Saga - PT Saga - Legends The Bull and the Bear

Title: The Bull and the Bear
Author: rktho_writes
Characters: Qymaen jai Sheelal, Ronderu lij Kummar
Genre: Myth/Fable
Timeline: Huk War
Summary: Shortly after losing his soulmate Ronderu lij Kummar, Qymaen jai Sheelal briefly harbors the notion of reincarnation.

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He lay on his belly, legs dangling over the edge of a cliff. A mumuu unlike any he had ever seen pawed the ground before him. It was enormous, almost twice the size of an ordinary mumuu, but even more remarkable, it was made of bone-white metal, skeletal in appearance, with six legs instead of four.

His heart pounded as the beast charged. It reared to maul him, and in that instant, he spotted a weak point. The metal mumuu’s chest cavity was open, and inside was a fleshy, beating heart. He fired his slugthrower rifle.

The slug buried itself in the creature’s heart. The mumuu burst into flames, bellowing as it was consumed by the inferno. As fire shot from its eye sockets, Qymaen sat bolt upright.

It was the middle of the night, and he was in his tent, alone.

Alone.

Qymaen removed his bonemask to wipe the sweat from his face. He’d taken to sleeping in his battle gear for some time now, his mind constantly occupied by his fight against the Huk. Except in his dreams.

What he wouldn’t give to never dream again.

That was why he was called Sheelal. The Dreamer. On occasion, his dreams would hold deeper significance than mere nighttime visions. Once, he had dreamed of slaying a mumuu before, many years ago. In that dream, he had been hunting in the jungle with Lig swords.

He looked to his side, to the bed that was not there.

He had been led to Ronderu lij Kummar by that dream. Now, his dreams only served to remind him that she was gone. Never to fight by his side again. Never again to dance across a battlefield, beheading Huk by the hundreds with her swords. Never to take his hand in hers, to hold his face as they panted from the battle, struggling to stand in the aftermath of the exertion, to push up their masks and press their sweat-stained foreheads together for balance.

Her death was as though it had been his own. An agonizing void, a wound in his soul, refused to be filled, refused to be healed. Though he had journeyed across the world, to the isle of Abesmi, to beg the gods to restore her, they remained silent.

Qymaen looked at the mask which he held in his hands. The skull of a mumuu, like the ones in his dreams. How desperately he wished it were, instead, Ronderu’s karabbac mask, that he might have something left of her to hold. But there was no body to recover. It had been dragged into the sea by the depraved Huk, who held nothing sacred. She was lost to the waves with nothing to bury, swallowed up in the ocean’s unsearchable depths.

Qymaen fixed his mask again to his face. The Huk would pay for what they had done.

He rose, leaving his tent to stand in the darkness of the night, overlooking the valley where they would soon attack. In the light of the moon, he could see the Yam’rii camp. His fist clenched; soon Kalee would be rid of the invaders, and Ronderu would be avenged.

He looked towards the unrisen sun and saw something emerging from the trees in the distance. At first, he couldn’t make out what it was. Then it stood on its hind legs.

A karabbac.

Impossible. It was too far north for a karabbac to roam. They were confined to the polar ice continent. A karabbac would have had to cross vast oceans to be here.

And yet, there it was, staring at him. Watching him.

He’d only seen a live karabbac once. When he visited Grendaju on his return from Abesmi, he had encountered members of Ronderu’s tribe, and joined their hunting party. On that excursion, he had seen a karabbac stare at him from afar, just like this. When he pointed it out to the others, the karabbac had already left.

Qymaen watched the unmoving creature, unsure what to do. More than anything, he wanted to be close to it. He took a slow step. Then another.

The karabbac returned to a quadrupedal stance. As Qymaen cautiously moved forward, it began to turn its tusked face away.

Qymaen broke into a sprint, desperate to see the creature up close before it disappeared. But to his great disappointment, the karabbac had turned and retreated into the forest, disappearing into the distant trees.

Qymaen cradled his face in one hand. What was he doing? Chasing a phantom karabbac in the middle of the night, when he had a battle to rest for? Foolish.

It was only natural for him to be disappointed, he supposed. Perhaps this was another melancholy dream, and he was yet asleep. Whether he was dreaming or truly awake, he returned to his tent.

The battle was costly, barely a victory. But it was a victory. Qymaen’s breath pounded against his mask as he surveyed the battlefield littered with the corpses of the Huk and the Kaleesh he had led against them. So many lives lost. But if it meant driving the Yam’rii from Kalee, then he would make their sacrifices mean something.

He ordered his men to burn everything. The Huk could not be allowed to salvage a scrap of this outpost.

As his loyal battalion commenced the work of annihilation, he turned again to survey the dead. The original color of the battlefield was lost in the stain of bright Kaleesh blood and dark Huk ichor, the red and green mingling into brown. Qymaen’s eyes were drawn upward toward the hillside.

There it was again. The karabbac. Unmistakable in the daylight, its white tusks curving over its pointed maw. And as before, it gazed at him, as if it had been watching from the beginning.

