but learn how to walk faster than human babies, as they have already developped a little more understanding of their own bodies and agility. It takes them a few months to waddle away like little toddlers, and their growth continues as normal. By age 3-4, a nautolan's mobility on land is indistinguishable from a human's if it has had enough opportunity to develop its land mobility.

Learning to walk on land is considered an important part of growth, as, the later a nautolan infant learns how to be on land, the harder it will be for them to pick it up.

If they were forced on land after the tadpole stage, they will stay weak newborns for six whole months, their body focusing on creating a better bone density to survive the surface, and suddenly go through all the on-land human-like baby developments at record speed, sitting barely a few weeks after learning to raise their head, and being able to stumble around on their feet with ease by their first year, if not earlier. This accelerated growth is the reason for a lot of the problems most of them develop in their articulations, bone structure, or muscle mass.

Tendrils:

In underwater nautolan babies, tendrils grow in the first few months and develop at a steady pace. The speed of that growth can vary, until puberty: after then, the tendrils grow less than one centimeter per year in average.

In land nautolan babies, tendrils struggle to grow until the second year of development. Once they really start to grow, they sometimes do so at a much slower pace than they should, or a much faster one, causing nautolans growing up on land to have shorter or longer tresses in adulthood. Puberty seems to stabilize their growth as well, thankfully, to a similar pace of a little less than a centimeter per year.

One day, one day i'll make a more comprehensive document about all of this. Maybe even illustrate it if I have the time haha

And because conclusions are hard, instead, have doodles of my OC's baby daughter for who he learns how to swim for so she can have a normal development:

And she's not ugly enough yet.

(I. I have more, but I'll post them in a separate post because it's more about her than nautolan babies in general)

Kids: do they want any, or would they mind if they had to take care of one? how does their own relationship with their parents affect this?

Faro

Faro does not want to be a parent, isn’t interested in the role. She had to kiss parenthood goodbye when she signed up for more hardcore agent work*, and that was it then to her, she never feels the need to revisit it later on. For rational reason like her life just not being suited to offering the things children need to grow well, but also because she shrimply doesn’t want to. Unavoidably she was very aware of how her own mother evidently didn’t want to be a parent either, and has asked herself why she did in the first place. Did she not know this beforehand? She won’t be this stupid.

*I might overdramatise here but I think Intelligence is pretty strict with birth control, they have full say on that topic on their agents (well, that’s far from the only thing). I think on uterus havers it’s more strictly policed, and the many stims that are part of an agent’s arsenal would stifle this even if they weren’t on hormonal birth control. I wonder if it has long time effects. I’m that meme: I’ve been pondering the elf’s uterus removal…

Faro looking after some children: she could do it, theoretically, it would go fine, but it’s not something that she would want to do repeatedly for enjoyment. Though as with hanging out with adults, it would also really depend on the kid. Her first plan of looking after a kid would be to give them a crosswords & sudoku puzzle book and leave them to it. Did she like that as a kid? She doesn’t really remember. But isn’t it kinda neat and also easy? (she gave them the hard mode version, didn’t she…)

Tevuuk

Hasn’t thought much about it, but if confronted with the idea of parenthood, they would not find the thought appealing. They already got enough responsibilities, adding one more sounds terrible. Also their parental role models were in no way encouraging about this.

They aren’t interested in babysitting some kids, but if they had to, they would probably tell them age-inappropriate stories. The kids are coming home disturbed and with many questions.

For future, older Tev (not class story or expac Tev) I could see them taking some youth (older teen or twenty-something) under their wing, be some kind of loose mentor to them, because they actually like showing people the ropes, and definitely see themselves in some youth with no way out of crime. They won’t go around fixing this in any structural way, but there might be a chance encounter where they’re like ‘Alright kid, you shoot like ass. Let me show you some tricks so you don’t shoot yourself next time’ and it becomes a regular thing. (Bonus if that ‘kid’ had originally been pointing their gun at Tev. You know. The classic).

Qyrhu

Growing up in the traditional, bloodline obsessed Sith circles, he knew that he would one day have children to continue the legacy (his mother certainly was reminding him often, her only child), but that notion soured the more real it became, and it was one of the big topics that made him distance himself from his family. He really doesn’t want children and he’s proud that his imbecilic bloodline will one day die out with him. It’s a bit of a touchy subject, he clearly chose what was important to himself and is glad of it, but deep down there’s a little nagging, hurt feeling that he failed something. (failed his family, failed his society, failed at being a good Sith). He doesn’t like failing. It’s going to evaporate some day, especially once he’s out and away from imperial society.

(I had an AU where he marries traditionally with another Sith and has a child to satisfy the expectation placed upon him. It’s the difficult divorced parent AU for pain and suffering. Because he wouldn’t be indifferent to any child of his. this little person hasn’t done anything to deserve this. But he would feel so caged. And would feel so guilty about that.)

Even when we untangle having kids from legacy (difficult for him), his idea of fulfilment isn’t him nesting and raising young, he truly wants different things from life. He’s someone who really likes going all in on his projects and career and campaigns and having children on the side would stifle or distract from that too much.

