Neon city light filters through the faded blinds of her ramshackle little motel room on the upper floors of the Veles colony on Viscara. The lights are low, almost extinguished. Sitting on the edge of the sagging bed, the scarred Jedi Initiate Iskellia Sarken sits with her formal robes discarded on a side table, wearing only a green tank top, black shorts and her customary right-side bracing, her mask’s drinking straw halfway down a bottle of Hull Stripper.
The labored hiss of her respirator fills the small motel room. After an unexpected heart-to-heart with the usually stoic Mart Webber out by the campfire (that damn campfire!), she had initially been offered a bed to crash on at the temporary community center. But the thing about a community center is, in fact, the Community part of it. And today, of all days, Iskellia just wanted to be that most precious state of being in this crowded galaxy…the freedom to be alone. For once.
She knew Beryn wouldn’t approve of this sort of maudlin moping, of course. But it felt right, to her. To mourn in her own way, away from the eyes and judgements and social expectations of others. What judgements? None among her close friends, she knew of course. None from Callista, Qyilisc, Markus. Sandra. But perhaps from that new girl, Tara. And that damn creepy Trandoshan, Trirst, that red-eyed mouth-breather who lurked on the edges of conversations, making weird comments but never actually engaging with anyone. Why should she care about his judgement, anyway? Or any of them?
Iskellia takes another swig, coughing at its pungent burn down her sensitive and scarred throat. Sure, Beryn wouldn’t approve of this. Sure, it’s maudlin. Depressing, to sit alone in a dark room and look down on the city and drink. Melancholy, even. But Iskellia is no stranger to melancholy. Gloominess is her default state of being. And of all days, today, after Beryn Mornstrider died and she watched him take his last breath and fade away into the Force…No, nobody would fault her for drowning her sorrow. And to hell with them if they do.
Another swig, the numbness spreading through her. Lightweight. One of the many, many side effects of her chronic illness made it difficult to keep food down, to process nutrients properly. The body uses a lot of fuel defending itself. Even with the added muscle bulk from Jedi training cardio only adding a moderate amount of weight, leaving her still quite thin for a Human woman. It made clothes easy to shop for, but it also didn’t take much alcohol to get her drunk. Particularly something as vile and intense as a Hull Stripper.
Another swig. Sure, Beryn wouldn’t approve. But Beryn also used alcohol to help bring her walls down, psychic and emotional. Her idea, admittedly. Most of the time. Maybe he just used the tool she herself had suggested, way back when they first met. That first real heart-to-heart, alone in her apartment, where she finally dropped the Badass-Bitch mask, dropped the Cool Trenchcoat, dropped the Big Blaster and the Swagger and everything else, and opened up to him about her past. She had been the one to bring out some tea and some alcohol, in that first meeting. It took a bit to get her drunk enough to lower her defenses, as she remembered it.
Flashes of memory. Beryn, pityingly: “Self-hatred radiates from you, Iskellia. It boils out of your pores.”
“SHUT UUUUUUUUUP!!!” Screaming denial at him. A massive FWOOSH of telekinetic energy, raw, wild, undisciplined, but powerful. Blowing him backwards out of his chair. Breaking down in tears afterward as he patted her back, his voice in her ear. “Cry as much as you need, child. Don’t let anyone tell you to hold it in. But when you’ve cried until you can’t cry anymore…never cry for the same reason twice.”
Another swig. She could hear her breathing change; feel the tears coming on. But this time, no need to conceal it. No need for the Stoic Jedi mask. Not that she’d ever been very good at that mask, anyway.
Iskellia sniffles, turning the bottle over in her mismatched grip. Left hand, deformed and mutilated. Right hand, still flexed strangely, stiffly, after its bones being crushed and fused back together oddly. Over and over and over, Beryn had assured her she was more than this, more than her scars. Quite possibly one of her biggest obstacles to Jedi training, her own feelings of self-hatred and shame. That wasn’t even something Beryn had helped her get over, in the end, but Callista. But there was so much else Beryn had helped her with. Oh gods, so much else.
Tears falling from her sunken eye sockets onto her lap now as the memories cascade, one after another, shining images dancing in her mind’s eye.
Lecturing her on the Three Pillars of a Jedi…
Endless practice-lightsaber drills…
That little Council room Beryn had set up in one of his apartments, talking about the philosophy behind a Jedi. He’d been testing her that day, to see if she would meekly accept punishment when her sharp tongue got her in trouble. He’d ordered her to go home. She refused, instead, but apologized for her snark and thus won the old man’s approval anyway. Another lesson, of course…Beryn never did anything without reason, without a lesson being taught.
Officially and formally swearing herself to the Jedi before him. His quiet and kindly voice: “Do you solemnly swear to uphold the tenets of the Order? To serve the people of the galaxy…”
One memory flowing to the next, a party at the cantina immediately afterward to celebrate her induction into the Jedi Order. “To Iskellia.” Clinking glasses together as Beryn toasts her, and laughing as Qyilisc gagged a bit on his own drink.
