Dynasty

vi. MOON WOUNDS

vi.
MOON WOUNDS

✶

"Night is a history of longing,
and you are my night."
— Mahmoud Darwish, A River Dies of Thirst

It was just before noon when the Faultless returned to Coruscant, landing at the temple and unloading its precious cargo of three Jedi; the sun, barely at zenith, filtered feebly through the choking smog that clung to the city like a cataract. Chrysaor Rook was substituting for his master—once again—as lecturer to a clan of younglings, but word of the arrival came through the mouths of off-duty padawans, coursing like a flood to reach his eager ears. He concluded class as quickly as he could and went off in search of Fallon Kryze, his strides sharp but impatient, his corded arms hanging by his sides. Like the fraying ends of a noose, his hands trembled as he walked, fingers moving with a mind of their own. His thumbs curled into calloused palms, dancing across old wounds since healed, over the gentle creases set into the skin over the joints of his fingers.

He reached Fallon's quarters quickly, the route encoded to memory. Thanks to his master's tendency to disappear on assignment for days on end, often shrouded in secrecy and without much warning, Chrysaor spent more time in the temple than most padawans, finding himself perpetually left behind. For once, however, the boy had some idea as to where his master had gallivanted of to: Quinlan Vos, in all his sarcastic and nonconforming glory, was on the trail of an intergalactic crime family whom the Council apparently had reason to believe had been convinced by Count Dooku to finance an expansion of the Separatist Army. It was a common enough occurrence for Quinlan to leave like this, abrupt and unannounced; by extension, it was also common enough that he would leave his padawan behind.

Chrysaor had made his peace with it, mostly. Very quickly he had grown accustomed to pacing the temple halls, until it felt like he knew the floor better than he knew himself; to spending his time training younglings even though, with his position as a commander for the Republic army in a war that was very much real and very much ongoing, his training was more pertinent; to meandering aimlessly until Fallon returned from her missions, like debris floating in space. Floating and waiting for her gravitational field to pull him back into orbit.

More often than not these days he felt like this, like debris, inconsequential and ineffectual, like some piece broken-off a space station or satellite. There was an emptiness that came inextricably attached to the feeling: Chrysaor had told Fallon he wanted to be the greatest there ever was, of both the Jedi and the Mandalorians. But how could something—someone—so useless, so small and unimportant be the greatest at anything?

Even a small piece of orbital debris can damage a ship as long as it travels fast enough, he imagined Fallon would say to comfort him, if he shared with her his feelings on these matters. He knew her well, without doubt, and he had confidence that the version of her that lived inside his head was accurate. It was soothing, at least: she would smile petal-soft, affirming her platitudes and allaying his anxieties—and maybe, for a few moments, brief but lovely, he would be pacified.

And then he would remember that it didn't matter: he could damage nothing if he was kept confined at the temple, and he would never gain enough speed if he was forced to keep still.

Chrysaor had to lied to Fallon, as well—by omission—by paring off parts of the truth to keep for himself, whether it was out of further fear that he would face judgement, or that by saying it aloud he would speak into existence a reckoning, draw omens from his own words, a self-fulfilling prophecy born and spun from his own speech.