The durasteel of the transport rattled around Lorn, a constant, jarring reminder of the flight he was enduring - a necessary evil to get him back to Naboo. He gripped the armrests, knuckles white, fighting the churning in his stomach. He hated these metal birds, these unyielding contraptions that forced him to leave the ground. Yet, service to the Order demanded he become accustomed to such discomfort. Lorn took a deep breath, trying to find his center, the calm he'd been slowly cultivating since their departure from Hapes. The wedding, or rather, the aftermath of it, still hung heavy in his mind. The groom's sudden demise, the somber faces of the Order, the palpable grief… it was all too fresh, too reminiscent of a pain he'd hoped he'd left behind.
His mind drifted back, a stark contrast to the stifling atmosphere of the transport. He recalled another wedding, years ago, a lifetime ago it seemed. Darrow's wedding. Not a grand affair of political maneuvering and forced smiles, but a gathering of genuine friends and family. Lorn had stood as his best man, watching joy radiate from Darrow's face as he married his childhood sweetheart. Laughter had echoed through the night, the air thick with warmth and shared happiness. They had celebrated until the early hours, the kind of pure, untarnished joy Lorn had almost forgotten existed. That had been an extraordinary evening, but one that also would lead to only tragedy.
---
A stark, bitter taste washed over him. That joy had been a brief reprieve, a single spark in the long darkness that had consumed him for more than the past four years. The war. The senseless, brutal war between the Varnells and the Krulls had chipped away at him piece by piece. He was twenty-eight now, a veteran of countless battles, a witness to far too much death, far too much despair. He'd become jaded, a shell of his former self, his heart hardened by the constant loss. But beneath the surface of that cynicism was something else, something raw and burning: a thirst for vengeance. It was directed at Virginia, the source of so much pain, the woman who had abandoned him, the woman who continued to torment him with her cruelty. It was this vengeance that kept him moving, that fueled his desire to stay alive. He found it harder and harder to find joy in anything else, so finding her almost felt like his only goal.
Then the night of Darrow's wedding had come, a night of laughter, love, and a copious amount of drinks. And it had been a glorious night, so glorious that he had collapsed into his bed in the early hours, only to be tormented once again by visions of Virginia's daughter, Isla. Her face, usually soft and sorrowful, was now twisted with a strange urgency, whispering to him even in his dreams, telling him to wake, to run now. The visions were more relentless than before, more foreboding.
Lorn had jolted awake in his tent, his heart hammering against his ribs, his skin slick with a cold sweat. The feeling of dread was overwhelming. Trying to shake the sense of impending doom, he had roamed the camp, only to have the Force pull him towards the King's tent. He had pushed open the flap and entered, his heart plummeting to his stomach. Virginia stood over her father, the King, a malevolent smile on her face. He couldn't find his voice, his instincts screaming at him to draw his blade, but he had left it behind.
She had whispered an apology, her eyes void of any true regret, and then plunged a dagger deep into her father's chest. The King had woken in a panic, his eyes wide with horror as he watched his own daughter end his life. Then, it was only Virginia and Lorn, their eyes locked in a silent battle. The sounds of battle cries ripped through the night, the Krull army descending on them in their drunken slumber. Lorn had left Virginia behind, bursting from the tent, yelling for the camp to wake, to fight, but it was too late. He had tried, fought like a man possessed, but they were overwhelmed. He was battered, beaten into submission and taken prisoner alongside his Master and many of his friends. He had sat there in chains, defeated, as Isla had emerged, her eyes somber, staring only at him. He had spat their way, fueled by his rage, only for a guard to knock him unconscious.
When he had woken, hours later, he was chained within the dungeons of the Varnell Kingdom. The screams of the city being sacked echoed through the cold stone walls. His master, Solomon, lay beside him, equally defeated, his eyes devoid of their normal warm light. "It's almost over now Lorn," he had whispered, his voice barely audible, "All of the fighting and death... it's almost over."
---
The transport lurched as it landed hard on the Naboo runway, tearing Lorn from the memories. He was back, safe for now, but the specter of the past clung to him, a dark shadow that seemed to follow him wherever he went. The flight had been more than just a journey, it had been a descent into the depths of his most harrowing memories.
