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Vernestra opens the box for her one afternoon.
“These belonged to him. When he was still my student.”
Her voice does not catch. It’s smooth and controlled, as it always tends to be. But Mae has begun to learn things about her, since spending so much time in her company. Her pink-green lips become pinker when she feels emotionally out of place. They are pinker now.
Mae’s attention shifts to the insides of the box.
“You may touch,” Vernestra tells her.
Mae does not want to, at first. Feels she is not meant to. Feels it would be a breach. She does not want to upset anyone.
But curiosity wins out.
She reaches inside. The Jedi robes feel soft and worn. They smell like the metal they've been stored inside of, but there is a scent underneath, peppery, like smoke. On top of the cloth there are three black hair ties. For the Padawan braids, she thinks. She has seen many young trainees sporting their braids proudly in the hall. There is a comb too, steel teeth, standard model she would find in anyone’s kit. But he used this once. And somehow, it looks personal.
But these are all distractions.
Underneath the robes and the hair ties and the comb, she feels a different, cylindrical weight.
“Pick it up,” Vernestra tells her.
Mae hesitates again. This is a Jedi’s weapon. Part of her mind – the part she struggles with most – registers this as a trap.
But she wraps her fingers around it. It’s heavy, heavier than she thought it would be. She lifts it up.
Vernestra watches her. “It feels easier in your hand once you know how to use it. Once you have practice.”
Mae turns it around. She stares at the small dark hole of the emitter. One flick of her finger and the blade would erupt and pass through her skull.
“It is generally frowned upon to hold a lightsaber like that,” Vernestra remarks.
Mae lowers the cylinder from her face. She turns it around, holding the hilt.
“You may turn it on.”
Mae feels a pungent taste in her mouth. She doesn’t want to do this. But she also does.
She flicks the switch.
Mae likes the sharp hissing sound of the plasma buzzing to life. She likes the clean smell of the electric charge.
The color of his old saber is green.
Green is a color that often winks at her. Flashes of it in her memory. Forest floors, tall canopies, lichen and moss.
On Coruscant, green is a rare color. Parks are few, vegetation is scarce and often strange-looking. There are more green-skinned people here than trees.
“If you don’t stray from your lessons, you may earn it someday,” Vernestra speaks, bringing her back to the moment at hand.
Mae looks up. “The saber?”
Her Master nods.
“But – Mog said I’m far too old to start now.”
Vernestra nods. “Not that it’s his concern, but yes. You are too old to become a Padawan. That being said, you already have some training in the Force. My pupil taught you.”
Mae stares at the green light. “I – I wish I could remember.”
Vernestra places a hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right. I have every confidence that you will, in time.”
Mae extinguishes the lightsaber.
“This is what the box is for. To help you unlock some of those memories,” Vernestra adds, squeezing her shoulder.
Mae takes the box to her room. Vernestra kept the lightsaber, but she has given her the rest.
Mae knows she shouldn’t, but she gets undressed and she shrugs on his old Jedi robes.
They’re big and baggy on her. Loose and comfortable. She can’t help a smile as she stares in the mirror. She looks ridiculous.
But the fabric feels eerily soft. Like something she had once worn in childhood. It gives her a small pain to think of herself as a child. Memories of Brendok are fractured by the wound of the missing sister that her mind cannot contain.
And she doesn’t remember because of the man who used to wear these clothes and walk these halls. Who used to live in one of these tiny rooms with a window opening onto one of the temple terraces.
Every time she looks outside, at any hour of day or night, she will find a handful of Padawans washing the granite steps. Droids could accomplish the task much faster and more efficiently. But the point is the humbling. The ritual service to the Jedi Order. A lesson that every pupil must observe.
Mae hasn’t been spared. But she secretly enjoys kneeling and scrubbing the hard stone until her knees feel sore and sweat stings her eyes. She does not have to think or remember when she’s cleaning the steps.
She turns away from the window. She picks up his hair ties.
Her hair has grown longer since the first day she arrived here. In the beginning, she spent hours untangling and combing out her locs. She walked around the temple with loose, frizzy curls for weeks, and the other Padawans smiled and muttered sympathetically that she was the girl with the mind block. Then she began braiding the curls in the style of Mother Aniseya, or what she could remember of her mother.
She gathers three of the braids from each side of her temples and ties them at the back of her head.
She places the other two ties around her wrists like bracelets.
It feels like a game, almost. Like trying to summon a ghost.
Only he is still alive, as far as anyone knows.
