{ Circe Vanis is portrayed by Anya Chalotra! Circe is pronounced as 'kir-see'. a little long chapter ahead! }

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020. DEUS EX MACHINA

( —Some narrative element that concludes the story or resolves a conflict in a way that seems too contrived and convenient to be believable. )

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Circe Vanis was the one thing Myra had never expected during her days in the Cathedral. Before Circe Vanis, she knew the beautiful, most sophisticated witch known as Circe the Pure. Much like her name, she was absolute in everything—be it witchcraft or behaviour, she was impeccable in the Ways. 

Circe held coarse justice that Myra had admired, tested her limits and soon, she had found that admiration change into something else. Something infinite; exciting. Hair that was dipped in black tusche and violet eyes sharper than knives, Myra knew this was a witch that she would give anything to become. What you saw with her was she was; beautiful on the inside and outside. 

One thing led to the other and behind closed doors, every pretence fell. While they were companions around the Cathedral, their arms were enough to keep each other together and Myra had never been more glorified. Young love was compelling, yet weak. Longspun, yet ill-timed. In the few weeks they had been together, Circe and Myra were convinced that they were in it for the infinity.  

"Get in," she whispered, her eyes peeled on Myra constantly. Circe's mind was bent into a passion, a zest for reclaiming lost love when she watched Myra balance King Hyllus with a strong hand and sauntered forward.

"Circe," Myra muttered. "I apologize for not—"

"Shut up and get him inside," she ordered, her violet eyes blazing with the everpresent authority. "This place is crawling with ex-Imperials."

She clothed differently, in sleek, dress pants and buckled shirts; hiding her tattoos. Myra was more confused as she spotted half-eaten bread and beverages on the table, wondering why a witch like her needed nutrition. 

A simple ink's impression had brought it crashing down. The mark they had begotten had been telling them differently—a rune for constraint had etched onto themselves during their last night together. Myra's trust in the Ichor was unparalleled, ignoring her heartbreak to hold her trust in the faith.  

Circe was furious, crushed when Myra broke it off. She had mentioned Myra's cowardice and shackles to the Ichor, not even willing to succumb to her feeling which she never had. Despite the harsh statements, they had parted on neutral terms, sharing one last, pained kiss before Circe achieved her Transference. 

"Psst, Goldie," Circe continued to look at her, changed and dismayed. 

Myra suppressed a full-blown grin when Circe referred to her with her nickname, the name that only she used to call her because of her skin tone and the colour of her eyes. And mostly because, Myra did not have a name before the Transference. 

"Ssh."

She bared her teeth at the solemn witch. "I hate you."

Myra smiled, proceeding to help her father into the bed, slowly, to not irritate the swelling in his chest. He let out a softened grunt of pain when his head hit the pillow, swallowing hard as Myra flattened a hand over his head in a caress.

"You're healing well, papa," she murmured. "You just need some rest."

"Take care out there," he told her softly. "Please."

"I will," she promised. 

Her father's breath slackened as he drew in slow gasps, surrendering himself to the drawling slumber. She ran a hand into his hair to bring him to shut his eyes again, this time for a well-lived nap. She let out a soft breath and walked out the little room, not before glancing at the closed curtains which overlooked a bustling market-floor, the red shaded sand and the dirtied clothes of the shop vendors. 

Panna was a smuggler's planet, home to some of the most formidable mercenaries and ex-assassins, acting as a retreat planet for those who had nowhere to go in life. It made sense of Circe to stay here, given that she had no hope left at all. The place she lived in was devoid of riches, four walls of sandstone and little light that came from the thickly curtained windows. 

"What, the king's on the run?" Circe snorted, cruising to the little kitchenette with a meagre amount of supply fixed. She retrieved a flask from a cabinet, stocked with more flasks, twisting it open and chugging on it quickly.

"Precisely," Myra responded, seating herself on a dining chair nearby. She pulled her legs underneath her, sitting cross-legged as all witches did to show off certain reverence but Circe cast it stern glare. 

"So," the young witch grunted as he took a seat opposite to Myra on the table, "what do they call you now?"

"Hmm?"

"After the Transference, dipshit," Circe rolled her eyes, tipping her chin at the direction of the scar-like brand near the middle of her chest. "Your name?"

"Oh," Myra tucked a strand behind her ear coyly, "uh, Myra the Golden."

