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It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He’s holding her body in his arms and thinking it wasn’t supposed to be like this. His trembling hands are barely putting any pressure on her stiff shoulders, as if he’s afraid he’ll further injure her with any prolonged contact, as if all he needs to do is help her to her feet. She’s stunned, only slightly hit, but alive. She could lean on him as they walk back to the house and he can treat her wound and tell Jyn to come home, that everything’s okay. But it’s not. He can see the light fading from her eyes, overpowered by the smoldering hole in her chest, ablaze with smoke and the charred edges of her flesh. Her lips quiver once to murmur some incoherent whisper that Galen rushes to press his ear against but it is too quiet and he is too late and she is gone. Her head rolls back onto the ground, bits of grass getting caught in her hair. Something in Galen’s chest tries to wrench itself out of the confines of his rib cage but ultimately fails. It is a throbbing something trying to rack its way up his esophagus, clawing at his throat until it is threatening to scream itself into existence. His mouth goes dry and he can’t seem to swallow anymore.
Soon, time Galen isn’t even aware of elapses before his darkening vision and a blurry shape of black begins marching into view in the distance. The garbled, unintelligible sound of the death troopers speaking through their masks fills Galen’s ears and what strength is left in him forces him to turn his head ever so slowly to gaze upon the black-armored killers. Fleeting terror is replaced with relief. Jyn is not with them.
“Where is she?”
Orson Krennic is speaking with effort, gritting his teeth in pain and pressing a hand to the shoulder Lyra had managed to blast a hole in. Galen can barely stand to look at him. To look up at him, just as Krennic has forced countless others to do. He dares to lock eyes with Orson and wishes he could feel nothing but malice and contempt. But he does not. Instead he curses himself, has been cursing himself since the day Orson rescued him and Lyra and Jyn on Vallt. Because that day the Republic shuttle landed on the snow, Galen wasn’t just happy they were being rescued. He was happy because Orson was rescuing them. The first time they had seen each other in years and Galen couldn’t tear his eyes off him. And neither could Orson, Galen saw. And he hasn’t forgiven himself, can’t forgive himself for thinking about him every night since then, lying in the dark next to Lyra with eyes wide open fixed on the ceiling but seeing Orson’s face, his smile, his lips. The tiny crinkles on the sides of his eyes that only Galen knows how to make appear. His eyes would be caught in Orson’s imaginary blue pupils for hours until sleep finally found a way to seep into his muscles. Now Galen is caught in those same pupils. They are not warm, or sympathetic, or inviting. They are cold. Aching with desperate, urgent rage. And Galen curses himself because his wife’s body is strewn out across the dirt and his daughter is tucked under some damp rock and his best friend is looming over him with malice and contempt in his eyes and Galen misses those icy pupils. Misses them like every lonely night he spent in Coruscant lying next to Lyra staring up at nothing, at something, at him.
Galen’s eyes are burning. Almost dripping.
“Where is the child?” he repeats.
His mouth slick with fear, Galen exhales shakily, “You’ll never find her, Krennic.”
He purses his lips together, “Then she will die on this useless rock.”
Like her mother, Galen expects Orson to add, but he doesn’t.
Instead he trudges through the tall grass to the slumped over Galen, looks as if he’s about to help him up. His hand inches forward, hesitantly, but shoots back down to his side almost instantly. If Galen’s vision had not been blurred by wetness, he may have noticed the slightest tremble of Orson’s gloved fingers.
Orson snaps one of the death troopers over to him with his hand, “Prepare the shuttle. Bring it here for departure.”
The trooper marches off into the grass, two others following closely behind, until soon all three disappear over the ridge that not so long ago birthed the death of Galen’s peaceful life. Short-lived, inefficient, ruined as always. Everything that Orson Krennic trails behind often is. Galen knows. Galen has experienced it. Lived through it more times than he would have liked to remember. Maybe that is why he forgets, then. Not because his mind just isn’t what it was. But because it is overflowing, poured to the brim with memories of Orson that beg, demand his tearful, longing attention. Dancing about wildly in his eyes when he’s yanking out weeds from the ground and shoving half-grown crops in their place. When he is staring blankly at the wall while Jyn is waving about her toys, trying to get Galen to play with her so she says, “Mama, Papa is looking at nothing again!” And Lyra smiles and says, “He has stars in his eyes, Jyn.” No. He has Orson in his eyes. In his thoughts, in his dreams, in his blood. So much of him that it’s spilling out into the life he has forged away from him, leaking onto what will become his daughter’s only memories of her father. He tried to forget, tried to shove down all those memories of Orson with revelations of his deception and betrayal and couldn’t take it and then tried to forget those too. But how could he? How can he now when the reason for his family’s permanent absence is standing right in front of him, glancing purposefully away from Galen as he orders the remaining death troopers to hoist him to his feet?
Galen does not realize how tightly he is gripping Lyra’s body until the troopers pry him off of her carcass, and he can see the indentations his fingers left in her cold skin. There is no strength to him anymore, he allows them to drag him to his feet, steadying him slightly in between their armored shoulders.
