Filaments
The Sun and the Moon and the Sea I.5
Summary: In the aftermath of the execution, Cassian and Mirian are left to pick up the pieces. As the sky darkens and the air freezes, and as Cassian's anger burns hotter and hotter, he struggles to accept the close of his first, long day. The first of how many?
Word Count: 6000
Chapter Warnings: Swearing, depictions of grief, references and reflections of canon-typical violence
Series Masterlist + Taglist
ch. 4 // ch. 5 // ch. 6
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+ A thank you to @oloreaa for the nickname “Miri”!
Cassian still remembered the first time he killed a man. Hiding behind leafless brambles, clothes torn and small fingers bleeding, covered head to toe in the mud of the Festian spring thaw, squinting through a foggy scope. The soldier walked alone. The soldier's back was turned. Cassian could never fight him face to face. Cassian had orders. Cassian was eight.
These men on the ridge, these five crumpled bodies—they weren't his kills and he wasn't their killer. He hadn't held the gun today. That was for the Imps, for other men with orders. So why, fuck, why did he feel so sick? Why the guilt? He'd done nothing. He was nothing here.
His shirt felt wet. His shirt was moving. Cassian looked down. Sedra was still there. And Sedra was crying. How long had he held her there? Long enough for the birds to shriek and take flight, circling and diving and rising again into a failing sun. Adjourned.
Cassian let go of her, quickly. The girl shot away to her mother, held onto her sleeve. He shook his head in a daze. In a dream. It was the light, he told himself. Dreamlight that washed the landscape red, Mirian, red, with Sara in her arms and the girl beside her. Ugly, ugly light. He wished the clouds would close the gap. He got to his feet.
Fuck, his knees ached.
Looking around, everything was the same. Clusters of people clung to each other, shrubs overlooking dying grass: a man and woman with ancient faces, veiny, trembling, interlocked hands; a Mirialan woman on her knees, dark-haired, human-complexioned son in her arms; a tall, dark-skinned man kneeling next to his mother, head resting against her stomach. There were more further down, before the sleek, trooper-manned transport. They stood at attention and stared across the valley. Cassian stared back.
Commandant Riceter broke the silence and the hushed, forbidden weeping.
"Go back to your homes. Night is falling."
And they did. Little by little like the thaw and the not-yet spring.
A few from the crowd, friends and neighbors and the otherwise bold, joined the families at the front. They laid hands on them, gently helped them stand. Sara Yarem stayed put, and Mirian with her.
Cassian stood alone.
"My apologies, Mr. Skova." The Commandant descended down stairs roughly cut into the rock. He sidestepped Mirian and Sara, approaching Cassian with his usual languidness. His eyes shone ghostly in the last, unfading glow from Kepnos's noxious city lights. The execution squad stood silently behind him. Cassian fixed his eyes on their helmets.
"It's a nasty business, certainly." Riceter looked at the ridge with a shade of fake regret. "Particularly unpleasant for your first day. But I hear Eleos suffers similarly."
Cassian said nothing.
"We are lucky, then," he said pointedly, "that this isn't frequent, or else that might be too much for us all to bear. Especially for our young Point over here. Competent and loyal to a fault—" Cassian's stomach turned. "—but still new to it all."
"How new?"
"Well, older, actually, than almost anyone. She's lived here ten years or more. But she is new to the work." Riceter shook his head. "I myself only arrived three years ago, right before Mirian the Mother died—after a decade in Huvo, that is. Have you heard of it?"
"Vaguely."
"Well," Riceter replied, "if you ever have the chance, I'd certainly recommend a look around. The Empire has done a particularly magnificent job of setting its barbarism into order. We've set up factories and industrial centers to put its citizens to good work; we've set up schools to educate their children, and to discipline them: Huvo is well on its way to maturing into a most industrious Imperial state, one of our finest successes. Have you ever heard of the Huvon black hawk, Mr. Skova?"
"No."
