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In downpour and lightning,
When life is a chill,
Or if you lose someone dear,
Just keep on smiling
Switch to “happy” at will,
It’s “Haute art”, young man, do you hear…”
Sergey Yesenin
The place was clearly chosen well, away from the noise and dust of the main base, away from the people scurrying the cantina to shuttles and back, tipsy and not really, away from prying eyes and tongues. However, Findar doubted that the choice was deliberate. If Arcann wanted to escape normally, he would have slipped out into the untouched forests of Odessen, not sit in prostration at one of the distant balconies, looking nowhere. Nothing unusual, if you think about it - most people had a similar reaction after a closer ... acquaintance with Daereth, looking into the void, wondering about the meaning of existence. It was even funny - if it were not for the fact that one day, even before Voss and before everything had finally rolled into the abyss, their last meeting did not end well.
He came closer.
"Are you alright?" he asked quietly, not really knowing what to say.
Arcann flinched, taken aback, though barely noticeable, and looked at him.
“My apologies, Commander,” he began, looking anywhere but the cold metal of the visor, “I didn't notice you coming."
Findar smiled.
"This usually happens to people after meeting Daereth".
He recalled how Theron concealed a suspiciously content smile at the sight of Arcann dragged out by Daereth — the smile could both cause a mirrored response, or throw him into the same position, dragged to the training ground mercilessly.
A semblance of a smile flashed for a moment on Arcann's face.
“It's alright,” he replied belatedly.
“And ... how did it go? I hope she wasn't too ... harsh?"
He did not immediately come up with an answer, but what came to mind seemed strangely full and correct. "Actually, it was surprisingly ... informative".
"Come." The hiss of a saber coming to life, a fiery-yellow beam of plasma. Her pose - a mirrored reflection of his movements at the beginning of the ill-fated battle at the Asylum. For a fraction of a second, he was confused - was this a strange mockery? A reminder that nothing is forgotten?
A fraction was enough.
The sudden whistle of something flying at the side — right into his head — and less than a moment to repel, to parr the saber flying in low arc, only to find that the opponent disappeared. A couple of moments and reflected hits after, a precise blow under his knees knocked the ground out from under his feet, the buzzing blade stopped right next to his scarred skin.
“You're distracted easily,” Daereth smiled non-wickedly, no hint of anger, as if she was correcting a child's mistake. The lightsaber faded. "Shall we continue? I remember you had a problem with knives."
Arcann suddenly laughed shortly, unexpectedly for himself.
“It was a long time since I felt like a little boy,” he said, shaking his head slightly.
“I know the feeling,” Findar giggled, covering his mouth with his hand. Pity, why hide it? Arcann has never seen a smile more sincere and soft.
“She ... taught you too?” He asked, not wishing to return to the ringing silence of his thoughts.
“You could say that,” Findar answered, sitting down beside him quietly. “I mean, I'm a healer, I've never really been into all this ... swordswinging. Never been great at it. I've improved, of course, to more or less tolerable, but ..."
"I wouldn't say your skills are simply “tolerable”. Don't underestimate yourself, Commander."
Findar only laughed.
"It's like this now only because of Daereth. I don't know where I would've been now if not for her."
"In the grave," Arcann thought sharp bitterly all of a sudden, "because of me."
He'd never be able to wipe away the image of his own saber going through Commander's stomach, It has been printed under his eyelids.
He did not deserve such mercy.
“She is a good teacher,” he said, just to say anything.
“And a patient one,” Findar agreed. “She may seem a bit hasty, or harsh, of course, but actually, she is probably the most patient person I've ever known."
"Such skills do not come from haste."
"Right. Time is also a factor though, she's had more than enough of it."
"Meaning?"
Findar hesitated a little.
“She is ... older than she looks.”
"Really? How much older?" his curiousity was certainly piqued.
“I don't know,” Findar said. “it seems she doesn't really want to talk about it. The only time I asked, she said she was ninety thousand."
Arcann chuckled. In fact, he would not be surprised. A family legacy influence, perhaps ... Or, everything was much more prosaic: after Voss, it began to seem that he was no longer able to be surprised.
The sight of wounded Findar lying on steel plates quietly disappeared behind the layers of new information.
"Need healing?" the Commander suddenly asked with no transition. Arcann was even confused for a moment.
“No, thank you, it's fine,” he answered, and he was going to assure him that there was nothing serious, but suddenly, he felt the soft touch of another's Force, and remained silent.
“That was not a question,” Findar said, raising a corner of his thin lips in a hint of a smile.
He did not hold his hands too close - not to embarrass? not to cause discomfort? - but apparently, this distance was sufficient for him. Didn't matter that this time he only checked for injuries, not actually healed yet, Arcann felt the warm, soft waves of the Force pass through him, nothing alike the prickly presence of Zakuul knights, or disgustingly sterile smell of meddroids, or vague but still alien, wrong healing of the mystics. He felt Findar like ... Findar.
Gods, what has he done...
He tried to focus on something else, and looked at their hands. For some reason, he thought that Findar's fingers, pale, thin, not at all suitable for the heavy lightsaber hilt, were probably cold, despite the radiating warm Force. Why else is he wearing gloves almost all the time? Clearly not to hide broken nails, or a little scar left by something sharp on the index finger. Or maybe exactly because of that?
But what right did he have to draw conclusions?
