Private Zinflix and Chill

[Varin Mortifer]

It itched, the eyepatch over his missing eye. It had been a couple of weeks since he had lost it, and the healing process was tedious as well as getting used to the blackness of one side of his vision. But the one thing that bothered him the most was the itch. What always followed was a slight burn of discomfort. He had cleaned it thoroughly and kept replacing the bandages so it could not have gotten infected, in fact it was possible due to his nature he could not suffer infections.

So what was it then?

His ship had finally landed on Malachor and he looked back at the pig sty that was his interior and living space at times when leaving Korriban. This served as his second home. The ship jostled slightly as the landing gear deployed. The landing was smooth and practiced,he had finally started understanding how landing properly worked and it showed.

Removing his belts and restraints from the seat he stood up and walked to his bathing chamber and lifted the patch. A hollow hole stared back, empty and devoid of anything. He pulled off the patch and replaced it with another one. From black to a more charcoal gray.

It’s looking better, boy. Clean and well taken care of.

Ignati spoke softly to him, but he knew Varin felt like something of himself was now missing. He had started to feel whole again after everything, only to have something else ripped away from him.

Varin didn’t respond to him, he looked at himself in the mirror and sighed deeply. Running his hand through his hair to pull it back some only for it to fall back into place again.

He spoke quietly.

“I look like a mess, Ignati.”

He looked at the scared claw marks across his socket remembering the feeling. The pain, the weakness. Then he remembered…her, the way she kept ahold of him. The way she stayed with him. And the fact that when he woke up a couple days later, she was still there. Waiting for him. A slight smile came to his face. All he dreamt of was her speaking to him while he was unconscious on his bed.

I don’t think she cares how you look, boy. I saw the way she looked at you as you laid bleeding on your sheets. And even before that you were hard to look at.

A slight chuckle left both Varin and Ignati as he finished up and walked to his bag. Full of all things he thought proper for a special night. Some holodramas to watch and some other treats.

“Let’s hope so.”

Varin picked up the bag and headed towards the unloading ramp as it opened. The familiar whispers and breeze from the planet, greeting him yet again. This time not for tests or business. But for an acquaintance. A very close acquaintance.

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren felt the shift before she heard the ship.

Malachor always announced arrivals differently. The air changed first, a subtle tightening in the Force, like a held breath finally released. She straightened from where she had been seated near the open stone archway, one hand resting lightly against the weathered surface beside her as the familiar presence resolved itself from distance into certainty.

Varin.

She did not immediately move to meet the ramp. Seren had learned that some moments needed space to arrive properly.

When he did step down, she took him in without disguise or apology. The new line of his silhouette. The way his balance compensated without conscious thought. The eyepatch, charcoal instead of black, sitting where something irreplaceable had once been. She did not let her gaze linger on the wound itself, but neither did she avoid it.

Her expression did not change.

"You landed cleanly," she said, her voice calm, grounded, carrying easily across the stone. "That was not always the case."

It was not a tease. It was an acknowledgment.

She stepped closer then, stopping at a distance that respected both his space and the quiet gravity of the moment. The wind tugged lightly at her hair, carrying Malachor's low whispering around them.

"You feel… different," Seren continued, eyes steady on his. "Not diminished. Just altered. Like a structure that survived a collapse and learned where the weight truly rests."

She lifted her hand, hesitated only a fraction, then rested it briefly against his forearm. Grounding. Present. Real.

"If you are wondering whether I see what was taken," she said quietly, "I do."

Her thumb pressed once, firm and deliberate.

"And if you are wondering whether it changes how I look at you," Seren added, meeting his gaze without flinching, "it does not."

A pause. Not heavy. Not fragile.

"You are here because you chose to be," she finished. "Not because you were tested. Not because you were sent. That matters."

She glanced toward the path leading inward, toward warmth and shelter, then back to him.

"Come," Seren said simply. "You did not cross half the galaxy to stand alone on a landing pad."

And with that, she turned just enough to invite him to walk beside her, not ahead, not behind.

Varin Mortifer

 

[Varin Mortifer]

He watched her approach and noticed the flick of her gaze into where his eye had been before. He didn’t try to hide it, she had seen the worst of it. He slung the pack over his shoulder, the weight sitting comfortably on his shoulder. Then a smirk came to his face.

“When you survive the amount of crashes I have, you tend to learn how to either land eventually or to keep your body loose. Less likely to break a limb, depending on certain variables of course.”

