Ask Corellia Yet Do Our Cinders Burn

[Priscilla Castelle]

Pitched whinge of speeders dotted the skyscape of Coronet. A day like any other; commuters roamed beneath the afternoon sun, eyes cast to the horizon. The endless drone of holonet news and neon-lit billboards advertised and chronicled the day. Foretellings of battle and politics, of rote and rant, played on. For one of the largest metropolises in the rim, the day simply passed.

Few remembered the occasion.

The sound of coughing, taste of wet tears, touch of dusty smoke.

125 ABY. A day like any other. Much the same as now. People, passersby, all with their own troubles. Their own lives. They milled about frenetically. They watched the speeder lined sky. They went to work or school, bespoke lifts to the sector spaceport. Thousands upon thousands of them. And yet, for some, the day dawned black with a veil of blood.

Breathing past a runny nose, scratching soot from eyes she refused to open, she shuddered at a touch upon her shoulder.

How it haunted her.

Boots chirped a march across duracrete street, accompanied by the afternoon drone. Priscilla walked, meandered really, a lilting pace that dreaded its destination. Today marked the 10th anniversary of that tragedy. Hollow years. Reminiscence came bitterly. Still, she pressed on with all the hesitation and reluctance mustered against her. Still, she managed a tight smile at the honest fear. She lived. Many others had not. Perhaps that alone gave her the courage to face it now.

A tremulous sigh found her standing before the memorial. Several others stood with her, most in silence. Most remembering. She recognized none of them; wanted to recognize none of them.

A day like any other. And perhaps the last she'd have to face the past.

 

[Alfie Barrichello]

Tendrils of vaporized spice elongated through the air, quickly dissipating into the discordant gusts of the busy city. Alfie's fingers tussled the bag in his grasp. His new credits.

"Truly remarkable!" A burly man gasped through his spice, giddy joy bubbling at the surface. In his hands, a glimmering chip dwarfed by his gnarled fingers. "You, sir, are an artisan—a true virtuoso! How you managed it, swiping something of this value, this rare...unbelievable!"

He clawed his greasy, smarmed hair.

"The man upstairs is going to want to hear about—"

Alfie interjected.

"Another word," Alfie said. "And I'm asking for double."

For a moment, the streets' cacophonous chatter cleaved into his minds' eye, drowning out the burly man's words. A sour taste simmered Alfie's tongue, he had been here before. 10 years to this day, a tragedy. His eyes scanned the scene, releasing a deluge of memories long suppressed. Alfie gazed, remembrance of screams and turmoil betraying his sullen mood. His gaze froze, an echo of memory by the memorial. A woman—shock; captivation.

"What is it?" The man's childish glee receding.

Alfie peered ahead, a smile growing on his face.

"I know her."

 

[Priscilla Castelle]

Priscilla stood silently, eyes cast to the memorial. Watching, waiting, caught on the cusp of contemplation. Avoidance hung there, trembling in the air. It beckoned her; one more step, one shuffling pace. She need only turn and avert her gaze. Walk away. Never return. Bury the past and let it rot.

She couldn't. The thick blood of memory whetted her throat. It clung and clotted, a fervent gasp for escape. Wordless. The hum of it struck her. Today she could face it. Pushing back the hair framing her face, she bore the full weight of that day. She let it course through her. Heartbeat drumming in her ears, she breathed. Deep, slow breaths. Languorous, heavy.

Steadied, she drew her hands together at the waist. Clutched them there, suspended, and released.

There. She did it. Not so hard.

A quiet prickle caught her scalp; a flicker of motion. She turned, lowered her gaze, and blinked. A smiling face. Glowing eyes. Wistful, charming, not so frightened now.

—slowing until her feet slipped gently onto the walkway, thrumming with a dull burn that twisted its skeletal digits around her ankles.

A name. The name. His name. That hand peeking out from the darkness. That voice calling to her, promising a way out. Something caught in her throat. A sound. Her hand found its way to her lips. Her neck jerked, twisted, gaze averted hard from the boy.

"Oh," she said. Less than a whisper. And she fled. Arms thrown back, pushing her feet into motion. Frantic, wary, afraid. She ran headlong through the crowd. Away from the memory. Away from the boy.

Alfie?

No.

She beat a rhythm of desperation.

"I left him..."

 

[Alfie Barrichello]

"That girl...?"

The burly man scoffed. Not just any girl, surely—the very same girl. A girl from ten years ago, to the day. Her face, once a shadow, now illuminated once more with blaring clarity. His breath flooded his lungs in full spate, sparking a vibrant effervescence that electrified his limbs.

Alfie's lips opened. "Yes, ten years ago—..."

She turned. For a moment, they both understood. Ten years prior, to the day, the very same day. Their lives were scarred beyond recognition, a recollection so exquisitely quelled and buried deep. And then she ran.

Electricity in his limbs, Alfie split his legs into a quick sprint. "Where are you going?!" The man exclaimed, startedly turning to Alfie's dash. He ignored the question, bolting across the street into the thrall of the masses. The rabble of the city street had consumed her already, beyond the transparency of his view.

But he knew her name, and tenacity coated his resounding call.

"Priscilla!"

 

[Priscilla Castelle]

Tenacity slowed her steps. Chased her from quiet contemplation. Hunted her from the recesses of resolution. She had nowhere left to hide, whether that was in the past or now. For all she'd wanted to confront it, still she tried to flee.

She eased to a stop. Let her feet fall still and her breath catch beyond ragged gasps.

"Alfie," she said. She did not turn. Eyes cast aside, she waited for him to catch up. Waited for a smile to find her lips.

It took her longer than she would have liked for composure to find her. Working from the pit of her stomach, alight in cheeks flushed from brief excursion, she forced that smile. Maybe it was enough.

"I'm sorry. Want to go somewhere to chat? It's a bit loud here."