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Cassian didn't believe in tarot cards. Or anything like that really— he didn't believe in the alignment of stars, in jinxes, in superstition.
So when he saw someone set up a tarot spread in the base's mess, he ignored it. Just another way to pass time. He didn't look down on it— or at least tried not to— it was important for the rebellion to keep good morale, even if it took an evening horoscope to do that.
Cassian slammed open the door to the mess, his locked knees the only thing keeping him from collapsing. His body was heavier than a collapsing star, and he felt like he'd take everything with him into nothingness.
So, it was another one of those missions.
Luckily there was no one else in the mess. Well, except for—
"Evening, captain." And he heard vocal fry— it floated over him, spiraling into his brain and planting itself like seeds.
"Or— morning, I guess." He turned. The tarot reader.
The cards were half-tucked away, and he could glimpse a few familiar cards in a spread— la torre, el jucio, el mundo inversed—
and the tarot reader gathered them up. They looked exhausted. Not that Cassian could judge— he hadn't even washed up yet. The man probably looked like death warmed over.
"Por—" they paused, hands hovering over the tarot card box, still holding one of the cards. "¿Quiere una lectura?" An angel swooping down, trumpet in hand and wings posed in eternal flight— como a soaring x-wing, like the one he saw lit aflame before it blew, searing itself into his retinas with heavenly fire—
"¿Mi capitán?" Cassian jumped. "¿Quiere una lectura del tarot?"
"No," he said quickly. "Tú se estabas guardando." He waved a hand, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Acuéstate. Es tarde."
"Que tontería." His eyes snapped open. The tarot reader stood in front of him, close enough he could smell petrichor and linen.
The world swam before his eyes, sparkling and burning como las estrellas dentro del vacío en interminable, en espiral.
"I can read palms." Y— ay— their voice relució.
The tarot reader's voice was soft, the vocal fry washing over him like a warm, familiar blanket.
"May I?" And Cassian blinked. And offered his hand.
Their skin was rough, calloused— this war had left its marks of everyone, and some were more apparent than others. Some marks were only physical, and others—
Their hands stilled, one thumb pressed into the mount at the base of his thumb. Only one of their index fingers kept moving, tracing a deep crease down the center of his palm.
"The things you have done do not make you a bad person. You do what is necessary, es verdad?"
And Cassian looked them in the eyes, hasta cuando se quemó.
"No es malo que sobrevivir. Que sea necesario."
And everything comes down the slope, eventually. This would all catch up to him. Pero, de momento, él haría lo que sea necesario.