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If he dies here, Jyn and Melshi will never forgive him.
It’s what keeps Cassian clinging to the support column under the bridge, clenching his jaw so the troopers won’t hear his shivering. What keeps him silent when the seawater burns his open wound.
They’ll never forgive him. It’s how he swims the rest of the way to shore, hauls his bedraggled, bleeding body up the rocks. It’s what gets him sprawled on the top of the seawall, gasping and shaking like a dying fish in the rain. It’s why he staggers to his feet, how he makes it to the cantina. It’s the reason he fumbles his lockpicks out of his boot, gets inside.
They were so angry he returned to Morlana One without them.
He had to. Either he completed the mission now or it’d take weeks before they could try it again. And it would’ve been harder. They’d need another mark, and the Imp Pre-Mors would be more suspicious. He had to narrow the objective as it was, and even then he barely made it.
But he did. He fed the virus into the Imperial-Preox Authority comm center and got out. He couldn’t copy their data, but their communications are wide open to the Rebellion. And if the kriffing mark he stole the scandocs from hadn’t come back from leave three minutes early, Cassian would be far away from here.
Instead he’s on his ass in the corner behind the cantina’s bar, shaking from stress and cold and probably shock. He’s trying to staunch his side with a wadded tablecloth. He tipped a table over when his legs gave out. He hopes no one sees it through the large window. He hopes he remembered to close the door.
He really hopes he survives this. He wants Melshi and Jyn to forgive him. He wants to see them again. He wants to give Jyn her necklace back. He wants to go home.
Cassian blinks. His eyes sting. Seawater? No, he’s drenched with rain. It’s sweat: cold on his face; lips taste of salt. He’s still shivering. Not good.
This is an upscale place. There must be a well-stocked medkit in the kitchen. And he can turn the oven on, heat the smaller space. Get warm. He just needs to get up.
Get up. Come on, get up. Move. He can’t. He’s too weak, shaking too hard. Can barely keep the cloth pressed to his side. Come on, Cassian. On the count of three… He counts to three, grabs the bar. Tries to pull. Screams through his teeth. Sags back to the floor.
Hears a startled hiss somewhere in the room.
He whips his hand down, goes still. Tries to listen. He’s breathing too fast, pulse too loud in his ears.
Probably a stray tooka (he left the door open. Damn him, he must’ve left the door open). Probably a stray tooka looking for shelter just like he is. He startled it, it’ll leave.
Part of him—cold and lonely and afraid of dying alone—hopes it doesn’t. Hopes it comes closer instead. He’s always wanted a tooka. His parents never let him. They travelled too much. Pets were expensive. They had Bee. But a tooka would sleep on his bed, and he could hold it in his arms. And it would purr and be soft and so, so warm…
Tug on Jyn’s necklace.
Cassian snaps his head up. He grabs the pendant, traps the thief’s hand with his own. It’s soft and very small.
He’s looking into a pair of shocked, astonishingly bright blue eyes. The face is badly hidden behind a green mask with gold decorations. Their nose is extremely pink, surrounded by lush white fur.
Their body is less than a meter tall in the heeled, thigh-high boots. There’s a thick, green sash around their waist, holding a little sword. A leather bag is slung across their chest like a bandolier.
They could be a Loth-cat or tooka, except they’re standing. And more lithe and long, with a long, thin, thrashing tail. And their body’s covered with fur everywhere he can see. Black as the night outside, with white on the face, paws and chest like clouds.
They’re not wet, despite the rain. Well, of course they wouldn’t be.
Cassian stops breathing. Maybe stops shivering. The entire galaxy goes still. He’s holding their paw. It’s intolerably rude. He should let go immediately. He doesn’t. He can’t help himself.
Erduek. He thought they were gone. He thought everyone else was gone.
He doesn’t see the tiny knife. They slash his hand. His fingers spasm. They slice the necklace cord and run.
“No! No! Please!” he shouts in Kenar. Heaves himself to his knees, gasps in pain. Reaches for nothing. They’re gone. He was rude and the Erduek is gone. He keeps calling anyway. “Please, don’t go! I—I have tribute…!”
The Erduek already took the most precious thing on him. He’s let Jyn down twice tonight. He shoves the wadded cloth away to fumble at his pockets. Left one is heavy with blood and rain. It’s too late. It’s too late, they’re gone. Opens the hidden pocket anyway. It’s difficult, his hands are shaking. “Here. Here. Credits.” Drags out the bag, drops it on the floor. Adds a ration bar. “And-and food. And…” He tries to open his right pocket. Moves wrong and howls.
