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Isamar awoke to voices. Unfamiliar voices. Many voices.

It was all she could do to not thrash when she realised her arms were bound. But she did not withhold from screaming for her family.

"Davaid! Stalaid!" Her raw throat protested her words by tearing away the tender and healing flesh. "Mother! Where–where are you? I can't see you!"

"Shh, shh!" Someone clamped a hand over her mouth and Isamar jerked away, eyes flying open. "You're alright! You're alright, it's okay."

The eyes staring at her were kind and patient, and her voice died in her throat. The man smiled gently at her and pulled away his hand, though stayed close enough to help her if necessary. Behind him were two men in white armour, holding their helmets to their chests — their faces were the same, but twins weren't uncommon in Sraval.

Isamar was in a great deal of pain, and expressed it through the tears rolling down her cheeks. Everything hurt and she couldn't possibly remember a time that matched the agony that she was experiencing. It wasn't the slow ache of weary muscles, nor the stinging of light bruises, but of straightened bones and many stitches. Her hands were tightly wrapped in bandages, layers of white turning a grim rusty red.

It struck her just then, how she hadn't taken time to analyse the situation. How she hadn't thought that while being foreigners, the people had brought her from that tomb of concrete and steel. But she had watched her mother be impaled as they fell, and her elder brother get crushed by the rubble.

She sucked in a sharp breath of air, horrified by what she hadn't realised. Stalaid, her younger brother by three years, had stayed home to finish schoolwork while the rest of them paid a visit to the Archive building. He could still be alive.

"Stalaid," she told the man, trying not to choke on the name. "Need Stalaid."

"What's she saying now?"

"I don't know," the man told his companion over his shoulder. "But it sounds like a name."

"Is–Isamar," she gestured to herself, "I am Isamar."

He looked almost quizzical, his brows creased in concentration. Pointing a finger at her he repeated what had been told, "Isamar."

Nodding with a gleam of hope in her eyes, Isamar smiled at him. Slowly and cautiously, she returned the gesture, pointing at him.

"Obi-wan," the man offered his name with ease, and Isamar felt like laughing. "I am Obi-wan."

A few moments of pause passed as Isamar rapidly figured out how she might communicate with Obi-wan. With shaking hands she pointed to the twins in armour before tucking her arms close to her body and cradling them as though holding a child. She had to express the need for her only family, even as tears streamed down her face.

"Wha- is she saying she has a child?!" The other voice sounded affronted, but made Isamar jump.

"I don't know, Anakin," Obi-wan rolled his eyes at them as the brown-haired man from before walked into Isamar's line of sight and stopped at her feet. "But her name is Isamar."

Isamar looked between the two of them with growing desperation. She was unable to move without pain but they were still standing and why could they not understand how serious this was. Again, she made the gesture, only this time adding in the motion for someone shorter than herself.

"I think she's trying to say something about a sibling." Obi-wan stroked his beard, thinking deeply. "Most likely someone she's looking for."

Isamar continued to add to her frantic gestures, describing a young boy with hair like the other man's. Each time, she waited for Obi-wan to nod in confirmation that he at least somewhat understood. It pleased her immensely when he did but frustrated her when he frowned, and she would go through the whole theatrical again.

Several moments passed, and Isamar grew impatient for his response, fidgeting slightly with the bandages around her forearms. Her nails, broken and scabbed, caught on the fabric as she delicately pulled at them. It took several attempts to free her fingers and by the time she looked back up, Obi-wan was forming his response.

'Looking for sibling.'

Isamar grinned, nodding frantically despite the pain it brought her to do so. Her hands shook while she ran through her motions, tweaking a few gestures to change the meaning. 'You see sibling?'

Obi-wan glanced back at his companion, presumably relaying her question. A few people in white armour came over to join them and shared a few words before either returning to their posts or moving to stand beside the other man. One of them, with blue across their chest plate, specifically came to stand nearer Isamar's stretcher.

Curiosity made Isamar want to reach out and touch his hand, something stronger made her insides boil with the impulse to remove his helmet. She ignored the urge, but it burned nonetheless as she stared at him.

Catching her gaze, his posture seemed to relax as he introduced himself. "Rex," he greeted with a tinny voice. It must have been the helmet that made it so odd.

Isamar smiled weakly at him, suddenly feeling sick. The dawning realisation of Stalaid's fate was heavy with denial, but she knew how unlikely it was that this odd group had encountered the boy. Their apartment building wasn't all that far from the Archive. As much as she wished it otherwise, Stalaid had probably fallen in the first wave of bombs.

