#t: prodijedi (01)

[nieithryn]

@prodijedi asked: [ nightmare ] Dooku wakes [CALISTA] up from a nightmare

It was so cold. The winter had settled on this world firmly, and the chill cut through his robes. The camp of Mandalorians below hardly seemed like the sort of force that would do the sorts of things they were accused of, but he had been wrong before...but there was something wrong. Something in the Force felt off, something was- He reached to get Dooku's (Papa...papa please...) attention, though Vosa (Komari? What are you doing!?) was already speaking, challenging, and suddenly a shout- the Mandlaorian's leader had arrived, Fett he thought his name was - and the Force exploded into motion around them. The battle had begun.

A low, keening noise escaped the padawan, red hair soaked in sweat. It was hardly the first nightmare, and would likely be far from the last, but it was...consuming. The incomplete impression of a memory that had shot down the length of their shattered, shredded Bond to wrap around the only surviving half. The fingers of it closed tight around her very soul, the rending wounds bleeding tears of agony onto her pillow as she dreamed. A truth that was not true...a truth that was all too true.

It was so cold. His lightsaber was out of reach...not that he could have used it. He was choking on blood. He could have laughed; he had only been brought for his negotiating skills...not for his bladework. It was so cold. He was dying. (He was dying! No, that could not be!) It was...so cold.He was dying.... (Master? Master!?)

She woke screaming.

A bone-deep chill had taken hold of her, delicate fingers grasping with shocking strength to the thing around her. The shaking of her hands was almost violent, the look in her crystal blue eyes wild. Unseeing, her gaze wandered the rooms that - until recently - she had shared with her Master, and now were her sole domain until her grieving was manageable. Then they settled, uncomprehending, on a barren piece of wall.

Slowly, she became aware that the thing she was grabbing (knuckles white, fingers more like claws, clutching as if she might drown if she let go) was a familiar, warm presence. Slowly, she became aware that it was her father. At the edge of her awareness, she thought she could hear (feel?) the deep, smooth rumble of his voice.

It took her long, long moments to fall against her father's chest, heaving in breaths. Tears were flowing from her eyes, unnoticed. Her shoulders shook.

When she finally spoke, her voice came raw and weak, as if she had been screaming a long time. It came flat, as if all the emotion had drained out of her. It came tired, as if she had not been sleeping mere seconds (only seconds?) ago.

"...th-thank you, Papa..."