"Myra the Golden," Circe tried it out in her tongue, twirling the silver flask with a haughty smirk. "See, I knew you had a thing for that colour. Ass-kissed the Ichor?"

Myra grinned in amusement. Circe's head was simple to read, it was always transparent and never loopy. This was the cause of her brutal honesty, her thoughts focused on Myra now. How she was, how she feels about the witch part, the Ichor. If she was in love with another. That seemed like the most important matter.

Circe's eyes followed her every movement; remembering the shape of her body, the size of her lips, the softness of her skin. The exact shade of her hair when the light hit it—Myra snapped out of the trance, a little flustered and appalled. 

"What happened to you?" Myra asked quietly, directing her attention elsewhere. 

"Well, you know," she sighed, quite irritated that the conversation shifted to her past. She leaned forward, interlacing her hands over the table and breathing out loudly. 

"Long story short, fuck the Ichor and the Ways," she said easily. "Luna can go fuck herself, too."

Myra was stunned, detesting the need for foul language. She still did praise the Ichor, practically worshipped it. Her mouth ran unchecked with a slow hum, forming words. "You—"

"Yes," Circe sharply looked at her, "I cut myself off. And the waters stopped calling to me—restored my heart."

"That's possible?"

Circe nodded. "Of course. I'd be dead now otherwise."

Circe was strong and stubborn. She knew that Myra would be looking into her head and so she took precautions; very resolute on that. The memories of the past were locked out and she was careful to think about what she wanted and not what Myra desired. She respected that.

"This whole witch thing," she waved to Myra with an elated smile. Her other one crunched into a fist as if holding herself back. "It suits you. Besides, you deserve the power."

"You're the first to think that," Myra whispered with a smile. "Thanks."

"The galaxy is shit to witches," she scoffed, exhaling as if mocking the beliefs of those who looked down and scorned the ways of the witch. "Must be hard."

"Understatement," she breathed out hotly, unable to discern that this was the first time she was confessing to the distress. "I've had enough of the eyes, the words—the change. All I have ever heard is my tendency to captivate a male to an early grave as if that's the first thing on mind when I ask for help."

"Aha, Goldie!" 

Circe threw her head back for a peal of short-lived laughter, her entire demeanour shifting from ambivalence for comfortable. Myra scoffed at the woman, fighting with her solicitudes that got louder by the second. She tried to focus on anything else, but all she could think about was taking on little peek into Circe's head.

"You hate being this sexy. Classic."

Myra rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on—"

"You do," she continued to chuckle, her eyes lifting with fervour when her nickname for her rolled off unrestrained. "Look at you. You're practically a goddess. Embrace it—be the first enchantress queen of Iego."

Myra smiled. "Mhmm?"

She sipped from the glass, nodding. "And it someone thinks otherwise, kick their ass."

Myra looked down at her hands to suppress roaring laughter. A small chuckle slipped out without her notice. Before she could respond in a grateful voice, Circe's touch had arrived unnoticed. Her pale hand laid atop Myra's, affectionate and warm. It was a friendly gesture coming from one witch to another, Myra refused to tell her off about consent. She loved Circe with all her energy, in fact, she still did.

The kiss came out of nowhere. Within moments, Circe's slim hand had gone to clasp the back of Myra's neck to press in gently. It was inconsequential, to solve her doubts and just let go off the emotion in her chest. 

"I missed you, Goldie," Circe mumbled against Myra's lips, pulling back to rest her forehead against the beautiful witch's. "And I know there's another in your life now."

Myra blinked at her and, an astonishing smile lifting on her lips. "How?"

A lean finger tapped on the crevasse of her neck, dragging it down to trace a tattoo slowly. Circe shook her head with a small smile. 

"Your heart's missing," she said.

Myra laughed, the blood whooshing in her ears. Had she erred by embracing in a foreign touch with someone other than the Mandalorian? She couldn't tell—Myra had never been in an official relationship. She hoped that the Mandalorian didn't mind, Circe was like her sister. A sister you kissed, her mind mocked in all cruelty. 

"He owns it."

"He better be worth owning it," she muttered. "You love him, don't you?"

Myra sighed, biting her lip. "I think so."

"Goldie," she warned.

"No, I do. I really, really do."

"Okay," Circe laughed breathlessly. "Good, because I was thinking of putting this table to use if you stuck to the last answer."

Myra snickered at her. "You were always the physical one."

