Cloak of Shadows

[Cira]

It wasn't going to bother me.

Really. I wasn't going to let it bother me. But it did. Blast it all it did.

It all began rather much like any ordinary day. I was reading over the latest and greatest in the series of Protectorate memo blogs sent to me daily; some whose contents provided more than an ample amount of smirking in my part. Oh they were a medley of topics; some were holo videos, others were rather little neat informative holotweets by Linna or Moira.

Like the one holo-video in which a Lieutenant by the name of Roxanne threw a used pregnancy test stick at Sarge's face. Oh by all of Alderaan's moons, that was by far the most hilarious sight I have ever-- and I mean EVER, have seen.

I still have it in an encrypted personal file that I randomly let 'leak' out every now and then to have a good laugh.

Ahh, the bastard deserves it.

In any event, one of the sheets of filmsi ends up fluttering off my desk to the floor; a special report on the current events down in Confederacy territory, when upon bending down, I noticed something distinctively odd about where the sheet of paper came to rest.

It appeared by all intents and purposes as if it was hovering just over the floor. Well, granted I've seen many a curious thing during my time in the galaxy, so I wasn't too confused about it. But I was curious. A close inspection and a pass of a hand brought the real culprit of the mystery of the floating sheet of filmsi to life --- it was a cloak. An invisible cloak.

And upon closer inspection as I slowly plucked it up between thumb and fingers, a certain familiar and musky scent came wafting towards me. Fantastic.

It was Sarge's cloak.

Granted, the lug must have left it behind, and I figured it was something that the S.A.A.T had been working on and he was merely using the prototype. I brought it over to my lap, getting a closer look at it, feeling the fabric between my fingers. I should have left it well enough alone. I really should have....

But blast it all did I want to figure out how it worked!

The big nerfherding brute had been hovering around my office more often than not, being quite a pest that was enough to make me really contemplate tossing him out of the balcony. Unfortunately, Ayden would make quite a blasted bloody scene of it all.

Ugh.

So I flung the cloak to the far right side of my desk, saying good riddance to it and having every intention of simply going about my work. I made a mental note to yell at Sarge to not leave his crap lying around my office, much the less, leaving so haphazardly a prototype tech item that was clearly a credit dump. Yes. That is what I was going to do. I was going to give him a piece of my mind and leave it at that. Maybe toss it at his face. Yes. Perfect!

Exactly two minutes later I was hunched over again trying to figure out how the bloody damn cloak worked.

It was like I was on a dig again, studying various artifacts and trying to figure out how they worked, what their purpose was, and whether there was a particular trick to it.

I took the better part of an hour trying to figure this out.

It began with a study of the fabric. I didn't have any of my scientific scanners or diagnostic tools in the office, which left me very little to go by for a direct visual close up. My next course of action was to pull up any of the datafiles on the cloak it self.

I was not amused at what I found.

[ Requires specialized training]​

You have got to be karking kidding me! Special training?! The blasted invisible cloak required training to figure out how to use it?! What in Nine Hells kind of training do you need to use a cloak of all things?! You wear it! Simple as that!

I decided the best approach was simply to come up with a theoretical hypothesis and take it from there. The good old scientific approached never failed me, nor would it now. It was pure logic after all. Theory, experiment, and then study the data and results, tweaking as necessary.

My control subject was Sarge of course. I know he had used the cloaked before ( considering it smelled like him and he managed to get into my office without being noticed--- the bastard) so therefore, it would still work.

So, first test was to try it on.

I made sure to lock the office first and foremost before I did this, with a strict order to the on staff secretary to ensure no one bothered me for the next hour.

Then, well --- with a shake of my hands sent the cloak fluttering before me. A flick of the wrist and the light fabric fell over me.

Like a bedsheet.

I felt like a youngling pretending to be a ghost from one of those mock parody holoflicks.

