Glasya Ren (glasya_ren) wrote in thegalaxy, @ 2016-03-04 16:02:00 |
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Entry tags: | !locale: space, glasya ren, issan ren |
omen she brings
Who: Glasya and Issan
What: Cracks begin to show.
When: Hecka backdated; before Issan’s rites on Dathomir.
Where: On board the Wraith.
Rating: PG?
For the third time that night, Glasya rose to change his bandages. He had bound them too tightly, as usual; blood had seeped through cloth and gauze and into the black weave of his robes. This time he left the robes lying on the floor of his quarters. It would not be the first blood they had soaked up, nor would it be the last. Shirtless, barefoot, he padded through the corridors toward the medbay, unwinding the clotted gauze from his ribs as he went. He sneered down at the blood-spackled fabric, projecting all the contempt he felt for himself at the evidence of his wounds.
Issan had beaten him. Not just by a fraction, but decisively. He had taught her well, but what she had shown in their sparring hours earlier was sheer, innate talent alone. His parry had landed poorly, his wrist turned too sharply, and her saber had slid down his ragged blade with the crackling hiss of pure energy. The burns along his left ribs would take months to heal. Even then, he would have a new scar to add to his growing collection. And beneath the burns and the single deep, throbbing cut, two ribs pulsed with the pain of a hairline fracture. Every breath hurt, and he was glad of it. He deserved every reminder of his failure.
The medical droid -- a fine multitasker, sometimes used for interrogations as well -- whirred around to face him as he entered the room. At once it stretched out its arms, searching through cabinets, procuring ointments and unguents and fresh, clean gauze. Glasya perched on the edge of the examination bed, long legs hanging over its side. He watched the droid make its preparations, then dutifully lifted his left arm to allow it to reach his wounds.
There was no telling night from day in the midst of space; even though Issan's cicadian clock, aching muscles and tired mind told her she should be sleeping, but her thoughts refused to abate. She believed she was imagining it, but was the ship rocking, ever so subtly? When she came out of the space Glasya had allotted her two years ago when she'd first come aboard his ship (it was difficult to think of the box-like structure as her room, not after the sandy walls and dirt floor she was so used to; which was nothing to say of a clear, blue sky...), the sight of stars pricking through the black expanse of space had only worsened her insomnia.
The Wraith was a large freighter for one of its class, but even so Issan imagined she could hear all manner of things; the low hum of electricity, thrumming machines performing their basic duties, and, then, footsteps. There was only one other entity on the ship; Issan followed the sound to the medical bay, her quiet movements bringing her to peer around the doorway to see Glasya seated on a surgical table, being attended to by a droid. They'd sparred earlier; he'd pushed her, and she'd pushed back, to great effect. Her mother and tanti had never set themselves above her to seem like omnipotent entities, but there was something different about seeing the man who had become her teacher in such a state. Where others might have felt fear or trepidation, Issan moved into the room, her curiosity piqued.
The droid paid her no mind as it bent to its task; Issan was silent as she came up behind the table he was seated on, her hand outstretched to touch the ugly lines ripped into his back. It reminded her of her own pet dunecat that she'd had when she was younger; the animal had never touched her. She'd never allowed it to. Her touch coincided with her voice.
"How did this happen?"
By some miracle Glasya did not flinch beneath her touch. Still, his skin seemed to burn in the wake of her fingers. It had been years since flesh and blood had touched his own for any purpose but harm. It felt invasive, somehow: a harbinger of pain to come. He set his jaw and focused on the mindless, unconcerned motions of the droid beside him.
“A sand panther,” he said. I was a child, he did not add. It seemed foolish to offer any caveat when even now, older and supposedly wiser, he had sustained an injury just as senseless and avoidable as the clawmarks had been. Fresh anger bubbled up to the surface. He gripped it tight, like the lifeline it was.
His curt reply did nothing to deter her; Issan's hand trailed down, from his shoulder to his lower back, following the brutal markings. She enjoyed the difference in texture between his scars -- thick, ropy -- and the smooth skin that allowed her to feel his muscles tensing. For a moment she wondered if he was afraid of her now; doubtful, her mind returned. There had been other sparring matches, and they were well near even for wins and losses. This was merely one of the few times she'd managed to best him so savagely.
Dropping her hand, Issan moved around to Glasya's front, giving the medical droid a wide enough berth to do its work. Her eyes roved over both the wound and the man wearing it; it would be a lie to say he wasn't attractive, but wasn't that the way with deadly things? Everything about him screamed a warning, one she'd heard clearly the first time she'd set eyes on him. For her, that had only served to heighten her interest. Even now, wounded and irritated, he hardly fit the description of prey.
"I have another remedy," she suddenly offered, almost without thinking. Her gaze had drifted down to the wound once more, watching the droid apply its salves and restitch the injury closed. It was about to move on to bandaging, but Issan knew all of it would do little to speed his recuperation. Tanti Sia had healed many people suffering from a variety of ailments; Issan could almost remember the words her tanti spoke with her eyes closed, the hand movements that wove the torn flesh back into one piece. "Unless you want to be in pain for days on end."