"Sex is better than pillow-talk," she shrugged simply, flustering Myra about the deviation in their conversation. "And you were so good at it, trust me. Now, that guy gets the good stuff."

Myra continued to laugh out loud, shoving Circe's shoulder playfully. "He's very humble. A Mandalorian, actually. Doesn't share too much."

"Oh man," Circe groaned, leaning back into her chair. "He's a bottom, isn't he?"

Myra pouted. "I find it adorable."

"Fucking pussy doesn't even try," Circe mumbled, tipping the flask for a chug once again. Some of it dribbled down her chin making Myra frown at the unsanitary attitude. "The trick is to never give in easily, you know, don't just hop on the dic—"

"Circe!"

Circe's smirk twisted to a fond smile. Her violet eyes roamed around her face, trying to magnify a part of Myra that she needed to see. 

"I love you," Circe whispered. "I always will."

Myra looked away. "It wasn't right."

"It was right to me," she tried quietly. Myra felt her chest tighten a fraction—out of understanding, maybe. "We could've had everything."

"Or nothing." 

Myra abruptly rose from the chair with a dark blush colouring her cheeks. The string that tied her sanity and her dignity were close to being snipped off and she knew before the scissors clipped, she had to leave. 

Circe's inconsequential revelation was shrouded behind a brave, biting smirk. She looked up at Myra, nothing but fearless. That's who she was—she dared the unknown behind her unmerciful honesty. 

"I have to go," Myra sighed. "Take care of the king, okay?"

"And you take care of your Mandalorian," she told her, a wide smirk gracing her lips. One that Myra would have loved if it weren't for someone else in her life. "He has something that could've belonged to me."

Myra turned her back with just a simple smile. "It was great while it lasted."

She heard the once-powerful witch sigh out loud. And without the Ichor, she could tell the pain in her voice that started to prick Myra's conscience. 

"It was."

∞

The nascent flames played between the tinder like a child with a brand-new knickknack, it's flames bounding in turmoil, it's smooth crackling like the beauty of running water so unearthly. The embers were washed in yellows, reds and oranges; all the shades he had associated with a certain witch he had come to admire.

At times, Din cursed this habit. Associating everything to Myra like a loon in love. On the other hand, it was the truth. He was a loon in love. 

And the cascade of excessive emotions it brought with it was something else entirely. The waiting, the expectation, the sheer desire to have her tucked into his side at all times; everything Myra seemed to be the best at; keeping him on his toes. She was unpredictable—something she had warned him about from the start—staying true to the ways of the witch.

"I guess the little bugger's a carnivore," Greef Karga said with a snort, breaking into his trance. 

Nevarro was everything short of pleasant that night. Strangely, it started to resemble Iego. The fiery lava lakes, the constant delay of not knowing what would happen and the miserable heat that started to bite in through his armour. This was exactly why he preferred Myra's company over any of the people around him—he could take off the helmet and wad off the building heat. 

"Never seen anything like it," he kept his eyes peeled on the child that was being fed by the farmer, Kuiil. "They were ready to pay a king's ransom for that thing. Must be for some kind of highfalutin menagerie."

"Not as much for Myra," the Mandalorian responded in static tone. "I don't get why the Empire would want a witch."

"How much did they pay you?"

"Four camtonos of beskar," he answered vacantly. "More if I caught her alive."

Greef was stunned. "You refused?"

"It wasn't my decision to make."

"How in the—woah!"

A gust of wind emerged from the borders of where their light of the fire ended and enveloped into the darkness, a woman bathed in golden sleet of satin had fallen on her knees to the ground. She drew in deep breaths as she looked up, frightened, from her dark curtain of hair, raising her shaking hands in surrender to the blasters that were pointed her way. Her tawny embellishments chinked quietly and Din rose from the ground in dread.

"Don't shoot," he called out in a tense flurry of motions. "She's here to help us."

Instantly, Greef's call was rigid and against his decisions. "You're trusting it?"

"She trusts us," he corrected in a firm voice. "So, stay down."

With the cessation of their aims, Myra staggered her way to their camping. She kept to herself, as usual, flanking the sidelines and farthest away from the group. Eyes followed her every movement and it didn't take a genius to comprehend their opinions. 

"Myra the Golden," Kuiil dipped his head low enough for a bow. "Hope you are well."

