Escape From Witch Mountain

[Mediha]

Her brain vaguely acknowledged Darius's words as she gripped his good arm for leverage. Her vision swam, but she ignored it, moving forward step by stalwart step, conscious of [member="Darius"] silently following her as she journeyed into the village.

The view from the air had only hidden the details. With every step, every corpse passed with a lingering glance, something in her tore a little further even as cold rationality overtook, though did not silence, her riotous emotions. Nothing and no one had been spared. She had no doubts that the Nightbrothers in their somewhat separated village had suffered the same fate, unless they had left while the Nightsisters were dying. That seemed unlikely.

Tears hovered in her eyes, though numbness-- or at least incoherence of emotion and thought-- was tempering her rage and sorrow. There was too much at war within her for her to know which feeling should be dominant. Years of training and emotional self-control were worn to tatters in a matter of minutes.

Mother.

She stumbled as she tried to quicken her steps to reach the right street; the homes here looked as the others did, and the bodies were more numerous than they had been on the outskirts. Her feet passed as quickly as they could, her eyes searching for her mother's rich, dark hair. So many brunettes, so much blood. Some bodies were mangled beyond recognition, but many were the victims of blades-- spears, Mediha thought sickly-- or a combination of blades and magick. Many of the women in her clan used witch bows rather than exercising their powers as much as she did; if it had been a battle of weapons, she could see how they might have lost.

Nowhere did she see a corpse she could recognize as her mother's. She finally gave up the search and dropped rather than purposely knelt beside Ylorii, the woman's brown eyes staring sightlessly ahead. She had been her mother's friend and Mediha's first teacher. The tears finally slipped over her lashes and down her cheeks. Piles of ash nearby were a testament that someone from the enemy had gone out with her, though there was no way to tell which clan they had come from. Mediha's mind shied away from the knowledge that she knew which clan it had been. Ylorii had died from some magickal cause, the signs of suffocation on her without any visible markings to indicate how. They hadn't dared to get close enough to her to use spears; she had been too dangerous. Mediha's shaking hand reached out to close her eyes, though her mind was blank, unable to conjure the words for the prayer for the dead.

They had nothing to do with it. It didn't matter. They were already dead.

She rose to her feet and went to the door of a home that had finished smoldering at some point.

They didn't know. Regret and apologies meant nothing to corpses.

She turned down the street for Mother Forine's home. Here, many Sisters had fallen, but Mediha's eye was drawn to the Nightbrothers among the dead. Here were those who had come to defend their people. Mediha's unholy feet tread between their bodies, ignorant of blood and ash. She could see where there were pools of blood with no bodies; the enemy had taken their dead with them and left her Sisters to bloat and rot in the streets.

I didn't have time to warn them.

Her eyes caught on a lightsaber hilt lying in the street, and her eyes moved to the long, twisted body lying next to it.

Anderit.

The witches had taken him with magick; there was no way to know if his combat training had aided him in killing any of the enemy before they destroyed him. Zared was nowhere near; he wouldn't have left without his brother unless he had been forced back, and there was no body nearby to indicate they had fallen together. Somewhere out there was a Nightbrother with a vendetta, one possibly wounded. Mediha had doubts that he would survive if he was injured, but she had no way to track him. If he was well enough to escape and fend for himself in the jungle, he could make a life for himself alone or in another clan. He would survive.

He would kill you for learning you brought this down on them.

Her eyes stopped staring through Anderit and instead gave a long, hard look to the death-eased lines of a face usually twisted in derision. She carefully, slowly, crouched down and wrapped her hand around the hilt of his lightsaber, the metal cold against her sweating palms. She stayed there for a moment, staring at the weapon in her grip, then looked up and over to Mother Forine's house.

It was still smoking, a magickal fire raging in its heart that hadn't quite expired. She had died there. Mediha knew it, just as she knew she would not find Zared, just as she knew there was no one left in her tribe. Just as she knew her spontaneous actions had caused it. Her gaze traveled back to Anderit. A fly sat on his cheek, cleaning its legs, its wings twitching slightly.

Her acolyte.

Her Sisters.

Her family.

Her home.

