Thinking back on the rather humiliating ordeal it took to achieve
the way she looked tonight, Andromeda leaned forward at William's compliment, not exactly
expecting more, but
hoping. But the moment passed. All that saleswoman's work convincing Andromeda to go with her gut and not her Irvulixi first instinct to buy the least costly version of whatever could accomplish the task, showing her the different ways in which a well-made, high-quality dress could be worn felt like a waste. But -- no. She had needed a dress -- something that didn't shout
I am a Jedi Knight! in every room she entered, something in which she could stand beside William without looking like the sad little rube from Irvulix V that she secretly feared his peers would always see if they knew her, or the Jedi Knight that followed Baron Thule around like a lost puppy.
The bare flicker of his eyes didn't have to mean he hated it. It didn't have to mean that he didn't think she was lovely. Andromeda knew that he did -- in any number of ways, not least of which was that they were here, together, seeking some time away from the galaxy and its turmoil. No, not turmoil.
The war. But wars didn't behave, and it had followed them here, just as they were feeling fully recovered from their injuries. William's injuries had been frightening in a way that her own hadn't felt to her. She hadn't been able to feel him in the Force, hadn't known where he was or what was happening to him, until some turn in her own fight allowed her a glimpse across the field. There had been blood -- so,
so much of it, startlingly bright against everything around him -- and where she remembered a Sith Lord standing moments earlier, some great winged, clawed thing was crouched over William instead, tearing -- ripping --
She had only seen seconds of it before her own battle demanded her attention again, but those seconds stayed with her -- sleeping and waking: William on the ground, the creature above him, and no Force within reach to tell her whether he was still alive.
"Thank you," Andromeda answered, self-consciously adjusting the sheer wrap so that it settled over the bulk of the scar on her left arm.
"I feel... fine," she answered his question then. It wasn't a lie, not exactly. She was recovered, more or less, physically. She had yet one more ugly scar to add to her collection -- two inches or so below her left breast, just beneath where a proper brassiere would cover, where a bullet had caught her. There was burn scarring around it too, where the plasma the creature used on her ammunition had seared the surrounding flesh.
"Normal again, I think. Much better. Thank you for asking. And you?"
She had tried to stop asking so much -- not because she didn't care, but because she could imagine him being irritated at the overbearing inquiries. Any time he shifted in a chair, or reached for something that tugged at his healing wound, or even looked tired, there was Andromeda.
Are you all right? Do you need anything? Let me get you a glass of water or a snack or that book or, or, or...
Bacta had been in short supply then, for obvious reasons, and Andromeda had refused special treatment. Not with William's injury so much more severe, and Omen, the Marine Sergeant who had saved her life, barely keeping his arm in the process. Others needed it more.
Anger was still there, despite weeks of meditation and every effort she had made to let it go. Now she just covered it with a layer of suppression so it didn't bubble to the surface where William could see it. So the full truth would have included that, the incoherent fury she felt -- at the Sith, at the Jedi, at the Republic, at herself. Everywhere except William. Even then, with the sting of his apparent disinterest, she wouldn't -- or perhaps couldn't -- direct any ire at him. William Thule was busy, and important, and trusted by the Jedi Order. He was dedicated, and driven, and confident. And for Andromeda he was warmth, and love, and home. Still, for someone who had many times received his
full attention in all manner of contexts, she knew when she didn't.
She tried to pretend it didn't sting, and when that didn't work, she tried to pretend it didn't embarrass her to feel it. That didn't work either, so she layered more of her composure, buried the feelings as she had learned to do, to maintain her Jedi serenity. Instead, she lifted her chin toward the datapad.
"Is it bad, ma vér?" she murmured quietly, using that particular Irvulixi phrase he would have heard first, if at all, as she prayed over him on the medical frigate that bore them from Thyferra.
Her eyes remained on the back of the datapad for a moment and then she half-turned, looking out over the woodland view. The waterfall spray caught some slash of moonlight through cloud cover, going silvery. Almost like a fairy story.
In the back of her mind, Andromeda wondered if she had been selfish to agree to this trip. Perhaps he had sensed a need in her, some insecurity she could never seem to hide from
him, that she needed him. That she needed
this. Some reminder, some confirmation, that whatever chaos the galaxy hurled at them, there was still some version where they could wake up together, walk out together, go to bed together, and fill the hours of a day in one another's company, proof that their connection was more than just what she became for him in the dark, more than what he gave her there in return. It was a pathetic thing to want, and an even worse thing to
need, she thought. She was about to ask if he thought they should cut their holiday short when the waiter came by to refill their wine.
The truth was it had touched her, deeply, when William asked. Deeper still when she saw the effort and work he had put into things. The setting was beautiful. The privacy allowed them to simply be together -- no sneaking, no subterfuge. It would have been perfect if the war would simply disappear.
Andromeda Demir
