#They are all jedi. They all believe the same things and work towards the same goals

[evilminji]

Had another Si-Oc thought >.>

My standard "you know what Would Be Cool?" Musings...

Getting reborn, as you do, ending up Force Sensitive, as can only be the case. Because really... how ELSE would you soul end up there? CHANCE? Force ghosts are a PROVEN thing! We KNOW that the Force sometimes just... deals in souls.

Ffs, it MADE A BABY.

Yes, there was Sith interference there. But that doesn't chance the fact that it went? "Eh, good enough. I'll take the chance and run with it. Thanks~☆ Mine Now~~☆ Bye~~~☆" And Chosen One'd that baby. Because ultimately? Before the plans of gods and men? The Force Laughs.

So like? Yeah. If there WAS to be a Reincarnator?

Probably the Force.

Congrats on the new, third (or second, depends on your species. Might be another number entirely, honestly. But we are averaging here so MOVE ON), Parent! They are very, very happy to see you! Love you as only a Primordial, Extradimensional, Timeless, Formless, All Pervasive, Orange-Blue Morality havin', Not-A-God Super-God CAN. Their Benevolence? Could be called another God's cruelty.

They don't MEAN too. They are just.... really, really Big. Infinite. Not organic or mortal. It's like trying to comprehend the limitations of an ant, living on a planet, circling a sun, in a GALAXY the size of a DUST MOTE. The fact that the Force can even come CLOSE? Is literally miraculous.

But of course... OC? Not the Chosen One. The favorite, special, "I have Important Things For You" child. Which.... turns out to actually? Be kinda great. The realize that quickly. Which of course, is followed by the logical follow up.

Anikin? Fuckin SCREWED. Because he IS the Favorite Child.

Oh... oh No. Oh Fuck, that is a CHILD.

How easy it is, to cast blame, to judge, when you can't FEEL the Force in your EVERYTHING. All the time. Every moment of every day. Beautiful but cacophonous, like a symphony of screaming. Like staring at the sun and never going blind. It still hurts. But it's so... so bright. So Beautiful.

Connection. To the universe itself. Soul deep and transcendent. You can feel that the universe loves you. That there is good in people. That Life itself is worth protecting. But at the same time? It is... it is so much.

Because you can FEEL the ugly too.

The greed. The hate. The suffering. Lights snuffed out, in dark places of despair. Selfish actions and deep cruelties, like barbed wire against the soul. Thorns that hook and drag. And... and you're supposed to use your words. Just... just ASK them to stop? And, What? Hope that they WILL?

It HURTS!

But pain only begets more pain. Cruelty, more cruelties still. And only the Sith, believe they can use FORCE, in any sense of the word, to change a persons nature. The Jedi build. Grow. They work together, with those who are willing, towards something better. Defend, those who can not protect themselves.

Balance and growth. Not fire and chains.

And Oc is pretty sure Anikin will agree. No one should ever be in chains. Dead maybe. Or in jail. But never, ever, in chains. (And no one ever said they were pacifists. Just not war mongers. Sometimes the only answer IS to kill your opponent. To respect their choice, but honor your commitments. Protect those you swore to protect.)

Of course... OC? Going through Jedi training. It's Pre-Anikin days. Both she and Obi-Wan are fuckin Smol. She's not even in his Creche clan. She's over here in the "wanders off, lost in their own thoughts" Chill AF Creche Clan. Not Mr. "May you Live In Interesting Times And Have Padawans JUST LIKE YOOOOOOOU" and Co., over in the... "Energetic" Creche Clan.

None of HER Creche-mates BIT people, Obi-Wan.

WE keep our fuckin teeth to ourselves, Kenobi!

So, obviously, THEY don't have a lifetime ban on the "look, don't touch" fragile plants meditation garden. Very Rich in the Force. Good for focusing. Peaceful, really. And Oc? Has the time and space? To Consider™ things. Experiment. Ponder Fandom theories. Long "lost" Cannon techniques. Maybe have one-sided chats with the Force.

.....finally get CURIOUS™.