Mediha turned her eyes to the top of the distant mountain as she stood, lightsaber in one hand and box awkwardly clutched in her other arm. Something was building in her throat: grief, debilitating regret, and rage bubbling up in a toxic cocktail. She had been the catalyst of their destruction. She had killed everything in which she found pride, joy or self-worth outside of herself. But they had been innocent in this, and she had never dreamed the item she had stolen to be their prize possession would lead to these consequences, not when it had been a single witch and an outsider who had infiltrated their lair. There had been no indications that she was a Nightsister other than the paint, which any clan could have put on to implicate them. The Stone had not been in the village. The Singing Mountain Clan had delivered on her clan a punishment rightly meant for her just because they assumed they should. She would have taken that burden herself; it was the spear-witches who had chosen to take it out on those who did not deserve it.

Nausea turned her stomach and her head throbbed, a combination of lingering symptoms of her illness and the pressure built by grief. Rage contorted her expression, unspoken promise in her crazed eyes.

You will pay! You- will- pay! Her mind shrieked, throat too closed to give voice to the scream of rage that had built in her. The hard edges of the box under her arm and the smooth metal of the hilt in her hand were promise enough. The Stone would give her the power; all she needed was the skill to bring them down herself.

"All of them," she murmured, voice lower than a whisper, eyes still fixed on the mountain. Her grip on her belongings tightened, her teeth clenched and bared. "All of them."

 

[Cedric Grayson]

Darius had no words. Whatever he might have said would be inadequate in dealing with Mediha's pain. He was no empath, and they shared no bond within the force, but he knew true suffering when he saw it. These women, the men, they were her family. This was her home, and these people had been her clan. The sheer amount of corpses was testament to the brutality of those that that had brought the village to ruin. Darius felt like he had a bit of an idea as to who might have done it as well. Was it possible the witches they dealt with could have tracked Mediha here? Had they placed some form of spell that would allow them to find her wherever she might have went? No, this place was destroyed long before they arrived.

They had guessed.

Something about that revolted Darius more than the corpses. The idea that these Witches had decided this particular clan was owed their wrath simply by chance was sickening. The very thought that they had descended on the camp for reasons entirely unknown to those living within made his stomach turn. There were children here. None had survived.

Darius hovered over his companion as she took the lightsaber from a male corpse. His lips pressed into a thin line at the gruesome scene. Had she known this man? Was he a friend? A lover? Darius would likely never know, but he could see the pain in her motions. Then there was another body, that of an older woman. Mediha stopped to close her eyes, and something in Darius twisted.

He understood Mediha's pain. He'd suffered something similar as a child.

"Do we stay, or do we go?" He asked quietly. He would not dare give her orders now. She was suffering, and part of him was sure that, even in her weakened state, doing so would be the death of him. A gentle hand came to rest upon her shoulder, one meant to comfort; provide some semblance of the support she had lost here today.

"I have your back, but you're still healing, and I am too," he frowned, "I'm sorry Mediha." His voice was heavy. It carried the weight of this slaughter. His sympathy was entirely too real, whether she welcomed it or not.

"I can set up a pyre if you want, but this place is dangerous. I...know it's terrible, but they might return."

[member="Mediha"]

 

[Mediha]

"Stop. Talking," she ground out through her clenched teeth. His sympathy and logic were tempering her rage, coaxing out sorrow she didn't want to let take control. There would be time for grief later, when she was alone, when she had avenged the deaths of her clan on the putrid, filthy, scum-sucking flesh of the Singing Mountain Clan.

Her wounds didn't matter. His wounds didn't matter. How did he not understand? Her internal magickal healing would be an issue, but not if she could get the fething box open in order to get at the Stone. The Stone would offer her everything she needed-- everything-- to do what needed to be done, and she would drain it dry and cast its fragile, empty shell into the deepest hell-caves of the mountain when she was done to bury the hated thing forever.

The act had to stand as a sign to any other clan who discovered it, as something that would not only punish the Singing Mountain Clan but show all others what a mistake they had made in their misplaced retribution, to blare their misconduct from the peak they called home.

For what? Reason asked. There is no Clan reputation anymore. There is nothing left.

I am still here. The response was immediate. I will show them what a mistake they have made. It was revenge. Reputation was an afterthought, but the true heart of her motives was revenge. No one, not even the over-wrought Mediha, could be blind to that. Not even Darius, who seemed to know where her thoughts had led, for all that he tried to apply sympathy and fact to it.