"Half bird, half amphibian: they can soar over a hundred and fifty thousand feet in the air, yet can dive and swim among the creatures of the Huvan reefs. Nearly extinct now," he added sadly. "They lived primarily in Huvo's great seaside forests, which have been mostly cut down out of necessity. However, I did manage to snag one for my private aviary. A beautiful creature it is, the poor thing. Mirian, my dear!"
Mirian stood, straight and still and ready as a droid. Her clothes were dirty.
"Yes, Commandant."
"I've determined that you and your Second will visit in two weeks' time. He should be well-established in the position by then, and just in time before the freeze. You'll take care of him well, I trust? Keep him out of trouble?"
"Yes, Commandant."
"Splendid!" He clapped his hands with that mildly saccharine restraint. "I will remind you the day before. Have a good night, my dear Mirian. A brief one too, let us hope. And you, Mr. Skova..."
Riceter lowered his voice and leaned closer, close enough to make Cassian's stomach crawl. "... Your position has been empty for far too long. I hope that, with your support, mishaps like these may be better avoided. And a good night to you, my friend."
He left for his transport. His hands were clasped firmly behind his back; his back was firmly turned. Oh, how Cassian would have loved to use him for target practice. His shoes looked too clean for this muddy earth.
Mirian knelt again, muttering into Sara's ear. They both forced themselves to their feet on shaky knees, in ash-caked clothes.
"Skova!" She was already walking past him. "Take care of Sedra, please."
Take care? Care of what? Sedra was fine. Sedra didn't like him, or wouldn't like him later. Why should she? Happy just as she was at her mother's skirts.
"Skova!"
Cassian grit his teeth— just a kid— grit his teeth and closed the gap in one long stride. He laid a hand on the girl's shoulder.
"Walk with me, Sedra."
The girl stopped, wrapped her arms around herself, and looked him up and down. "Who are you?"
"Skova. Well—" Cassian choked on his words. "I'm Amrodoro. Skova."
Her eyes narrowed; she leaned away. Cassian started to panic. Why the panic? This was a kid. A fucking kid.
"You can—call me Amrod if that's easier."
"My name is Sedra."
"Yes." He glanced ahead; Mirian and Sara were yards ahead now. He held out his hand. "Let's walk, Sedra."
She paused—would she? what then?—but put her small, slight hand in his. Her fingers were cold; Cassian gripped them tighter. He walked slower for her short legs. Not that the others set a rough pace. He was glad—it meant he slipped less often. Especially now. It was getting dark.
"Who are you?"
"Amrod."
"What do you do here?"
"I help Mirian."
"You and Miri?"
"... Yes." Cassian's face twitched. "Me and Miri."
Sedra's fingers relaxed a little in his. They were getting warmer.
Several minutes passed in silence. The four of them kept Kepnos at their backs; far ahead something dully reflected its ugly blue light. The bogs. North and maybe a little East. Far, far from the house. The Mirian House, they'd called it this morning. Midmorning. It was evening now, close to night. Miri of the Mirian House. Cassian tested the name once more on his tongue. He hated the taste.
"Uncle Sergo was there," the girl said suddenly.
Cassian bit his tongue and looked to Mirian. Her back was turned. She was no help.
"He was."
"He plays Catchem with me. You play Catchem?"
"I don't know what it is."
"Huh." Another pause. "Uncle Sergo got me swords."
"Swords?" Panic welled again. Cassian felt silly. "Where'd he find swords around here?"
"Under the black houses. He takes me there sometimes. Mama doesn't like it unless she comes. Then she tells me to sit by the tree. But sometimes Bobbidy comes."
Cassian had no idea what she was talking about but let her go on; short, matter-of-fact sentences. He was unreasonably tense. Why panic? Fucking kids. He'd been a kid too, once. A long time ago. Like everyone. He couldn't remember it, couldn't remember what to say. Should he say anything at all? He'd been a kid who'd lost family once. All of them, actually. What did people tell him? He couldn't remember.