Standing together at the funeral of Callista’s father. That horrible stench of burning flesh as the bonfire consumed him. Trembling at the cascade of memories…The stench as the fires consumed her.…until Beryn’s grandfatherly hand landed on her shoulder.
“Iskellia. Fear is the opportunity to be brave.” A kindly whisper in her ear. “Don’t turn from your friend.”
Beryn, leaning in close to her as she slumps on the ground in a panic attack. His voice calm and steady. “Iskellia. My Unbreakable student. …There is fire, and there is burning. The two are separate. The pain you feel constantly can serve a purpose…without being tainted by the Dark. …Do you trust me? And your fellow students?”
Shaking, looking up to him as she tries to force herself through the memories in her mind’s eye. “…Yes.” The word guttural and raw in her rasping throat.
A tender, compassionate smile from the old man. “…Then know that we won’t let you stumble. …Thatta girl. We’ll get a little better every day.”
Another swig from the bottle. Feeling her emaciated shoulders heave in a sob. More tears spilling onto her lap. So kind, so gentle. The old man had had a limitless well of wisdom, of patience, of understanding for others…
…Most of the time. Even Old Man Beryn had his limits.
Shining sapphire energy blades in the afternoon sun as Beryn and Iskellia and a dozen others storm the Sith compound to rescue Callista. Both Jedi united in their outrage, their conviction to get their companion back – friend, student, daughter, sister, more? – no matter the cost.
She remembers running up to Sandra, breath cold and painful and wheezing through her diseased lung, riding high on the Force and medicine and adrenaline and painkillers like the biggest drug trip of her life… Who needs glitterstim when you’ve got terrified vengeance pumping through your veins? “WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO CALLISTA?!?!?!”
Sandra, apologetic, a little shocked at Iskellia’s state… “Abducted by a literal wave of Sith…I took a dozen or so out, but they got away…”
The memory blurs, flashing forward to that idiot Kho Khan chatting away with the Sith on the intercom. Meanwhile, Beryn standing next to Iskellia, adjusting his lightsabers. His words cold and clipped, his soft voice grim. “I’m giving them two minutes before I cut a hole through the wall…”
“Heh, I’m with you there…”
The two of them moving together through the Sith base, lightsabers flashing together in righteous justice…
…Yes, old man Beryn did indeed have a hardcore side to him when the ones he cared about were threatened.
But that hardcore fire faded down to just sparkling embers, by the end. Another flashing fragment of memory, Beryn sitting on the couch in her last apartment, only two months ago. …Two months before the end.
“I’ve lived a good life…” His kindly voice is rougher, weaker than before, quavering…or maybe that’s her imagination, now? Looking back, was it different somehow? Were there signs beyond just his coughs? Funny, how the mind can even alter memories. See what you want to see, hear what you think of hearing. “Every day I’m a little closer to the grave. Oh, I could certainly hobble on for another decade, maybe two…but not even the Force can truly halt the passage of time.”
Iskellia closes her eyes, fully weeping now. More tears flowing down her mask, her throat thick with ugly hiccups, gasps of air. He really had been saying goodbye, explicitly. She was just too terrified of the idea to accept it at the time.
“Nothing’s impossible with the Force, right? You’re strong with Curato Silvana…Maybe together, we can figure out…we, we talk to the Jedi Medical Corps, we…the most powerful Jedi healers in the galaxy, they…” Blatantly begging, bargaining with him. Unable to accept it.
“Iskellia. It’s not a matter of ability. I could keep myself going for another decade…But it’d be another decade of hobbling around. Another decade of pain. Another decade of being apart from Anja. …Once I’ve passed on what I know, then it will be a good time to exit gracefully, don’t you think?”
And now…just a few hours ago, he was alive. And then, he wasn’t.
She lowers her head, dropping the now-empty bottle of Hull Stripper. Feeling suddenly trapped, she pulls her mask off with a pressurized hiss and buries her head in her hands, her shoulders heaving with sobs. Outside her mask, her true voice is a weak, hoarse rasp no louder than a whisper. But it doesn’t matter. There’s nobody she’s whispering to but herself.
"Stupid…old man…!" Breathless, choking on tears, her ravaged lung can only get out short phrases at a time. "Damn it all…Why the hell…am I getting this fucking worked up…!?"
Her thin shoulders heave in a wretched cough. “Was just…some old guy…” Iskellia lies to herself, somehow hoping that speaking it aloud would make it true. "Nobody special…people die all the time…nothing to it…I’m fine, I don’t care…"
She coughs again, feeling the fiery burn of throbbing respiratory agony in her chest. Even as she closes her sunken eyes to draw upon the Force, even that act betrays her as she remembers Beryn’s kindly voice, instructing her patiently, “Easy, now… Take it slowly. Find something regular and even to concentrate on. A noise, a sensation…your heartbeat…maybe even the ticks of your respirator. Let your mind…”
Iskellia squeezes her eyes shut, feeling them wet with drunken tears. Even her calming meditation was something Beryn helped her with, gave to her. Her heart yearned, screamed, for something to take away this black hole of pain, this tsunami of grief. Wished with all her soul that she could simply close herself off again and put up the facade, retreat into the Tough Badass Bitch persona, not care about anybody but herself. Buy a new intimidating trenchcoat, throw away the lightsaber. Take a shuttle to Mon Cala or something, hop another one to Corellia, lose herself in some planetary metropolis, vanish, disappear. Leave this junky little dustball Viscara far, far behind. Walk away, bury all these painful memories, and sink them into the darkest corner of her soul so that she would never, ever, ever hurt this badly again.
