Private The Space Between Then and Now

[Danger Arceneau]

Voss-Ka
V O S S

​

The medbay was quiet, save for the soft, rhythmic pulse of the monitors. Voss light poured through the high, latticed windows in muted gold, carrying the hush of the sacred halls beyond.

Danger slipped in without a sound, her heel clicking only once before she let the toe of her shoe take the weight. Lysander von Ascania was still asleep, stretched out under crisp white sheets, the harsh edge of injury blunted now to something softer, steadier. Beside him, in a chair clearly dragged close for the purpose, Sibylla Abrantes had surrendered to her own exhaustion, head tilted at an awkward angle, her hand clasped lightly against his bandaged one.

The sight caught her off guard in a quiet way. Memory stirred of the past, of Myra in a room not unlike this, years past, when she and Alric had come to Voss chasing a hope they didn't dare name out loud. Now, she'd brought these two here for the same reason. Not the Force, not faith, but the certainty that Voss medicine and a change of air could do what other places could not.

A small smile ghosted across her lips. She could rouse the girl, point her to the more comfortable bed prepared in the next room. But she knew the answer already, from the first time she met the young woman, anxious and desperate to see Lysander, that Sibylla Abrantes was the sort of girl who would only tighten her grip and stay put once she set her mind to it.

So Danger let them be. Let the boy have his rest, the girl her vigil. She took in the scene one last time, the warm spill of afternoon light over youth and resilience, and felt the coil of worry in her chest loosen.

Time was what he needed now. And time, she reckoned, was the one thing she could afford to give them both.

~ } | * | { ~​

The room was quiet but for the soft rhythm of Lysander's breathing, the faint warm light of Voss's sun pouring in from the large window overlooking the scarlet trees and the surrounding mountain ranges of Voss-ka. In the chair pulled close beside his bed, Sibylla had fallen asleep, her fingers still curled gently around his bandaged hand as if afraid to let go.

She was far from the polished image of a Daughter of Abrantes. Loose strands had slipped from the woven braids that led to a singular thick plait over her shoulder, framing a heartshaped face scrubbed free of artifice, the faint shadows beneath her eyes speaking of too many sleepless hours. The bright silks and jeweled pins of court were nowhere to be seen, and instead, she wore a rumpled dark green asymmetrical hooded sweater over a charcoal tunic and trousers, clothes chosen for function, though the fine weave of the fabric and supple leather still hinted at quiet luxury.

Her mused, tousled head rested half turned against her own shoulder, the side of the mattress serving as her pillow. Each slow rise and fall of her chest was a sign that exhaustion had claimed her at last. She had not left him since they brought her in to see him, refusing to move until she could see him open his eyes again, until she could find in them the recognition she had feared, in those frantic hours, might be lost forever.

For now, he was here. Breathing. Warm beneath her touch. And that was enough to let her rest, her grip on his hand keeping that silent promise that she would still be there when he woke.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Sibylla Abrantes​

Lysander's eyelids stirred; it wasn't to greet the light, but a silhouette beside him. Sibylla, in devotion, with her head nestled near his arm. His awakening was slow, like a resurrection from the depths of some abyss.

Broken memories of Ruusan followed.

Several beats passed before his consciousness finally anchored. Instinctively, his fingers curled around the softness of her, a certainty far more ethereal than sleep.

First, he glimpsed her hair, cascading into what could've been a halo around a sleeping face, untouched by any facade. Such a sight made the teen question whether this was just another dream, seemingly no less fragile than the last. There was an ache within, a combination of longing and gratitude, along with desire, and finally the sting of guilt.

He could feel ghosts of the past once more, worried that scars had been left by his own doing, by his own actions.

There was another feeling beneath Lysander's surface, something gnawing, an enigmatic force that swelled inside, untamed. It was a pulse far more potent than anything he had ever tasted through the dark arts, and indeed.. equally dangerous and wild, in the depths of his heart.

A boyish smile unfurled at the corners of his mouth; this one was unguarded, barely a twitch, yet more real than anything he'd worn in years, something only she could awaken, along the trajectory of his unforgiving path.

And so he dared to stay silent, afraid to ruin this rare blessing. His head turned slowly, just enough, now feeling a strain from muscles not yet fully healed. With another exhale, his fingers shifted, brushing hers with the barest of grazes, a whispered promise.

During the hush, he pondered how long she had been there, and why the thought of her departure carved deeper than any wound earned in the Kaggath, why it felt heavier than death itself.

Vulnerability was no stranger to him, etched through so many moments of longing for the one next to him now.. yet this registered differently, like a freshly sharpened dagger.

In the moments that followed, it was impossible not to steal a glance at her, a map, in truth, he had forgotten, even though they had shared a recent Holocall across the millions of stars that once separated them.
Memories surfaced. There were many of Naboo, before the choice was made to leave for the Outer Rim.

Before Mandalorians exploited weakness in the Mid Rim.

Two weeks before they met.

Once overwhelmed by them all, he returned to closing his eyes, unsure how to grapple with so many emotions at once. So instead, he chose to feign sleep.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

There, his breathing found a rhythm, steady, mirroring that of the young woman from Dee’ja Peak.

It was a song he had never known to exist until now.

Never before had he felt such harmony.

Peace.

..A violation against the first tenet of his code.