However, this evil question (kidding, i love it) has prompted me to think about when Qyrhu would ever be confronted with looking after kids. Which, you know, he doesn’t have any experience with. They’re a type of small civilians to him. I concluded that it would be when he’s running with Vette and the growing organisation for Twi’lek culture and liberation that she’s a part of (and that she’s heavily funding with her share of that heist pay out she earned). It consists of mainly adults but has some families and children in their more secured places. And for some cruel reason (groceries? meeting someone where a human/sith was not welcomed?), Vette and the other adults leave him with a handful of Twi’lek kids for like half an hour. He can do half an hour right? (it’s never just half an hour…)

(Mister Khovar, what’s your favorite color?” – “Pink. Now go play with tooth-gap and bogey-eater over there.” *the kid runs off yelling ‘It’s pink, I knew it!’ to the others*)

“Mister Khovar, I need to pee.” “Then go pee.” “Can you come with me?” “No.” “There’s weird noises in the toilet…” “This is just the dianoga.” “…” “…” “I’m scared.” *supressing a sigh and lowering his magazine* “This is a good day for you, Bog- nevermind. Do you know why?” *the bogey-eater is shaking her head* “You have an opportunity to raise above the mediocrity of your peers. You can go out there and piss on a beast. Who can say the same among us here? Your ferocity and daring will strike fear and respect in the hearts of your enemies. So. You know what to do.” “……..I can’t pee when I’m scared.” “Then problem solved.” *another kid* “Well cousin Evin has peed on an ant!” *other kid jumping in* “I want to go pee on a dinagona!!!”

Tearing my hair and thinking about Qyrhu kickstarting the dianoga pet mission not while buying an abandoned cantina but with the three kids he has privately dubbed Tooth-gap, Bogey-eater and Gundark-on-sugar during their adventures of peeing and plumbing. [No Dianogas were urinated on in the making of this scene.]

Change: if they could see how much they've changed over their life, coming face to face with a past or future self, how would they feel?

Qyrhu covered here

Faro

She imperatively doesn’t want to face her past self. She will just not look at her. (stop being childish faro cmooon. you coward).

Her past self is confused about this, she would love to question her. Is it worth a try to use the tactics that she obviously would know about, because she’s her? Should she test if old spies are forgetful? She’s pleasantly surprised that she’s still out there and kicking. That’s… a good sign. She’ll take it. :)

Man. This could be a weird kind of fic. The only one who could make old dog Faro look at her pre-brainwash self is that very self! Pity she’s dead. Maybe I could actually pack that into the Voss ritual thingy the agent can do there… Although that’s probably too soon for that. Hmmm… It would be nice if Faro did some more introspection, but it might be she never will. I cannot say more for the moment.

Tevuuk

Tev would feel all kinds of sad, and also kind of guilty, if they met their younger self, probably the one who freshly dropped out of school and left home to join their first gang. This kid is so green, and they shouldn’t have to go through all of this, they shouldn’t have to do all of the things they did to survive. But they will, because they did it, and it seems like it was the only path to somewhere better. Or would it be? They’d feel protective, and they wouldn’t like that feeling.

Teenage Tev would be a bit shocked by the gender. She hadn’t been considering that at the time, that this was a thing people, even less herself, would do. She’s not sure if she likes it? I think this would make her quite unsure about herself, even though she normally is rather self-confident. But what she likes to see is that she looks like a hardened, badass bitch that won’t fall over at the first gust of wind. She wouldn’t realize why her future self was like that.

Control: what do they think of mind control? would they use it on others? do they draw lines between acceptable and unacceptable versions of it?

Faro covered here

Qyrhu

Ramping up fear and stress is a Force technique that Qyrhu uses regularly. That could be classified into a form of mind control, right? He doesn’t use its subtler form (Force persuasion) much, but not really out of some moral reservation but because he doesn’t see much use for him. He’d rather just outright threaten people. It’s a Force technique, fair game for people to use it. Would they rather he crushes their windpipes about it? He can do that, too, he thinks he’s being considerate to just disparage them with fear. The damage seems less permanent.

He has been on the receiving end of the fear thing (Baras a bit, but especially Dread Masters) and he would agree it is not pleasant, but so is skewering you with a lightsaber, and he won’t stop doing that either. The force persuasion probably never really worked on him, he’s too wildly stubborn and strong in the Force. Maybe Valkorion managed it, but it was probably just regular manipulation tactics with a bit of Force juice behind it.

Anything that changes people for longer or for good is going too far to his liking, the way the Dread Host was, Valyn, (trying to think on what he knows, he definitely isn’t aware of ImpInt brainwashing for the longest time, but similarly he would think it cruel). He doesn’t approve of this and might even try to stop it. Really depends on if these are colleagues/allies or actual enemies. With the latter he wouldn’t want to sacrifice too much for it, but still. He really doesn’t want to use the control word on Valyn. He is full on planning to undermine her through her subjects. He is also terrified of her, her Force power is on another league altogether. So if she backs him into a corner too heavily, he might get desperate and reach for anything.