He knew she was not making a joke, but in his own awkward way he spun it as one. He then watched her lift her hand and hesitate. His eye falling to her hand before it rested on his arm, the warmth of his skin and the feel of her hand brought to him a sense of familiarity and belonging. He did not shy away from it.

“I had learned a lot about everyone that night. Including Ignati. It's been strange, like he has been babying me, watching after me like I'm a pup. He’s never been like that. I don’t regret what happened that night.”

He looked at her.

“And I am thankful that you had stayed.”

He followed beside her across the familiar landscape, the slight chill as the breeze blew was like a drop of freezing water, slipping down his spine, sending a shiver up his shoulders. The cold had somewhat stayed with him since that night. Every now and then he would have a shiver that ran up his back. The needle scars from his armor would ache more than anything else along his spine in the cold.

His arm slowly locked with hers as they walked, keeping her pace. His gaze for some reason stayed towards the ground. Almost as if in light contemplation or just a slight distraction. His walking gate was a bit more careful than before, not quite as confident, more hesitant in his steps. His balance was also a bit off and every now and then he would turn his head a bit more to see where he was going.

It was something he was still getting used to.

“He has also been more keen on giving me my own space and time. I don’t know if it's because he feels sorry for me or something else.”

He looked at their locked arms, and a gentle sigh left him. That feeling of not being whole for a moment had lifted once he had seen her. It was strange to him. He had never felt that before.

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren noticed the flick of his gaze downward, the care in his steps, the way his balance corrected a fraction later than it once would have. She did not comment on any of it. Instead, when his arm linked with hers, she adjusted her pace without thinking, letting the rhythm settle somewhere comfortable between them.

When he spoke about Ignati, she listened, really listened, her thumb resting lightly against his sleeve as if to keep him oriented to the present.

"Fear does strange things to people who care," Seren said quietly. "It doesn't always look like fear. Sometimes it looks like watchfulness. Sometimes, like restraint."

Her gaze stayed forward as they walked, attentive to the ground ahead so he would not have to constantly overcorrect.

"I don't think it's pity," she added after a moment. "I think it's trust learning a new shape."

The chill brushed past them again, and she felt the tension ripple through his arm before he masked it. Without drawing attention to it, she shifted slightly closer, offering steadiness rather than shelter.

When he thanked her, Seren did not deflect it. She did not soften it with humor either.

"There was never a question," she said simply. "You weren't alone. You aren't now."

Her hand remained where it was, firm but unrestrictive, letting him set the pace while quietly supporting it. She did not look at his missing eye again. She did not need to.

"You don't have to hurry here," Seren continued, her voice low and even. "You can relearn the ground one step at a time."

They walked on like that, no urgency between them. Just shared motion, and the quiet understanding that, for now, that was enough.

Varin Mortifer

 

[Varin Mortifer]

“I don’t think He cares for me. More for His own survival. He knows that if I die, so will He. It’s always been like that”

He slowed his pace a bit more after she spoke. Slowing down was new for him, he was always one to just push through. He put his trust in spacial awareness into her as they walked off the landing pad. The planet itself didn’t even seem to be rushing him. The slower gate that he had was bothersome to him, uncomfortable. He wanted to correct it, he wanted to remain in control. But the more he would fight it the more difficult the walk would be, and trusting her just seemed…right. Like he knew she would not lead him astray. It wasn’t his first time testing out his trust with her, each test of trust he would give seemed to give way easier than the last.

“I guess I’m still getting used to that, being around someone else. The past week or so had been a bit-”

He paused for a moment.

“Difficult for me. The room seems more open. Empty, more accurately. Even Sinew waits on the top of the steps sometimes.”

His hand slid down her arm slowly as his fingers wrapped into hers. As they continued to walk they passed what looked to be older buildings in the distance and into the streets of a silent town. Her living quarters came to view in the distance. He could see the garden they worked on was coming along nicely. Things were definitely growing and taking root, hearty plants for a rough planet. It was always difficult to garden, but doing so on a planet like Malachor took more patience than most.

“I see the garden is looking quite healthy.”

His gaze found hers and he offered a soft smile.

“Malachor has been treating it well, I see.”

He shifted the pack on his shoulder. The sound of some small loose items shifted inside, clattering about. Though Varin didn’t seem to mind the noise. Some things did tend to break during travels. That was just the nature of things.

