We are going to be seperated.
Our state of oneness is considered "unnatural."
The Council is worried. About us?
No, we think. Not us. The nest. Fear of the nest.
We don't want to be apart. It's already a struggle without the Taat.
"Think for yourselves," is our first piece of advice. "Try to distinguish outside of 'we'."
Seperate?
How?
We. Two mothers, two fathers. We're orphans, yet parented.
Hard, we think. The words "I" and "my"... so foreign.
Try, we agree. We try.
Our fingers-- no, we correct, her. Her fingers slid down our/my cheek. Down farther.
We know our skin, our bodies. We don't think. We move in a beautiful unison. Us-- one.
We can't be apart, can we?
Never, we think. Now forearms rest together, aside.
Seperate?
How?
We-- I. I? I.
I (?) lean down.
Touch, we/she coaxes. We/I already knew our thought. We conceive thoughts together.
We feel.
Alive.
Seperation is death.
Stay together, stay alive.
---
It's working. Cilghil didn't lie to us/me.
Our/her family rejects us/me, anyway.
We cannot touch.
Forbidden--
--The sweetest.
Strength together, we/she protests.
Learn to stand, we/I reply.
We/I feel her sadness. Not we/I. We/I am not sad.
How?
Seperate.
We/I want to hold on. Stay.
Against orders.
Touch, she coaxes.
And all Cilghil's work is undone.
---
Are we strong?
Yes, we think. We could be apart. But don't want to.
Cilghil throws Durron into the mix.
We reject him immediately.
He touches our/her arm. We both flinch, glaring.
"Don't," we warn.
Kyp looks at us/me, and throws a fist at my/our chin. We fall.
As he kicks, we cling, from apart the room.
They reject us.
Why?
---
We are glad he leaves. All he does is leave bruises on my/Zekk/our skin. They mysteriously appear on her/Jaina/our skin, too.
"No one can help you!" Cilghil says after a year. "Our finite ways cannot break the Force."
We want to run away. Just into the stars.
Freedom!
We can't.
Her/Jaina/we feel too sick. She/Jaina/we pray to the porcelain gods. I/Zekk/we rub her back.
Not just us anymore.
---
I/Zekk am excited. It's confirmed.
"Too dangerous," Luke and Cilghil caution. "You need to be seperated by the birth."
Why?
Our baby. For our baby.
We spend time apart. Minutes at most.
It hurts.
Try.
---
I...
Me...
I feel awkward.
So does she.
Alone, she thinks.
I still hear her in my mind. But we breathe and blink out of rythem again. We can move as individuals, like we used to.
My eyes fall to her flat stomach. I want to touch her, convey, in the familiar fashion, my sorrow.
Dangerous. I catch myself. We're barely apart.
Alone, we think. Our minds are eager to melt.
Careful not to touch her skin, I kiss her hair.
"It would've been a boy," she mutters.
She doesn't say more.
I know. We couldn't handle being seperate. Our bodies tore themselves apart in withdrawl.
Seven months across the stars.
For what?
Why?
We want to become one again. It was comfortable then. Now--
Hurts.
Will always hurt.
We've come--
--This far.
We want our baby back. We succeeded for his sake.
"Now he's gone," she says outloud. She wants so much. She wants me. To make love. To have our son.
Strength, I rub her back.
A year?, she questions.
"A year, and we can be together." My fingers brush her neck, and it electrifies me. I draw back quickly.
Temptation.
A year.
We walk away without more words.
---
We arrive before the council.
For two weeks, exams and tests.
We are as seperated as possible. Somehow still, barely barely linked.
Strong enough.
The moonlight enjoys our laughter, too.
We missed one another.
Touch?
This time, the work is not undone.
---