Tevuuk

Tevuuk hates and fears it and will get violent whenever he comes in contact with it, as much as it is possible. Which he is lucky about. If he lived in the Empire, this would be much harder. (If I ever manage to do put Tev in fic I want it to be the Tatooine smuggler story finale where he effectively comes in contact with Force persuasion for the first time in his life, getting yanked around by both a Sith and a Jedi and he will crash out. Brutally. The ingame scene is kinda funny. This will not be funny.)

Body: if they were made physically unrecognisable, what would they do?

Help idk if I’m interpreting this question like it was intended or with enough seriousness dkjfdfkf

Faro covered here

Qyrhu

He likes how he looks and would be very sad about that change. Undoubtably. I don’t want to give any false impressions; he likes his body. There just might be something about it that would console him. He has fantasized about having a completely different body on more than one occasion. That would be fascinating to him. What if he was a different species, what if he was a different gender presentation. Or also, what if he looked like someone else who exists? What if he looked like Theron all of a sudden?? Yeah, this turns into kink very fast, I am so sorry you find out about it like this. He will get kinky with it. Might as well profit from it, and once he’s bored again, he would clear his throat and motion to give his body back. Or else.

(dude, what did you do with Valkorion’s body in your own mind in the final fight *I get resoundingly slapped bc No, that’s different!!!!*  ok ok, fair, fair… not the trauma…)

Tevuuk

Noooo, they will go on a rampage. Give back their ugly body, it’s theirs!!! They would get the same tattoos in the same spots as their old appearance had, and bleach their hair the same way, to at least feel a little bit like themselves again. Their body is important to them. Maybe when they were younger, they would’ve cared less. But now, they would grieve. Tev and the way they hold on with a white knuckled grip to the things that once changed their life.

Qyrhu consoling an unconsolable Tev: “There, there, captain. It’s alright. … There might be ways to get to know your new body better again. um, if you know what I –“ Tev through gritted teeth: “You better Not be meaning what I think you mean, darling sweetie honeybunch, I will hold you out to the next black hole and watch you get spaghettified and then eat your sorry ass with fucking parmigiano on top!” “…........If that is what makes you feel better.”

Despite Qyrhu keeping his pace deliberately slow, Theron seems to struggle while walking next to him, gait careful, pain hiding in the rigid lines of his face. A slight sheen of perspiration starts to cover it, and his puffy eyebags look redder than usual. He looks awful and Qyrhu can’t believe Theron suggested going for a walk outside. No, the only place Qyrhu will be speaking another word to him is at his bed in the med wing. He has told him as such, and Theron has had to relent.

Qyrhu could have dropped by for a visit sooner, so Theron wouldn’t have felt the need to abscond from the med bay and ambush him in the halls, nearly making Qyrhu’s heart seize up. The bastard. But Qyrhu admits that he has been delaying meeting Theron again, even after he had recovered enough to receive visits. The conversation that will need to follow weighs heavily in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t trust himself not to botch it, draw too much blood. Not after all the previous ones with him, long ago now, but not long enough.

Let’s get this over with.

Theron sighs when they enter the med bay, and Qyrhu spends a few minutes idling in front of his room, picking at his gloves, while Theron receives a dressing-down from the annoyed nurse on duty. The satisfaction of it makes Qyrhu break into smile.

He enters the room when he finds it has lasted long enough. The nurse really hasn’t done anything other than scan him and remind him sharply that his state is still fragile. Theron bears it with an air of someone used to medical personnel being angry at him. No remorse.

“Thank you, sir. He will adhere to your professional recommendations in the future,” Qyrhu says, though only for the nurse’s sake. It is not likely to ever happen.

“Now, leave us.”

The nurse exits the room with delightfully insubordinate commentary under his breath. Something sounding suspiciously like ‘see if I care next time’ and ‘he’s as bad as Shan’.

He can’t dispute that.

Qyrhu lets the door slide close and leans against the wall, so as to face Theron, who, for the lack of other seating options, has perched himself at the far end of his bed. He seems like he really didn’t want to touch that bed again for a while, even though he looks less sickly now, sitting down.

Qyrhu takes note of his rumpled downtime pants and oversized shirt that were hiding under his cloak, now discarded. His mop of dark hair messy and unstyled, his sidecut less neat than when he had first seen him up close on Nathema. Theron takes him in in the same way. There hasn’t been much time to truly look at each other until now. Not in the last nine months. Something inside him aches for this kind of silence between them, Theron’s eyes on him, and his on Theron’s, no words, just their familiarity, their appreciation, their sanctum of the other’s presence. Both of them seem to briefly conjure it among the strangeness of his long absence, among this nervous, uncertain quiet before a storm of their own making.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Qyrhu says into this silence.

Theron looks up, into his eyes. Qyrhu holds his gaze, willing to show him he means this, his own eyes softening around the edges for a moment. Theron needs to know this, whatever follows, he’s glad he’s here, and alive. He doesn’t want to think on how he would feel if Theron hadn’t survived his injuries. He can’t… It is too horrific. He clamps this imagined despair down again. There is no need for it, Theron is in front of him, calmer now, his skin tone healthier again as he has had time to recover from his walk.

“I… yeah. I’m glad, too. That you’re safe.”

Theron looks like he has words bubbling in his mouth that he has wanted to say for forever. Qyrhu lets him speak them out.