The air in the room feels heavy and stale, but she doesn’t want to turn on the purifier. Maybe there is something in the air. A presence.
Mae sits down on the bed. She leans her back against the wall and gathers her legs under her.
She closes her eyes.
I’m wearing your belongings. Soon, I’ll have your lightsaber too.
The universe does not respond.
She feels the emptiness of her mind and the emptiness of this planet. If she ever left the temple, she would get lost in the maze of endless sectors and districts.
But the room doesn’t feel empty.
She can almost picture him – the man from her dreams, Vernestra’s pupil – leaning against the opposite wall, watching her with slanted eyes.
She imagines he would be furious, but indifferent too. A mixture of contempt and nonchalance.
She can almost hear his taunting voice.
You think she’ll treat you any better?
Something suddenly stings.
Her skin. The curve of her spine. Mae bends away from the wall. She stifles a groan.
She feels as if her back has been torn open.
She opens her eyes. The room is empty.
Fingers shaking, she takes off the Jedi robes. She goes to the mirror to stare at her bare back. But there’s nothing there but smooth dark skin.
She missed something at the bottom of the box.
She picks up the gray photograph. It opens up into a dimly lit hologram.
Mae gasps.
She has seen his likeness before. Vernestra showed her all the footage of him they’d stored in the database. But this photo is different.
He is young. Braid dangling across one side of his shoulder. Face crinkled in a boyish grin. Two other pupils smile wide and pat his shoulder as they climb up the stairs. They look happy and excited to be where they are. They look like friends.
Mae feels a sudden surge of sympathy that almost disgusts her. She feels her eyes fill up with tears out of nowhere.
She clicks the hologram shut and puts the photo back inside the box.
Innocent is the word that comes to mind. He looked so innocent.
The official story recorded in the archives is that Vernestra’s pupil died on a mission in the Western Reaches. A few of his classmates died on the same mission. No bodies were recovered, because the entire ship was destroyed.
There are quite a few incidents like that in the archives. Sudden deaths and disappearances. The explanations are not always satisfactory. Mae keeps track of them as she reads through the files.
She likes the library. She likes the quiet. She likes the formality of the droids who only want to help her but ask no additional questions. She likes the blue glow of the holobooks in their ordered shelves and the compactness of the small holocrons that can only be opened with the Force. Some obscure impulse makes her want to steal them, to stash them in her bag and flee. But she has nowhere to run to.
And she likes it here.
No one can reach her here.
If she could turn her body into data, she would. If she could return her cells to the pure code of information they have always been, she would not hesitate.
She knows she has a twin sister – she has been told and shown photos – but she cannot remember her.
It should be easy. It’s her own face, only slightly different. Maybe that makes it harder.
Her sister shares her genetic code. She pictures their cells combining and reforming.
Osha. The name of her sister. Even that is difficult to remember.
What good is she without the memories?
Maybe her sister could absorb her. They could become one. And then Mae wouldn’t have to remember. Mae wouldn’t have to be anything.
What do you want, Mae? thevoice asks from far away.
Her own voice, but grainier. Filtered by time.
I don’t know what I want. I wish I knew. I guess I want to remember, but I’m not sure.
She’s not even sure if she was ever meant to exist.
If she put her hand on a holocron and opened it, would the polyhedron pour all that data into her until she too became a crystal?
Mae.
The voice is different. Not her own anymore, or her sister’s.
Mae looks around the library. Most of the tables are empty.
Mae.
She stands up. She starts walking towards the echo of her name.
Mae.
Blue shadows dance across her face as she passes each row of archives.
Mae.
The voice seems to come from everywhere – and nowhere.
Mae. Mae. Mae.
The buzzing in her ears is like the buzzing of a saber. Held to her throat.
She turns around in a circle. The room spins with her.
Mae.
Her vision is edged with dark.
In the dream, she is running through the forest. She doesn’t recall which forest. Maybe all forests are one forest. It is nighttime and she feels the terror of not knowing what will come next.
Someone is behind her. Coming after her.
Mae is suddenly flattened against a rock. There is no hand around her throat, but she feels the grip of the Force, cutting off air.
The masked figure has a head full of teeth.
He steps calmly towards her, robes billowing behind him.
Did you really think you could run away?
The head is coming towards her. The teeth. Mae screams.
They keep her in the medical bay for an extra night. Master Vernestra wants her dreams recorded. She asks Mae to describe everything. Mae tries, but she feels exhausted. She just wants to be given something so she can sleep without dreaming.