Didn't help that she'd apparently adopted Mirian's delivery. Miri. Downright unsettling.
"How old are you, Sedra?"
"Six. I turned six two weeks ago. Actually... three weeks ago."
"Well. A happy birthday to you."
Cassian asked nothing else.
It was pitch black by the time they stopped. C-Series still whirred here and there in the streets like artificial torches, belts pulsing white and orange and gold. With Kepnos they cast a warm, muddy light over the glinting muddy streets, and the people who walked them—fewer now; still very much alive. Cassian's eyes stuck on their hardened faces. They knew. They'd seen. No one spoke.
Mirian and Sara disappeared into a little door. Seconds later soft, yellow light streamed through the opening. Sedra pulled her hand from his. His fingers felt cold.
"Come on, Amrod."
Cassian followed her through to the little house.
Very little. A single, rectangular room with a low roof; three dingy white walls and one on the right of poorly paneled wooden slats. Bits of light shone through from the other side along with unfamiliar voices. A two-family house. In the far right corner beside a single yellow lamp hung a set of bunk beds—slabs of metal protruding from the plaster wall, covered with sleep mats and sparse bedding and draped with torn clothes. Sara Yarem sat on the lower bed, resting her head in her hand, staring at the sandy, unswept ground. Across the room Mirian had straightened her scarf again and worked at the makeshift stove, a thin metal tile balanced on half of an old heat generator.
Sedra laid her head on Sara's knee. "Mama?"
"Yes, baby."
"Can I show him my swords?"
"Yes, baby."
The girl scrambled up some sacks from the end of the bed and emptied them into her hand.
"Here." She showed Cassian. Two spiral screws lay in her palm.
"What are they?"
"They're our swords. Here."
She jabbed one towards his chest. Cassian flinched; his heart pounded.
No panic. Fucking kids.
He glanced at Mirian. She'd put a pot on the stove and was measuring out a helping of rice. She watched him from the side. Cassian waited for her to tell him what to do. A Skova!; a jerk of the head. Mirian looked away. Nothing.
Cassian accepted the screw.
The girl smiled and held up her sacks—not sacks but dolls, two of them, oval heads the length of their flattened bodies, hairless, mouthless, charcoal streaks for eyes, made from what looked like faded rice bags; loose threads tied off their grotesquely oblong limbs.
She shook the doll in her right hand. "This is Bobbidy—" then her left; "—and this is Graida."
They were identical. Cassian pretended to tell the difference.
"These are their swords?"
She nodded. "Do you wanna play Catchem?"
Back to Mirian. No sign from her yet. The frothing pot reminded Cassian of his hunger, and his thirst, and his exhausted eyes, and his cold fingers, and his overheated head. But no, no. This wasn't the time, this wasn't right.
"I'll play."
"Sit down. No, here."
Sedra dragged him from the door to the center of the room; he had to bite back a laugh. It felt so wrong here, small and chairless with a silent, grieving stranger on one side and a silent Imp on the other, but he hadn't had a kid boss him around since he was a kid in the Pecquenta Corps. He looked up. Mirian was smiling.
"Catchem," as it turned out, was Sedra's tag— armed tag. Cassian didn't remember his tag involving swords. Sticks, stones, hand grenades, maybe, running after and running from real armed men. They'd had that. But that wasn't for fun. Maybe he shouldn't try to relate. Maybe just sit, and humor the girl as long as possible, and try not to kick up too much dust. He let her doll catch up with his; she drove her screw through its limp abdomen. Cassian flinched.
"Bobbidy wins!" she yelled. "And Graida falls with a great scream. A scream, Amrod."
"Ah!"
"A great scream."
"Aaahhh!"
"She falls to the ground—" Cassian dropped his doll. "—and breathes... her... last..."
Sedra threw her hand over her forehead and collapsed. "Dead!"
"Are you Graida now?" Cassian asked. She scowled and sat up again.
"No. I won."
"Yes," he laughed, "I think you did. Just about skewered it—"
She seized his doll, screw hanging out, and lifted it victoriously. "And Graida lives!"
