A lot of big things had been happening since Sullust. Flurries of holonet reports, some Outer Rim diplomat's ship getting shot down and the ensuing storm of things, a senator had been arrested for leaking things, Crix had found his way to the temple, Talak had gone off somewhere, Kori was missing. Just a lot of things, really. Not to mention trying to bind the Eternal's mind by weaponizing his defenses had left Hannibal without the ability to properly close off for a while. But with a little help and a lot of introspection, that hurdle had been crossed just the same as the last, and the young man was as Hannibal as ever.
But it was the little things that made up the bigger picture, something so often forgotten by even other Jedi. A communication had made its way to the Jedi's ship, passed through secure channels. In the middle of everything happening the Rangers were looking for help. Well, not actually the Rangers. Just one or two in particular.
Douglas Hudson had shown up, pre-recorded, in full colour on Hannibal's holoscreen. He was desperate, though he was trying not to show it too much. Doctors and droids had tried what they could, various medicines and treatments, but weeks passed and there was not a single positive change. The man himself had, by all reports, had something mess with his head when the Coruscant station was attacked and had been rescued by Talak. So with no other option, to the Jedi he turned, asking if they had any magic or something.
Hannibal had returned the call to Hudson's personal line, apparently not the Jedi the chief had expected to see. The young Master was known to him from the news and everything, but more as a friend to the Rangers than a healer, per say. They spoke for a while about the matter at hand and eventually the subject of repayment was brought up, which Hannibal breezily dismissed. Hudson was bewildered and probably a little suspicious, and asked then why Hannibal had agreed to help. The Jedi gave Douglas a small smile over the holocomm, friendly and bright, and answered simply as if it was the most obvious thing in the galaxy.
"Because you asked."
A Ranger vehicle that brought him to the facility from his ship landed on a rooftop pad and he was guided down inside on a lift, his voice eventually filling the awkward silence escort as he lowered his hood. As always he spoke casually, and while his tattoos could be seen as intimidating it was in a mundane sort of way. He spoke to them about their families and the worries they had, spoke in the same tone as he spoke with everyone else in the galaxy. He offered a snippet or two of advice before the lift hit the correct floor and they exited through the sliding doors.
The officers led him to a room and he stopped before the door. He held up a hand to wait, offered a word of warning, and slowly removed Sol's lightsaber from his belt. Hannibal opened it and removed the crystal from inside before handing over the empty hilt to the utterly confused door guard. The Jedi offered him a smile and suggested it might help. He was let through, now unarmed, and looked around the room.
A night nurse was going over a variety of scanners and IV drips by the hospital bed, the only available light being those embedded in the ceiling. The curtains were shut to prevent others looking inside. Green eyes made their way to a small pot of flowers, slowly wilting without the constant care of whoever had left them. They reminded him of a painting, a dance in brushed hues of colour, and it brought a sad smile to his face. He stepped toward them and brushed his fingers along the petals, the little plant seeming to steadily recover at his touch to a full and vibrant state. Hannibal turned to look at the nurse who had apparently been watching him and gave her a charming smile.
"Don't worry. I'll do what I can," he said, stepping away from the flowers and over toward the bed to observe the occupant. The nurse, Joan apparently, told the Jedi they would be monitoring her vitals just in case. Hannibal just nodded, finding that perfectly reasonable. Joan glanced one more time at her patient with a glimmering mix of hope and doubt behind them, and stepped out through the door, leaving the Jedi and the patient alone.
Hannibal waved a finger toward the light controls, dimming them to a more reasonable half-light, and moved around the bed. He grabbed a chair on his way and moved it beside the bed to sit, taking off his cloak and draping it over the back. In truth he wasn't entirely sure if what he was going to do would work, but at least it was something he had significant personal experience with. It was worth a try, certainly. He would always help where he could. He was a Jedi after all.
Gently he reached out and picked up the patient's hand, limp and lifeless but still warm with the flickering flame of life, and turned it palm up. Hannibal's left him joined it, placing in her grip the brilliantly silver crystal and closing delicately around it. Sol's kyber crystal had come back from darkness and the Jedi hoped it would help heal a kindred spirit.
Hannibal looked once more at the face of Trys Aran, the thinness in her build what wasn't there before, the way she looked worn. He brought to mind Crix, and the fiery and brave woman he'd met and seen on the holonet. His face set into an expression of calm determination and he closed his eyes, fingers interlocking around hers, and the Force answered his call.
A gentle breeze, carrying along ethereal streams the scents of wildflowers in spring and fallen leaves in autumn, swirled into and through the Jedi Master. It found the crystal, followed the lines of his thoughts to Trys herself. She was lost, buried in fear and pain, but Hannibal didn't feel she was yet gone. She just needed a little help, is all.
It was black, and chaos, suffering and torture and the recently traumatic touch of a great, black void. But Hannibal had adapted to such a thing and grown wiser for it, and the void could not touch him anymore. The fear passed over and through him, and only Hannibal remained. He stepped into the black of the woman's mind, a single point of warm sunlight, and stepped deeper within. With compassion and methodical care he made way to the depths, thinking he could still find her hidden in some far away corner, and called out in the hopes she might answer, wildflowers and fallen leaves echoing along the lines of his voice.