One of his hair ties is wrapped around one of her braids. But no one notices.
The best part of her day, sometimes, is watching the Jedi and the Padawans train. She can join in some of the classes. But for the most part, she observes.
She likes the dance-like movements. The restraint. There must be no violence in the arch and butterfly swing of the saber. Any Jedi worth his salt must only take out the weapon as a last resort. The truly refined and tested warrior can stop an opponent without fighting.
Without moving, even.
A Jedi sits cross-legged in the center of the room, eyes closed. The pupils must try to bypass the walls he has erected.
They knock against the Force and find no answer. No yielding.
Mae watches the Master’s body gently rise from the ground, floating before them.
There is a flash of memory. A bearded Jedi, drinking from a vial greedily. She tries to follow the thread.
But Mog suddenly taps her on the shoulder.
“Would you like to give it a try?”
He smiles down at her.
Mae approaches the floating figure. She runs up against the impenetrable wall.
Everyone has a weakness, the voice in her head whispers. The Jedi only think they’ve found peace.
Mae shakes her head. That is the wrong lesson. She must not listen.
She stares at the Jedi Master.
She doesn’t want to penetrate his walls. She is afraid of what she might find.
Any person, any mind is dangerous. We all hide terrible things.
Have you ever felt shame or regret? she asks him.
Master Kelleran Beq opens his eyes slowly. His body rests on the ground once more.
His face is kind. He frowns in concern as he looks back at her.
Mae mutters a small apology and steps away from the students. She runs out of the room. She doesn’t make it far down the hallway before she has to kneel and throw up.
The night here has four moons. Very rarely, the moons are all full.
Most nights, she sees halves of faces, slivers of light. Taunting smiles.
Mae kneels on the stone and scrubs the hard and perfect surface. She plunges the cloth in the canister and soaks it in clean, cold water. She wipes the granite steps. After a while, she goes to an inner courtyard to refill the canister. It must all be done manually, as much as possible.
The work clears her mind. There is only this peaceful drudgery and she is grateful for it.
Peace is a lie.
Mae clenches her jaw against the voice. She kneels and mops. She brings her face very close to the gray stone, until she can almost see a dark blur inside it.
Master Vernestra taught her the mantra to guard from treacherous thoughts. Mae starts muttering the prayer.
Emotion, yet peace.
Ignorance, yet knowledge.
Passion, yet serenity.
Chaos, yet harmony.
Death, yet the Force.
She wipes the stone in time with each sentence. Until her muscles ache. Until sweat runs down her face.
She lifts her head. She sits back on her haunches and looks up at the moons.
Emotion, yet peace -
Her throat seizes. The words peter off into choked silence.
Her back hits the column behind her. There is no hand on her throat, but she can feel the grip of his fingers. Just like in the forest.
The voice echoes snidely in her mind. This isn’t what I’ve taught you.
Mae puts a hand to her throat. You’re not really here.
The canister of water falls down the steps, spilling water everywhere. Reflections flicker on the surface. Metal teeth and strong arms.
Right behind her.
Instead of the column at her back, she feels the living warmth of a body.
There is something cylindrical resting against her hair.
He is holding the weapon to her head.
And this is a memory too. He has done this before.
I remember washing these steps, he murmurs in her ear. It never made me more peaceful.
Are you going to kill me?
Her old master chuckles. That would be a waste. I was the one who trained you. Who made you. You've still got a lot to learn.
She can hear his breathing, as if he were a real body. And you’re exactly where I want you to be. Inside their temple.
Mae feels the churning panic in her gut. She wants to turn around. She wants to see his face. She wants to verify that he is here, that he is the same person who was once that smiling boy in the picture.
She wrenches herself away from him and falls to her knees on the hard stone.
Her body shudders. She can’t seem to get up.
She feels the light of each moon on her back like a searing scar.
The droid checks her vitals.
Master Vernestra asks about her dreams again. The voice in her head.
Mae takes the small cup of medicine and drinks.
“I just keep dreaming of – of Khofar. And what he did in the forest.”
It’s not exactly a lie. She doesn’t know how she could begin telling the truth.
Khofar is safe territory. Kohfar is something she was told about, but that she can remember vaguely too.
“What frightened you most when you were in that forest?” Vernestra asks, coming closer. “Can you recall?”
Mae looks up at her.
“I guess – the way he – the way he mocked me. For not knowing...not knowing it was him all along.”
But that is only half of it. Mae can’t seem to express the other half in words.