One thing he said had made sense to her, though. A pyre. Her clan's bodies. She turned her head, looking over the bodies nearest her. They needed a burial, rites and prayers, and it needed to be done entirely by her. This was not something that was usually done by one person, even when there was only one body. But now...

I can't leave them. There it was again. The grief; the sorrow. They deserve more than this.

She swallowed, then turned her head toward [member="Darius"] and met his gaze, her own gaze steely in more than just color. "Let them come. My family will not be left as carrion!" Her voice broke on the final word. "Do you not understand? Do you not understand what this is? Nothing is more important than this; nothing but finding and hunting down every. last. ONE OF THEM!"

Deep in her, she felt her magick flare faintly, sickly, in response, and she doubled over as if she had taken a hit to gut, fighting the urge to turn the contents of her stomach loose on her shoes.

 

[Cedric Grayson]

Darius drew in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. She was ruled by her emotions now, and there was nothing he could say to convince her. Nothing now anyway. He opted to simply meet her gaze. He did not dare shy away from it; did not dare run from the grief, the pain, the anger. Mediha knew this this happened, they both did. Their actions had been the catalyst for this retaliation. Now she wanted to make the aggressors feel the same anguish that wracked her now. Yet, she had not left him to his fate after the Vornskr attack. He would not leave her to this.

"Stop." His voice was steady, serious. He had no fear of her; no fear for her disapproval or her rage. He was not going to let her get herself killed in a pointless crusade. Even with the stone she would fail. She could not kill that entire tribe, and what would she be once she did? Would she spare anyone? Would the civilians of the clan suffer? Those who spoke out against actions taken? The children?

No, they would not, and that was why he could not support her here.

"I understand far more than you think," he continued, "The Sith wiped out what little I had when I was a child just like this. My father went off for revenge. I lost him. I lost everything because he let his rage blind him." His grip on her arm intensified, "We'll take care of the bodies, but the beasts will come, and the witches might as well. We have to be ready. We can't go hunting them. It isn't smart - it isn't right. There are some among them that would not have supported this. There are children. Would you become what they allow themselves to be?"

Darius drew in a deep breath.

"What is important is you surviving. If not for yourself, then for them," he motioned toward the many corpses, "You are their legacy now, whether you like it or not. Don't get yourself killed for the sake of revenge. Nothing good comes from it; it's a sad, lonely end."

A pause.

"Don't exert yourself." He chided as she doubled over. [member="Mediha"] was still very sick. The two of them were in no shape to fight off Dathomir's beasts, but if that was what she wanted, then that was what he would do. His hand did not leave her shoulder - he would not allow her to become unhinged. Not now.

 

[Mediha]

Mediha's thoughts flared wildly with every point [member="Darius"] made to her.

I am not your father! Your family-- I will hunt them if I wish! She remained hunched over, breathing raggedly as she held her stomach in check, trying to get enough composure back to respond verbally. Sadly, he was able to continue unchecked as she battled with her body.

Let their murderous spawn die with them!

She looked up, glaring. The children were raised with their views; they weren't witches yet. That did not mean they would not grow to embody everything their elders now stood for. Mediha didn't care about being compared to their tactics; they had not let her Clan's legacy live, and she had no intention of letting theirs live either.

The legacy of her clan. Though she continued to challenge the much taller Jedi with her gaze, the thought sat heavily on her. If she was all that was left and she wanted the clan to live on, it had to be her. She would need to orchestrate the recreation, much as it had been recreated following the death of Talzin; she would also need to be responsible for providing progeny for the clan, though it was not a path she had pictured herself taking before. Her mouth twisted in distaste at the thought and Darius's commentary on dying alone.

"I am alone. I have nothing left."

Another spike of pain hit her and she folded in on herself again, swallowing hard and closing her eyes. She rubbed her face against her shoulder to remove the tears from one cheek before she lifted her head, looking every inch as sick as she felt.

"When I get back, I am going to start moving bodies. We can't offer each their own rites, but I will at least offer them all the decency of a proper cremation." She pulled away from his hand and shakily moved off behind a hut to let her body do what it wanted; once she was done, she could get to work. It would not be an easy or a short job. They would need to start at the edges, to prevent the scavengers from picking off the loose corpses overnight while they worked.

