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Qimir is no stranger to envy.
For so long, ever since his Master split open his back and left him for dead, he had looked at the Jedi with nothing but envy.
The ease with which they were allowed to move through the world. Meeting nothing but reverence, deference, sometimes even fear in the people they passed, admired and loved for little more than existing. A glimpse of the yellow of their robes had people awed, stunned, knowing that something so mystical and benevolent was among them. The Jedi had no fear of being noticed, no hesitation to call on the Force out in the open, before witnesses. The Jedi travelled in luxury, provided by the ever-grateful Republic they served. The Jedi were never alone.
Even now, occupying the dreary apothecary he'd claimed for his cover, they move with a self-assuredness that is so wholly undeserved. Here, in an unfamiliar place, waiting for an enemy that has already murdered twice, the three Jedi talk with their backs turned to him and their presence fanning out across the Force, unhindered. They walk about, inspecting the buildings nearby for possible ambushes without hurry.
The arrogance of it all. A reckless confidence only a life of safety can instill.
He thrives knowing that their perceived safety is an illusion. That they know nothing of the threat they so willfully let out of their sights.
And he's not the only one they've left unsupervised.
Osha.
He tests the sound of her name in his head, over and over. He's known of her existence for as long as he's known her sister, the eternal ghost that haunts his bitter little protégée. But Mae had never revealed her name to him, and he hadn’t asked. He'd had no interest in another shadow of the past.
Oh, but the girl currently perusing his shelves is no shadow — she is flesh and blood, and a presence in the force that almost made him moan when she first set foot into this cramped, dingy excuse of an apothecary. This room felt too small to hold her. This planet felt too small to hold her. The second he first looked her in the eyes, he'd understood perfectly why the four Jedi of Brendock had been so adamant in taking her with them.
Osha Aniseya is an unlit beacon. Where Mae shines with self-discipline and her acute control of the Force, her sister vibrates with untapped potential. Like a nebula condensing into stars, she is surrounded by a hazy fog of power. It trails behind her, as if forgotten, a thread in the wind that has him chained to the sight of her. A whispered promise, a siren song of possibility; a dark, enticing what if?
He cannot fathom how the other three can function, this close to her. How they can speak about dead angles, and vantage points, and all kinds of other inane nonsense, while the girl traipsing after them radiates a strength that has him breathing heavy, tempted to close his eyes and let her wash over his senses. Worse, how can they live with themselves, seeing this raw potential go to waste. Untrained, unrefined. Neglected and repressed, like an unwelcome memory.
He fiddles with one vial or another, keeps himself looking busy, while studying the fourth member of their little team from the corner of his eye.
The similarity is more than striking — it is absolute. Osha's face does not merely resemble Mae's, it is hers. With her hair covering most of her forehead, where Mae's spiraling coven mark would be, they seem to be completely identical.
But there are little differences. Details, tells. Even without the Force, he thinks he would be able to tell them apart.
Mae tends to take bigger steps; when she walks, she stalks forward with that sour determination on her face he's grown so used to. Her head tends to face straight ahead, stubbornly, but her eyes are always scanning her surroundings. A trained assassin, and a woman who trusts no one.
Osha, however, moves with a softer kind of caution. A hesitance, almost. Her step is careful, measured, her posture more open. Her fingers tend to twitch and fiddle with the little PIP-droid on her belt, a soothing habit. When she turns towards the dark-haired Jedi, she turns her head, her neck, her shoulders towards him, like leaves towards the sun. There's a more subtle kind of composure, too. Her head held high, attentive, her hands folding themselves in front of her almost automatically sometimes, in the way the Jedi tend to do.
They had trained her, at some point. It's obvious in her little mannerism, and logical, given that they must have been the ones to spirit her away from the ruins of Brendock. And yet, she is not one of them.
No saber at her belt. No robes draped over her shoulders. And none of that alert pulse in the Force her companions display. She's not part of their conversation.
He pulls open random little drawers and closes them again, pretending to be absorbed in some meaningless task. But his attention does not drift from her. The other three stand guard outside the shop, Osha is the only one left inside. Almost like they are guarding her, too.
Something in the Force rings true at that. Her eyes keep glancing towards the older Jedi, who he suspects is the leader of their little mission. The man — Sol, he has heard Osha address him — is no better. His signature in the Force seems to reach for her at any given moment, like nervous hands around something dear, fragile. Whenever the other two talk among themselves, his attention drifts back to Osha, a warmth and care in his eyes that is far too obvious, poorly concealed. Not even the half-theelin girl, clearly his Padawan, elicits the same softness from him.
This man is Osha's Master. There is no doubt about it.
This is the man who raised her. Qimir's fingers tighten around whatever metal trinket he is holding. This is the man who cast her out.
He watches them orbit each other.
He watches, and all the envy he feels towards the Jedi Order pales in comparison to the hot, all-consuming jealousy that churns inside him. Their closeness. Their constant concern for each other, obvious whenever the other isn’t looking. The clear, undisguised, undeniable love they hold for each other, despite the Jedi Knight knowing full well the Council would frown on this level of attachment.
