“The Bendu.” Osarla heard herself speak, distantly, as though it were a recording of herself. But it was something to say, something her gut and heart initiated before her head could fire the synapses to her teeth and keep them shut.
"Should I have told him no?"
When he turned to face her, she realized the error in her address. This might have been the Vice Chancellor of The Alliance and the father of her Padawan, but worse, he was her friend.
The friend she’d stood by through in sickness–
mourning men and women lost, fatalities reported, worlds sundered — and health —
celebrations of varying sizes for his graduation, his promotions, his first date with Ava, their engagement, their wedding, their pregnancy, the birth of the twins, birthdays, more promotions. The friend who was looking for a friend now, not a general. Not a Jedi Master.
The Vice Chancellor’s face, her friend's face, was emphasized by years of stress at the corner of his eyes and mouth, like her own. The depth of their experience was forever etched in their expressions — but this time, his hurt was deeper than she’d seen before. It reached his eyes, and made his voice thinner than she’d heard in a long time as though the depth of the pain had twisted its way deep within and unsettled the sturdiest of foundations to make resolve a fragile thing.
Osarla’s tenuously held façade of professionalism slipped away to the tenderness that swelled at the base of her throat. The slope of her brows affected her markings, steepling them up to the lines in her forehead.
“It wouldn’t have mattered if you did.” she ventured and felt an involuntary chuckle tickle her cheeks. It clawed its sound out from her chest and the back of her throat. It lasted only two beats, but it was enough to reflect on the tenacious sense of adventure of the boy in the tank. The husk of the bright-eyed Gabe they knew and loved.
She forced herself to look at the silhouette within the blue-green glow of the tank, lingered, and re-emphasized the humanity that brewed deep inside.
Even as a baby in diapers, he’d looked more capable than he did now. Limply floating there.
“I’m so sorry, Drack.” Osarla’s voice croaked as the words eked out.
Sorry was a poor word. Only two syllables to articulate the gravity of the reality the Pryce family and herself knew deep down. Yes, she was sorry because he was her responsibility, but she was sorrier that Dracken had to see his son like this and know it wouldn’t be the last time. Know that whatever he did, whatever he said, whatever Osarla did, Gabriel was a Pryce. He was the sense of adventure born from two rebellious, loyal, unshakeable hearts.
Silent and sorry, Osarla moved to wrap her arms around her dearest friend and provide that unshakeable heart something to cling to in its rare moment of shakiness.
