Visions swirl on slippery waves, bleeding together and blurring; a boiling cauldron of images, feelings, and sensations.
A blonde-haired youth who’s features shift like waves upon the ocean.
Two men with silver hair, one older but broad in his shoulders, none of his power and authority lost to the insistent erosion of time; the other man younger, strong, tall, and lean. The two men stand upon the deck of a starship and stare out into the burning field of stars before them.
There are two fleets; one rises out of the icy nightmares of the sleeping galaxy; the other fleet lost to time and forgotten, the likes of which no living soul has ever seen. Two fleets. Two powers. A galaxy of innocents lost in the scorching crossfire.
A dark eye that is many but one looks out from the great beyond. It whispers. It’s greedy gaze, thankfully, fixed elsewhere…for now…
There is a battle between freedom and oppression, old as the galaxy itself.
There is subjugation.
There is struggle.
There is death.
It’s confusing. It leaves her feeling like the world is tumbling about inside of a whirlpool. She tumbles along with it. She is losing herself in it. She feels like she has no presence, a disembodied set of eyes floating in an endless universe of potentialities. She cannot tell which future is which, where one dies and another is born. She cannot see the branching forks. She cannot tell which of these futures is more likely to come to pass.
It is too much.
It is overwhelming.
It is terrifying.
When she wakes, it is with a start. She bolts straight up, her chest heaving and her skin glistening in a sheen of sweat. Her eyes dart around frantically, taking in the small room draped heavily in the night’s shadows. She’s in her room on Bakura, deep in the woods, just she and her children and their droid.
She takes in a steadying breath and lets her eyes fall closed once more. She lets her awareness nestle into the current of the Force. She expands out into it, floating gently on the tendrils of the Living Force that the vast forest casts around her. After a few moments, she swims, moving her awareness over to the two sleeping bodies in the house, her children, the entirety of her universe.
Their presence in the Force is soothing, two different melodies singing to the same beat. One of them feels like a wild whirlwind screeching across a desert. The other she perceives as a blue star luminous and searing. They had been a central part in all of her visions; she had seen them clearly, vivid and startling. The future is a tangled web and all its threads somehow manage to link to her children.
She doesn’t like it.
There is danger, something looming on the edges of the future, but just out of her grasp. The more she reaches for its source the more it eludes her, misting out from between her fingers.
She has been having these visions for months and they are becoming more frequent, more intense.
Something is coming.
Something is about to happen.
Since her escape, since everything she suffered, her ability to see into the future has never been the same. Once, she had been able to see the future clear as a cloudless morning sky. Now, what she sees is fragmented—disjointed. It leaves her feeling broken and haunted by the ghosts of her past.
Anger at the reminder ripples through her, hot and bitter as foaming bile. The Force responds in kind, moving in a tremor around her. She breathes again and releases it, working to calm her mind. The Force within and around her slowly stills.
She slides out from under the sheets, her bare feet touching the cool floor. She lets her awareness linger on the sensation, grounding herself in the present. After a moment of stillness, she reaches out to retrieve the silk shawl hanging from her bedpost and slips it over her shoulders before she pads out of her room. She makes her way to the bedroom her twin boys share and peers inside.
Her boy’s slumber, just as the Force had assured her, but it is the actual sight of them that finally frees her heart from the icy grip that has been squeezing it since she woke from the visions.
She allows herself a mother’s indulgence and just watches them as they sleep: Billy, curled up under his sheets, arms hugging his pillow to him, nose pressed into the fabric. Tommy, arms and legs akimbo, one leg hanging out of his bedding and off of the bed and his silver hair wild.
She stays there for a long while before she finally pries herself away from them and returns to her room. She kneels down before the wooden chest at the foot of her bed and lifts the lid; it gives a dry creek as if in protest at being woken at this early hour. She reaches inside and her hand closes around a cool metal cylinder.
Her grip flexes.
She draws out her lightsaber, the gold bands along the hilt catching the stray shafts of moon and starlight and glittering. The strings of beads that hang from the bottom of the hilt clank softly as she turns it over in her grasp.
The feel of the weapon against her skin is comforting. It’s familiar, like reaching out and touching an old friend. It is reassuring in a way that almost nothing else can be.
She rises and moves through her home and out the front door. She clutches the shawl around her with one hand and grips her lightsaber in the other hand. She stares out into the night, her senses prickled and alert. Only the sounds of a living forest at night reach her. The Force is calm and still as a millpond around her. Everything is as it should be.
Something is coming and Wanda intends to be ready.