“Look... I know I put you through hell. I was reckless and stupid, and it almost cost us everything. Leaving you there on Umbara... Saying these things to you… it destroyed me.”

Qyrhu keeps his face impassive. He’s surprised how hard it is to take his words for the apology it is. He had been waiting for an apology. Theron truly owes him one. But he just hates it now, hearing him do it. He hates his contrite look, how his eyes jump around before returning back to him. Theron looks like a trapped animal, and that’s quite literally what he just did to him. Maybe he should have had this conversation outside, as Theron had suggested. Theron leans his arms on his knees and looks up to him, looking everything like an abject supplicant. It makes him want to taste bile.

Qyrhu should at least have sat down, too, so to not make that comparison starker, but he hasn’t wanted to sit next to him. He slowly breathes out his discomfort through his nose. Since when can’t you take one sincere apology, from the person who wronged you? Not in every way, but it had been insane, what he did. Telling no one. Leaving everyone blind in the wake of this. Leaving him with this much guilt.

Theron has straightened up now, trying to decipher his silence. His hands are gripping the edge of the mattress unconsciously.

“I know I don’t deserve it,” he continues tentatively, “I don’t know if you… where we stand. If we have another chance –”

Qyrhu halts him with a raised palm. He has heard enough, and he doesn’t want him to say things he will later regret. Even without any Force behind it, Theron falls silent immediately, as if he has squeezed shut his windpipe. Qyrhu cringes inwardly, hurt to see that display of anxiousness before it is hidden behind a neutral expression again. It’s Qyrhu’s own fault, for always being so imperious, so exacting. For making everyone be wary of his reactions. It affirms what he has to say.

“My turn.”

Theron’s expression slips again, into confusion now.

“The way you have gone about this whole solo operation is terrible, and we’ll need to pick that apart more when you’re on active duty again.”

Well, the others will. I’m sure Lana has already started.

Theron nods feebly, valiantly covering his unease about that prospect. “Alright.”

“And I fault you for the way you broke up with me. It was cruel.”

“I know.” Theron’s expression is pained now. “I know, Qy. I’ll never forgive myself for that–”

“But I don’t fault you for ending our relationship in the first place.”

“…What?” The word escapes in a startled breath.

“You should have done it long before that.”

There had been many reasons to do it. For the many times he had rebuked his comfort, his help. For all the venom he had lugged at him for trying. For Qyrhu’s weakness at falling apart in the first place, not strong enough to keep himself together, to weather the hardships he should have been able to weather. He had been waiting for Theron to distance himself the whole time, even though it was Qyrhu who should have been the one to end it, assume responsibility, when Theron couldn’t do it, but he had been blindly clinging to the idea to try again, try every day to be better, to make it up to all of them. In vain.

“Qyrhu,” Theron shifts abruptly, to stand. Qyrhu holds out his hand as quickly to stop him in his tracks. He doesn’t want him to come closer right now. Theron keeps himself seated, tense and poised to jump. He looks distressed.

It had been a brutal wake up call. He had realized that if he kept this up, he would end up hurting everyone around him, until they all turned away from him, or worked themselves to death because of him. He can’t be thankful to Theron exactly, but in this last act, he had finally done what Qyrhu had expected him to, and made him realize how awful that was.

“I can’t let you go on flagellating yourself without bringing this up,” he says, too lightly for the taste of blood still in his mouth.

Qyrhu looks down at Theron’s unhappy face and breathes out. He didn’t think he’d ever have the opportunity to tell him this. It helps to ease the sting of it.

“I am sorry, Theron. For how I behaved. For trying to force it for this long. You didn’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve me like this.”

“Qy, you were going through shit. I never held that against you”, Theron says, grief in his voice.

“And why shouldn’t you?”, Qyrhu is tired. He swallows down his irritation at having his own past state acknowledged, even when he has just admitted it himself.

 “The circumstances are excuses. This is about how much one has to put up with someone else’s issues, excusable or otherwise.”

Theron puts his face in his hands. “Fuck. I’m trying to apologize here.”

“It is noted. But I’m not finished.” He wants to say his piece before Theron can divert from it. Some detached inner voice is noting that he isn’t being considerate once again. Well, that isn’t news.

He overrides his instinct to remain unmoving and brings his hand to his face to smooth over his forehead, closing his eyes for a moment. Trying to soften himself into something less harsh.

“My point to all of this is… I don’t want you to feel like you owe me a relationship.”

Theron lifts his head again, his face carefully still.

“I don’t want to resume whatever we were doing just because it was so before. Honestly, I don’t want to go back to that.”

Theron chokes out a sound; it resembles a mirthless laugh.

Qyrhu doesn’t like who he has been then. No one would have. Theron is just being too nice, too forgiving. He doesn’t want that. He wishes he was angry at him at least a little. He used to be. When did it change? When did he stop to take him seriously? He thinks to know when. From the moment he had been snapped in half like a dry twig. The moment he started coasting.

“I don’t want you to come to me out of a sense of loyalty,” Qyrhu keeps going, trying to keep his voice even, through his chest constricting, “or guilt.”  Or pity. His nostrils blow out involuntarily. “I would never let that happen.”