 

[Cedric Grayson]

Darius had too much heart. He let himself care too much; love to hard. It was going to get him killed someday. Maybe today all things considered. Still, when she spoke of being alone, he wanted to...do...something. He wasn't sure what. Assure her somehow? Try and make her feel better? Darius really had no idea. What he did know was that he couldn't allow her to walk this path alone. Doing so would prove self-destructive on her account.

"You're not," he stated firmly, "I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

He doubted she wanted or cared to hear that, but the sentiment was all the same. If there was some small part of her that could take comfort in those words, then he could be pleased with himself. He remained there as she ran off to lose her lunch. When she emerged once again, he took to the outskirts of the village.

His senses were attuned well enough to know whether he was being stalker, and more importantly if [member="Mediha"] was in danger. The task itself was gruesome and disgusting. Never before had he seen so many bodies; the smell was unbearable. It was all he could do to cover his mouth and nose with cloth to block out the scent.

Slowly but surely, he dragged the corpses to a funeral pyre in the center of the village. The work strained his muscles, and his wounds were screaming for him to stop, but he did not dare. He was determined to make this however right he could, and pain was not going to stop him from accomplishing his goal.

 

[Mediha]

Her best laid plans failed in her first attempt. Mediha was too weak to help much, which meant her strategy had to be size rather than location; she found the lightest targets along the edges-- young women and children-- and brought them under her own power to the pile by the jungle. Every face that was recognizable was a name on her tongue or in her mind. After a time, though, the emotional tie gave way to numbness. The names lost their meanings and became sound alone-- a roster of losses.

The pile built slowly. When twenty had been piled together-- arduously and with so much wasted time-- Mediha settled her latest bundle gently down before she looked over at Darius, whose arrival happened to coincide with hers. His face was tight and streaked with sweat, his chest heaving; the process was straining him.

It's straining me, too! Her mind snarled at her, and a grimace crossed her face as she looked back to the stack of bodies. Work needed to be done, but how effective would any non-magickal fire be on so large a number? Did they even have fuel enough to burn them all?

"We should take care of this group." Her voice and face were hard, her eyes glinting chips of flint, though her posture indicated exhaustion. "Then we should start building pyres closer to the other locations." It would be easier to drag the bodies by Mother Forine's home together than carry them elsewhere. It meant building several small pyres, but it would ultimately be the same amount of fuel and possibly less straining on them.

With my magick we wouldn't need fuel or to do so much labor.

With your magick, they wouldn't be dead.

She stared at the bodies for several long moments as she acknowledged that she didn't know that to be true-- it was just very likely. Part of her suggested she retrieve the items she needed for the burial rites; the other part commented that those items were long burned or destroyed.

I'll make do. Mediha turned from [member="Darius"] toward their ship, taking the box from its awkward location in her belt. She hadn't dared set it down. The lightsaber likewise was jammed in her belt, turned to avoid activating it accidentally. "I need to get some things from the speeder."

Her footsteps, unhindered by bodies, were more steady than they had been before, but slower, too. She had to force the strength into every step.

 

[Cedric Grayson]

"Okay," Darius turned his attention to the pile of corpses. They had nothing to make the bodies burn, so far as he knew. He could spare a bit of fuel to do the job, though they would need to be careful not to use too much. Giving these people a proper send-off was important, but so was leaving the system. He turned to watch [member="Mediha"] as she went off to the speeder. He couldn't leave her here now. She would die. Mediha would have to come with him back to Sullust, and then...what? Serve in the alliance? Find other witches? He had no idea.

The work continued throughout the day. Darius would move toward the edge of the village and create separate pyres for different groups. There were four in total, and each received a liberal sprinkling of the ship's fuel as kindling, along with a few dry log from the destroyed homes. They had served them in life, and would do so again in death.

It was around mid-day that the Vornskr came. It was a single beast; a lone male. Old wounds marred its form, but the beast still lived. It was a warrior, a survivor. Darius watched as the aging beast trotted toward one of the pyres and locked its jaws on the arm of a dead woman. It tugged and twisted its head, but the corpse would not budge.