"She—" Cassian blinked. "She what?"
Just then, Mirian tapped Sedra's shoulder. Dinner was ready. She set a small helping of rice and a cup of water next to the other doll, and stooped down by Cassian's shoulder.
"Weren't you listening, Skova?" Her voice trembled with excitement. "Graida lives."
Cassian rubbed his ear where she'd whispered. Goosebumps. By the time Mirian had given Sara her share, he couldn't help but notice there was none left for them. His stomach ached with hunger; he could feel it in his chest. And Sara only picked at her food.
"Baby, don't eat on the floor."
"Yes, Mama." Sedra picked up her food and joined her on the bed.
"And don't leave your—"
"I have it." Cassian swooped up the dolls and screws like a hawk its prey. He set them gently at the foot of the bed, forcing himself not to look at their food, not even to smell it. He felt guilty. Why the guilt?
"What do you say, Sedra?"
"Thank you."
Cassian only nodded. He leaned against the door while Mirian drew a rickety stool to the bunkset. She sat with her elbows on her knees, pulling a datapad from an inner coat pocket, tapping here and there in silence. They'd have to talk soon, one way or another. Sara didn't seem ready yet, and Mirian didn't push her. Decent of her. Cassian couldn't stand to watch.
There was a window a foot and a half from the door, a little below his eye level and boarded up with rocks and mud. The insulation looked several years old, if not more. Too old to hold up another winter. Cassian examined the doorframe. Little cracks spread from the seams. Here, the light within and the dark without, there was no telling if the cracks were wide and deep enough to let cold air right through. The plaster itself was cold to the touch. Would Mirian mind if he stepped outside? Just for a minute, just to look at the door. She probably would. Did Cassian care? It was chilly out. And there were people out, too; what if he recognized one from the crowd? So what if he did! He'd meet them eventually. Possibly. Probably.
"Household. . . Livelihood. . . Unit compensation. . ."
Compensation... Awfully Imperial to Cassian's ears. Awfully pragmatic. Was Sara in any shape to talk, to understand? Of course. She worked here. Volunteered here, actually. There was a difference. Was Mirian her employer? Or her coworker? Would Mirian demand her back to work the next day? Awfully Imperial... But that happened in the Rebellion sometimes, too. Back-to-back missions, frequent loss. But that was different.
Would he be shipped right out again, once he got back? If he got back. The whole thing was already fucked. Hopefully they'd send him off right away; he didn't like to sit still. If he got back.
Cassian scuffed his boots over the sandy floor. Little pills of rolled up mud peeled off his soles, sticking against the ground. He tried to stomp them up again.
"You alright, Skova?"
Mirian had put her datapad away and stared at him. In other light, in other eyes, Cassian might have called it genuine worry. He flushed.
"Fine. All fine."
She nodded, unconvinced, but turned back to Sara. She squeezed her hand.
"We'll have it in first thing tomorrow. Things will be okay. You and Sedra both. I promise. And I'll take these—" She bundled up the clothes hanging from the top bunk. "—and I'll be back soon. And you're welcome any time of day and any time of night, for anything. I promise."
"Thank you."
"No need." Mirian kissed Sedra's head and tugged on her braid. "You stay out of trouble. Promise me?"
"I promise." The girl nodded bashfully. Mirian kissed her again and tightened her hood scarf.
"Skova."
Cassian opened the door and held it for her. Her scarf brushed against his hand; the fabric was warm. He shuddered.
"Bye, Amrod!"
Cassian froze in the doorway.
No panicking.
"Goodbye," he said with another forced smile. He shut the door tightly behind him; hopefully Sara remembered to lock it. Hopefully she didn't notice the rolled up mud on her floor.
Here in the darkness, Cassian could see light leaking through the cracks in the window and door frame, dull, golden filaments that led to nowhere. Someone had better fix them before winter came.
He caught Mirian staring.
"What?" he snapped.