But curiosity, a trait the Loth-cat side of him had never quite mastered, began tugging. Seconds later, a single eye cracked open, secretly peeking.

Strange it was, the effects soothing, but still somehow ridiculous. After all, he was a Sith, and with that came the hardened reality of war, betrayal, and the bottomless pits of darkness foreign to most. Nevertheless, here he was, a fool by nature, glancing at someone still asleep.

Even with that acknowledgement, Lysander knew he would not trade this moment for all the power in the galaxy.

At last, his hand crept beneath hers, welcoming her palm, as if it had always belonged there. The other followed so that he could cradle her in warmth. Between intertwined fingers, something unspoken bloomed, a fragile thing, born from the ashes of a near death experience.

Three syllables with reverence danced from his tongue.

A name he was reluctant to admit still lingered, a forbidden fruit that he couldn't help but taste.

Sibylla.

A trembling breath floated, a weakness unmasked, and Lysander brought her hand to his face, his lips caressing her knuckles with a tenderness unknown to him until now.

Such was a wordless gesture, a vow that could've been painted from countless abstractions.

Perhaps, it was a way of apologizing for any pain he may have caused.

Or, in a space between then and now, it was his way of saying thank you for being there.

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

Lysander von Ascania
​

Sibylla's breath caught before she even knew why.

One moment, she was sinking into a heavy stillness, exhausted both physically and emotionally, her head tipped against her arm, the steady sound of Lysander's breathing pulling her under. The next, the brush of warmth against her hand and the faintest pressure at her knuckles yanked her up from the dark like a jolt.

She took a sharp, inhale of breath, startled, her eyes snapping wide open as her dark head lifted fast to look around, heart pounding in the space between confusion and alarm as she blinked rapidly.

For a moment, she didn't know where she was. The warm amber light from the arched windows, the sweet scent of Bacta synth patches, and the slight hum of the biometric monitors all swam together until she blinked it into place.

She was a mess. The braided crown was a mused tousled mess, a bright pressure spot on one cheek where she'd been sleeping, and a face flushed and slightly swollen in slumber. One blink, two, and then her hazel eyes finally blinked away the haze of sleep to lock upon the pale, yet still bruised face of the one that she'd been desperate to see for too long.

"Lysander."

The name thundered in her mind and was uttered unknowingly in a strained half whisper. Her whole body went still, afraid that if she moved too quickly, the vision before her might dissolve. He was awake. Those green eyes looking at her.

Oh, blessed Shiraya, let this not be a dream.

Her lip began to tremble, eyes began to smart, and then the dam she'd been holding back since the moment she found him broke -- relief, fear, gratitude, all tangled in one breath that shook on its way out. She pushed up from the chair before she could think, the awkward angle of his still bound hand between them forgotten, and wrapped her arm around him in a fierce, ungraceful hug.

"Oh, thank Shiraya, you're awake," she uttered in a trembling voice, the words breaking as they left her. She didn't notice if she'd squeezed too tightly, didn't trust herself to let go just yet. Not when he was here, real and breathing and alive. Not when she'd been so worried and afraid and utterly lost as seeing the extent of his injuries and just what that would mean. And if he would truly, really, forget her because of it.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Sibylla Abrantes ​

The Sith’s gaze sharpened the very moment he caught sight of Sibylla's reaction, a familiar flicker he had seen countless times in his years of causing chaos. These were expressions he could now decipher like an ancient Holocron, the difference between surprise with joy and that which carried confusion or worse.

Fortunately, he believed it to be the former.

When a name was whispered, his own breath hitched, voice caught in an emotional tremor. "Sibylla." An utterance slipped out softly, unguarded, betraying the many nights he had spent bleeding emotionally on Korriban.

Typically, hearing the name Shiraya, or anything of that Order, would leave a burning pang twisting like a vibroshiv in his stomach.. a wound that could not heal. But in this moment, in this reunion, he swallowed that bitterness, for any negative emotion became an unwelcome guest.

Lysander's ribs protested, a bite through his entire being, when arms instinctively clung to him. But it wasn't enough to stop him from tightening his own hold, threading his arms around her frame.

A soft sigh slipped into the space between them as he melted fully into Sibylla’s embrace, pressing a cheek into the hollow of her shoulder. Digits gently curled at the hem of the Junior Representative’s sweater, pulling her just a little closer, afraid the smallest gap might break the bond.

And for a moment, he too allowed the ache to rise and take him, no longer suppressing the quiet desperation that resided within.

Then, a tear began tracing a path along the contour of his youthful visage, speaking volumes of an internal battle no one else could see.

Bandaged hands drifted slowly to the nape of her neck, the touch sacred as a promise, absorbing all the light she radiated.

Against the sweep of her hair, he murmured, "You're exactly where I want to be."

Every word was real.

Now, they also carried depth never felt before.

He pulled away just enough to see her face up close, inches apart. And when he searched her hazel eyes, it was with reverence, recognizing the Sibylla he now knew, without a doubt, was truly the same one he had seen in the Holocall, the one from the auction on New Cov, the same girl he had met in the Theed Royal Palace.

The one believed to have been lost forever.

"I missed you,” Lysander whispered, jaw clenching softly. “More than I can explain. Every single day that passed. Even when I was drowning. Even when I tried convincing myself I didn't need anyone. You were the reason I kept breathing.”