Days Gone Quiet

[Keira Priest]

Music

Coronet City​

The sound of her own footsteps was the only thing that followed her into the outskirts of Coronet City, the sunrise enveloping her like a warm blanket in the cool of the early morning. Every time Keira returned here it made her feel even older, as whatever turmoil seemed to wrack the galaxy appeared to leave the city unchanged, bringing about a potent sense of nostalgia and longing that she wasn’t ready to face.

The nearer she became to her destination the more her steps seemed to slow, even her subconscious begrudged to her being here. Every detail she noticed dredged up a memory whether she liked it or not, forcing her to stop more than once on her path as she was pushed to process all that had been shoved down and away for so long. Age seemed to make remembering all the more painful, but she supposed this was her penance for bottling it up for so long.

Shuffling steps brought her to the very edge of the city, and it was there she stopped for a time, unsure of her ability to continue. This had seemed like a good idea when she embarked, but now that she was here, about to lay eyes upon her then-husband - Mandalorians had no such concept of divorce - it seemed impossible. Shaking hands ran down her face, the heels of her hands pressing into her eyes to quell the moisture there. An unsteady breath escaped her, and she pressed onward.

Finally, standing on the porch, there was no turning back. Reaching up, she knocked on the door, stepping away from the entrance in anticipation of his answer. She came unarmored and unarmed, a show of good faith. This wasn’t about vengeance, or any sort of feud.

For once in her life, Keira just wanted to talk.

[member="Julius Sedaire"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Despite being able to feel when a fly farted, or so the joke went, Julius wouldn't sense Keira any longer. Not like that anyway. Force Dead folks could still be sensed though, if you had the knack. Julius would be hampered by fighting one. There was simply no way to get ahead of their movements that he knew of, other than kinetics and posture. So the speedster was slowed down and often on almost even footing with one such as her. Regardless, that curious blank spot in the Force came to him as she wormed her way towards their old house. It wasn't an ambling route, and it was a specific one they used to take Desric on.

So that told him who it likely was. Wasn't much sense in preparing. This place had always been theirs. And it's chiefest defense lay in the fact two of the Galaxies most deadly warrior lived together in it. And both were determined to protect the child within, no matter how strained their bond might have been. So he sat at the dining room table, moving a chair to face the front door. Scuffed and beat up spacers leather boots with plain brown trousers and a cream tunic cut in the more rustic style of Corellia. The tunic unbuttoned just enough to show glimpses of tattoos and the top arc of his jed-cred, as well as the oddly smooth transition from flesh to Aing-Tii made prosthetic.

Leaning back, he sat a freshly oiled and maintained blaster pistol on the table, but on the edge nearest the door. Standard Cor-Sec issue thing. Nothing special, and a dozen or so hidden about the house strategically. Course, she helped select where to hide them, so they were as much to her advantage as his. Never could say why he hadn't changed their places. For himself, he sat looking down the condenser cylinder of an elegant looking pistol that resembled a more streamlined DE-10, or an antique revolver turned blaster. Clicking each diode and such into place. A lightsaber sat on his end, and a curiously tri-sided knife sat next to the other blaster, where a chair also waited as did a glass of Whyren's, three cubes of ice and a napkin over the top to keep any buzz-flies out.

Humming, he waited, smiling. He had all day, he supposed. As good a way to spend it as any.

[member="Keira Priest"]

 

[Keira Priest]

Music
When no answer came, Keira was half-tempted to leave, taking that as the galaxy’s sign that this wasn’t meant to be. But something stopped her, whether it be intuition or something more, and she stood there for half a beat too long to simply walk away. Another deep breath and she reached for the doorknob, turning it and half-expecting a blaster shot to be the only greeting. When none came she opened the door the rest of the way, taking in the scene before her.

Instinct forced her to take in the exact placement of every immediately visible weapon first, but that lasted only a split-second, the rest of her time enveloped in the fact that he was here, and it was that which took her breath away. He was every inch as breathtaking as ever, but then, he’d always had that effect on her whether she liked it or not.