It did not see the padawan until it was too late. The flash of the lightsaber gleamed in its black eyes as it cut in an arc toward the beast, and carved a scorching mark through the ground at its feet. The beast yelped and fled back into the forest before Darius could do anything more.

"Not these bodies," he breathed, his chest rising and falling heavily from the exertion. Night would be falling soon. "More are going to come Mediha. We need to be quick."

 

[Mediha]

The fight had drained from Mediha as their work progressed. She had focused on simply dragging the bodies into one area. By the time the Vornskr came, she had thought herself dead to everything; however, the sight of it trying to make an easy meal of her kin sparked her ire enough that she reached for magick that wasn't there. Darius's quick action stopped her from making the fateful draw, and she faltered as she watched the Vornskr flee, finally releasing what she had collected. He had protected them, though one body would not have meant anything to him. He understood, then, at least well enough to have embraced her quest to see her clan sent with accolades into the afterlife. That knowledge made her susceptible to lending more credence to his wisdom than she might have otherwise.

She knew the logic in his words, though part of her wished to fight it. The ritual was long when done for a single fallen Sister. There were deeds each of them had done that needed to be declared, prayers to sing, charms to...

Mediha closed her eyes, pragmatism winning out. "I'll make them brief." Her hands reached for the items she had stacked nearby, the best approximations she would be able to find of the most needed of the items. Without setting a base coat, she opened her black paint and began tracing the traditional symbols of the funeral overseer onto her face. All Sisters were taught them during their training in case the responsibility ever fell to them. "I can begin alone. Check the rest of the village; I don't want to miss anyone."

Trusting [member="Darius"] would obey, she finished her runes and traded her paint for a handful of the herbs she had gathered in the jungle. They had dried over the last few days, well enough to be used over the fires as intended. If only she had known they would be used for their funereal purpose rather than for spells of protection.

Herbs in hand, she opened her arms, palms upturned to the open sky, and lifted her voice in the first deep, swelling note of the First Prayer. She was no skilled vocalist, not like her mother or Aliha, but she could carry the notes steadily enough that under her influence it became a poignant chant, one whose clarity cut through the silent heart of a dead village.

There were things she skipped for the sake of time: the tasks were not declared, the middling prayers abandoned, and no cups were drunk. But in every case she kept the opening and closing prayers and tosses of the crushed handfuls of Fanged God's Flame onto the fire. The only specific tasks she would declare, she knew, were the best of those of her mother, Ylorii and Anderit. The rest would receive a general prayer of taking, asking her patron gods to acknowledge what they had done in life as signs of their worth in the afterlife. It was what they had time for. Nightfall would betray them and who would burn their bodies for entry into the next world?

 

[Cedric Grayson]

He watched from afar as she began to give her rites. This was foreign to him. Jedi were cremated as well, though they received funerals similar to the ones most beings were given. There were no special words to be said, no chants to be sung. There was never anything more than a few kind words, and the light from the blades of every Jedi in attendance. He had only ever attended one. It was a solemn thing; something he would never wish to go through again. Death was terrible in its own right, and now he was experiencing this funeral again on a much larger scale.

Part of it left him feeling numb. This was Mediha's family, and her pain was emotional. She had lost everything, and had little more than a glowing rock and a lightsaber to show for it. The only other living being that remained was him, and he knew she would resent him for it. Whatever semblance of a friendship they might have had would be lost today. She would need something to blame, and if she did not choose herself, then he would be her target.

He hoped that would be the case. If her hatred revolved around him, then she could continue on. If it was inward, then he felt she would not be long for this world. Yet still, Darius felt pain. It was not hers as it had been before. Initially it was sympathy; now his anguish was borne of disgust. Mediha did not have his honed connection the the living force - as their souls passed into the nether, Darius felt it. He could hear their screams, feel the spears piercing their flush, the hooves of the witches' riding beasts crushing their bones.

A shiver ran down his spine.

Night fell as the flames came to life. Slowly but surely, each pyre was enveloped in the scathing orange glow. There would be no bodies for the Vornskrs come morning.

Darius walked toward Mediha. He was beyond exhausted, and the burns on his chest were screaming for him to come to a halt as he drew closer to the flames. Still, he did not halt.