“They say it builds character.” The quirk of his brow and the set of his mouth belied the interest her offer piqued in him. He was loath to be in her debt, especially for her to heal a wound of her own making. His pride told him it would only add illness to injury. The creaking of his pained ribs, though, assured him it was wise. It was good for a master and his padawan to bond, after all, he thought. Good for them to share these moments of vulnerability, the better to recognize them in others, and to know when to strike. This line of thought, at least to his sleepy, restless mind, seemed justifiable enough. He straightened his back. Waved the droid away.
“Very well,” he said. “What does this remedy involve?”
Issan thought of returning to her room to obtain her own salve, but then decided against it; the droid had applied more than enough, and she could make use of what was already present. As the droid moved away from the pair, she stepped into the place it had occupied.
"Touch," she replied, her hand coming up again as she stepped into his personal space and allowed her palm to hover near the injury around his ribcage, "and concentration." Taking his acquiescence as a stamp of approval for all she'd need to do, her fingertips brushed the wound; more so, it was an extension of her mind, probing the issue to see what sort of resolution was necessary. Aside from the burned flesh, there was a fracture; Issan had some anatomical knowledge from assisting her tanti, but visualizing it in her mind differed than actually performing the rituals. Her brush moved too close to the broken bones, shifting them enough to send a wave of pain through Glasya's form.
His back bowed at once, shoulders and spine curving violently, curling around and into her hands. He had been right, he thought, always right: the gentlest touches always ended in the greatest agony. A sharp grunt ground out of him, quickly clipped by his jaw clenching so hard she could hear the grinding of his teeth. He held that awful, crabbed position even as he willed his body to stillness. He did not run from the pain or try to lessen his perception of it. Instead he leaned into it, embracing it, accepting it for the familiar sensation and comfort that it was. Slowly his ribs knit together; slowly he acclimated himself, until the curbed cry of pain died completely and left only new-grown strength behind.
The faint shifting of bone had unsettled one deep burn. The wound split anew. A thin tendril of blood crept down his pale skin. He moved enough to look down at her work, peering beneath his arm. Pain seemed to heighten everything; he felt more keenly aware of every inch of sweat-damp skin, every drop of blood, every breath that passed between them.
Issan's eyes went wide, more so at what she had wrought than at their close proximity; Tanti Sia had only let her to watch and learn, and hadn't yet allowed her to perform the rite on her own. Aside from the fresh wounds, it looked as though her spellcraft -- though the truth of it was Force manipulation -- had done its work well. Rather than moving away and allowing him to inspect his body on his own, Issan reached forward to brush the wound that had been in his side; the flesh there was solid and clean, almost as if there had been no wound at all. A fresh, pink scar was visible and would remain so, but a proud grin spread across her face all the same.
"I've never done that before." Her words dropped more excitement than was warranted for the situation. She wondered if she could take it apart as easily as she'd put it back together; break down the mechanisms and solder only certain parts at a time, rather than all at once? Her technique required more finesse, but it was a start. Looking up, her gaze landed on his face; as close as a moon orbiting its planet. "How does it feel?"
A faint furrow marred his brow, but his expression showed no fear or true concern; his face showed appraisal and curiosity, nothing more. With a small stretch he tested the strength of his new flesh. He did not move far, and consciously or otherwise he stayed close to her as he moved. The scarred flesh strained taut, but held. He drew a deep breath then, letting it slowly out. No pain answered from his ribs, and he knew she had indeed healed him.
“It feels... “ He shifted again, twisting to test it further. It would not do to be less than thorough now. “Normal. No bruising. No lingering side effects.” An impish glint briefly shone in his eyes, gone as quickly as it had come. “I would recommend working on mitigating the pain of the initial procedure, unless pain is part of your aim.” He paused a beat. “It could become a useful skill. Something from your kin?”
Now it was Issan's turn to be cagey. "Yes," she replied, stepping away enough to return her gaze to the freshly opened scar, her fingers trailing dangerously close to its entrance. "And I thought you wanted to build character. I could leave this one to your droid?"
“Let’s not.” Glasya cast the droid a look. It hovered silently against the wall, its red eye open but, for the moment, unseeing. He let it rest, and returned his focus to his padawan. “I didn’t say I found your method distasteful. And I’m curious to see more of it. How much have you tested it?” His brow arched. “Am I your first such experiment?”
Her fingers curled, hand falling away from his side. She took a step back, her gaze rising to meet his. Dishonesty would gain neither of them anything at this juncture, especially not if she wanted to learn more from him. "Yes. I was encouraged to excel in other areas; animal control, illusion. I'm strongest in illusions, but you've seen that." There had been numerous incidents where her spells had either hidden them from pursuers, or even augmented their appearance. "And defense. My mother was most adamant that I be able to protect myself, especially after tanti...my aunt started taking me on her assignments.
"I think that's been made very clear, though," she added after a beat, a faintly smug expression settling over her features.
At last he straightened to his full seated height. Animal control. He read it as a jab, intended or not. He felt more aware than ever of the deep scars on his back, of the naked appraisal as she’d looked at them. His smile was small. Sharp. Goading. “Your newness at this? It certainly has. When we’re next planetside, we’ll obtain one or two subjects for you to continue this work. I’ll observe and assist where required.”