“You…,” there’s a oh-so-slight hint of anger in Theron’s distress now. He wants so badly to lock his jaw around it and shake. “Stop assuming things. I’m not thinking that.”

“I don’t believe you, Theron.” Qyrhu keeps his tone quiet, but the sharpness is undeniable.

Theron’s mouth clicks shut.

Their silence is thick now. Hope drains down slowly, marring the floor.

Qyrhu is still mad at him and he can’t pretend otherwise. He can’t swallow down these long months of misery and doubt, feeling like he failed him. He still failed him, but apparently not as much as he had thought. How stupid. All of it was stupid.

Another part of him wants to fall on his knees for all those words, clasp his boots and apologize for making him sad and hurt once again. He knows how much Theron has sacrificed, how much he has risked, how lonely and arduous his last year has been. And now, after everything he’s done, wounded and still half on his hospital bed, he comes to him for reassurance, to mend bridges, and he is met with this. His mess. Again. If he was a better man, a better friend, he would stand by him to get through this time of convalescence, at least wait until Theron doesn’t feel as jittery as now, covert op nerves still in his veins.

Qyrhu cannot smile at him and pretend it’s fine, however. He is tired of pretending things are fine. It is unfair, but he can’t change that.

“This is a chance. For both of us,” Qyrhu keeps dropping stones into the pond of Theron’s resigned silence. They splash in with a dull finality.

“I don't think we are who we need to be for each other.”

It will be better if both of them realize this, and leave each other be, don’t cling to something out of sentimentality that doesn’t actually make them happy.

“I want you to think about it. For longer.” plounk “And I will be doing the same.”

Theron nods calmly, a conscious act, his gaze looking at nothing. It hurts to see him like that. Doesn’t he see the chance in that? That he’s free of him, of his expectations? He hopes he will realize it soon.

He wishes to be someone who makes him happy. And he doesn’t want either Theron or him to squirm and change too much to be able to fit with the other. I just want both of us happy. But he isn’t sure how possible that is. He won’t make up his mind now.

Qyrhu pushes off the wall and makes to end this. Finally.

“I’m leaving Odessen.”

Theron looks up at him again, sharply.

“Where?”

It’s a hastily tumbled out word, not much hope for an answer behind it, as he watches him walk over to the exit.

Qyrhu stops in front of the door when it has swished open.

“Don’t follow me.”

He leaves, the door closing behind him. He is staring straight ahead, blinking too many times in the harsh bright light of the med center. When he’s out of there, he gets out his comm unit and quick dials the first contact.

“I’m done here,” he speaks into it.

“Good,” the line on the other end is briefly drowned out by a clattering noise, someone throwing down something with finality. He feels more certain again, hearing Vette’s voice.

The tomb of Marka Ragnos is as stifling and oppressive as the first time Si’oro crossed its threshold. The air here isn’t dry like it is outside, instead damp and cool, dim and claustrophobic, reminding him of the mouth of a fresh corpse. The walls themselves seem to bear in around him, eyes that feel omnipresent always on his back, yet nothing there when weakness bids him turn around.

While he normally only ventures here when forced, this excursion is shockingly elective. The draw of Raina Temple is just not something he can easily ignore any longer. Not when she asks for his help specifically. It scares him—how far he’d willingly follow her.

In the center of the chamber, Raina ponders a half-destroyed obelisk, supposedly containing within it a hint to the location of the tablet she seeks for her power-drunk overseer. Though he’s picked up High Sith faster than anyone expected, given he started with no knowledge of it, he’s still not a match for Raina, who apparently had some schooling in it from her mother. As such, his task is to watch for the rest of her peers.

He’s not overly concerned. Si’oro has spent his life honing his ability to hear the thoughts of others—it’s the very thing that let him hide this curse for so long, even. Though his range is not infinite, it is still formidable, as he can hear the spiraling thoughts of an acolyte several chambers away, convinced that his rival is closing in. And he can hear the thoughts of that rival, lurking in the shadows not far, with plans to anoint her new warblade with his blood. And even deeper, the thoughts of a small group of deserters fester, their need for revenge not sated by the recent slaughter of a handful of fresh acolytes.

But so far, none of Raina’s class have pieced together the same clues that Raina did. Further proof, really, that taking a chance with her has paid off in spades. Clever, analytical, persuasive, charming—she thinks like him, and yet she thinks nothing like him, and somehow that compliments him better than anyone else in this ridiculous charade of an academy.

Shaking himself, he returns his attention to the tomb. How unfortunate it would be to let them both be ambushed because he was too busy indulging in thoughts of her.

A little huff catches reaches his ear. Raina still stands at the obelisk, though her arms are crossed, a divot between her brows.

“Everything alright?” he calls over, and the divot smooths over when she turns to him.

“I’m afraid this particular variant of High Sith will be the death of me.”

“Careful,” Si’oro chides, making a show of glancing around. “Speaking of your death in a tomb has got to be some sort of omen.”

A wry smile tugs at her lips. “Then I suppose I should be thankful I have such a thoughtful young acolyte keeping watch for me.”