And wonder... if? Since, you know, through the Force, she can encourage and discourage plants to grow? And somewhat control animals. Why not... micro-organisms? Say, Midi-chlorians? Force healing is all ready a thing! So the Force all ready CAN interact with the body. Effect it. Change it. What is this, but more?

Really, all she'd have to do is find them, within herself, right? They're already a part of her! Yet... not. Do they consider themselves a part of her? Or is it symbiosis? Yeah, everyone says it can't be done. Perhaps shouldn't be done. But, frankly? They said the same about a LOT of Force techniques over the years. Big leaps in progress scare the SHIT out of folks. Cause if you miss? A LOT of people can die gorey.

So she sits. Mediates. Looks. Smaller... and smaller.... and smaller....

Until she finds whispers. Humming. Chatter.

As though each and every blood cell in her body had a teeny, tiny, whispery little voice. All chattering together, talking and arguing and discussing. One great hive of progress and industry. Complaining about a lack of potassium... huh. She goes and gets some fruit. Eats it. Then settles back into meditation.

They are JOYOUS! Potassium! Yaaaaay! ᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟ

Well... what'd ya know... huh. Hello there? She tries. Only to get a whispery and very alarmed ( ˶°ㅁ°) !! BODY CAN TALKヽ(°〇°)ﾉ ‽‽‽ Y-Yeah... she can. (How are they doing that?) The conversation? Only gets more surreal from there. Filled with... a surprising number of kaomojis.

But! She DOES figure out? How to increase her Midi-chlorians count. (By asking. Supplying needed resources for the expansion.) And WITH it? He awareness blooms.

The headache is... awful. The little guys(genderless) are WAY to enthusiastic. Working way too fast. If she didn't check the next morning? They might have continued to increase, indefinitely, until her veins were SOLID midi-chlorian. They just want to HELP, you see. And if you want More? Then surely FAR TOO MUCH is better, right?

(She may have fucked up. Oh god. Ow. Fuck. OW.)

Eventually she figure it out. Only gives her healer in training Creche mate a... few near heart attacks. He'll TOTALLY forgive her! (He will not. What the FUCK OC. Experimental medical procedures?! On YOURSELF!? You're not even HEALER TRACK!!!)

So NOW? She can reliably do it to OTHERS.

Need a bit more Midi-chlorians? Nearly Jedi quality but juuuuust under that cut off? She can fix that. Come. Be a jedi. Everyone should be a jedi. In FACT~! Whoops! Oh hey. Looks like all these Midi-chlorian counters are fuckin broken! (They look perfect fi-)(Broken! :] Do Not question me) So when you find that Orohan Child in desperate need of love and care? Just bring um on back!

They're TOTALLY Force sensitive. You can just tell. It's the vibes. Look at their lil face. Vibes, man. Just hand um here. For... reasons. You go get the paperwork. A working tester. And~? Oh would you look at THAT! Perfectly within acceptance range! Neat. Called it again, didn't you, Master Koon? You really do have an eye for these things. Anyway~ off to get this little one settled~~☆ *adoring cooing noises at the baby*

Weird, huh, how there suddenly just... SO MANY random orphan babies that are force sensitive? How 'bout that >.> strangest thing.

Of course, it's a god damned open secret. Everyone KNOWS. How could they not? But? Like with most things? If they don't Officially Know™? They don't have to stop it. And it DOES help both the Force AND those kids. Can be reversed if they don't like it, later. (They asked. All hypothetical of course.) So OC is basically Temple bound, so she can receive any new kiddos. To... you know... Check Their Health, on the way to ACTUAL healers.

But she's ALSO waiting. And as her skill increases? She can FEEL midi-chlorians, easier and easier. Until it gets to the point? Where if she's bored and zoning out? Not even ture meditation anymore? She accidentally tunes into Midi-chlorian Live~☆ the talk show. (What's the latest gossip from bodies nearest to her? Oh? Your second spleen is acting funny? Better remember to tell him to get that chec-)

Palpatine can't hide SHIT. It's literally in his blood.

And MAD at him.

This is NOT what they're FOR. He's taking TERRIBLE care of his body! Fuck you! Fuck you, fuck you, FUCK YOOOOOOU! You want power? Choke on it, you-!!!!!