How? How is it possible they have retained such a bond even after years of separation, while Mae is so obviously still only using him for the power he can offer her. He is no step closer to shaping her into the companion he so longs for, and she resists his every lesson as if she makes a sport out of it.
He wants, so desperately, to be looked at the way Osha looks at her Master. Her soft, round eyes full of faith, a devotion in her gaze that has him sink his teeth into his lip to keep from making a sound. If Sol commanded her to throw herself onto her own saber, he's almost entirely sure she would do it, so sure that he would never let her be hurt.
He cannot stand to watch it. He cannot bear to look away.
He wants to crush that doe-eyed faith in her eyes. He wants to see how far he can push before she breaks.
The metal instrument in his grip gives a disconcerting crack as he throws it onto the table, disguising the force of the movement with a clumsy half-turn, as if he'd tripped and meant to catch himself. No one cares for his little performance: the Jedi keep talking, and Osha doesn’t take her eyes off of Sol. Her master is discussing something with his new student, the Padawan interjecting every now and then before being gently corrected.
He steps closer to Osha, little by little, who watches them with those warm, dark eyes full of… something.
He raises his eyebrows, intrigued.
It seems that he is not the only one who envies.
His hands close around nothing as he feels an unexpected pang of kinship — and the far too alluring trace of a weakness.
“So, um,” he inserts himself into her space, propping up his arms on the counter between them. Meek, non-threatening, a little bit of innocent foolishness in his tone. Osha startles and tears her eyes away from the pair, as he gestures towards them outside. “Is he her father? What’s the deal here?”
Oh, she almost jumps at that.
“What…?” she says, confused, and something like indignation flashes in her eyes before she can reign it in. “No! No, of course he isn’t.”
Blood in the water, he thinks, and hides his smile by awkwardly throwing up his hands.
“My bad, my bad!” he rows back immediately. “Shouldn’t have assumed. Bad habit. I just thought, they seemed so familiar. Like, family familiar.”
When she looks at him, puzzled, he pretends to hesitate before he continues, and it takes more effort than he'd expected not to jump at the chance.
“Just… the way he talks to her. Or how he keeps looking where she is, even though she's just across the street.”
Osha follows his gaze, and he can see the way her fingers tangle in the folds of her clothes. Uncomfortable. It takes everything he has to keep his tone light and thoughtless, when all he wants is to put his hands on that tender, barely hidden bruise, and press.
“She's gotta be very important to him, is what I thought,” he chatters on, greedy eyes glued to her profile. Outside, Sol places his hand on the Padawan's shoulder, and he can see Osha's heart crack just a little. “He doesn’t treat her like he treats the other knight. Being his kid seemed to explain the favoritism, but hey! Maybe it’s just that the other guy is annoying.”
And at that her lips… quirk. Just for a moment, as if caught by surprise, the hint of humor cutting through her unsettled focus. It's not what he'd been aiming for, but he's undeniably mesmerized.
She looks back to him, and he hurries to hide behind the facade of the vapid, silly shopkeep once more.
“Sol is her… teacher,” she explains pensively, her lips curving around the word with such care. “Her Jedi Master. As his Padawan, she is his highest responsibility. A life that is entrusted to him, that must trust him as well. It's her job to accompany him on his missions, to stay near and learn everything she can from him.”
Her gaze drifts back to her Master as she speaks, and he's grateful for it. Her words make his head swim, his mouth go dry. But he does not miss her phrasing.
“You mean, it’s his job to teach her everything.”
She blinks, glances up. Irritated, though he's not sure if at him.
“I— Sure. That’s what I said.”
He decides to pull back a little. No longer interested in probing her for jealousy. He just wants her to keep talking.
“Well, that explains why he seems so… overbearing,” he takes a tame, subtle stab at her Master. Not enough to provoke her antagonism, just enough to rile her to defensiveness. “Bit of a mother hen, huh?”
And Osha, caring, loyal Osha, complies so beautifully.
“He's not overbearing!” she jumps to his defense, eyes blazing, turning to face him fully for the first time in the entire conversation. “He's… Master and Padawan, it's the closest bond imaginable to the Jedi. A connection that goes deeper than just the sharing of knowledge.”
Her voice is hushed, reverent. The outrage bleeding from it with every word, replaced by a wistfulness that makes his chest seize, his heartbeat thrum in his ears.
“It's… sacred,” she says so, so softly. “Forged through trust, and understanding, and years of devotion to one another. There's no greater sense of loyalty, of… safety. To let someone instruct you in the ways of the Force, you have to trust them utterly. You become part of one another, in a way. Intertwined. It's a connection that stays with you for a lifetime.”
She looks over her shoulder, almost against her will. Master Sol stands with his back to them, his silhouette dark against the dusty sunlight from outside.
“Sometimes even beyond,” she says.
