Star Wars: The Last Qymaili | ✔

17 | Culture Shock

Song: "Yoda and the Younglings" from Attack of the Clones OST

He brought in a small paper bag and a bottle of water, setting it on the table. The contents of the paper bag were two small packets; triangles of a grayish-blue substance were divided into sets of six.

Arna took their bowls. He poured half the bottle of water into his, the other half into hers. Then he took a triangle of the silt-like substance and sprinkled it into the water, doing the same to hers. With a finger he stirred each substance silently as she watched.

The silt absorbed the water, drying up the mixture into a ball that reminded her of the black bread they ate back home. The smell was unfamiliar, but homely. She ignored the hunger in her gut as Arna passed it to her; it, like every other form of pain, was something to be stifled and endured.

"I'm only allowed one of these a day," Arna said, "but if you want more, just ask."

Dazed all of a sudden, she glanced down. Her voice came out in a mumble. "I....I can't eat all of this."

He tilted his head. "Why not? It's barely a sixth of the whole portion."

"I've...." she looked at the brown mass. "I've never had this much to eat before."

Arna regarded her softly. "Your people must be very poor."

She didn't know what to say. Already she'd seen that Republic life was, by leaps and bounds, better than that of the Kaleesh. And they make their names on top of the dead bodies of my people, she thought, still serene emotionally.

Arna disguised a confused expression with another small smile. "Go ahead and try it," he said. "It tastes like salted bread."

She tore off a small piece with her gloved hand, bringing it to her mouth. It did taste like bread—but impossibly soft, not ridden with bugs or dirt like the bread on Kalee. And laced within it was something not quite sour and not quite sweet. Salt, I suppose.

She swallowed it, lacing her fingers together on the table. "It's good. Is it Mandalorian?"

"I'm not allowed Mandalorian food," Arna said with a dry laugh as he swallowed a tiny bite.

"Why?"

"If I were to join my culture again, it would be a form of attachment. My food comes from the Jedi Council's rations." He sighed. "They like testing me. I was knighted just a year ago and finally met my sister."

"You don't grow up around your family?" she said between bites of food. Neither had she, but that was a price she'd had to pay in blood and metal. Most Kaleesh prized their parents and the parents their children.

Arna looked horrified. "Of course not. That would be the greatest disaster—think of the temptation involved! The only Jedi I know—of—who was able to be wrangled into our customs after being around his family is Padawan Skywalker. But he's the greatest Jedi who ever lived, so he has abilities beyond most of us."

"Greatest Jedi ever, huh?" she said. "Sounds like my friend back home. People called us twin demigods. Burkhadaar, it was the strangest thing."

"He's Force-sensitive? I hear Kaleesh almost never are."

She chuckled. "Not especially so, but how else would you explain an angry five-year-old being a precise sniper?"

"That's fair. What about you? Are you Force-sensitive?"

She smiled. "Not one bit." But this was only a half-truth. In reality, she had every bit of Qymaen's odd abilities. It was a blessing because she could gracefully flit from Huk to Huk and sever their throats like a ribbon dancer; it was a curse because of her never-ending dreams about the Krath droid. Always the Krath droid.