Somewhere in the outer rim.
It was spinning. A ghostly sea of turbulent cotton waves. It looked familiar, reminding him of the porridge his mother used to make for him when he was younger. She used to give him Xepracian brown sugar for it. He would sprinkle a crooked line of it over the gray lumps then watch as the sugar dissolved into a swirly pattern under his mashing fork.
It tasted sweet like...like...
Then, like so many times before, the memory decayed, leaking through the withered fingers of his mind. He blinked and for a moment the sea of gray vanished inducting his vision to the condition of his remembrance, an empty black. Perhaps this blank slate fantasy was the place his lost memories dwelled. To be created at a whim and thought of as real. A way for the mind to cope, to manage a fleeting sanity, to console his consciousness.
Could it be I was never a child? Created by Vader in a tube? A sort of wet work droid. Is that why these memories flee so quickly? Shouldn't a man be able to tell his dreams from his memories?
Though he couldn't see it spinning anymore the sensation of a twirling world beneath him remained. Tear opened his eyes and again the tumbling wash of ash greeted him. Persistent this illusion, he thought smugly. Tear tried to listen, to lift his head, maybe a familiar sound or sight would explain his surroundings. But there was no sound beyond the high tone ringing in his ears. Move, he thought next, trying to sit up but the tendons in his body twitched with rejection. The action at least had coerced a sudden and violent cough which finally granted him the momentum to at least roll off his back. The cough continued a moment longer, raking through his chest, he painfully recoiled into a fetal position. Waiting for the spasms to subside he noticed the fit had left a spray of light crimson to rest on the snow beside his lips.
Snow?
His eyes dimmed with exhaustion barely comprehending the scenery before him. Although, at least now the turbulent gray sea was explained, it was the sky. Below was a frozen wasteland of icy hills. They sloped and dived endlessly toward a darkening horizon. If the sand of a desert could ever be turned to ice and snow this world would reflect that story perfectly. Above him the sky continued to boil and darken supported by the pillars of smoke rising up from the trail of still burning wreckage.
Wreckage? His mind bit back a tide of images and sound. Another dream. This one of loud shuttering durasteel and panic. The crackling lick of flames and descent through the atmosphere. There was a woman too. Blonde hair with blue eyes that matched the icy hills. Something about her caused his body to contort with rage. She was important to this dream. Was this a dream?
A tight lipped growl burned in Tear's throat as he rolled again. This time drawing his knees up beneath him, his spine arching, as he leaned forward to rest on his forearms. His fingers dug painfully into the icy snow looking for relief. It felt good on his fevered skin, even better when he relaxed his face into it. Perhaps best of all, the cold brought a realistic contrast to his troubled thoughts, making him realize this world was in fact real and not a dream. His body shuddered painfully as the new position granted gravity strength, and with a spurt, blood began to pour from his nose. Lifting his head he saw the ice had made a dull mold of his face. The blood that was dripping off his chin was beginning to fill it.
How fitting, he thought to himself with a smirk. If I should stay any longer I could create a brother of ice. Maybe he will be immune to this curse of flesh and dreams.
Tear sat for a moment longer watching the drips of crimson pepper and melt into the ice mask he had created, then with a wincing swallow, he sat up. What remained of a shuttle was still burning hot just a few meters away. My shuttle, he thought, as another series of images burned their way through his head.
"She was with me..." The blood made his lips sticky and the words felt almost alien to his rust covered tongue. Still recovering from the stupor he squinted at the billowing smoke coming from the open hatch. Focusing, concentrating on the images, it was beginning to return to him.
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