Since the cloak was made for Sarge's height and broad shoulders, it simply hanged off me and well past the tips of my fingers with a rather comical length. The hood of the cloak fell well past the tip of my nose, making it impossible to see without me craning my neck back and pushing back some of the folds of the heavy fabric. When I attempted to walk, I almost half tripped and fell against my desk -- thankfully my hand managed to peek out fast enough to brace against the corner of it.

None the less, I managed to get it to some level of neatness around me. Although spreading my arms wide make me appear like some sort of drunken mynock attempting to fly.

To my frustration, it didn't automatically go into invisible mode. One theory was that perhaps it was activated by body heat.

Clearly, it wasn't.

Maybe there was a code word? I briefly scoured through my mind at the usual words uttered by burly owner of said cloak.

The realization that the bulk of his vocabulary around me revolved around 'queen' put me in an even fouler mood.

And saying the word didn't work either.

Feth.

It was only the beginning....

 

[Cira]

My first attempt at trying to figure out how to activate the invisible proprieties of the were a failure. After an hour I chucked the thing back to the same spot I had originally found it in my frustration, glowering at it as if it was Sarge himself.

No matter. I could simply take some time to think and reprocess things. Brainstorm and then get back to the theory. After all, Sarge couldn't even keep track of his own gear, so I had plenty of time to study the cloak at my leisure.

Or so I thought.

He came back for it. After breaking into my office -- again. I tactfully reminded him that while I'm sure there were many young nubile women like Roxanne who would love to have him in their private abode, I did not.

He said he'd rather they think he broke in here to be with me rather than have them think I just let him in because I enjoy the company.

I promptly tossed the cloak at his face and told him to get out --- well it would have more omph had it not simply fallen short onto the ground due it's heavy weight.

In which through all of this he simply bent down and hoisted it up, wrapping it around himself. A second later he made sure the clasp was secure-- before effectively fading from sight.

YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME?! I practically screamed in my mind at him, my fingers curling subtly over the holographic keyboard in my growing frustration. Just like that?! Really?!

He didn't even do anything special other than secure the clasp!

I swear I am going to kill him one of these days.

A second later instead of working on Omega StarCorp reports, I began to write a draft up brainstorming and scouring more information about the cloak.

... maybe there was something about the clasp...

 

[Cira]

It started out as a game really. Now it was all out war.

Not that anyone knew about it but me. And I couldn't let anyone know about my ongoing secret experiment.

At first, the loss of the cloak meant I couldn't practice any of my theories in practice, to which I simply decided that as the Lady Protector, I could very well simply request S.A.A.T to deliver a cloak to my office. Being someone in my position and a common sight among the scientists and tech laboratories would not be anything new. No one would think it amiss for me to request to test out any of the prototypes, I did this all the time!

Haha! Ahh I outsmarted my imaginary foe. Yes. Just a simple request.

[ Limited Production; manufacture only as specially requested ]

Limited production?!!! Manufacture only as specially requested?! Further investigation led to discovering that Sarge only requested new ones to be crafted after the current cloak was worn out. Meaning, that my request would be a big red flag to the brute if one simply reviewed the request datalog.

Blast it!

So I was stuck. The only way for me to be able to physical test out my theories would be if and when Sarge would forget his cloak again in her office.

Feth.

How the heck was I going to get him to increase the chances to --- then it simply dawned on me. With a putrid twist of my stomach as I realized just what this would mean if I actually went along with it.

Ugh.

I blame my genetics. That Shi'ido side of me that demands my insatiable need of curiosity to be fulfilled. Oh but it was also fighting against my incessant need for privacy.

The scholar and scientist in me practically twitched at studying the design of the cloak further, to really get into the mechanics and just what required it to activate.

Ugh... but that meant.

Feth. There had to be another way.

I think I spent the better part of two hours trying to come up with some other avenue of approach that didn't involve me requesting a new cloak, or worse, asking Sarge how it worked.

I was finally faced with the stark realization that all scientists come to at some point in their lives to go the distance for scientific discovery.