Falls onto his right haunch, hits the bar shelf with his shoulder. Clutches at his wound. It’s bleeding again. Maybe it didn’t stop. He’s dizzy, sick. He’s going to die here. He’s going to die here cold and alone.
“Please.” It’s useless. They’re gone. “I’m sorry.” It’s for the Erduek. For Melshi and Jyn. He sobs. It hurts. Tries to stifle it with his fist. Tastes his blood. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.
The small, round face peers around the side of the bar.
Cassian freezes. Stays perfectly, absolutely still as they edge closer. Doesn’t move when they fix him with their sky-bright eyes. Just blinks and breathes. Tastes the blood on his hand. Bleeds through his fingers.
“Are you of the People?” they ask in Kenar. Their voice is feminine, shaking with shock or fear. Her paw grips the hilt of her sword.
He yanks his hand out of his mouth. Swallows, blinks tears. Shudders a nod. “Yes, forest sister,” he whispers. He’s slouching. It’s rude. He gets his right hand on the shelf, shoves himself upright. Bites off a groan. The room spins. He ignores it. “My second gift is Kassa.” He doesn’t ask her name, wouldn’t dream of it. “I have tribute—”
“What are you doing here?” she demands. “You speak like the People but you look like a gailkkossok. Are you one of them?” She unsheathes the sword halfway. It’s a threat. Her tail thrashes.
She’s frightened. He’s frightening her. He forgot what he’s wearing. He looks like an Imperial. She’ll leave. She’s going to leave him. “No!” He shakes his head frantically, swallows the nausea back. “I’m not a gailkkossok, I swear! I snuck in. To the Authority. I was—” He stops. He can’t betray the Rebellion. But she’ll leave. She’ll leave. “They caught me. I escaped but I got shot. I broke in here to hide.” He wipes his eyes with his sleeve. It just makes his face wet. He wants to reach for her. He doesn’t. “Please. I swear on the forest I’m not a gailkkossok. Don’t leave.” He pushes the credits and ration bar towards her. He’s smeared blood on them. He jerks his hand back. “I have tribute.”
She looks at the blood, then his side. She gasps. She shoves the sword back, runs to him. Pulls off her mask and lets it fall. Her ears and cheeks are black, magnificent white whiskers quivering.
She yanks the flap of her bag open. Ransacks it, hauls out a canteen. Opens it, drops the cap. “Here.” Thrusts it at him. “Drink it. Drink all of it.” Her eyes are enormous, pupils slitted with fear.
He hesitates. “It’s yours.”
She frowns. “So? Of course it’s—Oh. Right. Taboo.” She jerks the knife from her belt, growls. Her teeth are very sharp. “Drink it or I’ll stab you.”
He takes the canteen. It’s like something meant for a doll. He can barely hold it in his shaking hands. It rattles against his teeth, splashes his tongue. The liquid’s summery-sweet, dark flavor beneath like wine. Bacta at the back of his tongue.
She snatches the empty canteen when he lowers it, tosses it behind her. Grabs another from her bag, thrusts it out. “This too.”
He drinks that one too. Then a third. Blinks when she holds out a fourth.
“My friends brew it,” she says.
That explains nothing. But when he takes the fifth canteen his hands aren’t shaking. His side might not be bleeding anymore.
He might be a little drunk. He’s not sure. His head feels preternaturally clear, the world almost painfully vivid. But his wound is only a distant, pestering ache. And he’s warm, nerves buzzing like wires.
The Erduek eyes him, a sixth canteen in her paws. “Are you still dying?”
He shakes his head. He’s not dizzy anymore. “No, I don’t think so.” He flexes his fingers, frowning at the backs of his hands. “It’s kind of…fizzy?”
She blinks a few times. “I’m sure that’s fine.” She lifts the canteen over his wound, pauses, steps back. “You should lie down.”
He lays down. Grits his teeth in anticipation but there’s no pain. Pulls his shirts up for her so she doesn’t have to touch him.
She stands at his side, tilts the canteen. Stops again. “This might sting a little bit.” He nods. She upends the canteen.
It doesn’t sting. It’s like she stabbed a zap rod into the wound. He arches, screams. Nearly scrambles to escape. But she’s climbed onto his side, still pouring. He might hurt her if he moves. He shoves his wrist into his mouth instead. Bites his sleeve, howls into it, scrabbles at the floor. Anything so he won’t move, won’t fight, won’t hurt her. The Erduek is speaking. He can’t hear it. The canteen must be empty—is has to be empty, it’s so small—but the pain is insatiable, relentless, unending. He’s going to drown in it. Melshi and Jyn won’t forgive him.
