Myriad Reckonings

Sirejj's countenance settled. He felt the cat's tooth in his palm. His mind was surging with the cries of the dead, waiting to be set loose. The world around him began to shift, as if space and time itself was moving beneath his feet. Whether it was a vision brought about by his deep connection to this place or he was finally losing his mind, he was undecided.

"No. None of this was worth it. But if you will allow me-" He slowly reached for the staff on his back. "I will show you what you are so reluctant to believe."

"How do you plan to do that?" Tarkin asked curtly. "Raise the dead?"

Sirejj did not answer. Instead he took a swift glance around them. He seemed to be watching the movements of things outside of the physically visible plane.

He whispered something, but the words he spoke did not need to be spoken loudly to begin their work. He struck the ground beneath them with his staff. Smoke curled around its handle. He need only show Tarkin the image in his mind, but it would be through the both of their eyes that he would show him the events that had transpired here. He only hoped he had the strength to hold back Vader's presence long enough for this to take place.

He looked at Tarkin, his eyes swirling with shadows of green and blue, appearing far more otherworldly than his usual appearance. He reached out his hand, and in it was the tooth. "Hold it. See what is before you, if you dare."

Tarkin frowned, regarding the tooth with some suspicion. "Melodramatics are hardly going to discourage me," he scoffed, and he reached out to take it. The moment he did, the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up and he jerked backward with the tooth clutched between his fingers.



The death of Ivan Shale hit Garoche harder than he possibly could have imagined.
They had been school friends, true–well, rivals for the first half and unlikely allies for the latter half–and they had attended parties together, but they had only ever been close in that distant sort of way classmates usually were. The pair had latched onto each other once they were assigned the same squad in the navy, but they lost touch again as Garoche’s father promoted him again and again and again until he was somehow in command of his own Star Destroyer. Of course he had Shale transferred there immediately, but it wasn’t the same as when they’d been on a level with one another. Garoche had left him behind, in fact, when he was sent to Atoa.

And then suddenly there he was, this wonderful person telling him “Yes, I know how you feel. I feel the same. I’m scared.” Telling him he wasn’t crazy, that he had doubts as well. Garoche had nearly wept with relief. Shale hadn’t seemed real at first, but then when he explained it had all made sense–of course his father wouldn’t trust Vader to complete the mission safely. Wilhuff Tarkin trusted no one, put faith in no one but himself. Only he was infallible. Thank the stars he’d sent Shale. Thank the stars…

But now Shale was gone, his blood painting the walls of the lower tunnels all because he had shared Garoche’s vision and followed his lead. That was what Shale did, though–he was a follower. He was most at ease, most effective, when he was behind someone. The man Garoche had been made into saw that, and he had used it to his advantage. His only friend in the world was dead because of it.
He shouldn’t fault himself for it, he thought. He was a soldier; soldiers had to make sacrifices. But why had it had to be Shale?

“Garoche,” Saro whispered, her voice urgent. Garoche shook himself, looking down at his lover. “He’s near. Now’s our chance.”

“You’re sure about this?” He gave her hand a small squeeze, trying to ignore his own trembling. He was a soldier, he repeated to himself again. Fear was nothing to him; he had cut it out of himself in the Carrion.

“No.” Her honesty was oddly soothing. “But if I don’t try then nobody will. Not until it’s far too late.”

“I trust you.” Garoche took her shoulders and turned her toward him, and they embraced. “But please be careful. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Saro pulled away, then drew his hand to her lips and kissed it before releasing him. “Stay out of sight.”

Garoche drew back into the shadows as she disappeared around a corner ahead, fiddling with his blaster pistol. Saro had shown him her illusory abilities before. They were stunning, grand things. When it was still early and he had not trusted her as blindly as he did now, she had pulled a memory straight from his head and shown it to him as if it were a holovid. It had left him pale and shivering, the moist smell of leaf litter, blood, and fur lingering in his nostrils. He knew that whatever she showed Vader, vulnerable and maddened as he was, would either undo him completely or mold him into something they could use.

“Where have you gone?!” The half-filtered voice, raw with grief and old smoke, rang through the halls of the cathedral. It broke on the vowels in “you” and became a lonesome sob.
Garoche froze, flipping the safety off his blaster pistol. “Saro–”

“Shhh.” She was back. Her hand rested on the pistol for a moment, pressing it downward. Their eyes met for a moment.
“I am right here, Lord Vader,” she said, raising her voice. Standing tall and serene, she stepped ahead to confront Vader in the doorway. “Still in your heart, in your head. Where I have been all along.” Whatever she had projected had vanished; Saro now appeared as she had always been–her dark eyes looked on Vader with patience. How she maintained such complete control over herself was beyond Garoche. She had been this way since they met–perhaps it had been drilled into her by her grandmother just as his own father and Jova had impressed the importance of composure on him. But there seemed to be a true, mutual love between Lady Tris and Saro despite everything that Saro had done and planned to do. They respected each other in a way his father had never done for him. There was no worship there, no coldness.