“Yes, yes, I take your point,” Si’oro replies, turning back to his job. “But I’ll have you know I’m excellent at multitasking. I just heard an acolyte freak out, half a tomb away, over his own digestive tract gurgling a little too loudly, all while I was entertaining you.”

Her laugh echoes across the cavernous walls, igniting a thrilling flutter in his chest. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

She turns back to her obelisk, and Si’oro lets his attention return fully to his surroundings. It’s a struggle not to let his mind wander. Not long after, the rival kills the frightened acolyte, a disturbing pulse of raw terror he feels all the way to his toes. The deserters were drawn to the screams, and they killed the rival in turn, taking the shiny new warblade for their own. Si’oro wishes he could become more quickly accustomed to hearing someone’s final thoughts in the moments before their violent death—the last thing he wants is to lose his meager lunch.

He won’t receive another.

He catches scattered thoughts every now and again as he keeps watch. A few words, a hint of a voice. Proof he’s still a step ahead. Proof he's still alive enough to hear them. Si’oro knows he shouldn’t, but he clings to these moments, letting them ease the fear he’s supposed to be finding a way to use.

A terrifyingly stagnant struggle.

Because it’s one thing to know danger is coming. It’s another to be able to fight it off. Thus far, Si’oro has skirted by on his ability to avoid trouble. Yet he knows that luck will not hold forever. Just last week, when Raina’s trial had coincided with his own and he was alone in yet another horrible tomb, a curved beak had poked out from behind a large stone tablet, beady little eyes glaring out after, and it was only then that Si’oro heard a beat of wings. The shyrack emerged, slowly, as if still deciding whether it wanted to flee or attack him. It was thin, smaller than the others he’d seen, likely the sole reason it survived the slaughter of the rest of the flock. Its hunger gnawed at the air, more pronounced the closer it crept, Si’oro’s senses reeling from it.

He remembered, in that moment, his first day at this wretched academy, when he witnessed an acolyte shoot lightning from her fingers—a power he didn’t know was even possible prior to that moment—to kill another, who whimpered and begged at her feet for a mercy that never came. An illuminating observation, even if Si’oro still can’t quite forget the screams. Because if that acolyte could do it, then Si’oro can too.

In theory, at least.

Lifting his hand and pointing it toward the shyrack, he thought about how much he hates Korriban. How much he hates the Sith and the Empire. Thought of his first night just after he arrived, before he grew accustomed to the red sand burning his eyes, when the grief that he would never see his parents again finally hit him, when he was surrounded by a group of people all trying to kill him just to claim that one, solitary ticket off this rock. The feeling rose within him, choking and violent. He focused it, willing it to spark to life.

His fingertips tingled, and they crackled once, twice.

Nothing further happened. The failure sunk within him, the influx of insecurity vicious as little hooks beneath his skin. The sound, however, startled the shyrack, and without its flock to bolster it, it fled deeper into the tomb.

Technically, it counts as a win. Yet Si’oro knows that if the beast hadn’t been so frightened, there’s every chance it could’ve killed him, then and there. For all his effort, he’s made precious little progress with a blade, and even less with the raw power his peers seem to wield. Whatever trick they all seem to see eludes him. And prying through their thoughts hardly helps, as this understanding can’t seem to be put to words.

Si’oro’s under no illusions. At some point, he’ll come face to face with his rivals in his group. There will be no running. No avoiding. No time to retreat and reassess, like he’s been so meticulously taught. One of them will strike, and Si’oro will die.

His only luck then will be how quick they make it.

A knot deep in his gut twists. At once, he wishes he could justify interrupting Raina again, pull her eyes from that cracked stone just to see them, round and playful, gazing upon him. Si’oro wants little more than to hear her tease him over his meager attempts at lightning, or the way even his own breathing sometimes causes him to jump, the acoustics of the tomb making it feel as if it’s come from behind him. He doesn’t mind jokes at his expense when they fall from her lips.

If Si’oro is honest with himself, she’s made these past three months bearable. It’s not just her ability to overpower the simple minds of the creatures that attack them; her company soothes the raw edges of Si’oro’s psyche. Her mind is sharp, her tongue even cleverer; she intrigues him, and thinking of her, he can forget, at times, where he is. Her tales of her time in the Chiss Expansionary Defense Force provide endless entertainment, however shocked he first was to learn of her experience there, and she seems just as delighted to hear his stories of Ziost, though he only spent a few years on its frigid surface.

These bittersweet reminders of home are small delights in the grand scheme, yes. But any delight here, in this place, is worth holding onto.

Motion out of the corner of his eye draws his attention, and he’s relieved, at first, that Raina seems to have left the obelisk behind. He doesn’t peer into her mind to be sure; even if he were willing to break her trust, there’s a clear hesitance to her body language, and his heart sinks.

“Still giving you trouble?” he asks as she trudges closer, stopping less than a meter from him, arms folded politely in front of her, and reluctantly, she nods. She seems almost apologetic.

“There’s an inscription—it seems to point to another obelisk. An older one that might provide further context for the phrasing. I think I need both to locate the tablet.”

Wracking his brain, Si’oro realizes where this is headed. “We saw one like it back in the Tomb of Ajunta Pall.”