He's aware, distantly, of a warm pressure tucked against his chest; a cyclic, rhythmic rattling. It crests and ebbs in soft, steady waves. It’s calm. It doesn’t hurt. He follows it like a light out of the dark.
Finds his body again. He’s on his side, eyes screwed shut. Biting his sleeve. His face is wet with sweat and tears, clothes clinging. His throat is raw, breath rasping in and out.
He spits his sleeve out, looks down. The Erduek is curled just under his ribs. The sound comes from her.
Purring. She’s purring. He’s never heard an Erduek purr. It’s like a ship’s engine, carrying you home. The roll of a far-off storm when you’re safe. The rumble seeps into his chest like warmth. He lifts his head onto his bent right arm, wraps his left hand around her side to feel more of it.
Realizes what the kark he’s doing and whips his hand away. “I’m sorry!” He tries to push himself upright, collapses back when his arms give out. He tries again, arms shaking. Collapses back. He can’t move.
He can’t move. The mednog. She told him to drink it, to lie down. Now he can’t move.
It’s not the same. He’s weak; not paralyzed. He knows it’s not the same. But he can hear Vari’s delighted laughter, feel her hands on him, every pinch or slap or hit he was helpless to stop. The tile floor could be smooth, expensive marble. He’s in pain. He’s bleeding. It’s not the same but it is, it is. And his name is Kassa and the Erduek knows who he is and there’s no loophole anymore. There’s no way out and he’s going to die in agony and he can’t breathe.
“Kassa? Kassa! Oh, kriff. You’re freaking out, aren’t you? Okay. Okay. Puss gets like this sometimes.” The Erduek is staring at him, eyes big and worried and her paws on her fluffy cheeks. He knows she won’t hurt him. He still can’t breathe. “What would Perrito do…?” She kicks off her boots, throws herself to the floor. Nestles into his chest and stomach. Her entire belly is exposed. “Pet me.”
Cassian lurches back from her, hits the shelf. His snarl comes out like a whine. He tries to get up again. He can’t move. “Don’t. Order. Me.” His voice is shaking.
She tilts her head, looking up at him. Blinks her blue, blue eyes. “Please pet me, Kassa?”
It’s a request. He can refuse. He’s weak, not paralyzed. She’s not making him do anything.
He pets her. It’s tentative. She’s still an Erduek and his hands are filthy. And she’s so small; he doesn’t want to hurt her. He shouldn’t be touching her at all. But she asked him to.
Her fur is warm and very soft, and she starts purring again as soon as he moves his hand. The vibration seeps into him, tugs gently on his chest. He follows it with his breathing. Pushes her body away, pulls it back. Deep and slow and calm.
Her head is still tilted, sweet face full of concern. “Are you okay now?”
“Yeah.” He swallows, still moving his hand along her belly. “No. I can’t get off the floor.”
“It’s the mednog,” she says immediately. “You’ll probably fall asleep soon too. Everyone does.” He tenses. He can’t sleep here; they’ll find him. “Don’t worry, it wears off quickly.”
He glares at her. “The way it ‘might sting a little bit’?”
She glares back. “I’m sorry!” She is definitely not sorry. “What was I supposed to do? Say, ‘this will make your wound heal very fast, but it’ll hurt so bad you’ll wish you were dead’?”
She reminds him of Jyn. “At least I could’ve braced myself!” he snaps, too angry to be polite. “And now you’re telling me I’m going to be unconscious for Force-knows how long? What if the Imps search this side of the water? Or the cantina staff come in and I’m here on the floor?” He can already feel the need to sleep lapping at him like a tide. He grits his teeth, tries to get up. Collapses back again.
Her scowl vanishes. All he can see are her earnest, sky-colored eyes. “I swear on the Mother Forest, you will wake up and be able to leave before anyone notices you’re here.” She takes his left thumb in her paws. “And I’ll watch over you, I promise. You’re my furless brother, Kassa. I’ll keep you safe.”
Cassian relaxes, lays his head back on his arm. Kneads his fingers in her fur. “I thought the Erduek were gone. I thought everyone was. I spent years trying to find my sister, or any other survivors. I never did.” He kneads her fur. Her body is a solid stripe of warmth. “I think I’m the only one of the People left.”
He didn’t believe it. Not for years, decades. He refused to, even after Maarva told him no one else survived. He couldn’t let himself believe it. Couldn’t even imagine it before Alderaan.
He can imagine it now. And there were so few of them on Kenari, even before the killers came. There were always so few.
He swallows, kneads her fur. She’s soft and warm and alive.
Her eyes are luminous. “Even if you are the only one…you’re not alone anymore, Kassa. I found you. And there are other Erduek. Not many, but…they’re out there. It’s not just me.”