What frightened her most was his ability to be such different people. She remembers glimpses of Qimir; his silliness, his warmth, his kindness. And then the cold, ruthless precision of the Stranger.
The many faces of the moons.
In her room, she lies down in bed with his comb.
She can’t use it on her own hair. The teeth are too sharp.
But she runs the comb over the back of her palm. It feels ticklish.
She runs it up and down her arm, feeling small shivers.
She remembers something. Maybe this is muscle memory.
His fingers on her arm, treating a small wound.
Let it heal on its own, she had muttered, trying to shrug him off.
Qimir had smiled a sheepish smile. I would. But someone has to take care of you, since you won’t.
Mae holds the comb to her chest, trying not to let this feeling overwhelm her. The truth is, she misses it. Having someone to look after her.
Master Vernestra and the other Jedi have been kind. But they do not really care about her. Emotion, yet peace.
She takes out the photo of his younger self again. She watches the hologram expand.
She stares into his joyful face, so free of darkness. She tries to read the future there.
But she does not know him. Not really. He is the Stranger.
“You should come with us. It’ll be fun.” The Twi’lek called Matthea gives her a wink. “You look like you could use some fun.”
Mae wavers for some time. Vernestra might disapprove if she decides to join the students. She’s not really one of them.
But at the last moment she agrees.
The Temple feels so stifling. And she wants to see the Entertainment District they’ve all been talking about. Nothing bad can happen if she’s with the Padawans.
The small group is going to a gambling club ostensibly to gather information about the trafficking of death sticks. But if this also turns out to be an opportunity to enjoy a night out on the town, why not take it?
“Remember, we’re not dressing up like Jedi. We have to blend in,” Matthea tells her.
Mae doesn’t know what she would dress as if she were not here. Who she would be, exactly.
Matthea lends her some clothes. Laces the corset for her. Applies make-up to her face. Rubs the blush into her cheeks.
“You’re very pretty,” Matthea says, and pecks her briefly on the lips.
Mae doesn’t know how she feels about the kiss. She doesn’t know what is or isn’t allowed anymore.
She smiles. Is that what I like?
“You’re pretty too,” she stammers, but the Twi’lek tells her to be quiet, so she can finish painting her lips.
Inside the gambling club, the air is filled with smoke and color. It vibrates with drums and Kloo horns and the sharp voices of dealers. The customers issue even louder protests from the roulette tables. The hand they were dealt was not fair.
Mae is fascinated by every hue and scent. She stares at the various species that have congregated here to throw away their money and drink copious amounts of alcohol and abuse illegal drugs, from what she was made to understand.
She’s supposed to disapprove. But she can’t help but like it. She even likes it when the mostly male patrons brush up against her, trying to touch her, or catch her attention. Matthea has to pull her away from a rowdy group.
“Don’t you have any sense of self-preservation?” she asks with a laugh.
Mae ducks her head. “I do. I just –”
She can’t explain. It’s difficult to care about yourself when you don’t know who you are anymore.
“Look, this is how you flirt. You sit at the bar and wait for them to approach you. And if you find someone you like, you smile at them and they’ll understand it’s an invitation,” the Twi’lek explains.
“I thought we were here to gather intel.”
Matthea smirks. “That’s actually a big part of it.”
Mae understands. She thinks she might have done that in the past. In another life. Flirted for information. She pictures a cool and efficient Mae who could tease these men but also put them in their place.
Was that really me?
She doesn’t want to sit at the bar yet. She doesn’t want to try and uncover this past self. She wants to explore the entire club. She tags along after Matthea from room to room, but she soon loses track of her friend.
Mae stops to watch the people dancing. There is something hypnotic about their movements. Elemental almost.
She doesn’t know if she used to dance. But she’d like to try.
She joins the crowd, trying to mimic their carefree steps. The way their bodies sway in time with the music. The world becomes a funny blur. She lets her head fall back. Dancing, she discovers, is not that different from using the Force. Getting in touch with that internal rhythm. She feels as if someone else were dancing for her, her body being guided through the motions.
Maybe it’s her twin. Maybe it’s – what was – what is her name?
What is her sister’s name? They’ve told it to her so many times. She must have written it down. Why can’t she remember?
Does it start with a V? No, it starts with an O…
Her mouth forms the “O”, but can’t go any further. It’s a strange shape, this O. Like waiting to be fed.
She suddenly feels her body dragged forward across the dance floor.
Her mouth parts further.
She is gliding towards his extended arm. Just like in the forest.
