Private Make it Home

[Lark]

The quaint little fishing town that Lark had spent the past month or so living within was not as large as Palisade, a town on one of Kabal's largest islands, and he wouldn't have it any other way. Urban metropolis' had their draws, but the constant hubbub was mentally draining. This little village was home to perhaps a hundred people, there were single apartment floors on Coruscant with double this town's population. But nowhere in those urban jungles could one see sunsets like this. The pink and orange horizon was a beautiful scene to witness, every evening the picture was just a little different from the last.

He took a sip of rum straight from the bottle as he laid on the beach, letting the dark brown ichor invigorate him. It had been a fruitful day out on the water, his days consisted of fishing for a few hours before retiring to the town and getting dinner with a few locals or getting drunk on the beach. The people here had been distrustful of him at first, but after a week or so he had earned their affection. They were aware something about him was different, mysterious figures showing up with no explanation were always the subjects of whispers over supper. But he was well-liked, and considered good company. Contrary to what most would assume, he was here with no ill intent. After the Sith Empire fell he had went on a mission to search for his brother, which had proved to be a fruitless journey. His brother would not be found until he wanted to be found. So Lark instead retired here, a tranquil cove where he could clear his mind and just think about everything that had happened to him, everything that he had done. Traditional fishing rods weren't the most effective method of gathering native saltfish, but it was the most relaxing. Feeling the gentle waves lap against the fishing boat was one of those small memories one never really forgets.

And after a few dozen fishing trips, Lark had discovered there was quite a lot he regretted. Choices he had made that kept him up at night. Decisions he made without the influence of the Dark Side. Once, his goal was to be the last one standing when the galaxy fell to ruin. And then his family was reintroduced into his life. When the Sith fell, as he predicted they would, the one pillar he believed in proved to be untrue. Lark had turned himself into a weapon for those beasts. Now that they were gone, he felt... relief.

Maybe I'll just stay here forever. There were certainly worse places to spend a lifetime. Part of Lark had always wanted to live a simple life. To have a daily routine that blended together but never grew tiresome, to have steady friends and loved ones he could spend his evenings with. The sun might not be good for his skin, but perhaps he could live here for the rest of his days. If fishing ever grew old, perhaps he could take up diving. Explore a world nearly as unknown as the cosmos. Maybe this little cove could be his home.

He finished his rum, and left the beach to go to bed. A few hours later, the storm came.

Many storms could be predicted, even among this small community. But nature was a fickle creature. Waves the size of buildings and gales as powerful as starship engines ravaged the little inlet. Lark was up from his mattress in a moment, and dashed towards the shore as quick as he could. Those who lived closest to the beach her already neck-deep in the dark water, being dragged into a murky, cold fate. Buildings were torn from their foundations and swallowed by the sea. The town was built to withstand storms, but not tempests such as this. The wind wailed and the thunder screamed as though the sky itself was writing in pain. Lark knew the people were doomed unless he did something. They had accepted him into their home, it was his duty to save whatever he could. Reaching out with the invisible hands of the Force, he plucked those that were drowning out from those aphotic depths of the ocean. Lost buildings could be rebuilt, but lost people could only be mourned. This wasn't redemption, nothing ever would be. But it was right, and that was at least a step in the proper direction.

When Lark had gotten everyone back on what was left of the shore, he commanded them to retreat to higher ground. Normally soft-spoken, like the whisper of a mouse, his voice roared over that of the waves and the wind. The people listened, gathering themselves and running towards safety. Lark stayed behind, prepared to combat to storm. Every moment he was able to hold it back was another moment that gave the locals the chance to escape this chaos. The waves crashed against an ethereal wall, though they continued to rage and assault against Lark. He extended his arms as lightning illuminated the night sky, trying to gather as much concentration as he could. For a brief moment, Lark and the wrath of the ocean were at a stalemate. He turned and saw that the denizens had all began to ascend the trail that led to higher ground, and then his balance faltered.

He didn't see the dark water crash upon him, but he did hear it. It was a roar more horrifying than the most nightmarish monster. How could something so natural sound so ghastly? He projected a Force Barrier around himself, but that too soon broke and left him spinning underwater. The currents played with him as though he was little more than a toy soldier, throwing him back and forth and up and down until he know longer knew which way led towards safety. The Force allowed him to control his breath well, and as he whirled around those dark depths he caught a glimpse of moonlight. Lark followed that light towards the surface, he knew not how deep he was nor how long it took him to ascend. But after an eternity he found himself gasping for air a hundred meters away from the trail that led towards higher ground.

The swim back pitted Lark's rage and willpower against the storm. Finally, he had found a place that he could spend his life, only to have it taken away from him. Perhaps this was nature imposing retribution against him for everything he had done. But he would not succumb to the will of nature so easily. Once he got back to shore, he'd rebuild this new home. He would ensure that those that treated him with such kindness lived the most dreamlike lives imaginable.