“And we originally thought it might be the one we needed,” Raina agrees, nodding along with his words. “I think it might be. Or might be necessary to fully translate the text on this one, I mean.”

Si’oro still isn’t certain why she seems so sheepish. “Well, we can go back for it. It’s a delay, but it’s not—”

“I was actually hoping you would.” She grimaces at whatever she sees on his face. “I’d… well, I’d like to continue trying to decipher the rest of this one.”

Ah. That certainly explains it. “Trying to translate it myself would take hours. We shouldn’t be separated that long, not when I can’t hear anyone in this temple from Ajunta Pall’s. It’s an unnecessary risk—”

“Not translate.” Pulling a scanner from her pack, she holds it out to him. “Just take a few scans and bring it back to me? That should only take a few moments, and it will save us both a lot of time.”

It’s a bad idea. They’ve learned from experience what it means to be alone in these tombs. A tremble starts up in his hands just thinking about it. But… well, he can be quick. And the look on her face—it softens his resolve. Embarrassing, how badly he wants to make her smile again.

Against Si’oro’s better judgment, he acquiesces. “Alright. But don’t run off without me, yeah? You know how much I’m dying to know what this special little tablet says.”

Her laugh, however brief, is like music to his ears. “You’re terrible.” She bites her lip, beaming at him as she hands over the scanner. “Thank you.”

Their fingers brush as he takes it, and he quells the rising sense of wrong as he leaves her to the shadows of the tomb.

~

He’s right, of course, that he could be quick. Si’oro was lucky that so few groups were out in the tombs this day. Only a handful he couldn’t avoid, and they were all so caught up in their own angst that they didn’t notice him. The obelisk itself set innocently in Ajunta Pall’s tomb, right where he’d seen it before. Still, he took care to scan every angle, every crack that could possibly be interpreted as an engraving.

Si’oro does not want to repeat this endeavor.

The entrance to the Tomb of Marka Ragnos looms before him, a welcome sight, for once. He barely acknowledges the guards stationed outside it, passing through with long and purposeful strides. Despite the ease of his task, that bad feeling has not left him, and he will feel better only when he’s back at Raina’s side.

Si’oro is careful about his path through the tomb, keeping his focus on his surroundings. While he’s talented at avoiding other people, the creatures, ironically enough, give him more trouble, their chaotic, intuition-driven minds harder to detect. How horrible it would be for Raina to think first that he abandoned her, then to find his chewed-up pieces on her way out.

Si’oro tries very, very hard not to think about what it would be like to actually become the chewed-up pieces.

His attention proves unneeded, however; there was a new shipment of acolytes earlier in the week, and the emptiness of the tombs reflects the recent culling of wildlife. There’s always more, of course. But Si’oro appreciates not having to deal with them personally. The k’lor’slugs’ chitter alone makes his teeth ache.

He’s halfway to the large chamber he left her in when he hears a voice in his mind. Si’oro recognizes it with oozing dread: Valar, the favorite of Raina’s group. Supposedly the child of a Dark Council member. He’s had it out for Raina—the only in her group without Sith ancestry—since she arrived. Si’oro lets his mind expand, tasting the man’s thoughts, frightened by what he finds. He breaks into a run, whipping his practice saber from his sheathe on his back.

Taking the path through the tomb at breakneck speed, he draws to a halt just inside the archway leading to that familiar chamber. Here, he can hear two voices, though the acoustics distort them too much to understand. There’s an odd hum in the background, blending with the voices. Taking in Valar’s thoughts again, he’s relieved that he’s arrived in time; the man likes to hear himself talk, and he likes to draw out the deaths of his victims. In this one instance, Si’oro is relieved he’s such a bastard.

Peering in, his eyes find Raina first, her own practice blade drawn, though pointed at the floor. It is when he sees the starkly pale form of Valar, blonde hair nearly white in the torchlight and shaped as if to mimic the flame, that he understands what the hum is.

Valar, somehow, has a lightsaber, its crimson blade pointed at Raina’s throat. Where he got it, Si’oro can only guess, as he’s certain no one receives one until they’re named an apprentice, and Raina is still in the running for that. Her practice saber, though, is unlikely to hold up under its blows. The situation confirms what Si’oro has intuited from Valar’s thoughts: he tires of waiting for the tombs to remove his competition; here, where there are no witnesses, he’s going to trim down the class size. All his training, his special classes and tutors and knowledge his father gifted him, and still, he’s ambushed her here, stacked his hand with a weapon he shouldn’t have, counting on her being alone and unprepared for his assault.

This man, this filth, is going to kill her.

The reality of the situation gives way to terror so great it chokes him—rage so overwhelming it rattles his very core. A second reality overlays the one his eyes perceive, seemingly created from thin air, yet part of him understands it has always been. The fabric of it pulses, writhes. An infinite web of connections reveals itself to him. Bidding him. Tempting him. His hands burn, the sensation so deeply satisfying that without thinking, he steps into the room. He lifts his arms, pointing his outstretched hands at Valar, and his mind traces the twitching path between them.

The tomb erupts in a flash of purple light and crashing thunder. Electricity arcs from his fingertips, licking into Valar. With a choked screech, he goes rigid, his back arching into Si’oro’s assault. His pain coats the air—thick, cloying.