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren listened without interrupting, letting his words settle before she answered. When she did speak, her tone was steady, unhurried, matching the pace she had quietly set for them both.

"He may have started there," she said softly. "Survival has a way of disguising itself as obligation. But it rarely stays that simple for long."

She did not challenge his understanding of Ignati, only widened it slightly, leaving room for time to do the rest.

When his pace slowed further, she adjusted again without comment, her steps deliberate, her presence consistent. The trust he placed in her did not go unnoticed. It was not something she took lightly.

"Control doesn't disappear just because you move slower," Seren continued. "Sometimes it changes form. Sometimes it becomes a choice instead of a force."

Her fingers closed more fully around his when his hand slid into hers, a quiet reassurance rather than an anchor.

At his mention of the room and the silence, her gaze softened. She did not rush to fill it.

"Empty spaces can feel louder than crowded ones," she said. "Especially when you are used to living with constant presence. It takes time for quiet to stop feeling like absence."

As the garden came into view, she allowed herself a small, genuine smile.

"It's stubborn soil," Seren replied, glancing toward the greenery. "But so are the things that grow best here. You don't force Malachor to give anything. You listen, adapt, and wait."

Her eyes returned to him, calm and certain.

"You're doing the same," she added. "Even if it doesn't feel like it yet."

They continued forward together, the quiet town and the steady garden bearing witness to a rhythm that did not need to be hurried.

Varin Mortifer

 

[Varin Mortifer]

The mention of Ignati possibly showing care drew a curious arch on his brow. The thought of him caring for Varin for nonselfish reasons seemed far fetched…but not impossible.

“I suppose that may be true. Or at least possible to a degree. It still raises a suspicion, maybe he thinks I need to be coddled after being wounded, perhaps it's a distrust? It could be many things.”

He fell quiet after she read his feeling of lack of control. Like she could read him like a book. He took a slow breath.

“It's that noticeable huh?”

He smiled at her.

“Taking a slower pace has been a chore lately. It feels like it takes ages to get to where I want or need to be. I'm sure I would have gotten here earlier as well.”

He stopped just outside the garden, admiring the small plants that had taken root.

“Silence is deafening at times, but I'm happy to see you again.”

He knelt down checking the leaves of some of the rooted plants, checking for any possible pests or evidence of something smaller.

“Surprisingly these are very clean. One day we may even get a tree growing in here for you. Make all of the neighbors jealous.”

He looked at her with a smart smirk.

“I feel you give me too much credit. Sometimes vines need something to cling to to continue healthy growth. Or they rot. I feel I would have rotted a long time ago.”

He stood up, standing before her, his arm slowly wrapping around her waist gently pulling her close.

“However. A great Gardner knows how to care for all of their plants.”

He smiled before his eyes widened for a split second like a lightbulb flicked on in his head.

“Oh! I brought some things that may be a bit of fun for us tonight. I can either tell you what it is or keep it a surprise.”

His heart pounded with nervousness. He had heard this was how you were supposed to announce surprises but he felt her had done it wrong.

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren listened without interrupting, letting him work through the uncertainty rather than trying to resolve it for him. When he knelt by the garden, she remained standing for a moment, watching the careful way he checked the leaves, the patience he gave to something small and living. Only when he stood again did she move closer.

"It is noticeable," she said gently, not unkind, not clinical. "But only to someone paying attention."

Her hand rested lightly on his forearm before his arm found her waist, accepting the closeness without hesitation. She did not pull him tighter, but she did not step away either.

"Losing control does not mean losing yourself," Seren continued, voice calm and steady. "It means you are learning where it no longer serves you to fight every step."

Her gaze flicked briefly to the garden again, then back to him.

"Silence feels louder when you are used to filling it with motion," she added. "But it does not mean you are alone in it."

When he spoke about rotting, her brow knit just slightly, not in disagreement but in quiet correction.

"You did not rot," she said simply. "You adapted. That is not the same thing."

There was something warmer now in her expression, something unguarded but still restrained.

"And gardeners do not only tend what is easy to grow," Seren added. "They learn the soil, the weather, the seasons. They work with what is there, not what they wish it to be."

At his sudden shift in tone, the lightness about surprises, a faint smile curved at her lips. Not teasing, not indulgent. Curious.

"A surprise," she repeated, considering it for a moment. "Then keep it one."

She tipped her head slightly, meeting his nervous energy with quiet reassurance.

"We are not in a hurry tonight," Seren said softly. "Whatever you brought can wait until you are ready to share it."