After what felt like an eternity of swimming, Lark made it to the trail. The water curled around the path that led towards higher ground. The waves subsided, each one was a bot smaller than the last. But the rain continued to fall. Lark stood, a bit shaky after the endeavor. Looking back towards the ocean that was much closer than anyone ever hoped it would be, Lark noticed a bit of red dripping into the black water.

He looked down, and saw a piece of metal rebar sticking through his chest.

Oh, he thought simply. It must have been debris from one of the buildings that struck him as he swam back to the shore. Lark stumbled to the ground, clutching at the piece of metal that impaled him. More blood dripped down his cheek, he felt the sting of another deep gash along the side of his head. The voices of the residents were nearby, if he could just reach them maybe they could help him. He tried to stand, but his vision had grown fuzzy and he couldn't feel his limbs.

Lark fell forward, landing face first in cold mud. He should have died once before, and he knew that if the universe had it's way he would die here. But Lark fought anyways. I'm not done. His nails grasped wet twigs and damp soil, chaffed skin cracking as he pulled himself forward. The pink burns from his childhood that scarred his arms stung, and his ankles were still partly submerged. Nature might try to tear him down, but he'd go down fighting.

Lark found peace in every moment. The moonlight was pretty, and the water was comforting. He could hear concern in the murmurs of his village.

I'm...not...done.

Nida Perl

 

[Nida Perl]

You are not done.

A whisper would agree, scattered as the wind in his mind.

Nida made it to the small seaside town after several hours of travel on foot. She'd taken refuge for the night at a tiny village, leaving shortly after news of the storm made its way further inland. There will be damage, instinct told her. There may be people injured, and without food or shelter. She should go.

By the time she had arrived, some of the villagers had gathered in a semi-circle towards the shore. On the ground, there lay a body. Nida picked up her feet, pushing through the mud and sand as the viscous earth tried to suck her boots in. When she pressed her way through the crowd, she did not pause even though her heart stopped. It was a doctor's muscle memory that kept her moving.

Her hands pressed to Lark's chest, palms on either side of the debris protruding from his torso. Her senses extended into his body, sinking into his chest, evaluating the eviscerated tissue, the punctured blood vessels, the angle of impalement. A swift, calculated decision was made.

"Roll him onto his side."

Her voice was soft, and it carried a note of urgent authority. The villagers complied, and Nida braced one hand against Lark's chest, the other wrapping tightly around the metal spike. She was terrified that he would die, a thought that both surprised and confused her—

—and it hadn't even reached the surface yet.

Lark

 

[Lark]

Lark's body lay cold and broken on the surface of what was left of the village. Oddly enough, despite the pain of having a metal bar sticking through his chest, there was a part of him that was comfortable. The rainwater soothed his phantom burns, and the mud his head rested against felt like the pillow he had as a child. But he also knew the feeling of peace was a warning sign that death was approaching. His body didn't behave in the way his mind wished it would. His breathing was growing laborious and shallow, and he tried to lift his pruned fingers to prevent a bit of blood from flowing out of his body. But his hands just laid in the freezing mire, twitching like a cockroach that had been stepped on but wasn't quite dead.

Common mythologies surrounding death stated that when one was close to passing, their most treasured memories were relived in the moments before they ultimately died. Lark saw those preciously brief moments of happiness with his siblings, and the laughs he shared with the friends he made within the Sith Empire. The feelings of pride he felt when his Masters praised his progress. Moments that seemed so simple at the time, but were truly the ones that were worth living for. He tried to fight them away as best he could, for he would not succumb to the will of the universe. Lark may lay cold and broken. But he held onto his life with an almost religious fervor.

But blood loss didn't much care for human emotion. He remembered silly, stupid little jokes he made to help his sister feel safe enough to fall asleep at night. When his brother screamed after his nightmares, Lark remembered comforting him. Telling him that everything was ok, nothing would hurt him as long as his family was there.

Those were the best of times. Lark remembered everything else he had done too. Once, he had just wanted to make his family happy.

What have I become?

The concerned voices of the villagers drew closer, but one voice stood out amongst the hubbub. Another happy memory, he thought idly, recollecting the moments he and Nida shared with one another. Whenever they were together there was always something troubling one of them, but Lark thought that through all the horror they kept each other a little sane. Then her hands were placed against his chest, and suddenly she was more than a memory. "Nida," Lark whispered, followed by a slight cough that splattered of misty blood on his face. "Are you real?"

Beneath the endless home of stars, Lark's life continued to fade drop by drop. His vision was fuzzy and he felt light-headed, the same sensation one felt when wine went to their head. Nearby villagers complied with Nida's command and rolled Lark over on his side, he couldn't of resisted even if he wanted to. He was grateful for the movement, if he did pass away at least his final moments would be spent with someone he cared for.

His blood pooled on the cold ground, mixing with wet soil to create a gummy soup of viscera and mud. Time was running out. Perhaps as resolute as one could be on death's doorstep, Lark's eyes glowed with steely determination. "It's alright," he said softly over the light drops of rain, the storm's curtain call. "Do whatever you need too."

Nida Perl