"I am," she gave him the tiniest of grins, using the same to glimpse at the Mandalorian. "Thank you."

"Greef Karga," Greef introduced from next to the Mandalorian with a nod at Myra. "These three are from my Guild."

"Myra," she announced strongly. "I bear no ill-will."

"Try not to snap us out of existence, witch," he rolled his eyes, seating himself beside the Mandalorian. 

Din glanced at her with a grin under his helmet and it noticing it, Myra had one of her own from him. 

"You okay?" He asked. "Is your father safe?"

"For now," she replied for both the questions in a soft, ominous voice. Her eyes quickly flickered to Cara Dune who waved a piece of meat as if to welcome her back. 

"You?"

"Never better," he breathed out in a whisper, meant just for her. 

A reflection smacked into Din suddenly. With the flow of time, he started to understand the little things that Myra followed from the Ways. She never spoke anyone's name—except the little girl's on Sorgan—no matter what. She had never said his real name, only referring to his title, The Mandalorian. She always sat cross-legged which was weirder than it was polished. And lastly, his favourite and the hardest to figure out, the glyph on her wrist gleamed delicately whenever she thought of him.  

As if Myra had sensed his stare, she looked at him and her lips moved slowly with silent words that were only meant for him. "Ask about the plan."

The Mandalorian let out an inaudible sigh, tilting his head at Greef. "Let's go over the plan again." 

"We both enter the common house," Greef replied in an effortless voice. "We show the client the bait. We join him at the table. And you kill him." 

When he looked back at Myra, she nodded at him with raised brows as if asking him to go on and render more information. 

"Tell me about his reinforcements," the Mandalorian demanded, complying to Myra's request. 

"They're all ex-Empire," Greef shrugged as if it were a task that required bare minimum force. "As soon as they lose their paycheck, poof. They'll all scatter." 

"And what if they don't?" 

"They will." 

Myra scrunched her nose in objection at him when he glanced back at her for confirmation, not satisfied with the flow of the plan. Din knew it was bullshit too, seeing that there was no plan B available. 

"That's not good enough," the Mandalorian stated hardly.

"If," Greef dragged out with a long breath, "for argument's sake, a few of them don't realize that I'm their best path to alternative employment and they elect to react impulsively," he tried it out while looking straight into him and then at the men he had brought along for protection, "then these three fine Guild Hunters, along with that battle-hardened shock trooper, will cut down anyone who bucks."

"How many will there be?" 

"No more than four. He travels with, at most, a Fire Team."

Myra pushed her lips to the side of her face, in deep contemplation. He could tell that she was dissatisfied with the flow of events, shaking her head at the symbol she had scrawled on the ground. 

As if something had snapped in her, her golden eyes were flung open wide, in terror, and straightening up from her relaxed posture. Her eyes were fixated on the pitch-black darkness around them, a certain alarm to her.

"Trust me," Greef told him with a convincing smirk, raising to grab some more of the steak that grilled over the fire. "Nothing can go—"

"Get down!" Myra yelled out but, to no avail. 

Something that resembled winged, reptilian predators swooped down from the darkness, slicing through the licking flames and a loud yell leaving Greef, striking him down. Blaster fires ignited the pitch-dark night in cerise lasers, their aims fired on the massive wingspan of the predators. They circled and proceeded to plunge in for the kill, stopped by Myra.

Her hands had formed the same defensive, invisible forcefields alike to back in Arvala-7 during the child rescue mission. It deferred the creature's aim to grasp what it favoured, it's talons trying to tear through her fields in vain. It cawed and screeched but Myra's sudden thrust of her hands caused it to propel off into the distance and disappear. 

"No, let her go now!" Kuiil's worried yell directed at the creature trying to lift one of his blurrgs that tore in through the assault of rifle shots. 

"Myra," the Mandalorian called out in distress.

"I've got it," she breathed, obviously drained from the defensive spell. 

She worked fast, taking off the thin, gold bangle that adorned her wrist and calling for the Ichor in a haste. The waters wrapped around her like a cloak and before she knew it, her request had been complied to. 

A tall, spare blade laid between her palms which she wasted no time in taking an aim at the creature's hook,  pinning it between the flesh and bone. It screeched in pain, dropping the blurrg and flapping its wings while taking off in defeat. 