His fingers wrap around her throat before she can shriek.
The music and the noise and the people fade into the background.
His voice is all she can hear.
“You really didn’t know it was me?” he asks snidely, holding her by the throat. His eyes slide over her bare shoulders and the swell of her chest.
He tilts his head. His voice softens. “Not even deep down?”
Mae tries to breathe. She puts her hand on his wrist.
In his cruel and handsome face, she sees the boy he used to be. The spark of confidence, the reckless joy.
There is something ruthless about youth. A Padawan thinks he can do anything.
They didn’t know either, she thinks. They didn’t really know you.
Is anyone knowable, she wonders.
His grip around her throat relents. He lets her go. For a moment, she seems to fall into his arms.
But it’s a male Chagrian that pulls her to her feet. The expression on his blue face is slightly hostile, but intrigued. “Too much to drink, eh? Let me get you another.”
Mae shoves him away. She loses herself in the crowd.
It takes a long time to find a quiet place. But she finally stumbles upon a less populated card room in the back of the establishment. She sits at the mostly empty bar with relief, leaning her elbows on the cool counter, placing her head in her hands.
“You look like you could use a drink. What’ll it be?” a friendly voice asks from behind the bar.
“Anything you recommend,” she murmurs, trying to steady her nerves.
“Well. I’d need to know what you like. Do you have a sweet tooth?”
She looks up at him.
There are four moons on Coruscant. She has not looked up at the sky tonight to see their faces.
So many faces.
The man behind the counter is somehow not the man who just held his hand around her throat. He is Qimir, the smiling, bumbling sidekick. Dark, disheveled hair framing his face.
He stirs a cocktail shaker playfully. “Your puzzled expression tells me you’re not sure what you like.”
Mae’s shoulders tremble. She grips the counter. His familiarity makes it hard to speak. “I guess I’m not.”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure. I’ll make you something you’ll love.”
Mae watches him, unable to protest. She realizes she has seen him do this before. The memory is faint. Qimir making drinks for her. Preparing meals. Poisons, when needed.
There is an elegance to his movements, even when he’s fidgeting. His long fingers handle everything delicately.
His playful clumsiness is only a dance.
Or maybe he was clumsy as a Padawan. Maybe some things have stuck.
“Here. Have a taste,” he says, pushing a small glass towards her with a winning smile.
Mae steels herself. She’s not going to prolong this game by sniffing and probing. She wants to see where this goes.
She takes the glass and drains it in one gulp.
The sour-sweetness explodes on her tongue. She reels back. A different kind of memory. Eating spice creams on Brendok, fresh from the oven. The first bite was always the most delicious.
She licks her lips in slight shock.
Qimir clicks his tongue. “Shouldn’t have rushed it. Some things you ought to savor.”
Mae looks at him.
“Are you – are you really here?”
“It depends on what you mean by here. Haven’t the Jedi taught you that we’re all connected through the Force?”
Mae wants to reach out and touch him. To see if he’s real.
Not that it would prove anything. When he touched her before on the dance floor, it had felt real.
Qimir looks down at her hand on the counter. She’s wearing one of his hair ties around her wrist.
His mouth flickers. “And you’ve chosen to tie yourself to me further.”
“No, I – I’m just.” She feels a blush coming on. She swallows. “I’m just trying to get back my memories. Master Vernestra thought it would help if she gave me the box -”
“Don’t call her that.”
For the first time, Qimir’s tone is icy, instead of friendly. For the first time, she feels the many faces of the moon aligning.
“She’s not your master,” he clarifies, jaw taut.
Mae tries to meet his eyes. “You hate her.”
“I don’t hate her. She means nothing to me now.”
“But she did once. She was your master.”
Qimir leans forward. “You shouldn’t trust her. I did. Look where that got me.” He smiles a bitter smile.
Mae takes the opportunity of his closeness. She puts her hand on his arm.
His flesh feels solid enough through the fabric, but there is a fragile, shadowy quality to it. It reminds her of embracing her mothers. She can’t say why.
Qimir covers her hand with his.
Mae startles. She didn’t expect that. The combined touch sends strange flickers of electricity down her spine.
“The Jedi think you wiped my memories,” she says without looking up.
“I did,” he replies. There is no remorse in his voice. “You and your sister agreed to it.”
“Is – is my sister with you?”
“Yes.”
“Is she all right?”
“She is under my protection now. I will take care of her, if that’s your concern.”
Mae looks up at him. “Is she your new pupil?”