Everything in Garoche screamed at him to run, to grab Saro and flee as far and as fast as they possibly could away from this place and the mad animal his father had set loose on these poor people. His resolve was crumbling despite himself; his certainty that Vader could be turned to the cause waned as he saw the madness in the man’s bleary eyes. He raised his blaster back up but kept it pointed away from Vader for the moment.

Maskless, soaked with tears, the ravaged face of Anakin Skywalker was a mess of unguarded anguish. It would have been fascinating if Garoche weren’t so afraid–emotions moved across the Sith’s misshapen features like mercury. The helmet must have hidden all this before, lulled Skywalker away from the societal expectations and freed his expressions completely. It was ironic, Garoche thought wryly, that a man who appeared so stoic in his dark armor had so little control over his own face.

“No, no!” Pain flickered everywhere from Vader’s eyes to his mouth and cheeks; Garoche’s heart twisted in pity. “It was you?!”

“It is my gift to see, and to let others see–”

“Bring her back!” Vader’s voice trembled even as it shook Garoche to his core. He leveled the blaster at the Sith, coming forward to stand directly behind Saro. How was she so calm?

“I cannot!” she said, raising her voice for the first time since Garoche had seen her speak to Vader.

“Bring her back, or he dies!” And suddenly the world blurred as Garoche’s throat closed of its own volition. Some heavy, unseen hand had brought its palm down on his trachea and squeezed as if it meant to crush it completely. His feet left the ground, and he kicked desperately as his eyes bulged from their sockets. He could think of nothing, see nothing but the horror and distress in Saro’s face.

“Please, no more murders tonight, Lord Vader! All your scars…” She grasped the maddened Sith’s arm. “They can be just damaged flesh, nothing more.” She clasped Vader’s face tenderly, and the pressure on Garoche’s throat subsided for a moment. He gasped, clawing at his neck.
“If not for us, if not for you…” Saro’s hand moved to her stomach. “Then for she who is unborn.” Even in Garoche’s state of suffocation, his heart stirred for that little life, that tiny human to-be curled warm and safe in the silence of the womb. She had no idea how brave her mother was, but he would make sure she knew one day.

Vader faltered, staring at Saro as if he had seen another ghost. “I–”

Garoche crashed to the ground, his throat closing up yet again with even worse pressure than before. He writhed, gurgling and spasming, and Saro bent to help him.

“Then it is as I believed,” she said to Vader, and suddenly Garoche could breathe again. He sucked in the blessed air, shuddering violently, and Saro helped him upright. On shaky legs Garoche stood, leaning heavily on his lover.

Vader stood gazing at them arm in arm for a moment, and his torrent of emotions stilled suddenly. His eyes, clouded by whatever terrible fire had destroyed his body, met Garoche’s with a sudden clarity. Garoche was struck by the sense that he was the object of pity, and as he looked at Vader it occurred to him that their ages couldn’t differ by more than a year. This was a young man, like him. A scared little boy.

“No,” the Sith said softly, and raised his arms.

“Wait!” Saro cried. “What are you–”

The crack that sounded above their heads deafened Garoche for a moment, and he stumbled into Saro as the ground heaved under them. It took him very little time to realize what was happening, and his eyes widened in horror.
“No,” he choked out, clutching at Saro with weak hands. “Not yet…we had no time…” He’d been so close, so close to breaking free.
“Shhh. It’s alright.” She cupped his tear-streaked cheek, though she could not yet look at him. Her own face was wet even as dust and stone crumbled down around them. “We had time enough.”

Garoche pressed his forehead to hers and hugged her to him, breathing in her warmth, the scent of rosewater and clean linen wafting up from her clothes. With their stomachs pressed together, he felt a little kick from an impossibly tiny foot. He drew back in surprise, and the last thing he saw before the ceiling struck him down was Saro’s smile.

As the walls of the cathedral came crashing down around them, all of the pieces finally fit together.

The vision faded and the silent, still moonlight that graced Atoa's roughened landscape reached their eyes. The dust settled. It seemed as if nothing had ever happened there.

Arms trembling, Sirejj sank to one knee, clutching his staff for support. The burden had been lifted from his shoulders, but it had taken its toll. Sweat poured from his brow and dripped into his eyes, and yet he felt chilled to his very core. His hearts were pounding in his ears, but his mind was oddly silent. The voices had spoken their piece.

Not since he had watched those he'd once called brothers and sisters burn during the scourge of Dathomir had he felt such a heaviness in his chest. What fools they had been to think they could face the Sith. Sirejj wondered how they could bring themselves to such desperate actions, but in the same thought he knew that feeling of terror and desperation far too well. In their place, in a final attempt to save their people, after wandering through lives of loss and pain for so long...he was not sure he would've had the strength to do any different.

One thing was abominably clear. Saro had not been the one to bring down the cathedral. It had been the Sith, who they'd suspected from the beginning. Wearily Sirejj stood, still leaning heavily on his staff. He looked up at Tarkin.

Sirejj wondered for a moment if he'd fall over dead where he stood.

And Wilhuff Tarkin stood there dry-eyed.