Holy shit. So THATS what Sith Midi-chlorians feel like. Oh my god. They... they are SO MAD. Like tiny wasps. That have been violently shaken in a jar. She's never used the word "seething" in reference to someone before... but like...? If they COULD stab him? Man would be a thick paste at this point.

She's not sure what facial expression she makes. But it sure is obvious. As is the blatant, horrified staring. And refusal to get near him. HE doesn't notice, being to busy with the powerful. But the Jedi sure as fuck do. Because THEY sent her? Out with a Shadow. You know... just in case.

Cause she literally can not be replaced.

She not High Ranked... she's just priceless. Equal sort of significance, but in a very quiet, Soft Power sort of way. She is, after all, single handedly? Reversing centuries of slow population decline. Her entire Line promises to be the next Yoda's line. Priceless and with far reaching significance. So obviously, they're making sure that shit stays locked down.

No one is to so much as BREATHE about this.

Not until her great-great-GREAT Grand Padawan has passed their Knight Trials so HELP US. We LEARN from our mistakes! Need we bring out the records? Times we got cocky? Sith and political fuckery!? No. Oc stays INVISIBLE. There is no war in Ba Sing Se! Move along!

So like? Why is Miss Midi-chlorian Sensor and Future of the Jedi... making that face? She's literally NEVER made that face. What sort of monster do you have to BE? Huh? Shadow asks, casual as fuck, like he's not a plotting plotter who's planing terrible things, what's up?

She tells him. Palpatine has RANCID vibes. His midi-chlorians fucking DISPISE him. She's literally never seen that before. In anyone. Didn't even know that was an option. They would gleefully kill him if they could.

.....senator Palpatine is Force Sensitive?

Yes.

.......Interesting™(Ominous Intent)

Says local Shadow, who is perhaps putting together some dots. May not be getting the correct picture. But is getting the Vibe. And boy howdy, he does NOT like the vibe. Has got himself some questions. Cause Mr "uwu I'm harmless" lil mask? Only holds up? If you're willing to believe him.

Shadows don't buy that shit. Shadows? Need receipts. Full character statements and an audit on the fucking hospital you were BORN AT. Every credit you picked up off the side walk, why, and where you spent it.

Give them your Secrets. Or they'll keep digging until they find them.

uwu Their ASS. Gonna tear this bitch APART.

......huh. So THIS is why you guys keep accidentally getting married to Mandalorians on missions. (We agreed not to mention that.) (Fucker, I agreed to nothing. Shouldn't have eaten my special Me Day pudding if you didn't want me to gossip.) Man, her friends are... a trip. Uh... have fun? Happy hunting? I guess? *feral Jedi noises*

She? Continues to wait. Palpatine? Begins to have a VERY bad time. (Ha! Get fucked!)

Unfortunately, it's not fast enough to stop his dumbass plans. He just gets desperate. Figures more power is the answer. Because of course he does. So here comes the "oh nooooo~ my planets under attack~ better manipulate a child and make me president of the galaxy!" Plan. Fucker. Bastard.

She can't stop that.

But what she CAN do? Is be there. Waiting. For HIM.

Her little brother. Her son. Her center of the universe. The most important man to ever live... and also? A scared little boy. Far, far from home. The only other person who understands just how BIG the Force is. How much it weighs. How even as it crushs you... you can't bear to put it down. Not even for a moment. Because it loves you. And it hurts, that it does.

And... oh. Oh.

He is so very small.

Dirty, tired, in lovingly mended clothes that are barely beyond scrap. With bright, bright eyes like hope and starlight. He sings inside. Like freedom. Like hope. Daring to ask "why CAN'T you be kinder?", "why CAN'T we be free?". A storm of change. Bright and beautiful.

A child. Great and small, all at once.

Oc can't help but smile. Because, oh. Oh how long, she has waited to meet him, Anikin Skywalker. Welcome. Are you hungry? Cold? Let's get cleaned up. See the healers first. The council can wait.

Chips are removed and food is shared. Warm clothes, soft and new. And she can not help but smile, smile, smile. Even as her face begins to hurt. For years she has gathered. Planned. Studied and trained. As though some part of her knew. As though all for this moment. Taking one of those small hands in hers. Looking right in his eyes.