In this case.... allowing Sarge to slowly, but progressively, have more access to my office in his break ins so that chances of him leaving his cloak would increase.

That meant that I would have to change the locks again. This might sound counterproductive, but after a while, I knew the basics of how the man thought.

A better and far more secure lock would only tempt him to try to get into my office more...

 

[Cira]

Several months later....

He'd left it behind after returning from the Endor System.

Took me the better part of the day before I realized he did. Likely due to his harrowed state. He has spent the better part of almost 72 hours in a single starfighter to bring me back the report on the Ewoks, Circe Savan, and the Deathwatch.

He'd been the picture of exhaustion, you could see it in his stance, in the manner he spoke. I'd taken the data file from him quietly, told him that he needn't go through the entire briefing, I am literate you know.

But the stubborn fool wouldn't take no for an answer. Then again, it was Sarge after all. He never did. When he devoted himself to an objective or a mission, he followed it through. Regardless of the consequences required. For him or anyone else involved.

Even now, he'd clearly needed a shower and rest. I promptly ordered him to take two weeks leave. He laughed. Mentioned that I still needed looking after.

Why did he constantly persist on doing that? It bothered me. Along with that odd sense of humor that I felt rising up at his laugh.

Things were starting to get complicated.

Inwardly I sighed, although I was thankful for the dimmed lights in the holographic review of it all. Now that the Pyre had turned into the Protectorate, there were new concerns, bigger concerns. More people coming under my care and asking for aid. More responsibilities and above all, the knowledge that their fate would be determined upon every choice I make from now on.

It was a rather daunting burden to carry.

In that moment, there with Sarge, I felt every bit as exhausted as he appeared, but mentally so. Of course, I didn't reveal any of this. But it was what it was.

Thankfully he came to reason upon my continued urging for him to simply leave the files and get much needed rest.

It wasn't until half a day into his leave that I finally noticed the cloak that lay draped across the chair he'd sat at. Curiously, I ran my hand over the heavy well worn fabric, my brow furrowed in contemplation.

An idle finger lightly traced the clasp, a reminder of what my last theory about the clock's properties and how it might be activated coming to mind. A faint smile perked over my lips, hindsight bearing the rather comical scene I'd imagined myself to have been in.

The smile faded slightly as I mused quietly how angry I'd been back then. An audible sigh finally did leave my lips then.

A single pat would brush against the cloak, that desperate need to lose myself in scientific discovery grew within my breast. A need to simply immerse myself in work that I thoroughly enjoyed just to relieve some stress. My fingers soon went tangling onto the fabric, picking it up as his scent rose around me as I drew it close.

I spent the rest of Sarge's leave going through hypothesis after hypothesis, experimenting only to fail. There was no anger in the failure this time, no... there was something else to it.

Just a simple pleasure.

It was just a matter of time.

 

[Cira]

Someone tried to kill me today.

Tried, because the remains of his brain matter and blood now stain the polished floor of my office in a dark pool. Courtesy of a point blank head shot by my self appointed bodyguard.

Sarge's cloak lays quietly at my right, on top of my desk against a series of blood vials that I'd collected earlier. But I wasn't thinking about the assasination attempt, the cloak, nor the wound in my belly that I am still recovering from. No, my mind is on other matters.

Blast him, I thought with an inward sigh, as the conversation went playing through my head.


[background=#080808]You just can't stay out of my office can you?...[/background]

[background=#080808]You're Ayden's superior. You're afforded the same protections I give him.[/size][/background]​

[background=#080808]Yet you are not constantly attempting to infiltrate his domain....[/size][/background]
[background=#080808]Now that's a first...Nexu caught your tongue?"[/size][/background]

[background=#080808]No, no.,.[/size][/background]​

[background=#080808]Despite the persona I keep, I'm rarely unprofessional and even less lecherous. But now that I'm alone with you - disregarding our friend - I confess that my thoughts regarding you have been a sight less appropriate than they should be. And I say that as me, not Sarge.[/size][/background]​

​

Well that was a new one.