“Galen.”
Orson speaks again with a slight effort, but this time Galen does not think it is from his shoulder.
“We’ll bring Lyra back on the ship with us. Have a proper service for her when we land.”
Something dislodges itself from Galen’s throat, and he suddenly finds that his words have returned to him, if only very few. All fueled by a wrath he has denied himself access to for years.
“You murdered her,” he spits.
Orson’s mouth twitches and he seems to grip his smoking shoulder more tightly, “Lyra…” he draws out the word carefully, “...was a hindrance to your skill, always preventing you from achieving your full potential.”
“No, Krennic.”
He can barely keep his voice from shaking, his hands from shaking.
“My wife brought out something in me no form of science ever could.”
No form of science.
Orson takes a step back, looks like he’s staggering on his feet a little. Clearly trying not to boil over.
He opens his mouth after clenching his jaw, “That’s all it ever was, wasn’t it.”
Not a question. A statement. A fact.
“Science. Research. Experiments.”
Galen says nothing, just looks on the ground where his wife lay. Her chest no longer rises and falls. Her eyes no longer sparkle.
Orson watches the broken man before him, the man he broke. Spite coats his tongue as he traces Galen’s eyes to gaze upon Lyra. Galen has never been able to pry them from her existence, even in the presence of Orson, amidst all his shining radiance of memories, the past they shared, the things they did. He finds the hole in her chest, no longer smoking, just stagnant and gaping. Pain flares suddenly in his shoulder. Yet he feels satisfaction.
Regaining some of himself, Orson says, “Well, it is unfortunate neither Lyra nor your daughter could comply with my offer. However, even without Lyra’s aid I am confident you will be able to resume your work on the weapon.”
Galen slowly looks up from Lyra to stare into Orson’s eyes. Those icy blue pupils still holding malice within them, hidden by a sheen of professionalism, ill-rationalized thinking. But something else is there too, behind it all. Pleasure.
Galen feels a burning ache in his muscles he has never let himself acknowledge before. Something is pulling his arms forward, dragging his feet towards Orson. His fingers twitch, balling themselves into fists. But then Orson’s shuttle arrives, large and looming, blocking out the sky and its feeble grey light. It casts a shadow when it lands, roaring its presence into Galen’s ears, staining the grass it tramples beneath its claws. Red lights glowing like eyes. And whatever is about to come out of Galen vanishes. Just like always.
The shuttle ramp opens slowly with a hissing noise, steam seeping out of the glowing cracks. The other death troopers emerge, carrying a handheld gurney between them, marching down the platform. It is like the shuttle is coughing them up and spitting them out, letting that spoiled wad of armor and weapons slide slowly down its long black tongue. Retching up Imperial poison to taint Galen’s home, to consume it. Making room in its belly for more.
Krennic’s troopers kneel down beside Lyra and begin to lift her carcass onto the thin white slab. Galen doesn’t object, doesn’t even step in to help. Even if he tried, Galen doesn’t think the two death troopers flanking him would let him.
They hoist her up in between themselves and disappear into the shuttle, darkness enveloping them. The troopers on either side of Galen nudge him forwards, devoid of both patience and gentleness. He stumbles, and turns to gaze at the land behind him for what he believes will be the last time. He catches Krennic’s eye and when he does, sees him nod some silent message at the troopers, who part slightly from Galen’s bristling sides, allowing him a little more of a view at the farm house he had made a life in. The rain-battered breeze strikes it relentlessly, emitting a hollow wail throughout the empty skeleton, windows busted open by the ends of death trooper rifles, splintered furniture strewn across the floor. He wills his eyes not to stray to the left, past the jumble of rocks leading down to the black-sand beach, the trail lined with stones and grass, the open mouth cave, the secret hatch in the ground…
Stardust. Scattered across the galaxy. Scattered across the beach. Everywhere, found in everything. But no one can see it. No matter how hard they look. He hopes it stays that way.
He turns around again, facing the open mouth of the shuttle. Cautiously moving forward, the death troopers at his side match his step. He hears the rustle of boots and armor as Krennic follows behind them. Galen steps onto the ramp, slithers up the long black tongue. The entrance to the shuttle is wide and uninviting. Dark, cold. He closes his eyes and inhales before stepping inside. It swallows him.
The troopers had risen a platform to lay down Lyra’s body in the center of the passenger hull. Galen shuffles over to an unoccupied space next to his wife, finds his eyes locking onto her frozen expression. Twisted and full of pain. The rest of the company files in and the shuttle closes its mouth. As the ship roars once more to life, vibrating underfoot as it lifts off the ground, the remaining troopers surround the platform, metallic armor clacking its warning. Orson finds a spot next to Galen.
“I’ve prepared a room and temporary research space for you when we arrive on Coruscant to begin work immediately. Your absence of four years has significantly halted--”
“My absence?” Galen growls quietly.
Slightly taken aback, Orson falters in his speech, but only for a moment before he tastes the spite on his tongue once more. It’s bitter. He wants to spit it out.