"I can feel them passing," he spoke in a raspy whisper, "You've saved them from whatever would have taken them without the rites." The sweet smell of flesh being cooked filled his nostrils. Darius' nose scrunched up in displeasure. In the far distance, they could hear the howls of the Vornskr. Far enough to not be worried, but close enough to remind them that the danger was still present.

A hand came to rest on her shoulder. He tried to draw her attentions, and open the Nightsister to an embrace should she allow it. He needed that just as much as she did. His lips quivered as he fought to find his words, and when he finally did, the words were shaky.

"I'm so sorry."

[member="Mediha"]

 

[Mediha]

[member="Darius"] was with her at the end. Though he was a silent bystander to the proceedings, he was present from the final prayer and lighting of the first pyre straight through to the last. She could never speak it aloud, but there was a comfort in knowing she was not actually delivering the final rites alone, even if the other was an off-worlder.

With the fall of night, the fires brightened their surroundings, pillars of smoke obscuring patches of the night sky. It would be apparent to the Singing Mountain Clan that someone of the clan remained; perhaps they would know-- guess-- who it was who burned the bodies. All it did was remind Mediha that she had work left to do, even if she couldn't do it now.

Even when Darius touched her, her eyes were fixed on the flames of the final pyre, the one containing her closest companions and family, and she forced herself to watch the flames consume them. This was the last time she, or anyone, would see them. Although she could not see Anderit amid the flames and bodies, she could see in her mind his face and Zared's as they had looked on the day of their first group hunt.

Mediha's voice was low but throbbing with sincerity when she finally responded to Darius's overt offer of sympathy. "I want their beating hearts in my hands."

The echoes of the past caught up with her, and she choked on her sudden rush of tears, coughing and taking shuddering breaths that just bordered on sobs. As she gasped, she wiped away her tears and the funereal runes along with them. Though something in her wanted to mourn, a larger, more dominant part wanted to set it aside, wanted to focus on the future and what was to come, what needed to come. Mediha looked up at Darius then, loss and anger in her streaked face, though her tears ignored her angry desire to keep them at bay.

"I can't do that as I am. I need more." More training, more knowledge, more help. Even at full strength she couldn't take them on alone, which was why she had needed to use traps to distract them. It would have been a suicide mission.

 

[Cedric Grayson]

Darius did not dare embrace the woman. She would come to him if that was what she felt she needed. Such was not the case, and he wouldn't be the one to initiate it. She still had that lightsaber on her, and he rather liked his limbs being in all the right places.

Still, her tears distressed him. [member="Mediha"] was an ally, maybe even a friend. More importantly, she was alone now. Her quest for revenge would bring her naught but death, and it was quite likely the witches could see the blaze from their mountain. They would come soon.

"I know," he mumbled in quiet understanding. A Jedi he was, but he understood one could not just regain control after a loss like this. She wanted vengeance for her kin, and there was nothing that would sway her from that path. Nothing right now anyway, "The witches are going to come. I can take you some place safe here on Dathomir, or you can come with me, but you can't stay."

His voice was hollow; devoid of the sorrow that wracked him moments before. She needed someone stable nearby, not someone to help her grieve. 'The ship is ready," his voice barely registered as a whisper, "You can make your choice once we're in the air."

[member="Mediha"]

 

[Mediha]

There was no choice.

Mediha had had one home, one place on Dathomir which was safe. That was gone now. Even if the witches wouldn't immediately arrive, he was right that they would be on their way, checking to see if she had brought the Stone with her when she returned to find her family dead. With so much pushing her away from Dathomir already, was there really a decision to be made? With [member="Darius"] treating her much as the Nightbrothers may have, doing things for her protection albeit with a less respectful attitude, was there a choice between staying and going? With nothing on the world which could help her against the eminent clan she would eventually need to face, was there really an alternative to finding new knowledge abroad?

She turned her eyes back to the fire for a few long moments before the howls of the Vornskr sounded again, closer this time, and urged the witch into action. She wiped at her face again, then picked up the box at her feet and turned to face [member="Darius"] . Much as his was, her emotion was again tucked behind fake stability, for the moment at least. It would take time before she had accepted facts enough to make her usual harsh stability a reality again.

"Then we should go." It was a catch-all response. "We should go. Come."