Without thought she moved forward, every step weightless and heavy all at once. Even after sitting down she couldn’t look away, half watching him and half studying the blaster he held, until it all came flooding back at once. She’d gifted him that the same day she’d told him she was pregnant with their son, and he’d immediately scooped her up into his arms, grinning like a madman and refusing to let her go. That had been the happiest day of both their lives, but now…

Now it had come to blasters and blades and whiskey on the table, both seeking some kind of closure and both as equally unsure of what that would be or what it would mean.

Not so much as a glance was spared to the pistol so carefully set out before her, no regard given to the alcohol, not yet anyway. Only a single word was spoken, each of its three syllables falling like bombs in the silence of the morning. “Cyar’ika.”

[member="Julius Sedaire"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

The words hit without a visible outward impact. To the eye, he continued almost ignoring her, cycling the feed cylinder, checking the coils, extending his arm and sighting down the weapon. It was practically an antique, and so he babied it. Eventually though, he spun the retaining pin and clip across the gas cylinder exchange and clicked it all home with a whir, setting it down on the table with hardly much movement, before grabbing the glass before him. It was upended and drained in one swift motion, and another poured and sat directly down in front of him. Obvious intent being to drink, and drink it soon.

For the moment, his eyes stared at the amber liquid and focused on the glowy burn in his gut. The familiar scent and taste and feeling brought him a dangerous comfort. Whiskey had far too frequently been his relief from the Galaxy he had so often failed. But there was a point, and he wasn't quite there yet. That would be when he stopped. For now, his bearded face rose to meet her gaze with his own. Most the hair was heavily salted, whether on the head or face. But the eyes were just hollow. Empty. They carried a terrible weight and resignation to a disliked fate.

"You've got brass ones even stepping foot in this house. But calling me that? Most wouldn't blame me for carving your tongue out over that. What do you want? Tempting me with ghosts of the past before you up and vanish on some murderous crusade and leave me floundering again? If so, I have your answer..."

Here he grabbed the blaster, spinning it to jab it under his jaw. But not up and up straight. No, the bolt would miss then. Cocked back, where things would do their job right. Then as quickly as drawn, it was back onto the table. But still, his hand held onto it. Clung to it as if an anchor.

"You call me that... And you don't even know the man I am now. How dare you... Kurag...

The Green went silent then, and his eyes fell to the whiskey, balancing the call of his demons against the need to dull the agony his former wife caused him with those words.

Not yet...

[member="Keira Priest"]

 

[Keira Priest]

It was verbal sparring, as had always been their way, but the words landed like sucker punches, every blow driving the breath forcefully from her lungs. Keira didn’t blame him, couldn’t, not really, this was making up for what? Years of everything left unsaid, emotions bottled up with nowhere left to go. Let him lash out, she’d told herself it wouldn’t faze her. Until it did, beginning with when he picked up that blaster and not quite ending once he placed it back down on the table, fingers still wrapped around the grip.

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears then, and she finally seemed to acknowledge the drink sat out before her, discarding the covering and draining the glass, the burn of the alcohol doing little to wash away the bitterness that coated everything here. “When you left, I felt like dying.”

Those words alone laid it all out, baring her soul to him in a way she hadn’t in so long. Too long. Far too many nights after his disappearance had been spent holding her pistol in one hand and a bottle in the other, but no matter how much she drank she could never bring herself to do it. It was for her son, she told herself. He deserved to grow up with a mother in the world, even if he barely knew her. She wouldn’t take that away from him.

“I didn’t come here for a fight, Julius. But if you’re going to sit there and act like all you are is the victim, I don’t want to hear it. You couldn’t even do it in person. Couldn’t manage to say it to my face. Even the ad’ike have more gettse than that.” Her tone was quiet, even. There was a layer of exhaustion hidden beneath those words, one he would no doubt pick up on, even still knowing her better than she did herself.

“I’m tired. Tired of the fighting, the warring. The Sith have taken Manda’yaim, and that alone is a testament to how far we’ve fallen. There’s no more crusading, unless you consider the rightful death of every Sith to ever breath a crusade. I’m done. That’s why I’m here.”

