Chapter Text
It is incredible how differently time seems to pass when one is with a person one loves.
By now, the year was nearly complete, like a moon that had almost reached its final phase of fullness, transforming into its most perfect, globous form.
Syril supposed he could say that being with Dedra made a series of months feel like a lifetime, and to him, that was more than mere hyperbole. The monotony of their shared life was really just an average, a bigger picture formed from the passing of days, each day like a delicate brushstroke on a neverending canvas. In all the days they’d spent together, even though their routines stayed the same each day, to Syril, they had managed to do so many things. Every new meal and song she introduced him to was a new discovery, as precious as a shining treasure buried in a great desert, uncovered by him, an intrepid adventurer.
He would watch her move through the house, cutting across the open floor at a smart pace, no energy wasted with each step. Needle-thin, in either very dark or stark-white clothes, she looked like something that could kill. Sunlight ringed her hair, surrounding her with a gentle iridescent glow, making her seem like something that had fallen from the sky—a rare astronomical phenomenon, all light and sharp shards of rare mineral, so warm that she felt cold to the touch.
His heart melted at the thought that she cared for him. She was perfect, and she cared for him. He cared for her, too. He really wished he could convey the full extent of that, he truly did. He wished he could absorb her into himself completely, keep her close, because she was everything good in the galaxy, and he wanted to have her—have what she had—all to himself.
All the ways he loved her, craved her…If she were food, he would gladly feed. She made him well. She gave him rest. He could recall a flashing image, a fragment of a memory: Him, laying his head on her stomach for a brief moment while she ran her fingers through his hair, drawing her hand back a little too quickly and nearly pulling the top of his head along with. If she had let him, he would’ve lain there forever.
He could’ve written her name in the stars.
He could hardly believe she was real.
***
He made the walk homeward-bound, the sky ablaze. The air smelt like a sunset: fire, ardor, and satisfaction. The day was done. It was time to go home.
As had become a common occurrence, he met his neighbors—mother and daughter—again while waiting for the elevator.
Both Vhanaa and her mother were especially well-dressed on this occasion. The little girl’s hair was braided thickly. She kept absentmindedly fiddling with a piece of it, as though she had been waiting all day for someone to notice her new hairstyle, and had gotten bored because no one had. The little girl’s mother—the woman’s name, Syril kept reminding himself after he’d asked her for it, was Myla—wore pale blue and new jewelry. This must’ve been a special day for them; perhaps they’d been invited to a party somewhere.
Myla beamed at him, as always, ornate metal earrings singing a bright melody as she turned her head quickly towards him. Her hair was held back, piled high atop the back of her skull, and a single dark ringlet fell downward as she spoke.
“Good evening”, she said, as cheerily as ever.
Syril returned the greeting. “Good evening.”
“Busy day today. For me at least.” Myla let out a sigh, and for a moment, her optimistic facade slipped. Still, she managed to say, “I hope you’re doing well. You and…her.”
By ‘her’, she meant Dedra.
“We’re doing alright”, Syril answered. Really, he was doing better than alright. And he hoped Dedra was experiencing her own version of that, too.
That seemed to please Myla. Some kind of fond, almost maternal look came over her eyes. “That’s good to hear”, she said. Then, gently, almost in a whisper, she added, “You two should take care of each other.”
Something in her words felt like a warning. She sounded so genuine that, for a moment, it caught Syril off guard.
“What do you mean?”, he asked.
Myla let out another sigh, as if she were trying to expel a worry from her mind by exhaling.
With another smile, one that seemed a little more forced this time, she said, “Haven’t you heard the news lately? All these rebel attacks and terrorists and crimes…Or so they say.”
Syril paused. He had heard of the reports, of all the ‘incidents’ that had been happening since the start of the year and possibly before that. At a certain point, he couldn’t really have avoided it even if he’d tried. Misfortune is a disease; it infects all news with it, and spreads without feed or fuel. When the Aldhani incident had happened, no one could access the holonet without learning about it, or go to the store without hearing a passing shopper swapping news with another stranger in hushed tones.
Still, something about his neighbor—a friendly young mother with a small child, of all people—mentioning the unrest happening in the galaxy felt jarring. He supposed the idea of all that disaster and brutality and chaos could never be too far away. He had never lost sight for a moment in his life of all that was wrong with the world, and why he needed to do something to fix it. But until now, because of how occupied he’d been with his own life, all of those tragedies had been pushed to the back of his mind.
“I’m sure something is being done about it”, he offered Myla, just to reassure her and maybe also himself.
He had to confess he knew very little about the details, and the one person in his life who definitely knew the most about all these incidents would never enlighten him. But he hoped and trusted that something was definitely being done to make all of this better, to root out all the evil lurking beneath the surface and draw it out like poison from a wound.
Something was being done.
Wasn’t it?
Myla still seemed a little unsure, but she nodded along. “I suppose it won’t do any good to dwell on it.”
Although, she must’ve dwelt on it, because the elevator ride that ensued was unusually silent. In the quiet, Vhanaa slumped against her mother’s shoulder and fell asleep, tired from being forced to attend a party with adults. When they arrived on their level, Myla hopped out first and Syril didn’t stop her, even when she didn’t offer him her usual polite goodbye.
It was clear that, somewhere along the line, their conversation had already died a gray, gloomy death.
But its ashen implications stuck with him, the way they must’ve haunted Myla earlier. He walked into his home, wondering if he even believed the platitude he had offered up to his neighbor.
Would things be solved? Would all this carnage and bloodshed happening across the galaxy go away? Would someone come along and make it all better, vaporizing the usurpers and rioters into nothing but dust and silence?
And what part did he play in all of this? What if he was blind to everything that was happening, and he let a chance slip by, or mishandled an opportunity? What if the peace he was currently enjoying was overshadowed by something macabre happening without his knowledge? The food he ate and the clothes he wore could be a life lost as he let himself be distracted by pleasure and calm.
Spiraling through his thoughts, he stumbled into the apartment and slumped down in a chair by the dinner table, waiting for Dedra to come home.
Having her here would make it better. She was the closest thing he had to hope.
Hope comes from belief. Belief in yourself, perhaps, or in some greater power, or in someone else. And belief, in turn, comes from trust. You trust that you will not fall, because you are chosen. You trust and you hope that this person you have let into your life will not desert you, because they have chosen you.
And what did she make him feel but chosen?
And so, he trusted her. He associated her with safety and comfort and peace and a future he could look forward to. He would gladly give her anything. His mind. His whole life, probably. Every word and thought he had could be hers if she wished it.
After all, he’d told her he would never lie to her.
And surely, she would never lie to him.
Would she?