Her hand rested more securely at his side, grounding rather than claiming.

"And for what it is worth," she added, voice lower now, "I am glad you came. At this pace. As you are."

Varin Mortifer

 

[Varin Mortifer]

“Being here as I am, is really the only thing I can offer. I may not have much, but I do have sincerity.”

He gently placed his hand over hers at her side. A slight phantom pain pulsed from the scar from where he had been stabbed before, but he let the feeling wash away into obscurity, distracted by the way she looked at him and the assurance that she accepted him for him. He did not have to pretend to be someone else.

“I didn’t mean to make it seem I was in a hurry for the night.”

A nervous chuckle left him.

“The surprise definitely has to wait till later tonight at least.”

He looked back at the rough soil beneath them, the hearty plants that were flourishing, growing. Simply living in what would have been determined an inhospitable land.

“I suppose you are right. A successful garden comes from caretakers who know the area in detail. The weather, temperatures, moisture and soil. Sometimes even the ground must be burned to repopulate nourishment. Perhaps I could be in that phase?”

He looked back at her. The look of his face told a different story from his eyes. His face would say that he was happy, and though he was; his eyes would paint the picture of exhaustion. The back and forth nature of missions, academies and travel in general was weighing a bit over him. Normally he was lucky to get a few hours of sleep before he was off doing something again.

But that was the nature of his lifestyle now. Sometimes though he would allow himself a moment of respite, this visit was that moment for him. A small bit of time to reset and enjoy the company of someone he held in close regard.

“When you repair a sword you have to melt it down and start over. You can’t just put the two pieces of the blade together and weld them, you have a permanent weak point.”

His fingers gently closed over her hand.

“You have to remold it, hammer it back to shape, heat it, beat it, reforge, measure and hammer again. Then finally quenched in oil to finalize the blade and improve the hardness.”

He looked her in the eyes.

“You sometimes have to be broken down completely and rebuilt to become stronger. Normally when you were not even built right in the first place.”

It was the best way he could explain how his life was going at the moment. Right now, he was in a quick quench. Cooling off from the beating that had happened, waiting for the beating to continue until he can take his final shape.

“Some projects though, take longer than others.”

His thumb rubbed over her hand.

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren did not withdraw her hand when his fingers closed over hers. Instead, she adjusted her grip in a way that was almost imperceptible, not tightening, not claiming, but steadying, as though she were offering him something to brace against while the weight of his words settled. She listened without interruption, as she always did when someone spoke from a place that mattered rather than from habit or performance.

When he finished, she drew a slow breath, her gaze drifting briefly toward the garden before returning to him, thoughtful rather than distant, grounded rather than guarded.

"Sincerity is not a small offering," she said at last, her voice even and unhurried, "especially in lives where most people learn very early to substitute it with polish, efficiency, or noise and convince themselves those things are enough."

Her thumb brushed lightly across the back of his hand, the contact deliberate rather than absent, as though she were anchoring the moment as much as him.

"You are not rushing this evening," Seren continued, her tone calm but assured, "you are carrying exhaustion that has not yet been given permission to surface, and those two states often get mistaken for one another."

She looked again at the soil beneath their feet, at the stubborn green pushing through ground that had never promised it anything.

"When a field is burned, it does not mean it failed to grow," she said quietly, "it means the old growth could no longer support what needed to come next, and clearing it was the only way forward."

Her eyes lifted to his, steady and unflinching, holding no judgment.

"You are not unfinished because something in you is being reforged," she added, her voice firm but gentle, "and you are not diminished simply because this part of the process hurts more than the others."

At his metaphor of the sword, understanding crossed her features, not surprise but recognition, as though he had finally given shape to something she had already sensed.

"Quenching is not rest," Seren said, her tone measured, reflective, "it is restraint, a deliberate pause that allows the blade to hold its form rather than fracture under the next strike."

Her voice softened, not weakening, but deepening.

"You do not need to decide what you will become tonight," she told him, meeting his gaze without wavering, "you only need to remain intact enough to continue, and to recognize that continuation itself is not failure."

Her hand remained in his, steady and grounding, neither pulling him closer nor stepping away.

"Some projects do take longer," she agreed, the faintest edge of warmth entering her voice, "and that time is not a flaw in their design, but proof that they were meant to endure."

She held his gaze, allowing the silence to settle naturally rather than rushing to fill it.

