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The silence is overwhelming.
Osha had known silence before: The heavy weight of meditation; of purging negative emotion and centering oneself. All things that had been instructed to her by Sol; by her teachers at the temple.
It had never fit quite right; had never slotted into place as she had wanted, because she'd found her sister and mothers behind her closed eyes. Mae's fury at her abandonment and her mother's heartbreak at her choice. Mother Aniseya's blessing had never been enough; not when grief had settled so heavily on that thread between them.
So this—this quiet; the baptismal feeling of being pressed beneath the waves of the Force, overwhelmed her. It was like being caught in a riptide; in the current of a rushing river, and if she struggled, she would only drown.
Yet, she doesn't. All that becomes of her is the gentle rattle of her own breathing through the mask's filter and the all-encompassing sensation of the Force.
It held her; it loved her, even when she'd thought she'd let it go. But here it was; evidence that perhaps in this, she had been wrong. That she herself had misunderstood something, and not that her Master or the Jedi had been wrong.
She feels the tears then; warm against her cheeks, their splatters echoing within the cold metal of the mask as a world she thought closed to her, opens its arms to her like an old friend, assuring her that she had not been forgotten. That she is not alone.
It is here when she feels him; within that tide with her. From here—from this vantage, he is simply a thrumming sensation; a shape that shimmers and shudders before her, alive. Swarmed with the Force, not in control of it, but made by it. Forged by it. It reminds her of free-floating in space, secured to a ship by a single length of cord. It is not the simple action of reaching; to touch it would require bounding out into the unknown, hoping the cord's length is adequate, hoping nothing goes wrong.
Here she can't find it in herself to turn away; to focus on anything else when there is no one else but them, even though she knows he had left the small cave some time ago. Left her to do this, knowing what she would find.
If this were meant to comfort her—knowing her place within the Force—it does not. All she ultimately feels is a certain desolation that is swallowed in her silence. It pulls her back to sixteen years ago; the full-range of her grief coming over her now beneath the confines of his helm. The past forty-eight hours press in over her as she curls in on herself, and she continues to cry.
~
It is dark when she wakes again.
The small slits of the helm fill with the crackling blaze of a fire and she can hear the gentle calls of the birds settling down for the night.
He is there.
Close, or at least closer than before, his back to her as he stirs the soup pot.
Her tears have dried when she finally pulls the helm from her head; the world suddenly too loud even when it is confined to the crackling fire, the distant waves and the slow turn of a wooden spoon.
"How long was I—?"
"A few hours," he answers.
Osha sets the helmet down, watching him still. Even though he doesn't turn to her, it feels as if he watches her all the same.
It is a little haunting; his presence sharp and constant, and unlike anything else she's seen before. Perhaps it's the reason she's still here; the reason she hasn't run away already, as she always has before now.
But she says nothing else; her arms pull tight around her knees once more and she watches him, uncertain, even as he fills a bowl and holds it out for her to take.
"It's not easy—the first time," he murmurs, making a bowl for himself before he straightens—stands and moves to sit across the room. "I wasn't any different than you—thinking that the Jedi had taught me everything there was to know about the Force, and coming face to face with the reality that I wasn't me—that they'd made me something in their image."
Osha holds the bowl in two hands but her focus is on him; on the gaze he holds on her, passively serious; without defence or expectation.
"Losing yourself is the centre of all their principles; becoming little more than a weapon for them to use. One that can be dulled and sharpened at their instruction; replaced if necessary—"
Leaving his words unanswered and uncontested feels like the right thing to do. Feels like the only thing to do when the alternative is suggesting that she was simply a cog in the machine. That Yord or Jecki would be mourned and buried and nothing more. As if she didn't already know that there would be no altar for them; that there was no need when we all lived and died to return to the Cosmic Force.
"—All to serve a purpose; to keep order, to follow their rules."
Rules. A hazy memory follows; her mother talking about what had driven them to Brendok. Persecution and what Osha had not considered as a child; the very edicts she had been taught, that strength in the Force was to be honed and trained. But, he was evidence. Even her mothers had been evidence that there was not a singular way, even if Sol had taught her what was deemed as the right one.
It had been years, but she thought of the Thread and how her mothers had said it bound all living creatures, tying them to their destiny. The Power of One, the Power of Two, the Power of Many.
Osha watches him still, as he quiets and holds her gaze. Waiting.
He had already told her what he wanted, and she still had not left. Here she sat before him still, knowing that she'd already made her mind up without realising. Knowing now that the decision had been made before she put his helm on and perhaps even before she'd held his lightsaber in her hands and had not been able to kill him. Had not been able to have her dose of half-revenge for a life she'd chosen to distance herself from six years ago.
Enough years have passed that she'd learnt to forget, but she remembers it now, and remembers too that his words—his desire to be one part of a whole, and for him to use the same words her mother had, that there is a destiny written there between them. A string of fate.
A Thread.
"Then what are your rules?" she asks.
There is a flicker of something, a twitch in his brow and along his mouth, that might almost be a smile.
"Only one; that we are equals."
She can't hide the disbelief, her chin raising as her eyes narrow. It would be impossible for her to forget what he had done—the death he had wrought and the power he had wielded beyond her—and know he was asking for the impossible.
"You want a fantasy then?"
He truly smiles then; the expression disarming and reminiscent of the smile he had used in that shop on Olega. Unguarded and human. A far cry from the man with the mask and lightsaber in hand.
"How you will look the day you realise just how powerful you are, will truly be a sight to behold."
It does not offer Osha any solace; does not encourage her to put much stock into it, even as he seems to look at her with a certainty that she has only seen before in her old Master. Only until she had decided to walk away; and his disappointment was all she could remember. Now and then.
"You've still got to tell me your name."
He nods and doesn't hesitate when he tells her.