Cassian lifts his head to stare at her. “There are more of you? How many?” Drops back to his arm. He’s tired, sleep lapping at him.
“Six. Four gatyzhak, including me. Three are kittens. One is a kulinho. He taught me this petting thing. He’s a therapy dog.”
“It’s good, the petting,” Cassian says softly. Six. Six survivors besides him. It’s so few, but it’s not no one. It’s not just him. He licks his lips, heart pounding. Kneads her fur. “Can I meet them?” He knows she’s going to say, “No.” Feels it in the sudden, wary stillness under his hand. “I won’t betray you.”
“I know.” He believes her. “Not intentionally.”
He’s too tired to keep the despair in his throat. He understands. Of course he understands. “Please. I’m not… I can keep secrets! I won’t let anyone make me betray you. Please.” He’s begging like a child. He feels like one: lost and abandoned. “You said I wasn’t alone.”
“You’re not alone,” she tells him fiercely. She rolls over, puts her front paws on his chest, two circles of warmth over his heart. Hooks her back claws into his belt, pushes herself closer. They’re almost nose-to-nose. “You aren’t alone, Kassa. There are seven of us now. We don’t have to be together for you to know that.”
He nods, swallows. He does know. He’s being a child. “Could you come with me?”
He expects the shake of her head, her sympathetic eyes. “I’m sorry. There are so few of us. I need to help protect the kittens.”
“I know people who can protect them. I can protect them!” He’s bargaining like a toddler at bedtime. He’s ashamed. His heart is breaking.
She wraps her arms around his neck, lifts up so she’s whispering into his ear. “I know. I know you’d do everything you could. But it’s too dangerous. You can’t defeat the Empire, Kassa. Only get away from them.”
He doesn’t try to lie, doesn’t deny what she already figured out. Doesn’t tell her they did defeat the Empire, turned their planet-killer to dust. He doesn’t beg again. He’s not a child anymore and he already knows how this ends: You can’t stay, and I can’t go.
And he’ll go back to the Rebellion and she’ll go to Puss and Perrito and the kittens. And they’ll both give what’s left of their strength and their will and their lives protecting what they’ve chosen. And maybe it’ll kill them and maybe it won’t, and either way he’ll never see her again.
So, “Okay,” he says. And he accepts it. He has to; there’s nothing else. But it hurts. It hurts so badly.
“I’m sorry, Kassa.” She is.
She’s still hugging his neck. She butts her head under his chin. “My second gift is Tzeetza,” she says. “I call myself Kitty.” It’s an incredible honor. His throat is too tight to thank her for it.
He still has tears left. He’s so sick of crying, of this sorrow that never leaves. But there are six Erduek left, and him. Likely no one else. Seven people in the entire galaxy. And come the morning this precious, tangible connection to everything he’s lost will be gone. And it doesn’t matter if he knows now he’s not alone. He has never felt more alone than this: with Kitty tucked against him and his hand on her back, fighting to stay awake so she won’t leave.
He's sick of crying. But this is the death of hope, kneading his nape with her soft, soft paws.
He doesn’t remember falling asleep. Doesn’t know if the, “Goodbye, Kassa,” next to his ear is a dream or actually happens. But suddenly he’s alert and his eyes are open. He’s clutching Jyn’s pendant in his hand.
Cassian bolts upright. He’s stiff, aching, but he can move. His side is covered with a bacta patch, sore like an old bruise. His chrono says there’s nearly three hours until dawn.
The tribute is gone. So is the tablecloth, the green mask and the empty canteens. In its place is a hooded coat, neatly folded. Store tags still attached.
There’s nothing else. Just the sound of the driving rain.
Cassian climbs to his feet. He puts Jyn’s necklace in his empty hidden pocket, grimacing at the dried blood on his hip. He shoulders into the kitchen, careful not to touch anything with bare skin. Goes to the sonic sink and cleans his hands and sleeves. He finds the spray cleaner, comes back out and covers the bloodstain. Watches until it dissolves. It doesn’t take long. He wipes the bottle handle clean and puts it away again.
He comes back out, picks up the coat. It’s his size. He wonders how she carried it.
He snaps off the tags and drops them into a pocket. Puts the coat on and fastens it. It’s warm and it covers the blood.
He takes a last look around. It’ll do. He goes out the way he came in. The table he tipped over is righted, fresh cloth and cutlery spread over it. He wonders how she did that, too.
He relocks the door behind him. He resets the alarm.
He puts his hood up. Ducks his head and shoves his hands into his pockets. Just another weary commuter on his way to the spaceport, trying to stay dry and warm.
Best be on his way, then.
He takes a breath, steps into the early morning rain, and starts walking.
END