Qymaen slung his rifle over his shoulder, staring at the beast as it watched him. It was only a few yards away.

He broke into a run. The karabbac stood unmoving for a brief moment, then turned and sprinted up the hill.

Qymaen doubled his efforts as the karabbac fled. But as he reached the base of the steep hill, watching as the karabbac disappeared over the top, he knew he could never catch up to it.

Shortly after, as he stood at the foot of the hill staring upward, one of his chief captains came running to ask if he was alright. Qymaen dismissed him tensely. He was fine. It was time for them to move out.

A month passed. Almost every day, Qymaen saw the karabbac in the distance, and every single time, it would walk away before he could get close to it. Each encounter pushed him further into despair. Why was the karabbac there? Why did it always run? Just once, he wished it would stay. He would even accept a fight with it, if one day it chose to maul him rather than avoid him.

No such luck.

One fateful battle took place in the heart of the Ausez Steppes.

Qymaen blasted away with his rifle, making insectoid heads explode with ichor. His kolkpravis fought savagely with all their strength, swords clashing against serrated appendages, the percussive punch of slugthrowers countering the blaster fire singing through the air.

The tide of the battle turned in favor of the Huk as Qymaen’s fighters were forced to retreat further and further. Qymaen tried to pick off their commander, but it was useless. They acted almost as a hive mind; there was little he could do to unbalance them.

And then suddenly, the Huk exploded into a panic.

Qymaen’s eyes nearly burst out of his bonemask as he watched the karabbac tear through the Yam’rii ranks, shaking Huk soldiers in its teeth, goring them with its tusks. The Huk frantically fired their blasters, but every shot missed the beast in the chaos. Qymaen watched as the Huk turned tail and retreated, skittering away as the karabbac slashed them to pieces with its claws. The other Kaleesh could only stare dumbfounded at the sight of the rapidly retreating enemy.

When the battlefield was clear the karabbac remained standing, gazing towards the fleeing Yam’rii in the distance. Qymaen took a cautious step forward. The karabbac turned its great brown head and stared into his eyes.

Qymaen halted for a brief moment. If he stepped any closer, would the karabbac run, as it always did?

He took another step. Then another.

Qymaen slowly approached the karabbac, each step more cautious, each step more amazed than the last. This was the closest he’d ever gotten to the karabbac. He was only a few yards away from reaching out and touching it.

He stretched out his hand and called out her name.

The karabbac’s gaze held for one brief, eternal moment.

Then it turned and ran.

Qymaen cried out, giving chase to the creature. It ran, faster than he could ever hope to match, faster as his legs seemed to turn to stone as he desperately pursued it.

Finally, he could run no more. He stood with his hands clasped on his thighs, panting and weeping. Why? Why was this karabbac here, so soon after Ronderu was lost? Why would it never let him approach? Why did it torment him, day in and day out, never to give him peace?

Anguish turned to rage, a rage of blazing fire that cooled to deadly ice. The gods were mocking him.

He lifted his eyes again to the karabbac, half expecting it to have disappeared.

He was correct.

The Kaleesh camp followed the Yam’rii to the mountains. Qymaen left his tent one afternoon to clear his head. An hour or two of solitude to help him strategize.

As he walked along a mountain ledge, he saw rustling in the trees below. His brow furrowed as he stared at the canopy’s movement, wondering if something were about to emerge from the thicket.

The tusked head of a karabbac pushed through the trees. The creature entered the clearing and looked upward.

Qymaen’s fists clenched.

He would not be mocked.

He unslung his rifle. Through the scope, he locked on to the karabbac, staring it directly in the eye.

And fired.

The beast collapsed. Qymaen’s heart pounded, the rifle beginning to wobble in his suddenly shaky hands. He’d killed it. He’d actually killed it.

Qymaen ran down the mountain, not even bothering to sling his weapon back over his shoulder as he made his way down the treacherous incline. As he descended, the tops of the trees hid the body from view. Qymaen doggedly scrambled towards them. A ten-foot jump afforded a shortcut to the spot where the corpse of the karabbac lay. He took it.

And fell flat on his face.

Qymaen lay there for a moment, mind empty except for the pain of his landing. What was wrong with him? He’d made greater leaps than that before and hit the ground running. Why had he taken that fall so hard?

It was nothing, Qymaen reasoned. He’d simply tripped.

Grunting, he forced himself to stand on his protesting ankles.

Qymaen pushed aside the branches and entered the clearing to find…

Nothing.

That was impossible. The karabbac couldn’t have gone anywhere. He’d seen its corpse. And yet here, at the bottom of the valley, where he’d seen it fall, there was nothing.

Qymaen hurled his slugthrower to the ground, snarling. His knees hit the ground as his fists slammed the earth where his kill should have been. He would not be mocked.

And yet here he was, and the gods had had the last laugh.

Qymaen bellowed every curse and blasphemy he could think of to the heavens. He was Qymaen jai Sheelal, and if the gods would treat him this way, he would defy them with his final breath. Shouts of fury gave way to racking sobs as he collapsed on the ground, his tears muddying the soil and staining his mask with grime.