"And you are allowed to set the hammer down for a while," Seren finished, quietly but without doubt "especially here, where nothing is demanding that you be anything other than present."

Varin Mortifer

 

[Varin Mortifer]

Varin fell quiet as she spoke, not absent but very present. Taking in each word she spoke, each truth she read of him, each bit of information pricking into his body like javelins. Though they did not hurt, the evidence of thrust was there. Peeling away bit by bit of what his mind would race while he was suffering in the quiet. Only when he spoke to her could he truly process things of himself and what was happening. The mind and its nature were very complex and fragile things. To pick it apart and understand it would take a lifetime, and beyond.

He gave her a soft nod as he looked at the dirt and took in a deep slow breath.

Then it all hit him at the same time. The exhaustion. It was like his body was just ready to rest. But he kept himself up, whether it were by stubbornness or instinct he did not know.

“A place of rest. Every smith and gardner knows when to rest and recharge themselves to continue their work effectively.”

The cool wind of the planet breezed past them, rustling the leaves within the garden, breathing sound and life around them.

“Perhaps I can set the hammer down for a bit. Let the work breathe for a moment.”

He gave her a soft smile, before a soft shiver ran up his spine from the passing breeze. He wanted to pull her closer to him and hold her to himself for just a moment at least, but his body struggled to follow through with it. A slight nervousness still bubbling from within him. The whole thing was still new to him and he had never truly known how to properly show affection.

He also was unaware of such feelings to one person, the whole thing was a combination of confusion to him. Attachment or was it possession? It was certainly not his meaning to feel as though he owned her. He just felt a rare comfort around her. More comfort than he felt with anyone else.

He stared into her eyes for a bit longer, almost lost.

“I…uh…”

His words were caught in his throat, refusing to come out. He felt as if he froze for eternity when it was only a split second.

“Do we want to get out of the cold breeze?”

He blinked. His eye looked at the soil then back at her as he gave her a small smile. He didn’t think that was the right thing to say at the moment, but it was a bit too late for that now. His hand gently tightened over hers.

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren did not pull her hand away when his tightened slightly. If anything, she adjusted her grip just enough to make it clear she was steady there, present, not startled by the hesitation or the imperfect wording.

"You are not wrong," she said softly, her voice carrying the same unhurried cadence she used when explaining difficult truths. "Even the most dedicated smith will ruin the blade if they never let the metal cool, and even the hardiest soil will fail if it is never allowed to settle. Rest is not surrender. It is part of the craft."

She shifted a half step closer, not pressing, simply aligning herself with him so the wind cut around them instead of through him. It was a small adjustment, instinctive, but deliberate.

"You have been carrying too much heat for too long," Seren continued, her gaze steady and unjudging as it met his. "Not just in your body, but in your mind. That kind of exhaustion does not announce itself politely. It waits until you finally stop pushing, and then it asks to be acknowledged."

There was no amusement when she responded to his awkward question, only a gentle warmth that softened her expression.

"Yes," she replied simply. "I think getting out of the cold would be wise. Not because you are weak, but because you have already proven you are not."

Her thumb brushed lightly against the back of his hand, a quiet reassurance rather than a demand.

"You do not have to know how to name what you are feeling yet," Seren added, her tone calm and unpressing. "You do not have to force it into shape or meaning. Comfort does not always arrive with instructions, and trust rarely announces itself before it is already there."

She turned slightly, inviting movement without pulling him along.

"Come," she said gently. "We will let the garden keep growing on its own for a while, and we will go somewhere warm where the work can breathe and so can you."

She stayed at his pace as they began to move, her presence steady beside him, not guiding, not retreating, simply walking with him as if that alone was enough for now.

Varin Mortifer

 

[Varin Mortifer]

His body slightly tensed when she stepped closer, almost unnoticeable. The sudden movement caught him a bit off guard, but he relaxed once again when he realised what she had motioned for.

“Sometimes it asks to be acknowledged, other times it just kicks down the door, demanding your attention. The demanding version is not very fun to go through.”

Her thumb brushed over his hand, warm and light. A contrast to the chilly atmosphere around them. It was…comforting. The soft touch that he rarely received even before Korriban, was always welcome to him.

“A lot has happened since we last met. A lot of things weighing on my mind, missions and decisions that were made that hold heavy consequences on me.”

He followed with her out of the garden, not before he took one more look at it, taking in how it looked now so he could compare it later. After a few quiet steps beside her he finally spoke again.

