Inside the mind of Lorn
The dream begins like it always does, too quiet, too perfect, like memory with the edges smudged. Mirater's ruins stretch around him, the world stuck between blooming and decay. The air bends, fragrant with blossoms that haven't existed in decades. It's the kind of place grief goes to perform theatre. And Lorn is always front row.
Isla sits in the same place, where the dream garden crumbles into a ravine that never ends. Feet in phantom water, eyes that see too much for someone who looks so young.
"You're going to the Netherworld." she says without looking up. No greeting. No warning. Just prophecy on arrival.
Lorn exhales, rubbing his jaw. "So nice to see you again, Isla. Did you bring snacks or just dread?"
She ignores the sarcasm, which is fair. It's flimsy armor anyway.
"You'll have to be strong." she says. "Naboo will lose more than it wants to give. And you'll want to stop it. You'll want to save them all. But you won't. You can't."
A petal drifts across the water. Or what his brain insists is water. He stares at it like it might matter.
"I'm tired of loss." he says.
Isla blinks slowly. "Everyone is. But that doesn't stop it."
Her tone is so calm, so final, he almost snaps at her.
"The Unblessed will push harder this time." she continues. "The Netherworld will eat the weak. But you won't die there. It will feel like dying. But you'll come back."
He scoffs quietly. "Not exactly a glowing forecast."
"You'll lose friends." Her voice gets quieter. "But they need you. Naboo needs the Shirayan Jedi now more than ever. No more drifting between peace and denial. This is the fight."
He looks at her, really looks at her, and thinks again how much she looks like Virginia. Same eyes. Same stubborn chin. Same unbearable truth in her gaze. But there's something more, something of his that he hasn't let himself name.
She tilts her head.
"You always try to hold everyone at arm's length. Like if you don't love them too much, it won't hurt when they go. But it still hurts, doesn't it?"
"Isla…"
"You need to stop pretending you're fine with being the last one standing."
He swallows hard. The ruins shift in the distance. He hates this place.
Then her voice changes. Softer. A little cracked.
"Aiden will need you more than ever soon."
He blinks. "What does that mean?"
She doesn't answer. Just stands up slowly, water rippling around her ankles. The dream starts to tear at the edges, petals vanishing mid-fall, the stars flickering like dying signals.
"Isla." he says again, reaching out.
But she's already fading.
"You'll have to carry more than you think." she says, voice echoing in the unraveling garden. "But not alone. Not this time."
And just like that, she's gone.
He wakes with the ghost of her voice in his ears and the smell of Mirater in his lungs. There's no water. No garden. Just the cold weight of duty, and the knowledge that he's already grieving what he hasn't lost yet.