His own metal hand suddenly seemed uglier and heavier (as if it hadn’t always been like that), and the other too. He'd never wash away the blood from them.
It took a moment for him to realise that the pacifying warmth of an alien Force had faded, and a look of pure condemnation was directed at him. He could not see the eyes behind the visor - but Findar himself was now the embodiment of Condemnation, one glance was enough to see it - in a pose, in a slightest tilt of the head, in hands folded on knees in a gesture of endless patience. Arcann suddenly felt like a felinx who's broken the master's favourite vase.
“So you say,” Findar spoke very quietly and calmly, “that cracks in three ribs, two extensive hematomas, a dozen abrasions and a fresh, not completely fixed dislocation, are “alright?”"
Arcann shrugged awkwardly - the shoulder still was a bit sore.
“You brought the ceiling on me twice and pushed me off a tower once,” he said casually, grinning crookedly. And faltered just a second after, realizing how bad it sounded.
“I didn’t mean it,” he began to apologize confusedly, “I'm sorry, all I wanted to say ...”
“I know, its fine,” Findar interrupted quietly, giving a sad, tired smile.
“I just meant that I've had much worse, and ... compared to all ... this, this is really nothing,” he finished all the same.
“My appearance is a direct confirmation of this,” a clear thought appeared suddenly.
For a fraction of a second the look on Findar’s face was completely sad, understanding, as if he really was sorry (though Arcann wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been so), but soon changed to some kind of dreary, doomed fatigue.
He sighed heavily (and — Arcann could swear — rolled his eyes), and murmured softly, as if to himself,
“Well, aren't you all the same?..” and proceeded to explain in response to a puzzled look. “Everyone whom I healed claimed to "have had worse"".
While Arcann was trying to figure out what to answer to this, Findar shook his head with a chuckle and moved a little closer. This time, his fingers almost touched the white cloth, and a soft glow gathered around his palms.
“Try not to move,” he asked.
Arcann nodded. His throat suddenly went dry.
Probably, if Findar had ordered — asked — not to breathe, he would have obeyed instantly.
The soft heat returned, now more localized, gently washing away the dull pain in the damaged ribs and shoulder. It took a lot of efforts not to close his eyes, dissolving into a completely unnatural sense of serenity, peace, and strange, absolutely not deserved care.
Instead, he stared at his hands, and did not look up, even when the healing warmth was gone.
"Thank you," he choked out, praying that his voice would not break. "You shouldn't have. I don't deserve this."
"Don't deserve what?"
"Your kindness. After everything I've done ..."
Findar sighed, and said in a soft voice, "Everyone makes mistakes."
Arcann chuckled bitterly.
"Not everyone is bombing the planets just because they can."
“Not everyone,” Findar agreed surprisingly easily, “but more than you think. I've ... met some people who did ... things. Bad things. Sometimes not willingly, sometimes because they were broken, sometimes ...” he faltered and exhaled raggedly. "They all deserved to know a normal life. I once thought that the worst you can do is to kill an innocent. Now I know there is nothing worse than having to kill a person who needs help more than anything."
Arcann looked at him, eyes wide open, shocked by bitterness and hidden pain breaking through into the voice of the quiet, bright healer who gave him life.
“If I ...” he began, and faltered, not knowing how to proceed. “If the Voss healing didn't work, what would you do?”
"What had to be done. And I'd mourn for this till the end of my days."
“Sometimes,” he was surprised at how gently, soothingly he sounded now, “we have to do what's necessary.”
Findar suddenly laughed — sadly, quietly, — and looked at him.
"Isn't that what I do every day? What I hate? What's necessary?" He lowered his head. His thin pale fingers were tugging a small gray ring, as if he did not know where to put them. “I don’t even know if I'm handling things. Perhaps someone else in my place could have done better."
“No,” Arcann replied, with such an unexpectedly unshakable confidence that it almost scared himself. "You are one of a kind."
"I'd prefer to be one of many."
Yes, Arcann agreed silently. Yes, it would be better if you were one of many. It would be better if I never threw you into carbonite, it would be better if I never wounded you, it would be better if the fate of the galaxy did not rest on your narrow, tender shoulders. You could've been doing what you love, helping those in need, maybe you would've found a cure for the Rakghoul plague, and for blindness, and mental clouding, and madness, and perhaps - perhaps - for a broken heart, if your Code allowed it.
And I would have never met you.
A single thought itself has suddenly plunged him into such a freezing, insides-clutching fear that for a moment he stopped breathing. It took several long, painful moments to remember that here he was, his Commander made of glass and transparisteel, sitting next to him, fists clenched, regaining determination lost for a short moment of weakness.
No, the Commander wouldn't stay put on Coruscant or Alderaan, tending to kids' bruises. The Commander would not be able to sit still, knowing that somewhere there, far away, he can help, can save not one man, but a whole moon, a planet, the Republic, the galaxy and everything included. Even if it meant mourning till the end of his days.
Carefully, hesitantly, not having the right to, he laid his hand — his ugly, heavy, black from blood and metal hand— on Findar's thin shoulder. Commander did not flinch, did not turn away, only turned his head to him and looked, waiting.
“We're gonna make it,” said Arcann, even if wasn't for him to say such words.
Findar smiled - radiant, warm, as if the sun looked out on a gloomy day, - and gratefully covered his cold black fingers with his own, clean and alive.
“Yes,” he said. "We're gonna make it."
And this time Arcann was ready to believe it.