“I tried to tell myself that it was a battle, that casualties happen. But what happened on that mission, on Tapani, was not a battle. It was a slaughter.”

He looked at her, an almost mournful look in his eyes. It wasn’t the guards or those who fought back he mourned, but those who were too young to fight back, or those who were not battle hardened, the ones who were cut down as they fled.

“No one was spared.”

He walked with her to the entrance of a cave mouth, a familiar entrance.

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren did not stop when he spoke, but she did slow, just enough that their steps stayed aligned as the garden fell behind them and the stone ahead began to swallow sound. The shift was familiar to him already, the way the air thickened, the way the light dulled, the way the cave began to gather the noise of the world and hold it close. When she answered, her voice was steady, but there was weight in it now, the kind that came from having stood too close to similar truths herself.

"There are moments the Force whispers," she said quietly, "and moments it shatters the frame just to be sure you are listening. Neither is kind, but only one leaves you pretending you were not warned."

Her fingers tightened around his hand, not to restrain him, not to guide, but to anchor him in the present as they walked. She did not look away when he spoke of Tapani. She did not soften her gaze or offer distance where he had offered honesty.

"You are right to name it," Seren continued, her tone calm but unyielding. "Calling a slaughter a battle does not lessen the weight. It only buries it, and buried things rot. You saw the line clearly, and that is why it hurts."

They reached the cave mouth together. She did not announce it. There was no need. He already knew the curve of the stone, the way the temperature evened once you crossed the threshold, the sense of pressure easing rather than tightening. Home did not need an introduction for someone who had already learned its rhythms.

Seren stopped there, turning just enough to see her fully, neither blocking the way nor urging him forward.

"You don't have to brace yourself here," she said quietly. "You already know that."

Her hand tightened for a brief moment, grounding him where he stood.

"What happened on Tapani," she continued after a breath, "was not something the mind can file away under duty or necessity, no matter how many times you tell it that story. When slaughter wears the shape of a mission, it lingers."

She glanced at him then, not searching his face for weakness, but acknowledging what he had already given voice to.

"The grief you carry is not weakness," Seren said. "It is evidence that something in you refused to become smaller just to survive the moment. Many do. You did not."

Her thumb brushed his knuckles again, slow and deliberate.

"Those who were cut down without choice deserve to be remembered truthfully," she added. "Not as acceptable losses. Not as numbers that make strategy easier to live with. They are the reason restraint must exist at all."

The cave breathed around them, stone and shadow steady and unchanged, familiar in its quiet.

"You cannot undo Tapani," Seren said softly. "But you can decide what kind of blade you become afterward. One that swings harder out of guilt, or one that learns where not to strike again."

There was no absolution in her voice, no attempt to take the burden from him. Only companionship in carrying it.

"Come inside," she finished gently. "Not to escape it, but to let your body catch up with what your mind already knows. You have been carrying too much heat for too long."

She did not pull him forward or fill the silence. She simply stayed close, hand in his, offering him the quiet he already trusted, and the choice to step into it when he was ready.

Varin Mortifer

 

[Varin Mortifer]

His hand slowly came up as his missing eye pitched, giving it a gentle rub just enough to ease the discomfort for a bit. The familiar air called to him as she spoke.

He did not interrupt her as she spoke. He absorbed her words, and the lessons that may be attempting to surface. He looked at her again when her fingers tightened around his hand, instinctively his hand tightened slightly as well.

“I am never one to bury truths. I have never been a good liar, funny enough, but you are right. There are things I have held on for too long.”

His eye found hers.

“But I don't know how to drop it, or atone.”

He looked at the entrance of her home, how the natural stone slowly turned into something that was carved, fitted and etched by hand to turn into someone's domicile. The sense of familiarity from seeing it once before after his trial on Malachor, the first time he had met her.

She spoke again and it caught his attention. How he did not need to brace himself. A soft smile appeared on his face.

“A reminder never hurts. Especially when you are used to bracing.”

His gaze shifted to their hands.

“I was taught that grief for your enemies brings weakness and eventually treason. But, they weren't enemies. It has me feeling…conflicted.”

He looked back at her again, a deep sigh leaving him.

“How would you move on from it?

His voice was quiet. Like he was not used to speaking about himself in this manner. But some things refused to be buried regardless. Some truths that are held in tend to burn until it is let out. It was a lesson he was learning the hard way.

He looked at her door and gave her a quick nod before he walked inside with her.