A fine thread of blood trickled down from the single, smaller wound she had left open at his side. Glasya gestured to it. “Well,” he said. “Unless you have further defenses to offer, by all means. Finish your work.”
Her expression folded inward, annoyance flitting across her features before it finally ended in apathy. Rather than verbally respond, her hand moved back to his wound and her gaze locked to his as she mentally shoved the skin together, taking absolutely no pains to be delicate. The process took only seconds compared to mending the bone, but since Issan took no care, it felt akin to the skin being completely severed from the body. This time Glasya could not bite back a feral, wounded groan. A shudder coursed through him, and at last he turned his eyes from hers to focus on the new-closed flesh. The scar left behind was thick, ugly and red.
"My apologies," she responded dryly, taking a step back to survey her work in its completeness. "Some further practice would certainly be helpful."
“Clearly,” he growled, through tightly clenched teeth. He laughed, unsteady, doing little to hide his continued pain. He met her gaze again, this time with something akin to pride. Hers was a talent well suited to unmaking; perhaps even more so than healing. He felt a stirring of excitement to think of the prospects. “But your apology is accepted. Even this one is likely better than what the droid would’ve done.”
He canted his head, freshly curious. “What woke you tonight? In my experience, the victor in these situations tends to sleep quite well.”
Issan's gaze broke from his, turning to look about the room in her first showing of discomfort. After a moment, she looked back to the door, and then to him.
"After three years on this thing, I still can't grow used to it. I never sleep as well as I do when we're planetside." Her gaze seemed to challenge him to judge her confession, to needle her for the weakness. Meditation methods given to her by her tanti helped her through most nights, but sometimes it wasn't enough. Moving about the ship, physically exhausting herself with exercises in her room or tending to her plants were the only ways she could get through the night.
Judgment was tempting indeed; for one such as Glasya, born and raised on a planet of shipbuilders, pilots, smugglers, and dogfighters, the idea of discomfort in something so natural as a spacecraft was an utterly alien thing. But then, he felt the same about her beloved flora. He let her moment of vulnerability pass without weaponizing it.
“We’ll be planetside again soon. Perhaps we can search remedies when we land. You’re far from the first to dislike being out here.” In a careless gesture, apparently unthinking, he brushed his fingers over the brutal scar she’d left. He traced the shape of it, learning this new addition to his shape. “Further meditation is always useful. Additional exposure to lower-gravity environments and close quarters will also be beneficial. Unless there’s something else that troubles you about the ship?”
She eyed him warily for a moment, unsure if his offer and question were another test. The whole situation was markedly different from their usual interactions; Issan wasn't sure what to make of it. Another beat passed, and she decided to roll the dice.
"I just feel...detached. Groundless. I don't know how to explain it." Her gaze dipped to his torso again, then back up to his face. "We never traveled much from Nar Chunna." She almost began to explain that her people were not spacefarers, but her mind smothered the thought in the cradle. It would leave her open to too many questions.
"I would welcome the rest, though," she ventured, wondering if she was leaving herself too open. She scaled back, a bit of her earlier mischievousness threading back into her voice. "Though if that were the case, you might end up taking up permanent residence here in the medical bay."
He laughed aloud at that. “Is that what you think? Well. How could I resist such a challenge.” He slid down off the table, bare feet landing softly on the cold floor. The motion closed most of the distance between them. Uncomfortably close, he looked down to her, studying her face with an unblinking, too-long gaze. “It’s settled, then. We’ll put down on Lok, and you’ll have your time to rest on steady ground. And whenever you think you’re ready, we’ll spar again.” He smiled. “While we’re there we can even pick up a kimogila and a straggler or two from one of the smuggler’s routes for you to practice on. They’ll be something to keep you occupied while you recuperate in here.”
Her smirk twisted into a smile of anticipation; part of her tutelage had been to study star charts, so the name wasn't completely lost on her. Even though the thought conjured images of sulfur springs and endless wastes, she'd take whatever planet she was given for the time being. She didn't have much of a choice.
"Sounds like a wager to me. But for tonight, it sounds like I'm stuck with my usual routine. I trust you can make it to your bed without help?"
There was a moment where another answer leapt to his lips: a moment of weakness, of camaraderie and desire neither of them could allow themselves. But it passed, and Glasya was certain they were both better for it. “I can,” he said. He turned away and moved around the table, toward the door, the vibrant scars at his back shining faintly under the bright examination light. “You weren’t that rough.”
"I'll try harder next time," she quipped toward his back, watching him go. She could still feel his presence on the ship; the only other one, but a comforting thought that she wasn't completely alone in the dead of space. She looked back at the droid, and at the table where a faint speckling of blood was drying. Now that Glasya was gone from the space, the droid activated and began to move through its sanitation routines.
Issan stepped back, and moved toward the doorway. She had no immediate desire to return to her room; with one glance back at the droid, she heaved a sigh and resigned herself to wandering the halls for another hour before attempting sleep again.