That had been something I was not expecting to hear from him. While I didn't give any indication of my surprise, I remember how my thumb froze over the cap of the vial. I blinked once. Twice. Processing it all.

...sample ready?​

I'd shot him an inquiring glance, keeping my expression neutral. I might have had an iron pike through my gut but that didn't mean I was stupid enough to reveal my thoughts.

Why did he have to say that?

It had been an odd situation to be in. A rather awkward silence grew after I gave a small nod, only to be replaced with mild candor when I told him,

Well I can be a queen.

I chose to make a reference instead about his more less than appropriate use of titles for me, switching the topic to something lighthearted.

However, doesn't mean you use that as my title.

I'll keep that in mind, boss.

You'll have to pardon the confessional, but when the Plague hit you learned real fast not to keep things like that to yourself - even if you felt little would come of owning up to it.​

The rest of the conversation seemed to be a blur. I blamed it on the medication. I hated being on them. Clearly, that was what made my mind feel all fuzzy. Unable to clearly think.


My attention soon settled upon the cloak he had left absentmindedly when Protectorate security had come in to remove the body of the assassin, Sarge following suit to fill out the report, leaving me to the solitude of my vast office.

With only a cloak to study to keep my mind off of things I rather not be thinking about.

 

[Cira]

Time has a way of changing things in ways one never would expect. Sometimes it dulls old pains, soothes over past hurts, brings humor and joy in a distant memory.

I don't have that luxury anymore.

There is something with having a series of degrees in xenoarcheology, in that aspect I had an edge with my research in the Camouflage coat. The easy road would be to merely ask the S.A.A.T techs to bring me up all of their notes and datafiles on how they managed to get the cloak to activate and stay activated, otherwise well, there wouldn't be a need for Sarge to keep going back to the techs to make him a new cloak with the old one was worn.

But when have I ever taken the easy road to begin with? Much the less with a piece of tech gear that basically used photoreactive properties much like the Disciples of Twilight use the Force to bend light around them --- around me.

In either case, the fabric of the cloak appeared to be interwoven with these photoreactive fibers. The fibers allowed the cloth to mimic it's surroundings and provide Sarge concealment. Much like how I used the Force for my Cloak of shadows, the fibers allowed the cloak to absorb light and change color, matching with it's present environment.

It was much like the old Camo scout armor back in the Rebellion Era. However, while this tricked human eye-sight, if I remember correctly, that old armor had light and color sensitive fibers that could not absorb or process every kind of light. From what I could recall, it wasn't useful against species with natural infrared visions or against lifeform scanners, including specifically configured macrobinoculars.

However, this cloak seemed to be able to surpass that bit of a set back, as it was given a limited protection from thermal detection by the elements of camo netting sewn in alongside the fibers. Metallic jamming fibers to be exact.

Well, I got the science part of it down, but other than that, it appeared that it's mastery was ultimately in the practice use to ensure that the cloak would remain in place while moving.

At least, from what I could gather. I still couldn't get it to turn me invisible.

It was rather frustrating.

Especially since I hadn't had a chance to study the cloak further since that event. The one where Sarge shot me.

The irony and the humor that my own bodyguard managed to shoot me with a slug in a room full of medics was enough to make me, well, laugh. At least for a little bit.

I sat on my desk rubbing my face with my hands, that memory of the sickly sweet scent of bacta still lingering over me. I hated drugs, even bacta. For some reason my physiology seemed to have an adverse affect with them, making the effects stronger. Another reason why I disliked having to go to a medic. A deep wearing sigh fell from my lips as that series of unfortunate events rolled through my mind.

I'd never seen Ayden that angry before. Sarge for that matter as well.

To see both of them go at it without holding back was a rather frightening experience to be honest. To see Sarge just go up to Ayden and slug him to get him to calm down was... startling.