The inside maintained the same scent as before, a scent he could not place but one that seemed to keep him present. The quiet of the home brought a sense of comfort to him as the hearth gave off its gentle hum.

“Perhaps I should bring Sinew again next time?”

He looked around to see if anything had changed.

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren followed him inside without comment, letting the familiar transition settle naturally. The stone closed around them the same way it had before, the temperature evening out, the outside wind muted into something distant and irrelevant. Nothing in the space demanded attention because nothing needed to. That, too, was intentional.

She released his hand only long enough to set her pack aside, then moved to the small shelf near the hearth where bundles of dried plants hung now, newly added since his last visit. Subtle things. Roots, leaves, stems bound with a thin cord, their scents faint but grounding. Evidence of continuation rather than change.

"You're right," she said quietly, answering several of his thoughts at once as she turned back to him. "Nothing here has shifted much. I didn't need it to."

Her gaze lingered on him, attentive, unhurried, and when she spoke again, it was not as a teacher delivering an answer, but as someone choosing her words carefully because the question mattered.

"You were taught that grief weakens because it complicates obedience," Seren said. "It makes people hesitate, and hesitation frightens institutions that depend on certainty. But grief itself is not the fracture. Refusing to look at it is."

She moved closer, not crowding him, simply sharing the same space, the same warmth from the hearth.

"You are conflicted because you recognized their humanity after it was too late to act on it," she continued, her tone steady but gentle. "That does not make you disloyal. It means something in you refused to flatten the world into acceptable targets."

Seren glanced briefly toward the doorway he had just passed through, then back to him.

"As for atonement," she said after a pause, "it is not a thing you drop like a weight, and it is not something you earn through punishment. You move forward by deciding what the knowledge costs you, and paying that cost deliberately rather than endlessly."

Her hand lifted, resting lightly against his forearm, grounding rather than claiming.

"You do not move on by forgetting," Seren added. "You move on by allowing the memory to inform restraint, judgment, and choice without letting it define your worth. That takes time. And practice."

She studied him for a moment longer, then a faint, almost fond softness entered her expression at his last question.

"And yes," she said. "Sinew is always welcome here. She understood this place faster than most."

Her gaze drifted briefly to the herbs again, then back to him.

"If you want," Seren continued, "we can sit for a while. Let your body catch up with everything your mind has been carrying. You don't need to brace here. You already proved that by walking in."

She did not ask him to do anything more than that. She simply stayed, present in the quiet, allowing the space to do what it had already done once before: hold him without demanding anything in return.

Varin Mortifer

 

[Varin Mortifer]

Varin noticed the drying hanging plants after she had pointed them out. The scent that came off them seemed to be what surrounded them. Earthy but not overpowering, relaxing and easy to breathe.

The walls did not echo her words, but they did carry them to him. He listened as she spoke of grief and hesitation. That it can cause hesitation, and its effect on those around them if they were to hesitate.

Varin never learned how to grieve, or mourn. His way of life up to this point did not allow such room within his habits. Casualties were part of battles and wars. But there was a difference between casualties from collateral damage and slaughter. He knew this.

That was when she brought up her next point. Like she was following the track he was unintentionally laying. Confliction. He felt a schism within himself about the whole thing. But what had happened cannot be changed. But she made her point of using that knowledge in the future.

It could be used for atonement. But atonement is more complicated than just using the knowledge to do better. That left him with another question in his mind.

What choice did I have? It was death or slavery for them.

A justification he used to put them down. He knew exactly what the covenant would use them for, and exactly what Nar Shaddaa would use them for as well. It was not a life he would grant them. But still, it ate at him.

She offered him a seat and he glanced at her couch and gave a deep sigh as he set his pack down on the nearby counter and walked towards the couch sitting down.

“I guess, I'm afraid of being too far gone.”

He spoke quietly, his gaze lowering to his hands as he pulled off his gloves.

“And I'm afraid of justifying actions that go against my morals.”

His gaze slowly shifted back to her as he began to ease on the cushion.

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren watched him for another quiet moment before she moved, not rushing the decision, not announcing it. She crossed the small distance and sat beside him on the couch, close enough that the space between them disappeared naturally rather than being claimed. Her knee brushed his, steady and unremarkable, as if it had always belonged there.

She did not speak at first. Instead, she rested her hand on his shoulder, warm and solid, letting the contact exist without asking anything of him. After a breath, her fingers shifted slightly, a gentle pressure meant to ground rather than restrain.