"It's going to be okay."

Because it IS. Because regardless of what they decide? OC will be with him. Regardless, she's going to go and make sure his mother is free. Not bought, not sold. Free. She has friends who can help. Will learn how to remove the chip herself if she must.

And? He IS going to be a Jedi. Even if he never become a Coruscant Jedi. Even if he decides he doesn't agree with how they do things or they decide the disagree with how HE does things. The Jedi have changed before, they will change again. Living things are meant to grow. Meant to change. And people can be both wrong and right at the same time. It's messy.

But what's important? Is Anikin is not alone anymore. And Oc is gonna help teach him. And someday? HE'S gonna break chains. So many chains. Gonna help people heal. If he wants to. (He does) But for right now? A quick talk with some old people. Maybe a nap. And we either get settled or arrange a trip back to Tatooine. To pick up your mom. In the meantime! You can figure out what classes she might wanna take. Where seems like a good place to settle. *chatting as they walk off, hand in hand*

Just? Sometimes a Padawan-ship is you, your Teacher, your OTHER Teacher, and her body guards that teach you Cool Knife Tricks and how to gamble, behind Obi-Wan's back! :D

@legitimatesatanspawn @mayfay @leftnotright @babbling-babull @hdgnj @spidori @the-witchhunter @lolottes

[just-some-random-blogger]

Hii!

I just came across your empress work with kylo ren and i absolutely loved it.

But i was wondering...

Could you maybe write something like that but with kylo marring a jedi reader to restore balance and peace to the galaxy?

Say That Again

"-- say it," Kylo mutters. His voice becomes shaky, "I want to hear you say it."

Kylo Ren x Jedi!Reader | 1k+ | cw: gender neutra!reader, implied kidnapping, violence/mentions of injury, lovers to enemies, pining, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: this req is remix of this anon's and @copiasratsstuff request where basically YN refers to Kylo with his first name and it makes him snap. also T_T i had to send myself this anon ask because i accidentally posted this WITHOUT ANYTHING on the post LMAO. i hope you enjoy it my loves <3 <3 <3 tbh I think this turned out better than what I had in mind slayyyyed

My heart pounds as I run down the halls. My hands were tingling and moistened with agitation. I huff when I catch sight of the space craft.

I swipe an arm and, using my Force, a pair of stormtroopers crash to the side, clearing my passage.

The footsteps thundering towards me grows louder when I get to the ship and pry the door open with my Force. Just as I'm about to get into the vehicle, a scorching blow hits my leg, then my shoulder. A loud cry leaves my lips before I can even think.

Similarly, I hear painful screaming from afar. "Didn't I say to hold your fire?!"

My panic heightens at the echo of that voice. Through the excruciating pain, I tell myself to push forward. This was it, after all, this was the opening to the freedom I was waiting for.

But the next thing I knew, a dark Force overcame me, and I didn't have enough strength to break free of it.

I thud into the arms of my captor, and whine in pain. I clench my jaw and slowly lift my eyes, glaring at him.

My expression is vaguely reflected on the Supreme Leader's black mask. He sighs before speaking, "you reap what you sow."

I growl and hiss, "and soon will you."

He carries me in his arms, all the way back to my prison cell. He sets me down on his bed l, and as he takes off his helmet, I fling him back with Force, making him lose his balance.

The man doesn't topple though. What only happens is his dark hair falls onto his face. He tilts his head, "childish."

I scoff, "I'm glad you're self-aware."

The Sith Lord says nothing in response. He walks off, props his helmet on his cabinet, and opens a drawer. He walks over to me with bandages and ointment.

I raise a brow as he sits on my side, "you're not going to heal me?"

"The pain will be good for you," he replies, grabbing my injured leg with little regard.

I whine and shift to lessen my discomfort. He begins to lather ointment on my laser gash.

As he does this in silence, and as I behold his profile, his nose, his lips, his lashes, I see flashes of the past from his face. I see a memory of when we were younger, both still under the guidance of our master, Luke. I see his sweet smile, hear his soft laugh, feel his tender kiss... my Ben.