Oh there was plenty of yelling involved, from all quarters of the room. But it was... unnerving to see Ayden and Sarge like that. React like that.

More so over me.

Considering everything it was just... no. It wasn't how it worked. But then Ayden threw back in my face the very words that often haunted me at night. That -I- was the heart and soul of the Protectorate. That without me, then they were lost.

That weight of burdens and responsibilities just seemed to compound with that. He didn't have to say it. But he did.

But the Protectorate was supposed to be something beyond me, beyond that of the Exarchs. The people themselves. Even without my presence, even if I were to die... they would be fine. They would hold strong.

Right?

They had to. They must. There was no other choice.

For no one lives forever. No one.

So why did the silence in which they left me in that bacta tank feel more and more suffocating than that in which caused my injury to begin with.

 

[Cira]

We would often have these silent conversations in my office. Liittle nonverbal conversations, where we say all those things we don’t say with our mouths with our eyes instead, and we understand each other perfectly.

The tacit agreement was to never relay them aloud, never utter a word about it. It was the only reason why I went along with it.

Saying it aloud meant having questions and searching for answers. As curious as I was, I rather not have to unlock the padlocks of those doors.

Ignorance can be bliss. As much as the silence between us can be.

It had been a common scene, the time of day held no difference. There would always be a steaming cup of black Starcaf, though.

He'd always hand it to me. Black. Straight. No frills. Something about the bitterness was comforting. In a galaxy with as much havoc and chaos as it had now, I had to take my share of pleasures every now and then.

Even if it was drinking a cup of caf in my office with Sarge being, thankfully Sarge. Quiet. Well as quiet as he would ever be. He'd say a few words. I'd comment something back. The silence would ensue.

It was nice.

Ironic how that turned out, but when he wasn't pushing to get beyond my walls, it was nice.

Now that was all over.

I still had the cup of steaming caf to my right. The silence of my office ever lingering. The view from from beyond my balcony exquisite.

But all of that meaningless as I stared impassively at that sheet of filmsi marked with the words that were filling me with that gut twisting sensation of freefalling I was never to keen on.

Letter of Resignation.​

Sergeant Major Sarge Potteiger.​

Titan Core. He said he would be going to Titan Core. That he didn't feel as if he quite fit in here anymore. That his services were no longer required and that he wasn't being used to his fullest capacity. The methodology was different.

Different.

I had no words to say. No words.

Then I felt the warm press of his lips against my temple. The same scent that had enveloped me during my secret trial and error experiments with his cloak lightly flowing over me for those scant seconds he'd bent down as I sat on my desk.

Sarge and I are pros at ignoring anything and everything that passes between us that might smack of emotion of any kind, even so simple a feeling as shock.

That was the goodbye.

I remember how Sarge had inclined his dark head and left. How I stared at through the window at the Fondor skyline after he’d gone. There were times that I wished I could go back to my earliest days with him, when I’d thought he was just an overbearing pain in my ass and wanted to chuck him out the window.

Which he still was at times... but then wasn't. He was more, and if there’s one thing I learned in the past few years, in some of the most painful ways, it’s that there’s no going back, ever.

What’s done is done, the dead stay dead (well, mostly; some Sith had a few problems with that), and all the regrets in the galaxy can’t change a thing.

Not a single damn thing.

 

[Cira]

Sheets of filmsi slowly were fluttering through the air all around me like lazy snowflakes. One would almost consider a certain beauty to their slow fluttering drift in the air.

Almost.

Polis Massa. Elrood. Eriadu. Dagobah.

Hundreds of thousands dead and thousands more infected. People. My people dead. Those who looked up to me for their protection and safety. And through this all only to find out that the Republic by command of the Supreme Chancellor ended in the deaths of half of a fleet at Polis Massa.

Over a blasted piece of ship tech that was not worth the lives of my men.