He can barely breathe. He hangs on every word, every syllable, he wants to drink every last one of them from her lips. It's torture, to hear her articulate his every desire in that honey-sweet voice of hers, to see the old, resigned longing in her eyes as she pierces his greatest weaknesses with effortless precision. He watches this face he's seen a million times before on his very own student, and cannot find Mae in her at all. The honest, open emotions stealing across her expression are ones he has never, never seen before.
And he never will, he realizes, enthralled. No matter how much time passes, how many chances he offers her, Mae will not give him what Osha shares so readily.
She will never trust him the way her sister trusts her Master.
The breathtaking, blood-curling greed that rises in his chest nearly punches the air from his lungs. His lips curl around a pained mix between a smile and a snarl, and his fingers claw into the cheap wood of the countertop between him and Osha.
He wants. Oh, he wants.
Reigning himself in, before he does something he'll regret, takes more time than is good for him. He cannot reveal himself, cannot risk a confrontation. He's confident he could kill the young Knight and the Padawan, and he thinks he'd be able to defeat Sol too, eventually. But the Jedi Temple here on Olega is not far away, and the monks inside are already on high alert thanks to Torbin's death.
No matter how much he longs to reach for her, he has to control himself.
“Sounds important,” he presses out, trying and failing to emulate his earlier nonchalance. Osha, to his immense luck and his utter despair, does not look at him to notice.
“More than anything,” she whispers.
It is shredding what little self control he has left. He wants to taste her voice, wants to feel the way her throat vibrates when she speaks, he wants to grasp her face in his hands and make her look at him. Feel the weight of those somber brown eyes on him, the soft, molten warmth of them. The baggy sleeves of her meknek coveralls are just inches from his fingertips.
He has to stop this. But he can’t step away.
“Is he your father, then?” he interrupts her quiet musings. In place of wonder he draws on his wrath, drips a poison into his words he knows she can't resist. Eager to wound, desperate to punish.
“I… No,” she says, and shakes herself out of her stupor. The denial comes far slower than the last time. The hungry, hesitant hopefulness in her eyes is so ridiculously transparent. “Why- Why would you think that?”
He leans back a little. Savors her neediness, glad to feel in control again. Keeps his tone light and careless, and his eyes on her.
“You look at him a lot, before you do anything,” he chirps innocently, “as if you're waiting for his permission. When he moves, you keep yourself turned in his direction. Kind of like a satellite dish.”
Her behavior, not Sol's. A mirror of her own desperation, where she had hoped to see proof of Sol's care. Her face falls, just a little, and he wishes he could feel more pleasure from it.
Osha narrows her eyes when she turns back to him.
“You… are very observant.”
Ah. He's stepped on thin ice, and she can hear it crack beneath his feet. It's time to retreat, while he still can.
“Really?” he lights up, like he's taking it as nothing more than a compliment. “Wow, thats the first time someone's said that to me. Do you think one of the Jedi could get me that in writing?”
She shakes her head, exasperation overtaking that tiny sliver of suspicion with ease. Closing off her expression, she crosses her arms and turns away.
“He's not my father,” is all she says. Qimir feels himself smile as he follows her along the counter, just a little.
“Probably better that way, huh?” he says far too sweetly. “It would be pretty awkward, to watch him make a bond like that with someone else, if he were your father.“
Osha's lips press into a thin, flat line.
His voice softens. He leans closer. Speaks the words quietly, knowing their pain so well.
“As if he were replacing you.”
Her eyes snap to him, and he stops walking.
“Don’t you have something else to do?”
He's overstayed his welcome. Anything he implies from this point onwards will fall on deaf ears, the dislike in her eyes tells him as much.
But he doesn’t have to say any more. He's opened an unhealed wound now. In time, it will fester on its own.
“Hm?” he makes, mindlessly tapping his fingers on the wood. “Not really, I don’t think— Oh.”
He pretends to notice her glare, and pulls in his head.
“You know what, I should probably… I should check on the shop! Yeah.”
He disappears into the back of the apothecary with an awkward wave and trips over his feet, seemingly cowed. The second he can feel the weight of her attention lift off his shoulders, he straightens and lets the bumbling mask fall.
There is a shift. In him, in the Force. Meeting Osha had been no accident, he can feel it, there is a path opening before him he's had no way of anticipating. It is still clouded, still hazily concealed to him, but there is no doubt. His future has changed, its course irrevocably altered.
Whatever happens now, whether Mae fails or succeeds in her task, this moment will fester in him, too. A thought, a possibility taking root in him and refusing to let go.
He flexes his finger, to shake off the image of them reaching for her face. That face he knows yet doesn’t. The soft, loving expression on her face as she'd looked to her Master is seared into his mind.
He breathes out, closes his eyes.
There is much to do. With a little luck, Sol will be dead before the sun rises tomorrow.
There's a pleasant, soothing satisfaction in that idea he'd felt for none of the other Jedi he's killed.