The woman looked over her shoulder at the man, deep in his sated sleep, and smiled softly.
She slipped from under the blankets, hissing softly as her bare feet hit the cold durasteel of the floor, and padded naked across the room to his desk, sitting and carefully pulling a loose sheet of flimsiplast free from a sheaf of papers. A few drawers open and close until a pen is found.
She took a deep breath, glancing over her shoulder again, and began to write. Lists of bank accounts, access codes, hundreds of thousands of credits scattered in bunches across the galaxy. The codes to pilot her ship; the ones that need to be entered every time to ensure it's not being stolen again - and therefore preventing the engine from frying itself. All her worldly goods, listed onto a single piece of flimsi.
She looked over her shoulder again, writing the man's name at the top of the page.
He's first. I'll take care of him, no matter what happens to me.
She wrote the woman's name next; the shy shell who's already recovered more than Vyen'a ever thought possible.
She's gone through so much, and now Red's the only one that's guaranteed to see the next sunrise. I could fall. Jer'ax could fall. Bald? Shit, Jerhal's goin' front lines with Ihlrath. I need to make sure Red's taken care of, too.
She blinked, startled, vision suddenly blurred by tears before they slid down the sides of her nose, splashing against the back of her hand.
The hell's wrong wit' you?
She took a deep breath, looking back down at the desk. Her whole life, twenty five galactic standard years, reduced to a list scribbled out on a piece of flimsiplast.
Oh. That'd explain it, yeh?
She shivered in the cool air of the ship, small bumps rising along her bare arms, and looked over her shoulder to the inviting sight of the bed, full of Jer'ax and covered in warm blankets.
Finish this first, Anaria.
She sighed, looking back to the task at hand. The memory of her parents graves, slowly being filled side by side in the cold drizzle of rain that morning so long ago, filtered through her mind; she shook her head to remove the image, then jotted a final line.
If I die, take me to Mirial. Wrap me in satin and bury me next to my mother.
She tapped the pen thoughtfully.
If Jer'ax and I both die, bury me near him.
She scratched the line out, looking over her shoulder at the sleeping man again.
Maybe I should ask him to marry me again. Maybe...
She shook her head again, looking back at the list.
It's up to him, the next time. If there's a next time.
She picked up her datapad from his desk, resting where she'd left it as they came in, and tapped in the codes. Lists of troop positioning, ship counts, faction numbers all blinked awake to shine softly in the darkness of the room, illuminating her face with an eerie blue glow.
Please let there be a next time.
For the first time in a very long time, Vyen'a felt her heart flutter in her chest. She was truly frightened.
She sat quietly, studying the information, memorizing the lines, the names, the way the terrain rose up and fell away, all the information gathered by the reconnaissance mission the day before.
The war was here. Worse than anything else they'd ever faced. And it would all be decided tomorrow.
Tomorrow we'll discover what the maker has in store.
She sighed, setting the datapad down, and blinks back the threat of rising tears.
Silently, she padded back to the bed, slipping back between the covers and wrapping around the sleeping man, murmuring soft words as she nuzzled the back of his neck, closing her eyes and willing sleep to come quickly.
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