He watched as his son embraced the rebel. He watched as they exchanged glances and guarded each other with the devotion reserved for those lucky few who have found their truest and dearest love. He watched his only child get dragged into the air by the man he had by now worked with for nearly a decade, the boy’s face turning blue and then a shocking shade of purple.

He watched the final moments between them all, saw that look and knew, because it was the same look he had given Thalassa when he had pressed his hand to her round stomach and felt the little thump thump of someone on the other side, someone he would meet and cradle and shape.

Tarkin watched the light leave Saro’s eyes and heard Garoche’s quiet whimpering in the aftermath; his sharp gaze assessed the damage that he had witnessed years ago and saw where his boy’s spine must have snapped in two under the weight of that stone. He’d been nearly flattened when they pulled him out on that cold winter day; Tarkin had been too stunned to think much more than that. He saw now that his son could feel nothing below his shoulders, and so there the boy lay staring at his lover’s slackened features for two days until the gentle seeping of blood slowed to nothing and he fell asleep for the last time.

All this he saw, and yet his expression did not change.

He did not speak for a full two minutes after the last remnants of the vision faded, gaze fixed on the place his son’s head had sagged against the rebel’s in the final moments. In his head he replayed the droids lifting up the fallen roof, how he had seen them lying crumpled in their last embrace, now in the beginning stages of putrefaction. He had very nearly wept for his son then, but only nearly. The shock of it had stolen any chance for tears to run down his face, and it was a slow-burning anger that stayed their course now. So much grief wasted on a traitor, so much anxiety and so much risk taken only to find out that Anakin Skywalker, in all his wayward wisdom, had been right after all. His judgment was sound.

The boy had been shielding the rebel.

Tarkin would have carried out the execution himself if Vader had simply told him. All of this uncertainty and distrust could have been avoided. His lip curled. For Garoche to have sired a child, to have muddied their human bloodline…
That was the least of it. Children were easily dispatched. It was this blatant betrayal, this complete disregard for any semblance of loyalty to the Emperor and his own kin. It turned his stomach.

Tarkin worked his jaw and uncrossed his arms mechanically. He reached up to grasp his chin, then thought better of it and hid his trembling hands in his pockets instead.

“I see,” was all he said, and it took all his effort to keep his voice steady. Shellshock, a voice in his head murmured–-some anonymous doctor from long ago. Post-Citadel, perhaps, not that it mattered. “Very well, then.”

Sirejj sensed his hardened heart only further entrench itself behind the beliefs that held the very fabric of the man together. He scoffed quietly to himself. Hopeless, this man was. He didn't know what else he'd expected.

"You have your answers." He said at length, his tone quiet but raspy as if the smoke and dust from the fallen walls still lay thick on his lungs. He'd recovered some and stood straighter now. He was still unsure of what Tarkin would do next. Beneath his icy exterior his emotions were waging war against each other. He was unpredictable now.

"So I do." Tarkin tilted his head to the side, staring at nothing for a time. Answers and questions, one always leading to the other and around and around again until one no longer knew which way was up. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the wind, then exhaled. Why would his heart not slow? It beat a frantic rhythm in his chest. This was worse than not knowing.

"You may go," he added as an afterthought, opening his eyes again. "You will be compensated for your services, of course."

What did this mean for him now? Where did he, the father of a traitor, stand in the eyes of the Emperor? Palpatine knew, certainly. Did he doubt him? Was that why he and Vader had hidden it from him?

"I have no ship." He said. All he had were the things he carried with him. Now that his business on Atoa was through, he wished to never set foot in this cathedral again. Perhaps he would return one day, but not for some time.

He knew it would be only a matter of time before Vader's dogs were after him again. He wouldn't be surprised if Tarkin already had them waiting somewhere for him.

Spoiler

I must sleep

"So it would appear." Tarkin straightened his coat, glancing up at the sky. It was getting chillier. He ought to head back to his own ship.

He forced the questions to stop; there would be time for that later. He needed to be calm now, and to think about what he was going to say to Thalassa. She wouldn't take it as well as he was taking it, surely. He'd have to tread carefully.

Spoiler

sleep. i believe we've reached the end. what an insane journey this has been

Sirejj eyed him for a final moment before turning away. He kept his senses sharp in case the man pulled that blaster from behind his back. There must be an old mining vessel, or perhaps the pirates still had their ships hidden somewhere. Either way, there was more than one way off this rock.

Disappearing into the rock formations he climbed back up the hill from which he'd originally descended and then stopped, turning around to look over the cathedral one last time. He looked for Tarkin's figure, but it was no longer standing there. The scene was as they found it, and though still shrouded in darkness, there was a peacefulness to it that Sirejj had not noticed before. Perhaps the souls that had fallen rested easier knowing the truth had been learned, if only by two.

He looked down at his palm. In it rested the cat's tooth, which he'd been careful to summon from Tarkin's grasp before his departure. He stretched out his hand drop it into the dirt, but then changed his mind and slipped it back into his pocket. He wasn't sure what compelled him to keep it, but it did not feel right to part with it just yet.

He turned and strode away, with little water and even scarcer provisions. He did not know how long it would be till he found a ship. But he'd survived worse. He was a Zabrak, after all.