She raised an eyebrow. "All fine?"
Cassian took one last look at the door before pulling himself away. "All fine."
They took a soft pace back; Mirian walked more beside him than ahead of him. She murmured directions now and then, "left" and "straight" and "cross." Otherwise they walked in silence. Snippets of somber conversations drifted through thin, plaster walls; tookas snarled lowly from dark, adjoining alleys; the vibrowire fence droned on to the melody of a lone, late-evening mourning dove. And then there was his own shaky breath and its pale steam. He had nothing to cover his face.
It was almost nice to walk beside another human being. Almost, for the time being.
Back at the squat, square house, Mirian input the key code. Outside, nearby droids shone on the scratches in the door like ghosts. Inside, Mirian's own droid was working. Cassian could see the fragile, telltale filaments around the door frame. These would need fixing, too.
The door slid open. Mirian wiped her boots on the mat and Cassian followed suit. She set the Yarems' clothes at the foot of her bed.
"Sit where you want."
Cassian took the chair on the far side of the desk-chest, the one he'd taken this morning. Mirian stood again at the stove. Should he offer to cook this time? His head was so heavy, heavy as an ion cannon; he propped it up against his palm. The sedated droid was warm against his other hand. If Cassian wasn't sure she'd see, he'd press his whole face against it. Fall asleep. He was so tired. Where would he sleep? Too tired to even ask. But too hungry to be too tired. His ears pricked up at the sound of rice poured into water. Cassian looked over, expecting to see Mirian as she was at the Yarems'. No. Here she was hunched over the narrow countertop, head against the cabinet, fingers digging into an empty plaster bowl. Cassian thought she might be sick. What then? Go on cooking, probably. She seemed like the type.
"He'd brought the bread home," Mirian said suddenly. Cassian raised his head.
"She had enough time to get it out of the house, sink it in the marsh. She could have been killed if they'd found it first. Certainly arrested."
Cassian waited for her to continue. She didn't. Eventually she straightened up again, stirred the rice pot, strained the water out through old mesh. Cassian only fought his way through muddled thoughts and foggy memories of the day. Yes, they'd seen Sara before. He'd seen the brother, too, what felt like days ago. It had to be less than twelve hours. He didn't know the time. And Cassian realized he'd never known which of those gaunt, scared faces belonged to Sergo Yarem. Not that it mattered anymore. His body was gone and over the ridge. The blackbirds here, the shriekers—were they scavengers? They'd make unrecognizable messes of those faces, anyway. His stomach flipped, now with hunger, now with nausea.
"You told her to, didn't you?" he finally asked.
Mirian walked to the desk with two bowls of sticky rice; she returned with two cups of something steamy. Her eyes were glued to the ground. She took care to pull her chair out quietly.
"I can't help them when they get caught," Mirian repeated to her own food. "But sometimes... sometimes we can get away with a little more. With much discretion."
She began to eat. Cassian eyed his food suspiciously. Poison wasn't completely out of the question but the odds were low enough. He took a bite, two, three, four, shoveling rice into his mouth like he'd never eat again. It was wet and unseasoned; the sogginess soon dried out on his tongue into a plastery paste. A whole minute passed before he remembered his thirst and he looked to the mug. Tea, probably. Lifeless gray leaves floated on the water.
He took a sip. It burned his lips and tasted like licking a power generator. He tried to control his puckering face. Mirian put her spoon down.
"I'm sorry that this happened today, Skova."
Cassian froze with his mouth still full of battery acid. He'd have to get used to this stare of hers: wide, gaunt eyes with dark circles swallowing up his, rarely blinking. Eyes it might prove difficult to pull the wool over and a mouth sharp enough to slice through it, anyway. Cassian tried to match her stare, but—oop! He didn't care to. He went back to his sticky rice and tried to forget about the tea.
"I'm not the one who needs an apology."
"Let me amend it, then." Mirian folded her hands on the desk. They rested dangerously close to his; he pulled his rice bowl closer.