I sat locked in the seemingly security and safety of my office in the wake of my trip to Elrood. Locked and alone as scattered datapads and sheets of filmsi littered the ground around me. My normally organized sanctuary was a total wreck. One would wonder if a would be assassin would have been at fault for such a disarray. But it wasn't.

It was me.

I sat there, on the ground by my desk, silent tears flowing down my cheeks as a heavy weight pressed down upon my shoulders.

By the Force, where did I go wrong?

Every time I think I'm getting wiser, more in control of my actions, I go slamming into a situation that makes me excruciatingly aware that all I've succeeded in doing is swapping one set of delusions for a more elaborate, attractive set of delusions --- that's me. The Queen of Deception.

I hate myself right now. More than I'd ever thought possible.

If Sarge was here -- Hah, well...he wasn't. He wasn't.

To my right, there lay the crumpled resignation letter. I hadn't submitted it yet to Sentient Resources. Per protocol, as soon as a resignation took place, it must be entered into the system as quickly as possible. Codes had to be erased, access lists to be updated, all tech belonging to the Protectorate returned. For our continued security and safety, this had to be done effectively and efficiently, so as to leave no window of opportunity for any backlash.

More than twenty-four hours have passed since he gave his resignation to me in this very office, and I've yet to process it.

I remember how I simply stared at it for what seemed hours, how in the wake of the outbreak through all the emergency sessions I'd come back to it. There were more important matters to attend to. People who depended on me and my choices, the Exarch's choices. Lives were at stake. He'd resigned. He was no longer an employee for me to worry about. To be concerned about.


He'd resigned. So why didn't I process his resignation then?

It was an answer I didn't want to think about. An answer that only loomed and had me in a twisted disarray due to the contents of the outbreak report still lit up on the display of the datapad to my left.


My eyes began to blur.

Blasted Sarge.

That self-serving, arrogant, constant jackass who'd been ironically the constant rock at my side, willing to die so I could live, so the Protectorate could live.

Now he was dead. Listed as one of the many lost in that wretched battle on Dagobah, along with HK-36's entire company. Gone. Simply gone.

Why the hell would he do that?! Why in the blasted Nine hells would he go to Dagobah?! He'd resigned! RESIGNED! To go to Titan Core! Why would he go to Dagobah?!!!

So many questions. No answers. Words. Lost words. It only made me think of him.

Words can be twisted into any shape. Promises can be made to lull the heart and seduce the soul. In the final analysis words mean nothing. They are labels we give things in an effort to wrap our tiny brains around their underlying natures, when ninety-nine percent of the time the totality of the reality is an entirely different beast.

Once, a long time ago, I was told this; the wisest man is the silent one. Examine his actions. Judge him by them.

Hope strengthens. Fear kills.​

That simple adage is a master of every situation, every choice. Each morning we wake up, we get to chose between hope and fear and apply one of those emotions to everything we do. Do we greet things that come our way with joy? Or suspicion?

Hope strengthens...​

Not once did I permit myself to feel any hope about the person who'd shadowed my side. Not once did I use it to strengthen our bond. I let the onus of our relationship rest on broader shoulders. Fear. Suspicion. Mistrust drove my every action.

Fear kills...​

I sank my head onto my knees as the weight of the galaxy bore upon my shoulders. I failed them.

Failed them all.

 

[Cira]

He's alive.

He is alive.

It wasn't possible.


You're not supposed to be here.

Neither are you, Lady


This... this... inexplicably didn't fit anywhere in my understanding of reality. Not with any of my goals, not with what I'd become.

I stood there within my temporary quarters in the Starfall, en-route up the Hydian Way to meet up with Tegaea, and for the life of me, I just couldn't get past the last hour, my eyes fixated beyond the void of the black through the glasteel viewport.

He is alive.

I remember how I'd inhaled sharply, how everything in that cabin had made me feel dangerously light-headed. The scent of caf wafting up my nose.