[member="Julius Sedaire"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

"Hardly a matter of guts. You sided with child murderers and tyrants. In that moment? You weren't worth the time in my eyes. You spit on me so I spit back. Not the right way, but you know I don't have the most level head."

A sigh. A hand with more scars from combat and gnarled with toil reached out and grabbed the glass in front of him. Tossed it back and sighed in a mixture of pain-sorrow-satisfaction. It clinked down, drained in quick enough succession that it really hadn't even condensated, and the ice was whole enough to have barely melted. But it remained empty for a moment. The green glass bottle remained open but untouched as he thought for a reply. His face to most was always seen with a grin or smirk. A light of mischief.

None of that was present at the moment though.

The place they had met in was once their family home. Photos of his family still hung here and there. Especially of him and Cal. A few places on the walls looked recently repaired or patched. And a few busted out (one with suspicious looking black streaks common to blaster shots) ones hung there and here. Some features were still in disuse, dust lay heavy on the desk he had once worked from, for instance. The fridge unit looked unused, and who knew if it was even running, given the stack of rations and instant meals next to it. Overall, an air of neglect hung about the home. And if that just wasn't perfect for an atmosphere at this moment, he didn't know what was.

"Look... I'm not a pure victim. I did you wrong. But you married a bloody Jedi and then sided with an Empire that slaughtered innocents. That tried to kill one of my best friends. You should have seen my distaste a few parsec away dear. But all that is way past fixin. What am I supposed to do with you showing up here now? What do you want? Cause I'm confused what you think this jaunt of yours will achieve"

Now the hand reached for the bottle and poured. Almost slamming it down when finished. But this time he sipped. A small one at that. And just looked at her. Waiting.

 

[Keira Priest]

“I know we won’t be able to go back to how things were.” An understatement if there had ever been one, but she was fumbling blind here, with an idea of where she wanted to end up but no real idea how to get there. He wasn’t making it easy, but then, she couldn’t blame him. Neither were in a habit of making things easy for the other, especially now. Particularly now.

For just a moment her gaze lingered on their surroundings, taking note of the destruction and disuse that had befallen their home. Because it was still their home, and perhaps always would be. There was work to be done here, but they were both fixer-uppers, it was only fitting that their house be the same. The rations meant he wasn’t eating properly again, and if Keira had to guess he only came here to eat and sleep. Hardly a life, any of it. Not that she was in a place to judge.

“I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers.” It was her turn now to take up the bottle and pour, setting it down again between them and taking a pull from her glass. “I’m not asking for this to go back to how it was. But I don’t want it to be like this.” She was gathering her words as she spoke, knowing what she wanted to say but unsure of how to go about it.

“You remember the vows, ‘lek?” A rhetorical question, they both knew the answer. “Since that day our souls have been bound in the manda. That doesn’t just go away. So maybe we can’t go back, but we can be in each other’s lives again. If not for us, then for Desric. He shouldn’t have to grow up in a broken home.”

[member="Julius Sedaire"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

"I don't even know who I am anymore... I don't fit in on Corellia... Too much government, too many rules. A man can scarcely breathe. Even the Temple is full of pomp and ceremony and regulations. I'm an antiquated curiosity at best, tolerated for a legend I never was. I guess it's for the better... But it isn't me... I'm just lingering because I've nowhere else to go. No one else to be. Home is all I know, and a Jedi is all I've ever been. Now I'm nothing. That's not much to offer"

Sighing wasn't his most common emotive expression, but it came heavy after the admission, and eventually gave way to silence. He had given his life, soul, and in many parts his sanity to freeing Corellia. And when it finally broke in and he retreated to heal? Returning had only proven that the decade or so with the monks had changed him, and that his home itself had changed. Lost didn't even begin to cover it. Empty was a small approximation of the hollowness he felt. Jorus had touched on it once, briefly. That sometimes the things you saved weren't meant for you. But... What was he then? Where did he go from here?

Distant eyes, long lost in wandering his own memory, met hers. The whiskey sat untouched. And he waited, silent for once.

[member="Keira Priest"]