Chapter Text
there is something in your throat that wants to get out and you won't let it - margaret atwood
"and what i really intended to say in the end remains unsaid" - franz kafka
__________
It had finally come to an end.
Three tiring weeks of trying to free the small farming village on Sorgan from a band of Klatoonians had come to an unceremonious close, ending with him and Cara drenched to the bone in a krill pond. It’s not exactly the ending he had imagined, but he supposes it could’ve been worse.
Billowing wisps of smoke danced in the air as the flames of the AT-ST behind him casted warm glows over the faces of the villagers. The rough lines that aged their faces from days of tedious labour were gone, softly eased away by the bright orange light.
The chirps and clicks of night animals fell silent, allowing the villagers to rejoice in their triumph as victorious cries filled the night. The smell of copper and gunpowder hung heavy in the air, but the destruction that surrounded them was temporarily forgotten as they raised their weapons in elation, cheering and hugging one another.
With adrenaline still coursing through his veins, Din could feel the frantic beat of his heart pumping forcefully against his chest. He attempts to control his breathing, taking deep slow breaths in an attempt to stop it from fogging up his visor in a cloudy haze. But it's futile, he quickly realises, as there’s a bright burning sensation prickling his lungs like rusted iron nails scraping against them that has him gasping for fresh air. His helmet isn’t helping matters either as his face is drenched in sweat. A streak of it drips into his eye and he twinges, eyebrows tightly furrowing together.
Din shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the maddening buzzing in his ears after the AT-ST explosion before giving up entirely. He rests his head on the edge of the krill pond, letting out a huff of relief as he attempts to regain his composure.
Above the elated clamour of the village and the persistent ringing in his ears, he faintly hears Cara’s ragged breathing. Her breaths are short and in rapid succession of one another and he turns his head a little to the left to see her better.
Her hair was matted, dark locks drenched in sweat and water that clung desperately to the sides of her face, while her skin glistens, having drawn its glow from the moon’s faint light.
“Was that the plan?,” he playfully questions.
She nods her head in amusement at the ridiculousness of his question. “Somethin’ like that”, she breathlessly laughs.
Despite her dishevelled appearance, her pupils were wide in excitement, a smile gracing her face. Not her infamous smirk accompanied by a raised eyebrow after a witty comeback, or her proud grin after sliding in a flirtatious innuendo that has him stuttering like a little school boy. No, Din thinks, it wasn’t either of those.
This one was radiant.
He’s staring at her for what feels like hours before his brain finally catches up with him. Get it together, Din, his brain chastises, but it's too late. She holds his gaze, head tilted to the side in question, and he looks away quickly, too quickly. His mouth is suddenly very dry and after a stretch of silence, he lets out a cough to cover up his mistake and it sounds way too hoarse. She doesn't comment on it and he's more than grateful.
They stay like that for several minutes, drenched head to toe in krill water, silent and alive. Din grimaces, realising that he’s probably going to be fishing out those blue crustaceans in every crevice and nook of his armour for a good week or so. His under armour is soaked, heavy and burdensome as the cold slowly seeps into his skin, sapping away the warmth of his blood.
It begins to rain lightly when he registers that she’s watching him with an easy smile on her face, one that he can’t help but match even if she couldn’t see it.
But something about the way she lets out a playful huff of air as she dramatically rolls her eyes at him when he meets her gaze makes him wonder whether she does see; whether she sees more than she lets on.
Perhaps it's the cloudy visor distorting his vision or the explosion that left his brain a little scattered, but he swears that her smile brightens, soft in a way that could have easily been missed, cheeks flushed with a faint shade of pink that cannot possibly be attributed to the moon’s glow. And there's a certain glint in her eyes, one that he’s briefly seen over the course of their stay, that he can’t quite place. But he feels it lingering in the spaces between them even after she’s turned her head away (like she had done in all those other moments too) and his heartbeat quickens ever so slightly as to what it could possibly mean.
He finds himself begrudgingly smiling more than his usual quota would call for when he’s around her. It’s a new found fact that he decides not to ponder too much on, especially at night whenever he feels a foreign ache in his jaw and cheek after spending too much time laughing with her.
It’s easy with her; sarcastic banter, amused smirks and unfiltered laughter. Genuine in a way that wasn’t possible with most people, let alone anyone that he’s ever met in his entire life especially in his line of work.
It was simple with her in a way that left him conflicted more than annoyed.
