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Of late Felix is more Sith than Jedi, more purveyor of the Dark Side over the Light, more beast than man - and he knows it. He loathes himself for how far he’s fallen, almost as far into the fathomless depths of space as he did before the Empire killed him.
How much further is it to the center of this black hole? Felix grows weary of waiting.
Every other rest period in the secret solitude of wherever he’s sleeping he spends with his light saber in hand. He doesn’t know why he lets himself be sentimental when he refuses to linger on memories of a childhood at the Jedi Temple, of battles fought and won, of brothers and comrades lost and mourned only for him - for Dimitri - in his awful, animal rage to swear revenge when all Felix wanted was to know why they had to die.
He never did find out.
His grip on the light saber tightens. It sickens him how comfortably it sits in his hand, how easily it can light up, energy channeled through a crystal he cut himself. He’s taken to fighting with a blaster or, in closer quarters, a stave to maintain some semblance of anonymity, but sometimes he wonders if it might be worth risking the Empire’s wrath just to wield the saber, just to forget the weight of the last few years struggling to drag him down.
(It won’t be long before he lets them.)
Why does he still have the stupid thing? He should’ve just chucked it through an airlock the instant he swore he would never wield it a—
A knock sounds at his door. Felix bolts to his feet with his heart pounding, cursing when he bumps his head against the low ceiling of the cabin. He’s by no means tall, but the crew of Morfins he travels with are downright diminutive.
His eyes narrow at the door as he stuffs the saber in a jacket pocket. Late in the ship’s cycle as it is, he can’t think of a reason anyone would disturb him. The captain hired him as spare muscle for negotiations at a seedy port, but they won’t begin until daybreak planet-side.
“I was asleep,” he lies as he brushes his thumb over the keypad, “so this better be important.”
The door slides open with a guttering hiss of air.
Felix’s breath catches, jaw dropping at the achingly familiar face - so low yet still too high to be Morfin - before him. Is he asleep? When he wakes, surely he’ll discover this is some cruel dream sent by the goddess the Empire denounces to mock him.
Still, he breathes, “Annette.”
Annette smiles, something sad in something that once brought him so much joy to see, and raises a hand. “Hello, Felix,” she says. “Have you missed me as much as I’ve missed you?”
Dream or no, she feels so real - so much like a lost, half-forgotten home - in his arms it hurts.