But is that really what's bothering you, Cira? Or is it something else?

Why couldn't he leave well enough alone? He broke the silence. And like a broken mirror, one couldn't simply look at the reflection and ignore the crack along its length. He was making me remember things. Things that I had long since left aside. Awareness. I didn't want that awareness.

It vexed me. He vexed me. It vexed me that he knew there was more to it than that.

My growing anger had been the only rock that I could latch onto. It had been all too much.

Aren't you supposed to be dead?
I could say the same for you.

The irony of the situation did not escape me. The thoughts that had passed through my mind throughout that flight.

It couldn't be. He was not actually sitting there.

Was he?

It looked like Sarge, felt like Sarge, smelled and sounded like Sarge, and save for the void of his eyes and a rather aggravating turn-switch into the logical, certainly had shades of his attitude.

How I'd seriously considered exposure to deathsticks as playing a rather horrible series of hallucinations. My inner demons liked doing that during the time in the oubliette, locked inside with only my mind to torment me.

It was a good thing that a sense of purpose came with getting into that transport, because I was so sure my knees would have given out.

Caf. The caf had centered me. Helped me focus.

But he was supposed to be dead.

I'd been there. In his apartment. I was there overseeing the careful collection of his personal effects. I had been there, standing in those spartan quarters, my gaze wandering over the last lingering tangible articles that proved his existence.

To include one recently delivered camo cloak to replace a worn one. Likely due to his resignation, a last order request.

How the fabric had fluttered when I'd lifted it from the desk. My stoic gaze falling upon that which represented him yet at the same time didn't.

How without a second thought, I'd quietly slipped the cloak over myself, letting its long length flow over my body, adjusting automatically the fabric in an almost innate manner due to the countless times I'd practiced slipping it on and off, trying to figure out how the cloak worked.

How I'd quietly adjusted the clasp, secured it -- and with the knowledge gleaned from almost a year of investigating and studying the burly man who'd been my shadow, finally faded from sight for the first time without any use of the Force.

There was no sense of satisfaction in the task. It wasn't the same.

As I stood there, invisible much in the same sense Sarge had likely countless of times before, victory was a cold hard dish to swallow.

It wasn't the same.

The fabric held a distinct fresh new scent of freshly produced tech. All metal, clean fabric, with a hint of manufacture.

I missed him.

I missed you. Probably more than I should have.

Those words brought me back from the past and into another reality that still had me riding the tails of my shock.


Why did you leave?

I knew you'd never be mine if I stayed.


Still reeling from the tsunami wave of anger, my trembling fingers start to run through my hair, pushing it back away from my pallid face. Skinshifting had allowed me to hide the bruised lips and the flush that anger rides; but I could not skinshift that which still lingered about me.


You're avoiding the personal questions again, Cira. You can't do it forever.


Frustration rode through my body, fingers coming down to lightly dribble over my lips.


Why does it concern you?


Why did he do that? Why?!


Because your welfare has always concerned me.


It had been so easy to just block it off. Shut off the conversation. End it right then and there. I didn't want to look into that mirror, see the reflection upon it's cracked surface. I didn't want to.


Cira.


Why? WHY!?!

...You're my concern until you remember you're a person, not a title nor a figure.

Closing my eyes would not fade away the images nor the rush when he'd pulled me close. There was no denying his existence then. Not when that familiar scent that had saturated that same cloak I'd spent a year investigating suddenly enveloped me anew.

Not when I could feel the bristle of his beard, the heat in his kiss, and the anger that boiled between us.


Or, perhaps, you're afraid of facing yourself.


Awareness.

I couldn't ignore it then. He made himself bloody clear.

How could I have been so stupid?! I made so many mistakes. Yes I was angry. Angry at myself. Angry at what he was making me feel. Angry that he was breaking down the brick and mortar I had so carefully created.

He saw past the veneer; and he knew it. He star-forsaken knew it. And he knew I knew it too.

He knew.