The Survival of Two

Shatter

Author's Note
Content Warning: Self Harm

Qimir trailed behind Osha, watching her get further and further away. His leg was still tender, sending fiery sensations shooting down it with every step. It wouldn't take long for the pain to lessen, but he knew that at the very least the rest of the walk would be miserable. Between his labored gait and Osha's quick, deliberate pace, she soon faded into the distance, leaving him behind. Abandoned with his thoughts, he tried to focus on the tightness of the new skin on his thigh, hoping the uncomfortable feeling would distract from his guilt. Too soon, though, his mind returned to the hilltop.

Once she'd adjusted to her saber, Osha excelled. She was strong and swift, even using the Force to aid in her assaults. He'd taken her first use of the Force as an indication that she was ready for a more difficult competitor. He began fighting back faster, stronger. Still, she'd managed to push him to his hands and knees. When he looked back to see her behind him, her weapon trained on his back, feral aggression ignited within him. His eyes were sharp with the fear he'd once felt when he'd turned his back to a trusted woman. Qimir no longer held back, whatever trauma Osha had accidentally kindled pushing him to extremes. In this rage-fueled daze, he'd hurt her. He'd thrown her across the clearing as though she were an insect to swat away. He'd continued to pursue her, blind to his surroundings—the very surroundings that nearly killed her. The hill's drop-off was sharp; if he hadn't caught her, he wasn't sure she would have been able to survive her injuries, especially given their remote location. His thoughts swirled with jeers and condemnation, cursing himself for his sudden madness. He'd sworn to help her—even to protect her when needed—yet he'd nearly ruined her at every turn. He was just thankful that her cry of fear had pulled him from whatever darkness had consumed him. As he grabbed her waist, the look of silent acceptance written across her stony face broke something within him. He'd driven her to such a state. The sharp, burning pain that ripped across his thigh was nothing compared to the fist that clenched around his heart. Her empty, silent countenance and frozen stillness kindled a fear deep within him; he couldn't let her shatter the way he once had. She was his acolyte. She would grow to be stronger, more powerful than he could ever dream of being. On that day, she would finally bring him the fate he deserved.

He trudged back to the cave, finding it empty upon his return. He changed out of the day's clothes, setting his torn pants on his work table. He started a kettle of tea, noticing Osha's saber lying on the table as he waited on the boiling water. He walked over to it, bringing it back to his work table. After his injury, he knew he hadn't adjusted the blade enough. The blow was nonlethal, but it was still far more intense than it ever should've been in a training environment. He set it aside to work on later. He looked down at his own saber, which lay beside his folded pants. He trusted Adassa to make the necessary adjustments, but he'd also trusted himself when he'd done the same to Osha's. He fought back images of what could have happened had she been the one struck, rather than himself. He blinked them away, lifting his saber. He needed to know if the adjustments were correct; he wouldn't leave Osha to suffer for his ignorance. The blade sprung to life as he pulled the hem of his shirt up to his chin. His chest now exposed, he held the saber parallel to his ribs, exhaling through a clenched jaw as he pressed the fiery red blade into his tense flesh. Quickly pulling it away, sheathing the blade, and setting it back on the table, he looked down to observe the wound.

Unlike the one he'd suffered on this hill, the small patch on his ribcage was a very pale red, not darkened or gruesome. His skin only burned slightly, the pain almost too little to register. He traced his fingertips over the mark, feeling no raised blisters or gouged flesh. It would fade quickly; it was no worse than the burns he'd collected over the years from bumping into a pot or the kettle. His faith in Adassa was deserved. He would only have to fix his own work.

The kettle whistled out, and he poured himself a cup before returning to the table, settling in to dissect Osha's saber yet again. He took a sip, preparing for a long night—he would work as long as it took to remedy his mistake.