Carida

[Naomi Kilnshire-Elswin]

The sword dancers played their jig step after step. Their only accompaniment, the deep thrum of a bass harp, and a lonely tune of a highland bagpipe. There was something tragic in those steps, a deep sorrow played out with every change of note, and every feathered waltz. The whispered notes washed across her memory like the cold ocean waves of her home. It was a tune that went back at least 100 generations, stretching back to the apartheid and destruction of their home world to the wrath of some long forgotten empire. Some darkside cult or some Sith aligned faction of long ago. Whose emperor and soldiers were now nothing but dust, and whose names were long ago forgotten in the deep archives of fallen Hesperidium. Their only feat to be referenced by some young historian, trying their best to write an interesting thesis. But her people had survived. They had grown, and the clans now occupied a hundred worlds, while the Sith and their foul craft were regulated to nothing more than a sad and tragic memory. 

 

Memory

 

Her eyes flew open before her wandering mind would show her a scene of one such Sith carving his sword through her Father’s breast. But the memory clawed its way up despite however much she might have wanted to stop it. She could taste the copper blood on her lips. She could see their faces. Their terror. His joy. 

 

Red locks of hair bounced around her ears as she shook her head. They had arrived at Carida. Where the house of Malczewski held their fiefdom. A place her father had said that they would be safe. Where they could rebuild, she could marry, and their house cadet branch could survive. But instead here she was. Covered in dried blood. Holding a sword that made her whole soul cry out in shame and pain. 

 

The transport had landed very hard at the emergency services berth. And no doubt there would be an inquiry as to why she was the only survivor of the passenger manifest. 

[Naomi Kilnshire-Elswin]

How could she explain the horror? What words could she utter from a throat parched with raw emotion? Fear, anger, regret. All boiled in the centre of her heart, sending pangs of emotion to every nerve. Now that there was safety and a man looking her in the eye that seemed to care, her emotions threatened to finally come boiling up. She wanted to scream, to cry, to throw up, and just lay down and sleep forever. But she knew now was not the time for that. Even as tears welled up in her eyes she straightened and squared her shoulders. And looked the man in the eyes. Pulling at whatever generational strength the Kilnshires might have had to offer. 

 

Afterall she was not the first nor the last Kilnshire or Elswin left orphaned by terrorism, genocide, or war. She blinked and hot tears dripped down her blood stained face. 

 

“The Sith.” She said in an accented speech pattern that clashed with the high core worlds accents of the Caridian throneworld. She had practised quite a bit at hiding the brogue accent with a neutral high core style, but her tiredness and emotions would not let her try it. This was not the time for any kind of fakeness, and the Caridian would likely see right through it. 

 

“A Sith Lord was left wounded and came aboard our shuttle.” Here came again the emotions, more tears and guilt. “I didn’t know and tried to help him and he just killed everyone.” Now came the hard sobbing breaths and unreleased tears. But she did not drop the heavy sword that was still stained with blood and avarice.

[Naomi Kilnshire-Elswin]

An Inquisitor? She could feel a shiver tinge its way up her spine, cut off only by the warm look in the eyes of the man that stood before her. The kindness in his voice and his stature brought such nightmares to an  easy end. She took a breath and nodded. There needed to be an investigation, and she would gladly answer any questions that she might know the answer to. Her blood stained hand came up, indicating the rearmost compartment of the vessel, whose siding was torn asunder like a ruptured carbonated muja fruit juice can. Her voice faltered as she spoke, a feeling of extreme tiredness beginning to seep into her very being. 

 

“I think he jumped into hyperspace. I do not think he enthralled anyone, but I am sure the inquisitor can get to the bottom of that.” 

 

She hoped what she said was not too ridiculous, and a Sith committing suicide was something nearly unheard of. She noticed his eyes searching the sword that was still clasped in her shaking hands. She offered up its hilt to the man. Though in the back of her mind she could feel a pang of fear that he might take it from her. It was all she had in the world.