Then the twitching along Valar changes form, a shape Si’oro doesn’t understand. At once, the lightning no longer bites into him, and grunting, Valar turns, a deranged snarl aimed Si’oro’s way.

It’s the only warning Si’oro receives before the current reverses itself.

The lightning does not favor him, sinking into his flesh as viciously as it had Valar’s. The onslaught overwhelms him so suddenly he can’t find the breath to scream.

“Wretch,” Valar spats, the sound distant in the wake of the agony rippling through Si’oro. “You think you can use this against me? Me? You’ll learn your place before you die!”

The pain heightens, tinging his vision black. A raw ache tears through his throat, and he realizes belatedly that he’s begun screaming after all. The crash of the lightning, the panicked roar in his own ears—they drown everything else out.

And then the pain is gone, suddenly as it came.

Si’oro blinks open his eyes, not realizing when he closed them, nor when he crumbled to the floor. His vision blurs, the room spinning. When it clears, there is only Raina, furious, practice saber coated red. Between them, Valar's empty eyes stare at Si'oro, face still twisted in rage. His body, black robes visibly wet even to Si'oro's poor vision, lays several meters away, completely severed from it.

Warm hands cupped along his jaw draw his attention. Raina has discarded her blade and kneels before him, speaking softly, though the sound is muffled, as if he’s hearing her through water. He tries to speak, his own voice thick as the tongue that doesn’t want to move properly in his sand-dry mouth. Though his vision clears by the second, the light from the torches remains scattered and smudged. It paints the space behind Raina’s head, haloing her in soft reds and oranges and yellows, a vision against the deep brown of her skin.

Si’oro has never seen someone so beautiful.

Her lips are dry and cracked when he surges forward to capture them with his own, a clumsy attempt that clacks their teeth together. Every inch of her lips elicits tingling in his own, thrill trembling within him. She’s frozen, at first, then sinks it. Si’oro kisses her desperately, without regard to skill or finesse, without regard to petty concerns like air within his lungs. Her breath tastes of dust and the artificial tang of ration bars and something uniquely her when he breathes it in, leaving him drunk off the heady intimacy of it. Raina clings to him all the while, still cradling his face with her hands. He reaches up, clutching at the fabric of her shirt along her hips. He can’t decide where he wants to hold onto her, his hands dancing up her back, along her face, around her neck, her short hair tickling his knuckles. He’s just desperate to keep her close, aching all the while for her to be closer.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been when they finally part. Raina’s pupils are blown so wide he can no longer see the brown of her irises—can only guess at the way his own eyes must glow in mirrored response. Her hair is a bit mussed, her lips swollen and puffy. His stomach turns molten, his chest quickly following suit.

“Hi,” he croaks, and she offers a wobbly smile.

“Hi,” she echoes.

Perhaps it’s the nervousness threading her voice, but Si’oro suddenly worries he’s crossed a line he can’t take back. He shifts, swallowing rapidly. “Are you okay?”

“I think I should be asking you that,” she says, an incredulous laugh escaping her. “I swore I could see your skeleton there.”

The reminder sends a throb throughout his whole body, his aching muscles begging for his attention now that he’s allowed it to waver from Raina. Si’oro can’t fight off a groan, and he shakes his head.

“Nothing sleep won’t fix,” Si’oro says, half to convince himself. “I think.”

Her smile grows more genuine, a glint forming in her eyes. “I certainly hope so. I won’t have you thinking you can renege on our arrangement just by dying. I simply won’t.”

His laugh wobbles out of him, and even to his own ears, he can't detect a trace of real humor. The amusement vanishes from her then, her face falling. He takes one of her hands that’s still holding his face and pulls it to his sore chest, squeezing gently. Raina swallows, reaching out with her other to run her fingers along the seam of his shirt, dislodging it a bit where his belt keeps it closed. When she speaks again, the words grate out, so low he almost can't hear them over the ringing that still assaults his ears.

“I thought for sure he was going to kill us both.”

Her eyes are dry when he tilts her chin up, though he’s not entirely surprised. Never once has he seen Raina Temple cry. Still, he feels the tremble in her body, and he can feel the ebbing terror like a coat around her thoughts. Si’oro lingers in her space, shifting his position so that their foreheads touch, delivering soothing strokes of his thumb along her knuckles. When the rawness of the moment passes, he catches her eyes.

“I would never let that happen.”

The whites of her eyes flash. Si’oro expects her to tease his bravado, call him silly or impractical. It’s only when her lip trembles that he stills, shocked that this, of all things, would wedge beneath that unflappable exterior. But her eyes are rapidly becoming bloodshot, and her breathing is shaky, and Si’oro can’t find the will to question it. Releasing her hand, he pushes himself to his knees, taking her into his arms.

Unlike with the kiss, here, she does not hesitate. Raina sinks into him, her own arms wrapped around his torso, hands gathering fistfuls of his shirt. Holding her close, basking in the heat of her against him, Si’oro feels his resolve settle into place. He doesn’t know what will happen next, doesn’t know what kind of obstacles remain between them and release from this planet.