Pari Sylune moved through the healing wing of the Shiraya Sanctuary with the quiet purpose of someone who had learned that urgency did not need to be loud. The halls were always full now, with stretchers lining the curved walls, low voices murmuring in pain or prayer, the soft hum of medical droids weaving between cots. Naboo's sunlight filtered through the high arched windows, warm and serene, a stark contrast to the chaos the refugees carried with them from the Core. Pari kept her head bowed as she worked, dark hair tied back, hands steady as she cleaned wounds, reset splints, and offered what comfort she could. She spoke little, but when she did, her voice carried a calm that seemed to slow frantic breathing and ease trembling hands.
She had not been trained as a formal healer, not in the way the Jedi Healers were, but necessity had made her capable. The Core worlds had burned too brightly, too quickly, and the people who fled them arrived hollow-eyed and exhausted, carrying grief that no bacta could mend. Pari learned their stories in fragments such as half-finished sentences, whispered names of lost homes, the weight of survivor's guilt clinging to every word. She listened without judgment, never interrupting, offering water or a steady presence when words failed. In those moments, she felt the Force not as power, but as endurance—the quiet will to keep going when everything else had been stripped away.
Though she rarely spoke of herself, there was a fierce resolve beneath Pari's calm exterior. Each patient she helped became a silent promise that the suffering spilling across the galaxy would not go unanswered. She worked long after her shifts ended, sleeping in brief stretches when exhaustion overtook her, refusing to turn anyone away. To many of the refugees, she became a constant, an unassuming figure who always returned, who remembered names, who treated them not as victims of war but as people worthy of care. And in the stillness of the Sanctuary, surrounded by pain and perseverance alike, Pari Sylune held the line in her own way, proving that healing could be an act of quiet defiance.
One evening, as the lantern-lights dimmed to mimic dusk, Pari knelt beside a young man who could not have been much older than herself. His uniform was once crisp but now was scorched and torn, the insignia of a Core security division barely visible beneath dried blood. He flinched when she approached, eyes unfocused, breath shallow and quick.
"You're safe," she said softly, setting a cup of water within his reach. Her voice did not demand belief; it merely offered it.
He hesitated before taking the cup, hands shaking so badly she steadied it for him. "They're still there," he murmured, staring past her at something only he could see. "The screams don't stop."
Pari didn't correct him. She had learned that denial only deepened the wound. Instead, she sat beside the cot and rested her hand lightly on the edge of the mattress, not touching him, but close enough that he could feel her presence. She breathed slowly, deliberately, letting the rhythm settle between them. After a moment, his breathing began to mirror hers.
"They will fade," she said at last. "Not all at once. But they will soften. You're here now."
Something in her tone, steady, unyielding, seemed to anchor him. His shoulders loosened, just a fraction. When tears came, she did not look away. She stayed until they passed, until exhaustion finally claimed him and his grip on the present loosened into sleep.
Only then did Pari rise, her own chest aching in quiet sympathy. She recorded his vitals, adjusted the blanket, and moved on to the next bed without ceremony. There was no applause for this kind of work, no recognition beyond the small, human miracle of someone surviving another night. But as she walked the length of the ward, the soft hum of life continuing around her, Pari knew this was where she was meant to be, standing in the space between suffering and hope, holding it steady for as long as she could.