Around her, the camping had been lodged into chaos. Fire spewed from the vambraces of the Mandalorian, setting fire to the skin of the reptiles and allowing it shriek back away into the darkness. While the other continued to aim and chase off them off, the creatures started to give up and the number of them decreasing with their exit. 

Myra was frustrated, searching the skies for more of the winged little shits. Before she knew it, she was running for the fastened baby carrier and allowing the cradle to screen open to reveal the baby inside.

"Oh," she let out a relieved pant, running her hands into her hair with a laugh. "You're alright."

The baby raised a hand up and a little coo leaving it, the wrinkles on its forehead unfurling. Myra moved to lift the baby out of the pod with a grin but retracted when she heard the commotion behind her. 

Do nothing and listen, child, a voice whispered in her head. The Ichor was warning her off something, regarding the sight to reality. 

Greef Karga had been hit.

"I need another medpac!" Cara declared loudly, demanding something to aid the stricken man. Myra stood rooted, unable to follow the Ichor or proceed to help. "Got any other medpacs? Anyone?"

No one moved forward.

 "I'm guessing that's a 'no'," she mumbled and clicked on a device in her hand that scanned the length of the sizzling wound. Myra gulped down terror. "It's still spreading. This isn't working." 

Do nothing, the Ichor hissed louder. Watch.

Something small trotted past her—the baby. It was shorter than her shin, struggling to walk forward and soon moving past the bystanders. It's little hand raised out slowly and Cara's interruption made Myra jump.

"Get this thing outta here."

The farmer raised a hand at the Mandalorian who moved to pull the child away from the scene. "Wait."

The child resumed, placing its hand over the slicked down of the bounty hunter. 

"It's trying to eat me," Greef murmured, his voice edging on a pathetic whimper. 

Myra watched to her astonishment, the skin starting to mend. It was like watching herself heal with the Ichor's energy and then, she felt it.

 The second energy. Another flow of strength that exuded out of the child as it continued to reform the injury, regenerating the tissue and healing it cleanly. It was stronger than the Ichor, more like an unseen gust of wind that propelled into her midsection. Her knees gave out behind the Mandalorian, collapsing into the dirt with a thud.

"Hey," the Mandalorian came to her side, retracting his hand back before he touched her. "Can I...?"

She nodded. A clothed hand laid over her shoulder warmly, traversing up her neck to cradle the side of her face to bring her gaze on the Mandalorian's helmet. "Where'd you get hit?"

"No," she tried to say through her trembling lips. "The baby—it's—"

"I know, relax," he nodded. "We don't know what it is yet."

"No, my love," she whispered, clamping a hand down on his that laid over her face. "It walks my path. Not mine, exactly. Something else."

He looked over his shoulder to see Kuiil lift the debilitated child and lay it back down into the cradle. Cara had fallen on her back with a sigh and relieved laugh leaving her lips while Greef continued to examine his healed arm over and over in horror. 

"What else?" He asked her in a low voice. 

"We haven't spoken of them in generations," she told him, leaning closer to whisper even lower. "Witches and... Jedi—we existed in peace. The Ichor and the force."

"The force?" Din tried it on his tongue. 

"I know what it sounds like," she shook her head. "Trust me. It's why I lost control—both the waters and the force lifted in me for a moment."

"You can do that?"

She shrugged. "I don't know."

∞

"Where's Hyllus?"

Circe wasn't going down without a fight. Karstark Knox had been an asshole to Myra, King Hyllus and the rest of Iego as far as she was concerned, so there would be no sin occurred by beheading this waste of droid parts.

"You can suck my inexistent cock, Knox."

"Circe," Karstark rumbled in greeting, slicing the obsidian sabre through the air to establish inadequate dominance. Circe lowered herself to a battle stance, aiming the crossbow languidly, behind the table and watched as he crushed the unhinged metal door with the weight of his feet. 

He saw the scattering of gold dust that Myra left in her wake with a smirk. "The witch was here, too."

"She has nothing to do with this," Circe lashed out.

"I'll be the judge of that," he sneered.

With a swish of his sword and the readied click of Circe's crossbow, hell itself would prevail over until the losing warrior yielded to the other. 

X X X

{ to all my smart bitches, did you see how I referred to "the Mandalorian" and "Din" at different viewpoints? there's a Mandalorian part of him and there's a Din opinion. *waggles eyebrows* Am I awesome or what? 

one word: CIRCE. I love her so much, her character just writes itself and I can't wait to work with her! }