His eyes flicker to her (they tend to do that more times than he’d like to admit to himself), scanning her for any visible signs of injury. Aside from a few scrapes and smears of dirt, she seems perfectly fine. It’s then that he realises that she’s still holding his amban pulse rifle. It’s drawn close to her chest, her hands cradling the end of its brown stock and the forestock with care. The weight behind the gesture of giving her his treasured rifle in the midst of a fight with absolutely no slither of hesitation or reluctance hadn’t crossed his mind until now.
Weapons are a part of his religion.
They are a part of him; a physical shard of his identity, an extension of his armour that protected him like a second skin. Every blaster pistol, rifle and vibro-blade that he has ever yielded has aided him in times of need, in times of combat and defence. He placed complete faith in his weapons and his own abilities to wield them, which saved his life countless times. Any weapon, especially his weapon in the hands of another other than himself was dangerous and stupidly reckless. A foolish mistake that he’s sure the Armourer would never let him forget.
But the unconscious trust he had in Cara to not only use his rifle with surety but to also not betray him with it, a tangible piece of his identity held in the very palm of her hands, threw him for a loop.
Why her? What was it about her that allowed him to let his guard down? Why was she able to chip away at the walls that he’s spent years constructing around himself at such an alarming rate?
Indulging in her challenging banter and attempting to keep up with her quick tongue with remarks of his own was one thing, but now willingly exchanging weapons with her without conscious thought was something else entirely. And it terrifies him.
Perhaps it’s the kid, he thinks. Against his better judgement, the little womp rat had slowly wormed his way into his heart with his big curious eyes and wrinkled forehead covered in peach fuzz. That must be it, he concludes. The kid wedged his way through a hole and Cara must have slipped through as well. It’s the only logical explanation.
Unbeknownst to his internal conflict, Cara tilts her face to the sky, resting her head on the edge of the krill pond. The rain overwhelms her senses, its earthy aroma mingling with the charred smoke, crisp and sharp, easing away the dull ache in her body. Her shoulders relax, the knots of tension in her muscles uncoiling as the rain hits her damp skin. The wind, soft on its feet just as she had remembered from her childhood, ran by with quiet murmurs, caressing her face as if slipping into a sleepy dream.
__________
She remembers the way her mother used to caress her face when she was younger. Remembers the way her soft fingers ran over her cheek, warm chestnut eyes narrowing, attempting to conceal her transparent amusement with faux annoyance as she licks her thumb before wiping away a smudge of dirt off her cheek. Cara squirms away in grimace, breaking into a fit of giggles that show off her bright toothy grin, playfully pushing away her mother’s hands.
“I’m not a little girl anymore, Mama”, she declares, pouting her lips as she dramatically attempts to push away the wet strands of thick hair that clung to her face.
Her mother lets out a quiet laugh, “Darling, you will always be my little Princess”, she says, reaching out to tuck her daughter’s unruly locks behind her ears.
“I don’t want to be a princess anymore,” she protests, standing straight and jutting out her chin proudly, “I want to be a warrior.”
“A warrior, huh?”, she asks with genuine curiosity, eyes wide in question. “Is that why you were so persistent on joining your brothers in their outlandish game of soldiers?”
Cara’s eyebrows furrowed together before looking down at her feet shyly, finding them more interesting as she twists the tip of her right foot side to side into the dampen earth.
“Are you disappointed?”
There’s a slight quiver when she speaks, the words wobbly and unclear. Her voice was barely a whisper above the rustling of trees that surrounded the area that her mother barely caught what she had said before her eyes softened in realisation.
Of course, her daughter wanted to be a warrior. It should’ve come as no surprise. She would spend every waking hour trailing after her brothers with crooked sticks into the woods to play soldier, begging them to teach her different fighting moves even if it meant that she got tossed around like a sack of potatoes.
She would come home with bruises in blotches of various shades of yellows, greens, and purples, running home bearing proud cuts and scrapes on her knees and arms that she had gotten that day, now caked dry with deep crimson blood. With dirt-stained boots and a beaming toothy grin that only children could get away with, dimpled cheeks and eyes that twinkled like they held every secret of the universe within them, she knew Cara was destined for more than just a simple life of peace and tranquillity on a farm.
And even with bloody gashes and grazed arms, she would laugh; brilliant and clear like rays of sunlight that filtered through dark clouds after a storm. Untainted laughter, pure and untouched by all the violence and cruelness that the world had to offer.