"I dislike," she said after a deep breath, "the circumstances surrounding your arrival and subsequent assignment, for reasons we've already discussed. I say 'dislike' for two reasons. Firstly, because their peculiarity sets me on edge. I find it hard to believe that a single day has brought not one but two misfortunes. Secondly, because they've made your life here—for the immediate present, at least—much harder. No one's supposed to jump into this with no training whatsoever. Especially since, I admit, I'm not in the best position to train you. You need to learn quickly and you need to be ready, in an emergency, to take the lead. I'm afraid the manner of your own arrival has sabotaged you—to what extent, I don't know.
"Nonetheless: whatever's at the root of the peculiarity—" her eyes flashed. "—you've been dealt a cruel hand. Personally so. It's cruel that you should witness the worst of the job in your first twelve hours. Perhaps you're right," Mirian sighed. "I shouldn't apologize to you. But I think it's beneficial, for honesty's sake, to acknowledge the unique ways in which today has been cruel to you. And it would be cruel of me, too, to pretend all is well when I'm sitting right across from you. That's why I'm sorry."
Cassian swallowed another mouthful of slimy rice and tried another swig of tea. He very nearly coughed it up.
"If it's cruel, it's common. Commonplace. It's the same everywhere." Cassian shrugged. His voice was hoarse.
"Maybe—" Mirian stared at him with knit brows. "You mean to say that none of today's events have bothered you?"
"I mean it doesn't matter who's bothered. What happens, happens."
She looked down into her untouched tea. Something deflated in Cassian's chest, like the string pulled taut between them had snapped.
"I think..." Her fingers twitched. "I think you're lying, in some way or another. I hope you're lying."
"Life has enough worries already," Cassian echoed from the transport. Bitterly.
"That's right."
But something about that wasn't as genuine. Cassian thought she was lying, too.
Without warning, Mirian scooped up the last of her rice and downed her whole cup of tea, leaves and all. She took both their bowls to the sink.
"We'll stop by Sara's tomorrow, and all the other families. Make sure they've gotten through the night. Distribution begins at noon. We'll submit the R&R the day after tomorrow or tomorrow evening, if there's time."
"R&R?"
"Recompense Requests." She scrubbed their spoons with a hard block of soap. "Imperial-related deaths, when they impact a family's livelihood, are sometimes eligible for some compensation. Never enough, but it's something more than nothing. Executions are harder."
She sighed. She spent several more seconds bent over the sink. "Sara's a registered volunteer. We might be able to push something through for her."
Wasn't Sergo a volunteer too? Cassian didn't care enough to ask. His tea still sat before him mockingly. It wasn't steaming anymore. Cassian decided to chug it. Fuck. He should have chugged it when he had the chance; the heat at least distracted from the rancid perfumy taste. The hair at the nape of his neck stood up on end. Cassian threw it back like Mirian did, forcing himself to keep it down. Every muscle in his face contracted. He felt thirstier than ever as he smoothed over the cup with his thumb.
"Where am I staying?"
Mirian glanced at him from over her shoulder. "You stay here. You can bring me that mug to wash."
"Here?"
"That mug, please."
Cassian pursed his lips as he handed her the still-warm cup. He was getting impatient.
"Points and Seconds house together," Mirian explained, satisfied. "In some of the newer Sectors they live in adjoining units. Our house is too old to add another wing. So, yes, here."
He forced a laugh. "Where would I sleep? There's only one bed."
Mirian hesitated. "The last Second and I shared," she said slowly, "and my mother and I before that. I have a sleeping mat and bedding to spare if you'd rather take the floor, and we can keep the droid beside you if you don't mind the noise. But winter is coming on quickly. Past winterfall the droid won't be of much help. But it'll be enough for now."
Cassian looked around. Professionally, a nightmare. If he could reconnect with Kaaza, they'd need a way to communicate regularly—far from Mirian's gaunt eyes. Not just Mirian, or Miri . An Imp. If she wouldn't try to save a friend from a public execution, she'd do nothing to cover his ass. Hell, she might report him for getting mud on her bedsheets. Just for fun.
