Restless Wanderer, Always Lost

[Lord Ghoul]

Awash in a heady fog of intoxicating passion, Mikhail forgot his pain. The heat of her body, the softness of her lips; these suppressed the anguish like a drug. He wanted more. All thoughts of the shattered lifter evaporated. There was only him and her, each desperately tearing at the other's clothing in a frenzy of sudden lust or love. Shorn didn't know which, nor did it matter to him.

The only thing he wanted to know was the way Andra felt beneath him. Here, like this, he could make the world disappear without needing to destroy it.

He drew her deeper into his embrace and let the smell of her hair, the caress of her fingers, and the touch of her lips overwhelm all else.

. . .

Afterward, Mikhail lay on his back, sweat beading down his chest. The pain hadn't come back yet. He would just pretend it didn't exist, like always, until it popped up again and stabbed him in the gut like some psychopathic Ewok. Knowing Andra cared meant something, he just wasn't sure what yet. Too much had happened for him to really know what was going on in his life, if he even wanted to know.

Getting mind wiped, living as a rancor herder for half a year, escaping, watching his new found family die, getting frozen in carbonite, getting his memories painfully restored courtesy of Salem, fighting to break free... and now this. Once upon a time, he'd had goals. They involved killing the people who'd hurt him. He stared up at the ceiling, then glanced at Andra.

Maybe this time would be different.

A slight smirk came to his lips.

"Jared: 0, Mikhail: 1."

[member="Anders Sivas"]

 

[Yasha Cadera]

'Tear it down, crashing to the floor. Let there be peace.'

In the throes, I see black holes stealing stars. I am perched on an impossible moon spat out from the other side of the singularity watching as one by one the stars in the cosmic canvas get swept up, in and through the black hole. Pulled like warm taffy, they string to a nether point and are swallowed whole. One by one the sky is left devoid of the carcasses of stars. There was a darkness beyond the twinkling lights, a darkness hidden since my first adventure in the nebulae of Rhand.

Something found me in the tempestuous, flesh-wrending winds and it unfurls its mighty wings.

I fall through the singularity, back toward the cavernous creature above. As I stretch and burn in the pull of the black hole I feel my life and mind return to me. Disconnected from the legion of witnesses, I dance on the celestial winds and fly in a universe free of gravitational anomalies and caterwauling solar crackle.

Freedom was clustered in a moment of abject destruction and desecration of that I thought was sacred and precious. Mikhail proved what I had begun to suspect in Rhand: The Dark is cathartic. Not the wish-wash between Sith and Jedi, nor the blistering in-betweens but the Dark, the Infinitesimal, the single atom of clarity in a nebula of perceptions. Nestled in the clearing, my mind soars for joy. It lifts us, shows us the rectification of past events.

I fell caving inward with delight, deeply exhausted and beautiful. 'I am' it says, and in the curling syllables I see lifetimes curled in erratic directions dotted together in threads woven like lace is woven: delicate and pretty. I see my journey to the Fringe and the connections made therein and I am above all, content.

**

My bravery doesn’t extend to the opening of my eyes. The floor around me is terrifyingly cold and I’m sure my shivering is enough to make even a Zeltron think they’re in a cheap motel massage bed. Thankfully, my fingers are braver than my eyes and I feel the space around my body until they connect with skin, muscle and bone. I skim [member="Mikhail Shorn"]'s ribcage as he clears his throat or mumbles or tallies scores, the rustle steals my ears and I feel the firebrand of his body drifting from my shoulder down my spine, over the crest of my slip and smoothing across my hip. My voice is lost in my throat, it's as exposed and naked as the night had been.

"Mmmmhmhmhmmm." The chuckle fades in my throat as my lips refuse to open. I curl over and nuzzle up to Mikhail's body for warmth and a re-acquainting with reality. He's still here. Awash with relief, I brush my lips against his collarbone and slide my hand across his chest. He'd been hungry for the closest modicum of salvation in the hours before, a wretched man seeking the altar of grace. I'd been happy to give him that grace. The whole situation felt like the last hurdle of my consoling isolation, a rectification of the seconds since Lipsec that strung out in long-stranded pearls with the tainted imperfections of 'what should not have been'. I'd long been surviving on the drug and excuse of the Other Ones and now Mikhail caused me to be nothing but me.

As my teeth chatter and a shiver runs down my back, I curl into the Force and breathe into the crisp recycled atmosphere of the desolated Lifter. Tapas is a skill attached to my Mastercraft: Curato Salva. The art of healing oneself. Tapas floods my tissues with warmth and soon I feel Mikhail's skin go from firebrand to equal to cooler in comparison. "When I open my eyes, I wanna be in my bed tucked in and curled up with you, but I get the suspicion we're still on the floor of my tiny un-bedroomed Lifter. Mmmh. I talk too much."

What does it feel like to wake up after hours of Mikhail? Delightful and tangibly relaxing. I pull up with my eyes closed and my fingers brush against his lips, stroke his cheek and I kiss him. Breaking off with a contented grin, I brush my cheek against his and whisper in his ear, as one hand travels down his skin till my fingers brush against the inside of his palm. "When should I open my eyes, hmm?"