“Yes. Your absence when you decided to run off to this backwater planet with Lyra and leave me to explain to my superiors why the work could not continue at an acceptable rate.”
“And what did you tell them, Krennic? That you were lying to the head scientist in order to get him to stay? That you drove him away with your insolence as you always do?”
“All I’ve ever wanted is to see you at your fullest potential. Celestial Powers, the Empire, they gave that to you. I gave that to you.”
“You gave me nothing. You used me. You stole from me.”
His burning gaze strays over to Lyra’s crooked expression. The last expression she ever made. The only one Galen has to remember her by.
Orson’s shoulder is throbbing. He grinds his teeth together and is unaware as his hand clenches his wound and digs into his uniform.
“She,” spittle flies from his lips, “stole from me. She poisoned your thoughts, Galen, got inside your head, so you would leave m--”
“I did, Orson! I left! Me! It was my decision. Not Lyra’s. I was protecting my family.”
“Protecting them from what? You lived in the safest bloody building I could find!”
“Protecting them from you.”
Dizzying pain envelops Orson. But not from his shoulder. His chest. His eyes. His legs. His voice is quiet.
“And you’ve protected them marvelously, haven’t you?”
The burning ache returns instantly. Something shatters deep inside of Galen and pierces his exposed flesh with its jagged shards. The pain is unbearable. Galen rises clenched fists in the air, trembling with the power of a man who is going to hurt something. Who needs to hurt something. Him towering over Krennic, the death troopers surrounding them tense and cock their weapons. Orson immediately whips around, glaring at them to lower their blasters. For the first time in his life Galen thinks that he might really hit Orson, abandon all traces of pacifism, of longing, of memory. But all at once, a great wave of grief washes over him, his knees wobble and give out, and he collapses into the flight seat behind him. He draws his quivering face into his quivering palms, every muscle in his body weak and gone, taken by the blaster bolt fired straight through Lyra’s being. Taken by the way her body froze in mid-air for the merest of seconds, her limp arms flailing out around her, her smoldering chest cavity plummeted with burns, her bulging brown eyes desperate and stunned and pained. When her body crumpled to the ground, scattering black sand and smashing green grass, Galen lunged for her, couldn’t tear himself away from that look. That desperate look pleading for a way out, pleading for a different life, one where they weren’t being held captive and exploited to create a mass weapon to poison peaceful planets just like this one, one where they weren’t constantly looking over their shoulders for a man in a white cape carrying a blaster and a burning ambition. A burning desire.
But now here Galen sits, shaking uncontrollably. Desire and resentment and grief tearing at his limbs. Orson, feeling something similar, cautiously, almost guiltily takes the seat next to Galen. With a wave of his hand, his troopers disperse, seeping their way into every other unoccupied niche of the shuttle, leaving Galen and Orson to their own. Orson removes his hand from his screaming shoulder, and slowly, slowly, places it on Galen’s. He does not flinch, does not pull away, hardly reacts at all, hardly capable of reacting. But that is good enough for Orson. For the rest of the flight, they stay that way, Galen with his face in his palms, Orson with his hand on his shoulder, in complete and utter silence. They land on Coruscant and Orson personally walks Galen up to his room. He shows him all of its extra features, tells him that he hand-picked it especially for him. He says he will start on the funeral preparations for Lyra immediately, the service to be held within the following days. He tells Galen that if he needs him, his room is right down the hall from his own, that he can ask for anything. Galen nods, mouth shut, eyes unfocused. Orson nods in turn, unsure of what else he could say. He refuses to hold his shoulder when they land, throbbing, pulsing as it is. But as soon as he closes the door to Galen’s room, his hand crawls feebly to his wound, now bandaged but no less present. He walks back to his quarters with a tight feeling in his throat. Lyra is gone. It took him years but Lyra is gone. Before entering his room, he turns back to gaze at Galen’s shut door. Closed off and separating, thick metal walls surrounding him, barricading him from Orson. Protecting him.
He stifles a sigh and walks into his room, leaving it unlocked feeling something that is less than hope. He stands there behind the door in the dark for a long while, thinking. And there is one thought that he can’t get out of his head. A thought that plants itself in front of his eyes when he weakly crawls into bed that night after carefully removing his rain-sodden cape and uniform. He does not sleep. He lies there in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, at nothing, at something, at him. And Orson thinks, now that he finally has Galen all to himself, he’s the most far away from him he’s ever been.
When Orson leaves and shuts the door Galen finds himself stumbling over to the bed, doesn’t remember heaving himself on top of it, curling into a tight ball on the sheets. He does not sleep that night. He does not stare at the ceiling in the dark. He does not stare at Lyra’s twisted face. He does not stare at the millions of particles of Stardust scattered everywhere, anywhere across the galaxy. He can’t. There is something else stuck in his vision. Something icy. Something blue. Something wet. He can’t even lift his arms to wipe it away. It is never going to go away. It never has.
The night creeps in. And for the first time since he was a boy, Galen Erso cries.