But one day she would know. One day she would have to learn the hard way; of evil actions and cruel tragedies. A life that mercilessly wounds a dreaming heart and aims to rip a kind soul apart. And in the far future, there will come a day where she will no longer need to hold her mother’s hand, a day where she will become her own person, one shaped by experiences and lessons that will no doubt break her heart and heal it again.
However, for now, she was still her little Cara; wild and daring, a free spirit chasing after the winds and open blue skies with a fierce burning fire in her heart.
“Disappointed? Not ever in you, my dear”, she says tenderly before cupping her right cheek, thumbs gently stroking her cheekbones. Cara’s gaze returns to her mother slowly, dark eyes searching before her features soften into a small smile.
“I couldn’t be prouder of you, Carasynthia.”
“Mama! You know I hate being called that”, she playfully mocks, her nose scrunching in disgust as her eyes narrow in grimace.
Her mother shakes her head fondly in amusement. “Well, if you want to be a warrior, they must always be ready to fight'', tilting her head to the side deep in thought as she explains. “And I don't think you’ll be able to see anything at all with this mop on your head that you call your hair.”
Cara giggles while her mother reaches out to gently run her fingers through her damp hair before they get caught in knots. “Perhaps, if it isn’t too girly for you, I could teach you how to do a traditional Alderaanian braid that has been in our family for generations. That way, you’ll be able to see better when fighting bad guys.”
“Would you really, Mama?”, she excitedly gasps.
At her mother’s small nod, Cara throws her tiny arms around her mother’s neck as she lifts her off the ground and into her warm embrace, cradling the back of her head. The rain comes down with a vengeance now, drenching them both in its wrath. Instead of letting go, her mother’s hold tightens around her and Cara feels her chin rest on the top of her head before the weight is suddenly removed.
Missing the reassuring pressure, she looks up from the crook of her mother’s neck to see her mother’s head tilted up towards the sky. Mirroring her action in an attempt to understand what she’s doing as children often did, her mother laughs.
Her laughter was soft and luminescent like the pale glows of orange and gold petals of candlewick flowers that used to bloom during late spring on Alderaan, a balm to her weathered soul. It was a laugh that sounded like it was from another lifetime, warming a part of her battered heart, the one she’d believed had died long ago; the part of her that had died when the Empire blew her planet into billions of pieces.
__________
Snapping out of his thoughts, Din notices how quiet Cara is beside him. He watches her, analysing her as if trying to commit her face to memory, all movement ceased except for the steady rise and fall of her chest. Her eyes were closed, the rebel tattoo sitting high and proud on her cheek, standing out in stark contrast to her moonlit skin.
There was something intimate about this, seeing her so at peace. He’s witnessed it only a handful of times whenever it began to rain on Sorgan. She would stop whatever it was that she was doing, slowly tilt her head to the sky as a melancholy smile graced her face. And after a few moments, she would open her eyes before returning to her task.
Sensing a watchful pair of eyes, her smile doesn’t falter as the deepest of black meets his through the visor.
“Something on your mind?”
“After what we just went through, the only thing on my mind is a glass full of spotchka.”
Her voice was smaller than he knew it to be. She smiles lightly, but he doesn't miss the glimmer of sadness that dims the usual light from her eyes.
His hand twitches with the desire to grab hers to help ease whatever pain she’s in. And he wants to ask her, to know more about whatever's troubling her. Questions sit on the back of his tongue, words bubble up his throat, and just as they’re about to leave his lips, her eyes meet his.
They look more tired than he remembers, worn down and exhausted. He holds her gaze, his eyes searching desperately for the answers to secrets he doesn’t know in hers.
I know you want to help, they say, but perhaps now is not the best time.
So instead, he nods lightly in agreement. A faint smile appears on her lips, and he takes it as a thank you. There’s still a faint ringing in his ears and the charred air from the fire lingers heavily in his helmet. The water around them ripples gently as Cara begins to climb out, slinging his rifle to rest behind her back before extending out a hand.
He reaches up to accept it before pulling back sharply, his left hand coming up to hold his right shoulder. He winces quietly as he tries to ease the pain radiating from it.
“Getting tired already, old man?”, she teases, her eyes full of their usual brightness again, extending out her other hand so that his left could grab hers.
“Not a chance, Dune”, he fires back before clasping their hands together.
When their hands come in contact, despite the layer of fabric between them from his wet glove, the heat of her touch finds its way under his flesh and blood in a way he tries to ignore. And when their hands do eventually part, he cannot help but mourn the loss of her warmth.