But where else was he supposed to go? Sector One housing seemed thin as it was. Was he planning to curl up next to a feral tooka for warmth? They had a personal C-Series here; if he had to stay through the winter, he'd want somewhere clean, warm, and dry. And staying through the winter was rapidly becoming less possible than probable.
Not if they moved fast. Maybe this was incentive. Fuck.
"... I'll take the floor."
When he looked back, Mirian's eyes had lost their razor focus. She nodded absentmindedly, almost in relief. "Yes, the floor... And the mat."
She slid a sleeping mat from under the bed, spread it alongside in front of his duffle bag, and handed Cassian one of the pillows and the top blanket.
"It'll drop to freezing tonight, though not below yet. The fresher's in the back corner. We have enough water if you need a shower but not much of a water heater. There's an extra towel in the cabinet. You have something to sleep in?"
"Yes."
Mirian spared him a tight smile before heading to the fresher. He soon heard running water.
In the meantime Cassian spread the blanket neatly over his mat and straightened the flat pillow. The mat was stiff but not damaged, and barely dented. Barely used. The old Second had shared her bed, after all. Wonder who they were, wonder what happened to them. Long gone by now, probably. Wonder why they left.
Rummaging through his duffle bag, Cassian found the tattered old day clothes he kept for pajamas—but good enough that he could move and run and work at a moment's notice. Next to them were his toothbrush (no toothpaste) and a handheld scope the length of his index finger. Cheaper than he liked, but cheap got you through the detectors at customs.
Cassian listened for the running water before changing into his pajamas. They felt like his day clothes when he put his parka back on. He stood, dirty clothes in hand—how did they do laundry here? How often? Sometimes Cassian hadn't changed for weeks, sometimes he'd lost count. Mirian seemed like she'd care, though. Would she kick him out if he didn't keep clean? Cassian chuckled at the thought.
He heard a bout of coughing from the fresher, deep from the lungs. He stopped laughing.
She wouldn't cough all night, would she? Cassian refused to sleep with ear plugs on principle. Maybe he'd just have to deal with it. The water shut off. Not wanting to be caught standing, he draped his muddy pants over his bag, pushing them back from his pillow.
The fresher door slid open with a shuddering scrape. It should be re-oiled. Mirian reappeared with her outer clothes in hand, including her hood; long, dark hair hung down her back in a loose braid. She opened her desk-chest, folded and replaced some of her clothes, and draped her ashy trousers over the wooden chair.
"You can put your dirty clothes here," she said with her back turned. "I'll wash it all tomorrow if I have time. Not all days are this messy."
Cassian's face burned as Mirian checked the locks on the door and then the window: thick, grimy glass instead of mud and pebbles. She pulled the ratty curtain tightly shut and tucked it into a crack in the plaster.
"Things are quiet here," she murmured, "but we all keep cautious. You remember what I told you today?"
"If I'm not cautious I might be turned into peat."
"I told you to keep your mouth shut." Her fingers dug into the fabric of the curtain. "Among other things. This house is probably the safest place in the whole Sector. Bear in mind that that could change in an instant. You understand."
Cassian nodded, and waited: she looked like she wanted to say more. Nothing came. She only dimmed the lamp that sat near the stove—soft, deliberate steps near silent without her boots—and sat on the bed with her legs dangling off.
"You'll move the droid where you will?"
"Yes."
She paused, eyes darting. "... Is there anything else I can do for you today?"
"No."
Cassian met her bloodshot gaze.
"Goodnight, then. Skova."
"Goodnight."
Mirian curled up into the single pillow under the single coverlet, curled tightly next to the wall. Cassian frowned. She'd be colder there.
He draped his muddy trousers over the opposite chair and set his boots by the front door. Mirian's sat on the other side. They'd run into each other if they both had to get up in the night. He pulled the C-Series closer to his mat, running his hands lightly over its buttons and lights. Medium heat setting. Fine enough. He wrapped the blanket around his coat and lay down.