Even as she formulates the thought, however, it’s already tinged with melancholy regret, knowing that it’s impossible. There’s no going back to how things were. Even if Lhevra Sarira herself showed up with a ship, a gun, 500,000 credits, a ticket to a ritzy casino and a job offer…Iskellia’s heart twinges at that idea, for she knows she would turn it down.
Because if she did that…she’d be abandoning the best friends she’s ever had. Callista. Qyilisc. She glances over at the sculpture half poking out of a box.
More faces come to mind. Markus. Sandra. People concerned for her well-being, who worried about her, who cared about her. Rowler and Avor Majuka. Countless others, faces, smiles, friendships, relationships that aren’t so easily replaced. Not to mention the vows to the Jedi Order itself that she swore herself to, directly to Beryn’s face.
No…There truly was no going back, anymore.
She sniffles and swallows, opening her eyes only long enough to glance at her little mini-fridge, waving a hand to open it telekinetically and summon another smooth beer, unsealing it. Putting the bottle to her lips and taking a long pull, relishing the feel of the glass, the liquid numbness down her throat without being pulled through her respirator’s feeding straw. She coughs again at the subtle alcoholic burn and shakes her head. Picks up the mask again, letting its straps lock on and secure to her skull. A familiar pressurized hiss as the atmosphere equalizes, then the blessed relief of easier airflow, the negative pressure seal pulling it into her lung with relieving ease.
Iskellia coughs again, looking down again at the bottle in her mismatched hands, pondering. If there was no fooling herself, no use pretending she didn’t care about the old man…then why was she this beat up over his death? She wasn’t raised learning from him from a young age, as the old Jedi texts said that younglings were often paired with their future Masters. She didn’t even know him, meet him, until she was well into adulthood. It wasn’t even as if…
…Oh.
…And there it was. Her thin shoulders slump, fresh tears leaking from her deep eyesockets and running down her mask from the realizeation. Beryn wasn’t just an old man, some old geezer who cackled and spouted cheap Neimoidian fortune-cookie wisdom. He had been part of a family, the grandfather she had never known, the fatherly love she had always yearned for as a little kid but never received.
“Stupid girl…” Kandor Sarken had sneered at her, hated her, feared her for her powers and abilities. Her mother had feared her too, but took it upon herself to love the Force-sensitive child anyway. It was probably the reason she turned out as halfway well-adjusted as she was in the first place. But her father’s fear and hatred had left a hole in her…one that Beryn spotted, and quietly, gradually, tediously, determinedly worked to open and to fill. Not with himself --not deliberately-- but with the Jedi Order. To give her a home, a place, a purpose, a destiny.
A family.
And that was what she truly grieved, now, sitting alone in a dingy motel in the darkness. She mourned him like a lost parent.
A sob wracks her skeletal shoulders, and she takes another long swig of the beer through her feeding straw. Then she holds up the bottle to the neon light of the night-time city, watching distant signs and flares filter through the liquid. Iskellia sniffs.
"Here’s to you, old man…" She murmurs aloud, then tilts her head. …No. The old teasing epithet sounded somehow insufficient. He himself had asked her to stop it, a while back, in his slow gradual manner of weaning her off her snarky, foulmouthed old ways.
She swallows. What do you say to someone after a relationship like that, a life like that? How do you sum up, how do you express all that they meant to you?
Hide in the snarky refuge of humor, as she always does? I’ll get some more fortune cookies for you?
Sarcasm, perhaps? Time to throw the lightsaber in the trash compactor, haha?
…No. None of that. She closes her eyes, remembering Beryn’s final, personal words for her alone on his deathbed.
“You’re a smartass. Emphasis on the smart. You’ve always got a clever quip or a subtle jab to throw at your opponents. Some folk would say that makes you a snarky bitch. …Those folk are fools. You’re clever, and you’re quick. If you’d stop worrying about how best to get under the skin of the people you don’t like, you’d make a hell of an investigator.”
Investigator, huh? Just earlier that evening, she admitted to Mart she had little-to-no idea what that even meant. But if it was important enough that Beryn’s final words on his deathbed to her were a recommendation for that…well…
…Maybe that’s the way forward she’s searching for.
Knowing that he couldn’t hear her, but compelled to speak anyway…just in case…She lifts the bottle again in a toast. “Here’s to you…Beryn.” She swallows past the lump in her throat. "…Thank you. …For everything."
Slotting her straw down the bottle, she closes her eyes and determinedly drains the rest of it dry in one go, leaning back further to get the last dregs. Then she lets the bottle drop as she falls back onto the bed, utterly exhausted with grief.
Iskellia closes her eyes, telekinetically pulls her covers up, curls into a ball, and lets the pillow absorb her tears as she mourns herself to sleep.