She took his arm in part to usher him along and in part because she craved some kind of human touch to drive away the shadow of solitude that threatened to descend on her and cut her off from her chances at a productive and rewarding future.

 

[Cedric Grayson]

He hid his surprise as she led him by the arm. It caught him off-guard, but he understood. [member="Mediha"] needed something to cling to, however faintly, in this difficult time. Had he been in her shoes, he would have likely done the same. No matter how much she tried to hide her pain; tried to show strength in the face of a terrible tragedy, Darius knew it was there. He'd seen it in her tears.

Mediha didn't need to voice her agony for him to understand.

"I know it isn't much," he frowned, " - but you can remain with me as long as you need. I know you don't particularly enjoy my company, but I had a hand in this. It's my burden too."

I was manipulated.

He did not voice his disdain. He did not hate Mediha for her actions. There was no way she could have known the mountain witches would retaliate so violently. She'd gambled with good odds and lost; he could not blame her entirely for that.

The ship's doors hissed closed behind them.

"You need to rest now. You didn't finish recovering from your sickness, and this likely made things worse. Let me fly."

 

[Mediha]

Mediha made [member="Darius"] keep step with her all the way back to the ship. She didn't once turn back to watch the light of the fires bathe her village's walls in a living glow for the last time.

Although he voiced his own culpability, Mediha couldn't see a logical point from which he could be gaining his perspective. It wasn't really his burden. She had been the catalyst, the Singing Mountain Clan the vehicle, and her people the victims. The punishment was hers alone for now, and it would eventually come back to those truly at fault: the murderers of the Mountain. The weight fell on her shoulders as she intended the lash would eventually fall on Jiyai's successor and her followers. Darius was nothing in that equation; with his desire to help share her pain and shoulder her as a burden to him, Mediha thought he was one of those individuals who took other people's suffering onto himself if he had the faintest hand in proceedings that led to their misfortune.

She said nothing to argue with him or ease whatever guilt he might be feeling. He would learn it himself in time, and his guilt would perhaps lead him to help her find what she needed to make her vengeance a reality. That and that alone would be closure for her.

Mediha turned her eyes up to him as the doors closed behind them, blocking her past and leaving her standing on unsteady ground at the threshold of her future. She was no oracle who could See what was to come. This boy-- young man-- would need to be tested in his own time by circumstances beyond either of their knowledge or control before she could tell if he would be help or hindrance to her goals. Whatever those goals wound up being beyond the destruction of the Mountain Clan. She nodded at his suggestion to rest; she couldn't have flown the ship even if she wanted to since navigating a speeder was just barely within her capabilities. With her hands shaking as they were, her every muscle exhausted now that her work was done, rest seemed like the best option to her as well.

"Make sure you haven't re-damaged your scars," she suggested before turning and heading back down to the meager blankets that constituted her temporary bed. When she was feeling better and they had put some distance between themselves and Dathomir, Mediha would talk to him about better accommodations. For now, it would be enough.

 

[Cedric Grayson]

"They're okay," he mumbled, his mind still lingering on the burning pyre below. It was likely that the flames would not die for quite some time - the witches had surely seen it by now. They would be coming to see what had happened, and the duo would be long gone by then. Darius' wounds had no reopened; mostly due to his use of the force. He really should have been more careful, but the duty he'd been given by [member="Mediha"] had been too important.

He turned to look at her as she slipped into the back of the ship. Mediha was his responsibility now, whether she liked it or not. He couldn't just leave her on the next world over; she was a witch of Dathomir: a Nightsister. On some worlds she would be killed for such. On others, she would have far too much trouble acclimating to society. He needed to ease her into the way the galaxy worked.

Hapes came to mind.

It, like Dathomir, was a matriarchal society. Men were treated a bit better, though not by much. Such a culture would not be as foreign to Mediha, though their obsession with beauty might throw her off. Then again, it might not. In truth, Darius knew very little of the Nightsister save for what they had been through together these past few days.

The shuttle rumbled as its powerful engines lifted it above the treeline.

"Just rest," he cooed, though there was no way she could hear him from this distance. He cared too much. He knew Mediha saw him as little more than a pawn; another tool for revenge, yet his bleeding heart could not let him turn her away. It would be the death of him, one day.