Work Text:
She will never get used to this. Every day here is a miracle.
Vast swathes of green countryside beyond the outskirts of Sashasa have swallowed up any evidence of the savage internecine warfare of yesteryear. Nearly twenty solar cycles prior to Sinya’s birth, the Confederacy of Independent Systems surrendered Ukio to the Galactic Republic. The field where she now stands was once a shambles where innocent native humans and Ukians were slaughtered, collateral damage in the war. No thanks to the Jedi Order. The entire sector had been a dumping ground for spacecraft irreparably damaged in the Battle of Ukio, scattered piecemeal across the arable land when she arrived. That ship graveyard is a distant memory now, its metal carcasses collected and repurposed, or smeltered down to molten durasteel and recast as agricultural machinery parts and hand tools.
Nature, in time, reclaimed the land. The rolling hills before her do not much care for the doings of men; they have seen dominant species come and go again and again during their long lifetime. The hills undulate across the horizon, dotted with rocky scree slopes, turfs of moss and grass, the solid canopies of woodlands, and soft green pastures, broken up with hedgerows like a great patchwork quilt. The grass at the foothills grows thick and coarse, but is kept short by the cattle grazing there.
She rolls the sleeves of her flimsy, white tunic above her elbows, wipes sweat from her brow and tugs her pitchfork out of the dirt. This field has supported one season of dry gene wheat, one season of denta beans, and rested for a season; it will be ready for planting as soon as it is properly tilled. Grasping the handle, she drives the tines back into the soil.
“No, m’lady. Like this.” Topas rests his own pitchfork against the earth and stamps one heel onto its step, thrusting its prongs into the dirt. Angling the handle towards him, he lifts it like a shovel and overturns the soil. The Ukian race is perfectly evolved for this kind of work, Sinya reflects, watching his movements. Bulky, salmon-coloured arms low-set on a broad torso, and an exaggerated thoracic hump ending in a neck horizontal like a rancor’s, are ideal for hard farmhand labour.
She copies Topas obediently, though with considerably more effort, earning an approving nod. Behind them, a quartet of Ukian women dust the soil with fertiliser from large woven sacks. Both tasks could be undertaken by agrirobots in a fraction of the time – the large-scale commercial farms across the two hundred agriworlds under her dominion are well-serviced by sowers, sprayers and harvesters – but the natives’ hand-farmed produce here is second to none. They stubbornly favour the old ways over First Order technology. Within weeks of being encharged with the Abrion Sector, Sinya saw to it that the Ukian peasants, who cultivated the land, reclaimed its ownership, having observed their misery at being reassigned as slaves to droid maintenance and repair under military rule. The Ukians will happily feed the galaxy with their crops in return for the opportunity to uphold their ancient traditions.
She methodically tills the dirt in parallel furrows, lagging behind the natives but sensing their respect for her efforts. With time and practice, she will learn the secrets of their exceptional produce, so that those traditions can be mechanised and manufactured. It is love, Overliege Sinya, Topas assured her repeatedly. Love for our land. She had chuckled at the idea of mass-producing love. Although, looking back at the humanoids systematically churning and enriching the soil, it is indeed an attachment, she decides.
Peace is a lie, there is only passion. Through passion, I gain strength.
Byt! Craning her neck skyward, Sinya shields her eyes from the sunlight and tries to discern her twin brother's hybrid shuttle from the others, but he is still too far away. Instead, the sky is speckled with TIE-fighters – scout ships, in case the Capital requires an emergency airborne defence again. Hopefully, he had the good sense to strip his sloppily painted Crimson Dawn insignia from the Chimera this time. She can't have her sentinels opening fire on her brother, and while mechu macture is all well and good, she won't be dealing with an electronically disabled fleet again.
Undeterred, she offers Topas the handle of her pitchfork and smiles gratefully. “Thank you, my liege. I shall return before sundown.”
The Ukian bows his bald head. “Until then, m’lady.”
Sinya turns away and breaks into an excited run, leaping astride her parked, hovering T-44. Bouncing in the air under her weight, with a high-pitched whine her speeder accelerates and soars away from the ploughed field. She traverses expansive meadows of blue-green grass, rough and shaggy like uncombed hair, manoeuvring between herds of grazing cattle, streaking at full throttle toward the spaceport west of Sashasa.
~
Byt’s borrowed spacecraft has already made planetfall, undamaged, by the time she arrives. Two of her indentured servants are the first to disembark, the third no doubt still running post-flight checks; they hurry toward her, waving exuberantly at her approaching landspeeder. Grinning, she raises the tip of her right lek to them. The uniformed slaves are followed by another, shorter figure, emaciated and clad in an ill-fitting brown tunic and robe, a shock of curly black hair atop its head. Its sapphire eyes are piercing, even from a distance.
Sinya’s heart leaps into her throat in recognition.
Oh, Maker… he’s kriffing done it.
It can’t be. It’s her.
Only… it isn’t.
She was mistaken. Her initial floored shock recedes as she approaches Byt’s passengers on foot. This refugee is very like Kira – his facial features could be a mirror image, were he not so raw-boned – but first impressions are deceiving. The sharp angles of his jaw overhang a protuberant Adam’s apple, and his comically large ears stick out like thermajug handles; he has been meticulously groomed recently, she notes. Probably by her conscientious underlings. A child with similar features has almost entirely concealed himself within the man’s flowing robes.
The two bondservants simultaneously drop to one knee on the duracrete platform before her and bow their heads.
“Jacen,” she greets warmly. “Kanan. Waba jafasua fuji ji awadna, ma sareen.”
