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The night is cold.
Every inch of skin freezes in the bitter chill of hyperspace as stars fly by the window, too far and too fast to give any comfort.
Every inch but the four square inches on her left forearm. There is a name, there. A name that always burns hot.
That is why she is awake. That is why she is here. The cold of hyperspace soothes the burning that trickles and creeps up her arm, encompassing her whole body in flame. The ship she is on soothes the fear that crawls out of her brain.
The Marauder. Any ironic name, to her. She is the treasure that someone desires to pillage. But this ship, these people keep her from that fate.
There is warmth, here. Not fire or ice but soft, summery warmth like a bright holiday on Naboo.
She dreams of Naboo, sometimes. It is living gold on her memory, but not pure. No, the living gold has been tainted by knowledge.
She is not Padme Amidala. She is not a brilliant politician, a strong queen, or a coveted wife. Somedays, when her mouth spits words that make even Tech cringe, when her sorrow is so deep that Hunter can smell it, when her fury makes Omega blanch, she wonders if this isn’t some great big cosmic mistake.
But soulmarks do not lie, and they are not mistakes.
She has thought often of the fable of the wounded tooka that bit its leg off to escape a trap. She envies it its teeth.
“Can’t sleep again?” The voice is soft, worried, gentle.
Omega stands at the entrance to the cockpit, her big eyes alight with worry.
Reema smiles. “No, you know how it is.” She sighs,
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Nuh uh. Just couldn’t stand Wrecker’s snoring anymore.” Omega grins, and Reema’s heart melts.
“Well, it might be quieter if you didn’t insist on sleeping in his bunk.”
Omega pouts and it is Reema’s turn to grin. “Still feeling cuddly?”
That stops the pouting. “Yes!”
The cold of hyperspace can only soothe so much, but the warmth of this place, these brothers, this child?
It could bring a dead star back to life.