"You're not alone in this," she said quietly, her voice lower now, shaped for proximity rather than distance. "Not in the fear. Not in doubt. And not in the carrying of it."

She leaned just enough that their shoulders touched fully, her presence unmistakable but unintrusive.

"If you were too far gone," Seren continued, "you wouldn't be sitting here wondering whether you still recognize yourself. You wouldn't feel the weight pressing back. You would feel nothing at all."

Her hand slid from his shoulder to his upper arm, thumb tracing a slow, absent line through the fabric there, a small, human gesture that asked nothing in return.

"You don't atone by pretending the choice was clean," she said. "You atone by refusing to let it make the next choice easier. By letting the memory stay sharp enough that you hesitate when hesitation matters."

She turned her head slightly, not searching his face, but letting him know she was there with him rather than watching him.

"Morals aren't proven by never being tested," Seren added softly. "They're proven by what survives after the test has already broken something in you."

Her hand tightened just a fraction, reassuring rather than possessive.

"You are not wrong for feeling this," she finished. "And you don't have to solve it tonight. You can sit with it. You can breathe. You can let yourself be held steady for a while."

She stayed there beside him, knee still touching his, hand still warm on his arm, offering quiet companionship instead of answers, letting the room, the hearth, and her presence do what words no longer needed to.

Varin Mortifer

 

[Varin Mortifer]

He looked at her as she sat beside him, she sat close to him. He didn't mind the contact as her knee touched his, or when her hand traced from his shoulder to his arm, or when she leaned closer to him. He eased into it. Relaxing himself more, bit by bit as she spoke.

His gaze found hers. Silently he nodded to her as he looked at her hand after she had tightened her grip a bit.

“You're right. I don't have to solve it tonight.”

He looked her in the eyes again.

“Apologies, I didn't mean to make this about me.”

He chuckled quietly.

“I guess, I just had a lot more on my mind than I realised. And I just needed-...”

He paused as he looked at her, his voice falling quieter, softer.

“...a moment.”

His hand gently wrapped around hers, giving it a bit of a squeeze. One of acknowledgement. A deep sigh left him as he laid his head back, looking at the ceiling, the soft hum of the hearth giving off a faint hint of white noise.

“But I know what I don't have to be right now.”

He took a soft breath.

“I don't have to be a soldier. Or a weapon. Or even a force of nature.”

His eyes drifted back to her as his head stayed leaned back.

“I can just…be.”

He gave her a soft smile.

“And that's a start, I think.”

His hand relaxed in hers. The warmth spreading throughout her arm. A comforting warmth. One of security and safety. A wordless notion that he was here, with her, as himself.

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren did not withdraw when his hand closed around hers. If anything, she allowed herself to settle more fully into the moment, her posture easing as his words found their place between them. She watched the tension leave him in small increments, the way his shoulders lowered, the way his breathing slowed, the way the room seemed to grow quieter simply because he had let himself stop pushing against it.

Her thumb moved lightly against the back of his hand, an unconscious motion at first, then a deliberate one, slow and steady.

"You don't need to apologize," she said softly. "This was never about taking something from me. Sometimes speaking is how the weight finally learns where to rest."

She leaned back with him just enough that they were sharing the same stillness, not mirroring, not retreating, simply existing in parallel. When he said he could just be, her gaze lingered on him, thoughtful rather than surprised.

"Being is not nothing," Seren replied after a moment. "It's the part people skip because it doesn't feel productive, or strong, or worthy of attention. But it's where the shape of everything else comes from."

Her fingers curled slightly, not tightening, not holding him in place, but acknowledging the connection he had offered rather than letting it pass unnoticed.

"You spend so much time carrying roles that require motion," she continued, her voice low and even. "It makes sense that stillness feels unfamiliar. Or undeserved."

She glanced up at the ceiling with him for a heartbeat, listening to the hearth, to the quiet that had finally stopped pressing and started holding instead.

"You don't need to be useful in this room," Seren added gently. "You don't need to justify your presence, or sharpen yourself into something necessary. You are allowed to exist here without purpose beyond that."

Her hand remained in his, warm and steady, her knee still touching his, not moving away, not moving closer.

"If this is where you start," she said quietly, "then it's a good place to begin."

She did not rush to fill the silence after that. She stayed with him in it, letting the moment remain exactly what it was, unforced, unclaimed, and real.

Varin Mortifer