“And with you, my Overliege,” they reply in perfect synchronicity.
“Arise.”
Kanan takes a step forward. “You must forgive our prisoners, m’lady,” he adds in a furtive tone. “We suspect they are not familiar with the Twi’lek species.”
Sinya frowns. “But… Byt?”
“They did not respond favourably to your brother, I’m afraid,” he continues. The two refugees are already standing motionlessly beyond the cargo ramp of Byt’s shuttle and eyeing her with suspicion, the boy’s face barely peeking out from behind his father. “My lord has a… commanding presence.”
She can only imagine her twin’s reaction to that. Kira had been unhesistatingly accepting of their unfamiliar appearance when she arrived at the Temple, but she had been just a youngling, too innocent to have any ingrained prejudices… and in the company of a Kel Dor, a Keshiri, a Zabrak and a Cerean, two Twi’leks were hardly even noteworthy. Considering the diverse assortment of alien natives and refugees populating Ukio, these two will have a lot more than a pair of exotic head-tailed humanoids to become accustomed to.
“Welcome, friends,” she calls to them, offering her upturned palms. “Welcome to your new home.”
The man regards her curiously, wrapping a protective arm around his son.
“My slaves will do whatever they can to make you comfortable.”
Sinya takes a tentative step toward them, then another, and another. Their cobalt blue eyes dart apprehensively to her servants, but they stand their ground.
“Orok nay grai?” questions the man, his voice quavering.
Her lips curve into a wholehearted smile and she extends one olive-green hand in the hope that he will take it. “Sinya Olypo,” she replies affably. “Do you speak Basic,” - briefly dipping into his thoughts, she searches for a name - “Kit?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her grin widens. “I knew your sister,” she offers. “No, more than that. She was my closest friend. Numa Kira.” Painstakingly delicate, she casts a soft image of her former fellow padawan into Kit’s mind.
“You’re a Jedi,” he replies, understanding and somewhat in awe, clasping her offered palm now with both hands. His fingers are alarmingly bony, she notes with consternation. But he’s here now, in the land of plenty, a new life for him and his son.
Sinya closes her spindly fingers around his, completely engulfing his hands, and envisions sunshine, rolling hills, fields rich with dried grains and orchards ripe for the harvest, praying that some fragment permeates his Force-insensitive psyche. Education for his son; apothecaries and medical care; shelter and clean water and food in glorious abundance. Perhaps it works; an expression like hope skitters across his weatherworn face.
“Something like that, Kit. Welcome.” She clasps his shoulder and, turning, gestures for them to follow her two servants. Kit complies without argument, his son trailing behind, and Sinya continues on toward the starcraft.
Her brother has hung back and lurks within the cargo hold of his shuttle among the empty supply crates, concealed in the shadows. Tendrils of desolation and remorse pollute his strong presence in the Force, like a menacing stormcloud. His bleak miasma almost repels her as she ascends the boarding ramp to stand before him.
“Ma freetaa nerra,” she warbles childishly, holding out her arms, wanting to lift his mood.
He doesn’t speak, nor reach for her. Ma kluub alema, he replies morosely. I’m returning to Fralideja.
No, you’re not. You’re staying here with me, Byt.
The dark Twi’lek shakes his head.
I like my new slaves. Thank you, she adds.
Your concept of slavery is amiss, numa. Byt pulls his robe tighter around his body. He is slouching, lest his lekku grate against the ceiling of the cargo hold, observing the slaves from the shadows as they disappear into the distance.
“Does it matter? Come out into the sunlight where I can see you,” Sinya implores aloud.
Her twin sighs. Save for the eerie glow of his incandescent yellow eyes beneath the hood of his cloak, she cannot make out his features. I must return to the Sith Temple. His aura in the Force trembles a little.
Stay here a while, nerra. Work the land with me. It’s good for the soul.
Byt doesn’t reply, but she can sense his scornful derision at the mention of his soul.
“You are not so corrupt as you think,” she argues gently, wrinkling her nose. “Those two – the man and his boy – they would have perished, if not for you. You’re their guardian angel. Besides, one hundred thousand credits would afford you at least… three more supply runs?”
You are overly generous, numa. But Mesa Outpost holds no meaning for me now. They are all dead, or near dead. I belong at the Temple.
Sinya reaches out, twining her green fingers comfortingly around his fisted azure hand. He is picturing his young lover’s family – her haggard, wrinkled mother, her five other older brothers and one younger sister, all cast from the same mould… their staunch refusal to join a disfigured, ungodly cacodemon with its promises of sanctuary and safety. They had never known him for who he was. And beyond that, a familiar infinite mental void that threatens to swallow her whole, should she pry any further, and the whispered Sith code chanted over and over. Empty, cold and dark.
“I was too late.” His deep voice falters.
Through her touch, Byt's sorrow floods through her as though it were her own; a lone tear trickles down her cheek. “Freykaa nerra, ” she whispers, throwing her arms around her brother’s shoulders, pulling his stiff, inwardly-curled body to hers in a fierce embrace. Byt cringes instinctively – he's never openly affectionate, not any more, but she clings to him regardless.
After several beats, she feels his robotic arm sliding around her waist, then his flesh-and-blood hand at the nape of her neck, pleasantly brushing against the skin of her lekku.
“I love you,” she mumbles, the words muffled against his shoulder. “Stay with me, Byt, even if only for a few days. The living Force is so powerful here. We can spar and seed the fields and pray together… I’ll erase the boy’s memory for you, if you want?”
He holds her in silence.
Then, I love you, too.