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Cal remembers Dathomir, and a particularly treacherous labyrinth of scarred walls and blood-red cliffs that he hadn’t been sure he would be able to traverse. He remembers missing his grip so badly that he tumbled down the rock face in a spin, only able to gain his footing at the absolute last moment so he can launch himself onto another ledge, and live to search another tomb.
He remembers, when Merrin finds him next, shortly after that embarrassing incident, wondering if she’s been watching him make a fool of himself. Cal can’t do much about his face reddening to the color of Dathomir’s sky, but he tries to cover it by asking Merrin what it's like to teleport and never be worried about taking a fall.
She smiles at him and his stomach swoops, almost like he was tumbling down that cliff again, and says, “It’s like wind through gravethorn, Jedi. Speed that cuts.” She does not elaborate.
Cal finds, now that he’s flying through space in her green-magic wake, that Merrin hadn’t needed any more descriptors. She’d asked him do you trust me, he’d said of course because he thought it was obvious and what are you up to before seeing that glittering portal, and she asks about trust again and what is he supposed to say but yes? And then she’d kissed him, sweet and sure and long enough that BD started cursing in Binary and shoving a little foot into his shoulder because there’s a karking Trident bearing down on them—
He’s the wind through gravethorn. Merrin’s magic cradles him but it does not protect him. He’s never flown so fast on his own, with no speeder beneath him, never fallen in a crystalline moment as the world slows around him, confident that the green-wreathed portal will catch him and yank him to another place. But the speed comes at a cost, debris tearing at his clothing and shrapnel slicing past his face, hot blaster bolts singeing far too close for comfort, tears ripped from his eyes. He doesn’t let any of that stop him from examining that monster of a machine, because it’s speed that will keep them from becoming nerf kebab on its piercing claws.
Merrin’s portals guide him to a weakness, a locked joint on a vicious limb, and Cal laughs as he latches onto it, vaults atop its metal hide, heedless of the sandy drop on either side. He won’t fall, not with the Force to guide his steps until his saber can slash deep into the mechanism, not with Merrin’s magic rushing past him in ribbons, waiting to catch him as he dives off the writhing machinery.
It’s exhilarating. Cal almost doesn’t feel like the thing is trying to destroy them, like this beast of metal and anger is simply a dancer in a esoteric ballet, a player in a planetary orchestra with the Force as the conductor. If the speed of the portals and the wall jumps didn’t steal his breath, Cal would laugh for the joy of it.
But every symphony has an end, and Merrin and Cal find theirs, the Trident looming ahead of them, leaving no time for Merrin to draft another portal.
“Nowhere left to run,” Merrin says, looking only at Cal. He hopes the luck from their kiss hasn’t run out.
“Then we stand together,” Cal says, letting his Force expand there atop the mesa, feeling Merrin’s green-hissing magick coalesce at his side, a complementary note to his fiery power, and he grits his teeth in a grimace. The Force and Dathomir’s smoky haze hang heavy among the sandy stones for a frozen second.
“Now or never,” Merrin says, and Jedi and Nightsister thrust their power at the Trident, her acid fog exploding its armor, his burning Force throwing the pieces back at the Imperial machine, the both of them keeping up the assault until the Trident collapses on itself, falling into the depths of the red canyon below.
The weight of the Force is suddenly gone from Cal’s hands, and he exhales, but Merrin says, “One last jump—and it’s a big one,” because they’re atop a mesa with no easy descent, and Cal follows the greensmoke trail of Merrin and her portals. He relishes the speed, whoops in the air, flinging his arms out in pure delight and relief, until they find solid ground in a grotto lit by the soft light of a green ray shield. Cal slides out of the blast of magic, skidding a little on the rock, and fetches up against Merrin’s side. He puts his hand on her arm, the both of them shaking with adrenaline and breathing hard. “How did you do that?” he says, awed.
“A ritual I learned on Dathomir. It is...taxing,” Merrin says, leaning into his hold. Cal gathers her into his arms, letting Merrin rest her head on his chest. He closes his eyes and remembers falling, and flying, and echoes of acid-green magick, and hopes he can fall again, as long as Merrin is there to catch him.