Interludia.

II. Alba.

(Axxila, ca. 4 ABY.)

There is much to be said for the hour before dawn.

First birdsong had always marked the opening of Miryam's favorite time of day. She savored the breeze through her open window, refreshing even through the most sweltering of summers. Now, during springtime, the same benevolent wind jostled the indigo blossoms of their Mandusari spice tree against the screen. She enjoyed the quiet—inasmuch as an ecumenopolis is ever truly quiet—while contemplating billows of cloud turned fiery by the sun's first alchemical touch.

She knew that, in the following week, this would be the only hour to gather herself up. With sunrise the routines of life have a nasty habit of beginning again. It was at dawn that she missed him the most, when the memory of him so recently impressed on eyes and ears and willing flesh would almost translate to physical pain. By breakfast-time her throat would have inexorably tightened around a knot of loss. Sometimes her disoriented antejentacular self took days to remember that two places—not three—should be set; she would be left staring into an empty cup brittle and white as her happiness. Only in the hour before dawn there would still be some modicum of relief.

Somehow, she was convinced it would be even harder this time.

That week, however, had not yet properly started. In the meantime, she could spare one glance at the spice tree, and another at her husband. The soft thud of his heart was ringing under her ear as she breathed in its scent; one warm arm draped over her, gentle even in sleep.

She could hold to him like this for hours. She only had until dawn.

The horizon had matured from cerulean to coral by the time she felt his breathing change. Shifting to one elbow to watch him wake, she smiled involuntarily as his eyes opened, fixing a bemusedly sleepy gaze on her.

"Morning, my love," she whispered. And let us delight in it, for it is all we have.

"'S nearly dawn!" Kicking his feet free of the sheets, he mumbled half-heartedly, "Why didn't you wake me up?"

I was too busy seeking the strength I need to say goodbye? I can never bear to let you go a moment before I must? It was a comfort to see your face free from worry for once? Well, not all truths were so complicated. "You know I love watching you sleep," she admitted.

He planted a kiss on the top of her head, then crawled over her and initiated a reconnaissance for the scattered elements of his uniform. Throwing her dressing gown over her shoulders, she sat atop the quilt and watched him. Daybreak conceals the ugliness that might glare in noonday sun; he seemed, for the moment, unimaginably beautiful. This, Miryam thought, must be the pinnacle of marital love: to consider handsome the man who is delving for socks underneath one's bed.

"I'm sorry Shira had to leave last night, but you know how difficult her boss is."

"Why she puts up with him I'll never know. But the work makes her happy. She seems so much—I don't know—so much brighter than last time I was here. She smiles more."

Undershirt, shirt, trousers, tunic. Socks, boots, cap, and gloves. Time flies. He was about to do up the shoulder-buttons of his tunic. She batted his hands away; it would be ten months before she could touch him again. Buttons fastened, he held her close. First light broke the horizon, so white that it could blind. She did not look away; better his eyes were shielded than hers.

"Farewell, then, darling," he said, "for the last time."

Miryam's heart contracted, and melted, and cracked. She was momentarily struck dumb and could only put one palm against his face and try, for the thousandth time, to memorize the topography of temple, cheekbone, and chin. Stating her disquieting premonitions had never before been an option; to give something voice was to allow it that much more purchase on reality. "You can't... you don't mean you've felt it too?" she whispered.

"What?" he asked, with a confused chuckle behind his voice that told her everything she needed to know: he suffered no such forebodings as she. Whether that should have inspired relief or further concern, Miryam could not say. One hand was resting on the small of her back. Its warmth and weight seemed so real, so present, that for a second she questioned how he could ever die.

Once, when they had both been young, she had also wondered if he could ever leave her alone.

"I was going to make this a surprise, but my nerve failed me. I guess I can't keep a secret, or maybe I didn't want to give you a heart attack come winter."

"Firmus?"

"My commission is up, and I'm not renewing it. This will be my last tour."

He had rendered her speechless for the second time since 0530. Fragments of ideas such as 'What about your promotion?' and 'But you love the Ex' floated through her mind, half-seen but somehow managing to elude capture. Thankfully, he started talking again.

"This hasn't been fair to you. I miss you, Miryam. I want to be with you, and with Shira. I mean, you know…" He had always blushed so readily. "I've never really been there for her."

She smiled. "Firmus, that's ridiculous. I know you wanted to. She knows you wanted to. . ."

"But was I?"

Well, no. No, but.

There was true sadness in his eyes now; it made her feel proud, and unbearably weary. "She's grown, darling. She has a diploma and a job. She's fully convinced she's going to fix every problem she touches. Soon enough she might kids of her own, who knows? And I've already missed all that. And… and I just don't think I can do it any more. It's all too much."

She knew he meant more than long tours of duty that kept the family apart. The nastier sides of this war were among a handful of secrets he kept even from her.

A semicircle of sun was visible now, red and raw, casting his face in shadow. Her hand still rested on his cheek; it was only too simple to guide his mouth down to hers and pretend nothing was wrong. "Well, then," she said, putting on a face brave enough to last her to the front door, "farewell. For the last time."

...

finis ef 7.15.2013

(The Star Wars franchise, as I am only too painfully aware, is not mine. Criticism is welcomed.)