Even with the mat, the ground was harder than he'd braced himself for. COlder, too—though nicer, somehow, than the cramped stuffy quarters in the belly of the ship. At least he could stretch out his back. But whenever he tried the backs of his legs froze. So he curled up again, quite as cramped as he'd been most of the past week.
This morning. The ship was this morning. It had been a forever. Not a forever. Just a time.
Kaaza was in Sector Two. Their intel was in Sector Two. Their maps, their comms. Everything.
Cassian was in Sector One.
That was okay. Okay. All that separated them was a ridge, after all. And Mirian said it could be crossed. Further North, probably—unforgivable idiocy, Cassian thought, to try to climb in secret over Golgaelar Hill. But would secrecy matter more than speed? And Cassian was Second now. Would he even find the time?
Golgaelar Hill. Strange name. He shuddered with cold. Who named it? Doesn't matter. It sounded hateful coming from Riceter's mouth. These men we call our friends. Brothers. Sons. They had crumpled like puppets without their strings. Sergo Yarem was one of them. Which one was he? Where had he stood? In the middle for all to see? Or shafted to the side, watching his sister scream from a distance? Did he see Cassian standing there behind the front row? Standing alone—behind the front row with the other families mourning.
Strange that no one else had tried to fight. Maybe they had. Cassian hadn't been paying attention. Maybe they had. Maybe Mirian just played favorites.
Not that it mattered. Even if the crowd overwhelmed the execution squad, backup would be close behind. They'd all have been killed anyway. They were as good as prisoners here. They had no power.
Mirian did. Mirian who was called but not named; Mirian who wept and cooked for the woman she'd rushed to restrain. Our young Point, competent and loyal. Karlon Riceter knew her well. Karlon Riceter esteemed her highly. She had no right to be here. No right to cook for Sara and no right to tug the girl's braid. No right to whine. I can't help them when they're caught. Had she even tried?
No, of course she wouldn't. She'd lose the esteem; she'd lose the house with the personal C-Series she hated. That droid was a privilege. She had no right to complain. How many others froze through the night? How many others slept on the ground, and what would their Point do for them once winter fell? No telling—might even be his job by then. Get fucked.
Don't get ahead of yourself. Don't get too worked up over a handful of people you don't know. You're here to get your intel and get out. You're here on a mission. Maybe it'd help to kill her in her sleep. For the mission, of course. Nothing personal. Just like the men they'd shot up on the ridge. The men awaiting justice. The men we call our friends. They'd crumpled like puppets. Crumpled down the opposite cliff. He saw them like shadows. Fuzzy, burgundy shadows backlit in red, shadows through leafless brambles, crumpling, and crumpling again—
Cassian sat up. He was covered in sweat. He threw off his blanket, threw off his parka, stumbled to the fresher. He hadn't taken that shower. He hadn't brushed his teeth. He'd have to wait until morning. Shaky hands forced on a faucet ringed with white crystals. He splashed water against his face. It was ice cold. Fuck, he was so thirsty. He drank out of cupped hands, drank until the water ran down his forearms and the dryness of his mouth relented. He turned off the water and stared in the mirror. Gaunt eyes with dark circles. His whole body sagged with exhaustion.
Without the running water, he heard breath from the other room. Uneven breath, again and again. Cassian wiped his face with his shirt and leaned against the fresher doorway.
Mirian hadn't moved from her spot by the wall. Another breath. Shuddering, shaking the mattress below. A sniffle so faint he could only just hear it. Muffled in fabric. Cassian felt sick to his stomach.
He had to cross the room; he had to put his coat back on. He heard her crying clearer here. He tried to be quiet. He wanted to scream.
Cassian turned the droid's setting to High; it hummed a little louder. When he wrapped his pillow around his head he heard its whirring only faintly. Resting on his arm—he knew it'd prick and ache tomorrow. At least the sound was drowned.
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