"Trys! Where are you?"
But it was the little things that made up the bigger picture, something so often forgotten by even other Jedi. A communication had made its way to the Jedi's ship, passed through secure channels. In the middle of everything happening the Rangers were looking for help. Well, not actually the Rangers. Just one or two in particular.
Douglas Hudson had shown up, pre-recorded, in full colour on Hannibal's holoscreen. He was desperate, though he was trying not to show it too much. Doctors and droids had tried what they could, various medicines and treatments, but weeks passed and there was not a single positive change. The man himself had, by all reports, had something mess with his head when the Coruscant station was attacked and had been rescued by Talak. So with no other option, to the Jedi he turned, asking if they had any magic or something.
Hannibal had returned the call to Hudson's personal line, apparently not the Jedi the chief had expected to see. The young Master was known to him from the news and everything, but more as a friend to the Rangers than a healer, per say. They spoke for a while about the matter at hand and eventually the subject of repayment was brought up, which Hannibal breezily dismissed. Hudson was bewildered and probably a little suspicious, and asked then why Hannibal had agreed to help. The Jedi gave Douglas a small smile over the holocomm, friendly and bright, and answered simply as if it was the most obvious thing in the galaxy.
"Because you asked."
------
By the time he arrived at the secure medical facility it was well into night on this particular part of Chandrilla. He wore his new standard, the simple cloudy gray left-over-right collared tunic, tucked into his belt and with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. Sol's lightsaber hung from the belt beneath his cloak, the green and gold the only real colour visible besides the many tattoos visible over his arms and over his neck, terminating down beneath his tunic. While his more colourful robes were more well known in the core, that leverage wasn't needed. He wasn't here to make a show, he was here to help.
A Ranger vehicle that brought him to the facility from his ship landed on a rooftop pad and he was guided down inside on a lift, his voice eventually filling the awkward silence escort as he lowered his hood. As always he spoke casually, and while his tattoos could be seen as intimidating it was in a mundane sort of way. He spoke to them about their families and the worries they had, spoke in the same tone as he spoke with everyone else in the galaxy. He offered a snippet or two of advice before the lift hit the correct floor and they exited through the sliding doors.
The officers led him to a room and he stopped before the door. He held up a hand to wait, offered a word of warning, and slowly removed Sol's lightsaber from his belt. Hannibal opened it and removed the crystal from inside before handing over the empty hilt to the utterly confused door guard. The Jedi offered him a smile and suggested it might help. He was let through, now unarmed, and looked around the room.
A night nurse was going over a variety of scanners and IV drips by the hospital bed, the only available light being those embedded in the ceiling. The curtains were shut to prevent others looking inside. Green eyes made their way to a small pot of flowers, slowly wilting without the constant care of whoever had left them. They reminded him of a painting, a dance in brushed hues of colour, and it brought a sad smile to his face. He stepped toward them and brushed his fingers along the petals, the little plant seeming to steadily recover at his touch to a full and vibrant state. Hannibal turned to look at the nurse who had apparently been watching him and gave her a charming smile.
"Don't worry. I'll do what I can," he said, stepping away from the flowers and over toward the bed to observe the occupant. The nurse, Joan apparently, told the Jedi they would be monitoring her vitals just in case. Hannibal just nodded, finding that perfectly reasonable. Joan glanced one more time at her patient with a glimmering mix of hope and doubt behind them, and stepped out through the door, leaving the Jedi and the patient alone.
Hannibal waved a finger toward the light controls, dimming them to a more reasonable half-light, and moved around the bed. He grabbed a chair on his way and moved it beside the bed to sit, taking off his cloak and draping it over the back. In truth he wasn't entirely sure if what he was going to do would work, but at least it was something he had significant personal experience with. It was worth a try, certainly. He would always help where he could. He was a Jedi after all.
Gently he reached out and picked up the patient's hand, limp and lifeless but still warm with the flickering flame of life, and turned it palm up. Hannibal's left him joined it, placing in her grip the brilliantly silver crystal and closing delicately around it. Sol's kyber crystal had come back from darkness and the Jedi hoped it would help heal a kindred spirit.
Hannibal looked once more at the face of Trys Aran, the thinness in her build what wasn't there before, the way she looked worn. He brought to mind Crix, and the fiery and brave woman he'd met and seen on the holonet. His face set into an expression of calm determination and he closed his eyes, fingers interlocking around hers, and the Force answered his call.
A gentle breeze, carrying along ethereal streams the scents of wildflowers in spring and fallen leaves in autumn, swirled into and through the Jedi Master. It found the crystal, followed the lines of his thoughts to Trys herself. She was lost, buried in fear and pain, but Hannibal didn't feel she was yet gone. She just needed a little help, is all.
It was black, and chaos, suffering and torture and the recently traumatic touch of a great, black void. But Hannibal had adapted to such a thing and grown wiser for it, and the void could not touch him anymore. The fear passed over and through him, and only Hannibal remained. He stepped into the black of the woman's mind, a single point of warm sunlight, and stepped deeper within. With compassion and methodical care he made way to the depths, thinking he could still find her hidden in some far away corner, and called out in the hopes she might answer, wildflowers and fallen leaves echoing along the lines of his voice.
"Trys! Where are you?"
@Sreeya