She smiled at that, too, then indicated the blasters with her eyes. “Are you going to put those away?”

He felt himself color. “Of course. I mean, yes. Right.”

He holstered both his weapons, hands shaking. “How did you find me?”

“You said you’d become a farmer on Dantooine.” She held her arms out to the side, indicating the landscape. “And here you are.”

“And here I am.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, anticipating his concern. “No one else could find you. Just me.”

“Just you. Just you.”

He was smiling stupidly, echoing her words, and probably looked like a fool. He didn’t care. She was smiling, too, and he could take no more.

“Stang, Aryn!” he said. He ran toward her and scooped her into his arms.

She returned his embrace and he pulled her tighter, felt her body against his, inhaled the smell of her hair. He enjoyed the moment then held her at arm’s length.

“Wait, how did you … get off Coruscant? Malgus—”

She nodded. “We reached an understanding, of sorts.”

He wanted to ask about the Twi’lek but was afraid of the answer. Perhaps she felt his emotional turmoil, or perhaps she knew him well enough to anticipate the question.

“Even after you left I did not hurt her. Eleena, I mean. I left her with Malgus. I don’t know if I did her any favors, though.”

He hugged her again, more relieved than he would have expected. “I’m glad, Aryn. I’m glad you did that. And I’m glad you’re here.”

Tears leaked from his eyes. He was not sure why.

She pushed him back and studied his face. “What is it? You’re upset.”

Words pushed up his throat but he kept them behind his teeth. He remembered the air lock on Razor, but shook his head. Vrath was his weight to carry.

“It’s nothing. I’m just glad to see you. An understanding with Malgus? What does that mean?”

“He let me go.”

“He what?”

Aryn nodded. “He let me go. I still don’t understand why. Not fully.”

“Are you … still hunting him?”

A shadow passed over Aryn’s expression, but her soft smile brightened her face and chased it away. She put her fingers on a necklace she wore. A stone hung from a silver chain. Zeerid thought it was a Nautolan jewel of some kind.

“No, I’m not hunting him. When I faced him I felt his hate, his rage.” She shuddered, wrapped her arms around her slim body. “It was like nothing I’d encountered in a Sith before. He lives in a dark place. And I … did not want to follow him there.”

Zeerid understood better than she knew. He lived in his own dark place.

“You don’t want to carry that,” he said to her, to himself.

“No,” she said. “I don’t want to carry that.”