He lay there, alone, forever.

And then he stopped. Drew a shaky breath as the last of his tears dried in the hollow of his eye socket. And he thought of Ronderu.

And how the wrenching, unending pain that seared his soul from the moment she had been torn from him…

…was gone.

Replaced with…

…nothing.

He felt nothing.

He rose, taking in this strange new numbness. The ache in his soul had flown, and with it, he realized, the sixth sense from which it had throbbed. Something had closed off. And he’d done it deliberately.

Yes, that explained everything. The shake of the rifle in his hands. His stumbled landing. He had done it. He had rejected the gods and shut them out forever.

He picked up the slugthrower. Once it had been an extension of himself. Now, it was just a rod and a stock. A clumsy, random tool.

Qymaen dropped the rifle to the ground and drew his swords. These would be his weapons now. His natural gift for marksmanship had been given him by the gods. But his skill with the blade was one he had learned himself.

Something in him pleaded with him to turn back. To pick up the slugthrower and beg for the gods’ forgiveness. He could not live without the light of the gods or the gifts they bestowed on him.

But to invite his gifts would mean to invite the pain.

He would find another way. He didn’t need any gods to give him power. He would earn his power himself.

Qymaen did not dream that night. Nor ever again. No longer did the name of Sheelal suit him. And so he chose a more fitting name, one that would strike fear into the hearts of his enemies.

And remind him of the weakness that would cripple him if he ever returned to the Force.

 

This is a well written story. But I find Sympathetic Grievous disturbing.

 

Mm. Well, this story is meant to disturb, on some level. I was vaguely inspired by the story of the king who killed his hawk.

 

Wow. Amazing. Who would have thought that a bitter, mythical romance starring Grievous would be my first captivating read of the morning?
This was extremely well written. Gods and their gifts, and the tone of mythical story telling... That's my jam. I miss it a lot in the SW universe, so seeing such themes so well applied in your story gave me hope.
I really enjoy how Grievous/Qymaen sees a gift of the gods, by all accounts a guardian spirit from his mate, keeping an eye on him and even saving his life, and instead of doing the more chill thing of being happy and honoured, he just grows more and more frustrated. It's so subtly in character...
I also adore the tidbit about being good with his rifle because of godly gifts, and that his connection to divinity is also part of what made him so emotional about his mate, and what made him dream. Love everything about it.
Super nice prose too!! Looking forward to more of your work!

 

Thank you so much! I'm so glad you liked it. If you like this, I think you'll definitely want to check out Sahuldeem by Inonibird on AO3; it's linked in my signature. That's the story that originally got me interested in pre-cyborg Grievous. And for my own writing, you might want to keep an eye out for my upcoming five-part saga, Stars In Their Multitudes, which follows a former convict-turned-closet Force wielder, his adopted Twi'lek daughter, a university student involved in the rebellion (lowercase R for now,) and a Weequay desperately seeking an escape from her terrible family situation, their stories coming together to paint a tableau of life on an oppressed Imperial world in the Outer Rim. I will be publishing once the first part is complete (or sooner, depending on my confidence in my ability to keep up with the regular posting schedule I hope to have. Extremely tentative publication date is June 5th.)

 

Admittedly I haven't delved that far into the canon material on Grievous, but this just works in a way that most of what I have seen doesn't. The idea that he is/was Force-sensitive and has accidentally-on-purpose cut out that part of his psyche is fascinating. And Ronderu as well feels like a real person and not just a tragic backstory placeholder here -- even though she is kind of fading into mythology within Qymaen's own mind. (Speaking of which, I really love the way that her reappearance as the karabbac is so ambiguous. It may or may not be part of consensus reality but it's so real to him, except for when she is lost again.)

 

Thank you so much! I love the theory that Grievous was not, as George Lucas believes, born without Force abilities. I mean, prophetic dreams and supernatural marksmanship are both abilities possessed by the Skywalkers, so where else could Sheelal's gifts have come from? The Age of Republic comic implied that Grievous was Force-sensitive but "carved away his own connection to it." I like to think that process began long before he replaced most of his natural form; I think it not only sends a better message about the relationship between prosthetics and humanity, but also, if Grievous was Force sensitive and yet chose to modify himself with cybernetics to compete with the Jedi, then something must have happened beforehand that made him lose or forsake what Force abilities he had. Cue me watching Brother Bear and contemplating animal reincarnation. It only makes sense that Qymaen and Ronderu had a Force bond, if they were truly soulmates in the literal sense, and if the pain of her loss was largely derived from the wound of that severed connection, naturally it would fade if Qymaen cut himself off from its source. Or maybe this never literally happened and it's symbolic of Qymaen burying his grief and his connection to the Force over time. Ambiguity! I'm glad Ronderu felt like a real person— that was tricky to pull off, since she isn't actually in the story (except as an ethereal, silent karabbac— maybe.) As always, thanks for reading!