As if confirming her worst fears, Obi-wan shook his head.

Hurt unlike any physical pain stabbed through her gut, knocking the wind from her lungs. Once more, Isamar felt as though she was still trapped under that steel beam, locked in the lightless tomb of concrete. A familiar silent scream flew from her lips as tears rolled down her face.

Warmth blossomed in her chest, clashing with the cold agony of loss. Isamar pulled at the once neat braids in her hair, fingers tangling in the loose strands while she cried. That heat in her heart spread throughout her body like an infection, molding her grief into something new.

As she screamed again, something popped and glass shattered. Obi-wan was quick to jump to her side, reaching his hand up to the sky as the brown-haired man made the same gesture. Glass shards rained down over them from standing buildings, their windows splintered and left with only empty frames.

And still Isamar cried. Only now, the heat was hastily retreating back to her heart. She was lost in a freezing ocean of mourning. The small part of her mind that once reached out to others was now blank, an empty slate of what used to provide comfort and reassurance. She could not see her brothers through it, and she knew them to be gone. Her denial was gone.

"What was that?!" The brown-haired man exclaimed, yet Isamar remained unmoved. "That was her, right?"

"It would seem Isamar is Force sensitive," Obi-wan turned his gaze to the sobbing girl, giving her a look of curiosity coupled with sympathy. "Although I doubt that's what she knows it as."

Isamar's hands shook tremendously as she slowly retracted them from her hair, not helped by her short and gasping breaths. Eyes glassy and blank, she turned her gaze upward to face the startled troops. Blood was running from her nose and her tongue stained red, tasting only numbly of iron.

"Oh, dear."

A complicated mix of emotions suddenly shot up into her throat, sending her heart into a frenzy. Panic overtook her common sense, numbing the rest of the world so that she no longer knew who stood beside her. Her hand flew out, stretching for the one thing that always promised her safety. It evaded her through distance, but she tugged at its presence and it came obediently, humming with warning as it snapped into her hand.

The familiar sabre did not ignite but brought her comfort in her distress. It swirled with soothing song in her palm, warm to the touch. As if it knew what she needed, the lock on the crystal inside activated, and Isamar pulled it to her chest, curling around it.

When a hand gently touched her shoulder, Isamar's body stiffened, warmth snapping into chilling cold and spiking toward the offender. The hand vanished immediately, thrown away by the silent assault from the girl. Her eyes burned with ice and fire, two conflicting emotions snapping at each other with ferocity that had never been experienced. Numb to the world, her insides boiled, and she couldn't possibly stop it.

"Isamar," a soft voice spoke. "It's alright. You are safe."

Isamar felt sick, but with nothing left in her stomach, it only churned uncomfortably while she trembled. Her leg ached something terrible, pulsing hot against the splint it was in. The organised chaos of her mind and memories were now all but a blur in her head, fleeting thoughts soured into fears and joyful moments twisted into nightmares. Isamar was alone and there was nothing she could do to change that. Her heart was empty and she was alone.

"Do we know where the tunnel entrances are? As much as I'd hate to leave her, we simply can't afford to continue protecting a single civilian like this."

"But she's Force sensitive, Master! Surely that means something?"

"Anakin, look at her. Isamar is likely Ahsoka's age, if not older. She is too old to be trained."

"But she's lost everything!"

"We don't know that for certain, Anakin. And might I remind you that this is a battlefield? She is in no condition to be out here."

Isamar shuddered a sigh, heaving for gulps of air that she had been denied. Her dark skin was clammy, lacking the healthy flush it usually held so easily. She looked as though she had been ill for weeks, hot and feverish with a tremor plaguing her weak body. Blood was still trickling from her nose, and though exhausted and shaking, Isamar wiped it away with the back of her hand.

A presence cautiously found a seat beside her, and Isamar became acutely aware of Obi-wan's hesitation. Under normal circumstances, the man's caution might have hurt, but after everything, Isamar couldn't pull together the emotional strength to care. All she could manage was a sidelong look.

Slowly, Obi-wan signed something. He started his statement by pointing at her, before retracting his hand to cradle it to his chest, mimicking a hug. He repeated this gesture several times before taking one of her hands in his and gently rubbing her knuckles.

Isamar got the message. 'You are safe.'

Instead of responding with silent words formed by hands, Isamar weakly leaned her head against his chest, nearly falling over to do so. The sound of his heartbeat, coupled with the sabre's song, were all she needed to slip back under the veil of unconsciousness.

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