He nods. He rubs his thumb against the center of her palm. “It’s the path she chose.”
Mae swallows, trying not to react to his touch. “Then this is the path I chose.”
Qimir tilts his head. “I think the choice you will make is still ahead of you.”
“Maybe. But you – you already have a pupil. You have my sister. So you don’t – you don’t need to keep –”
He smiles. “Keep what?”
“Keep tormenting me,” she blurts out. She tries to pull her hand away.
He chuckles. “Is that what I’m doing?”
“You could leave me alone.”
Qimir lets her hand go. “Ah. But I told you. You’ve still got so much to learn.”
“You’re not my master anymore. Just as Vernestra isn’t your master anymore.”
He frowns. “That’s different. She was never willing to teach me what matters. I am willing.”
“What if I don’t want the lesson?”
Qimir’s smile is slanted, almost smug. “You do want the lesson.”
Mae wishes she could step down from this stool and walk away. Prove him wrong. She wishes she weren’t trapped under his gaze.
But there is so much history between them, even if she can't remember it. Whole years of just him and her and his lessons.
Isn’t my sister enough for you? she asks. Almost pleads.
Qimir reaches forward. He twists one of her braids round his finger.
“There is no such thing as ‘enough’. Peace is a lie,” he recites. “There is only passion.”
His eyes lift from her hair to her lips.
Mae’s breath hitches slightly.
Qimir stares at her mouth. “I’ll pour you another glass. And this time, Mae? You’ll drink it slow.”
Matthea finds her with her head resting on the bar counter. But her eyes are open, gazing into nothingness.
She shakes her gently.
“Mae? You okay, honey? Tell me what you drank.”
Mae lifts her shoulders. She shakes her head, trying to give her a smile. “Nothing. I’m not drunk. Just tired.”
“I tried to find you earlier...we should be heading back to the Temple.”
Mae nods wearily.
They walk out of the establishment, bypassing patrons in much worse states of intoxication.
Mae feels drained. She leans on Matthea as the Twi’lek summons their speeder.
“By the way, I think I saw you flirting with a cute bartender.”
Mae glances at her. “What did he look like?”
Matthea blinks and scratches one of her tails. “Kind of scruffy? Actually, I don’t know... I don't remember anymore. It might've not been you I saw.”
Mae nods. “We’re both tired.”
Mae stands in the fresher for a long time. Hot water beats down her back and steams. She can’t see anything but white fog. Memories are like suds of soap which glide away from her and swirl down the drain.
He had wanted to kill her on Khofar. He’d nearly succeeded.
She must have angered him greatly. But she can’t remember what she had done.
She leans her forehead against the steaming tiles.
Don’t worry, Mae, the voice speaks. Nearby.
Maybe right behind her.
Pressing her into the wall. He parts a few braids from her shoulder. Whispers straight into the wet hollow of her throat. I won’t let that happen again.
Let what happen?
His presence is like water, slithering down her body, sliding into secret places.
Mae shudders. Please. Let what happen?
But her old master does not respond. Mae squeezes her thighs shut, wishing the water couldn’t get in.
She steps out naked into the cold room. She grabs his old Jedi robes from the box.
She lies down on the bed, clutching them to her chest.
She falls asleep like a child, knees drawn, his robes the only thing covering her.
Weeks later, during an afternoon session, Master Vernestra lets her practice with the green lightsaber.
She watches her carefully, making sure she doesn’t hurt herself.
“Slow. You must master each movement slowly. Fully. Don’t rush it.”
Mae swallows. She remembers the soft disapproval in his voice. Shouldn’t have rushed it. Some things you ought to savor.
Mae focuses on her grip on the saber, its wing-span as the blade arcs through the air.
She feels powerful in a new way. It’s not just the weight of it. It’s that it was once his. And he held it like this too.
She wonders why Vernestra still had his lightsaber. Hadn’t he brought it with him on that last mysterious mission in the Western Reaches?
She looks over at the green-skinned woman. Her lips are pale-pink as she watches Mae.
No, Mae decides. Vernestra will never tell her what really happened.
But maybe he will. Maybe knowledge will replace memory.
Mae grips the lightsaber tightly. She can feel its pulsing core.
She thinks she remembers something. She does not know if this is something from her past. A saber changing colors. Slowly bleeding red.
No, this one in front of her is still green.
She breathes out slowly.
All in due time, Mae, the voice speaks in her mind. Don’t rush it.
And this time, she responds. Yes, Master.