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❝Answers leap up like a frightened flock, blackening the sky of my inescapable memories. Not one answer, not one suffices.❞
― FRANK HERBERT, The God Emperor of Dune
✧･ﾟ: * ═══════════════ *:･ﾟ✧
𝐈𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 Eryn has ever allowed herself to be truly afraid of, it's fire. Motherless, reckless, clueless, alone in the galaxy save for a platoon of starry-eyed enigmas, and still she can only admit to the simple fatality of flames. Ribboning tongues of vermillion and lapping indigo-edged scarlet, ravenous heat, putrid char; infernos consume everything she's ever loved without remorse. War-torn girl has become fire-born sinner, one who swallows dread only for it to settle damningly in her crescent breast and raze each part of her to ash with every cinder-choked breath.
Even now she burns away.
Eryn has watched many-limbed monsters of flame corrode Mandalore to blackened bones and cauterized graveyards, watched the cruelty of unfaltering yellow eyes glow with simmering satisfaction, watched bleeding shadows of white-hot embers bring her own ruin. And there's a secret lying in her memory-gaze, seismic in its hidden simplicity, devilish in its terrifying glee.
Fire is beautiful.
(Perhaps it's not a secret at all.)
The light of stars dancing seductively, carmine waves fluttering like passion-spent lashes, blood-red teeth and lips of ash, supernova in your hand. Incandescent with apathy as beating hearts smolder into naught. And as Eryn watched carnelian streams frolick above her like indestructible armies of blazing children, ricochets of a flayed twin sunset, her eyes were just like her father's. Mirrored sapphire pools, pulsing with the echoing cannonade of an arsonist's despair. Empty of divinity.
Standing in a hollowed mine beside a girl whose name was poison, the interlaced planks which wove across the sky abruptly became the freedom fighters' doom. The crude, latticed beams once could have been admirable in their innocent purpose, a juvenile art project protecting demons young and old from a place where time hadn't stopped but retreated, terrified by the clumsy effectiveness of youth. So much like the Sundari safehouse she knew better than her own scarred palms, where Bo Katan had brought the girl after her mother turned to ice in a Jedi's arms. It had been a blurry haven for a misery-washed, glassy-eyed child of just eight years, grief-stained sparks awakening within her in the endless mist, months of lying as still and silent as a corpse lest she become one. When Eryn finally emerged from that stale-boxed asylum it was only for moments, a gasp of air that danced with hopeful daring before the Republic dissolved and pulled her back under with relentless currents and smothering moon-dead tides.