Of course, we were young fools in love. Deep down, we knew we could never be; attachments were dangerous. And yet he promised me himself and I promised him myself, and somehow he believes that was the same as us being married.

That was why he captured me. That was why he was binding my wounds. That was why he was unwilling to let me go. According to him, I was the balance the galaxy craved, I was the balance he long yearned for.

"We are married," he says, a-matter-of-factly.

My face sours, "get out of my head."

"Even if you did, even if you managed to run," he turns to me, one hand gripping my knee, "you think I would just let you go?"

We stare at each other for a while.

"After all I've done to have you?" he narrows his eyes.

"You wouldn't be able to find me," I lean in as I retort.

He leans closer, "and yet you would eventually surrender because your heart is weak."

I whine when he pulls the bandage around me tighter than necessary.

"Your soft heart would not bear the destruction I'd exact on the stars to find you," he ties the bandage and turns back to me. He scoffs under his breath, "you and your empathy."

The last of what remained of Ben Solo stared at me. Perhaps I was the only one delusional enough to see it. He was barely there in face, and in soul, I fear he may be lost forever.

I turn away.

He releases my leg and grabs my arm, "take your top off."

I decide not to put up a fight, there was no point. I take my burnt top off so he could wrap the injury on my shoulder blade.

He moves me so my back is turned to him. He stares at my wound for a prolonged moment. I am tempted to look back at him when I realize he felt pity for me.

"You shouldn't have run."

I don't look back, "you shouldn't have chased after-" I hiss when he applies ointment on my burn.

"You shouldn't have run," he repeats, harder this time.

"Kylo, please-"

"What?"

I look over my shoulder.

"What did you just call me?"

His expression is that of shock and excitement. I quickly correct myself, "Ben. Your name is B-"

"That's not my name," he raises a finger, "that's not what you said-"

"That's what I mea-"

"Say that again, say it," Kylo mutters. His voice becomes shaky, "I want to hear you say it."

I clench my jaw and shake my head. "Your name is Ben Solo."

He releases a deep breath.

I grab his cheeks. It was the first time I had ever willingly touched him, and so tenderly at that, "that is your name. That is who you--"

"Ben is dead," Kylo grabs my wrists, yanking me away from him.

My heart races when I feel the hot air from his lungs.

"I am all that's left," he whispers, brows furrowing. His voice is shaky again, "Ben was weak. He could not even speak his love for you out loud," he shakes his head, "not me. I would make sure the whole galaxy knows my love for you."

I gasp when he grabs my face and kisses me. I immediately shove him away, and when I do, this man with wide, glassy eyes stares back at me.

For once, his face evokes something more than anger out of me. I see his desperation and it pinches my heart.

"Ben-"

"That's not my name," he blurts, snapping out of his trance and jumping to his feet. His moment of vulnerability was over. Staring down at me now was no one else besides the Supreme Leader of the First Order. He wipes his face and blankness falls on his features.

I mean to call his name out again but he speaks before I can.

"I will have a medic attend to your wounds," he says flatly, "don't think to flee while I'm gone."

I watch him walk out of the door.

[jedi-enthusiasm-blog]

The Heart of a Jedi

It is a common belief in the galaxy that the Jedi are not permitted to love. Silently, some people mourn the children given to the Jedi, believing they will be brainwashed to hide their emotions and be unable to love. Disdainfully, some parents who don't wish to give their children to the Order claim that their children will never know love if they are taken in by the Order.

But love is a word with many connotations. How can a Jedi affirm or deny such accusations when they may be working with widely different definitions of the same word? When beings can mean any number of disparate emotions, many compatible with their way or life and many others contradictions of their code, values and vows?

The Jedi do not claim love is forbidden to them. How could they, with what love means to them? Saying love is allowed is misleading, and saying it's encouraged severely understates how important love is to them.

Love is essential, central to a Jedi's life. One cannot be a Jedi if they are devoid of love.

The Jedi do not claim that love is forbidden to them, as they share an ideal of kindness and compassion for all forms of life.

How could they strive towards this without love, as they understand it? Not affection, necessarily, for a Jedi must be compassionate even towards those they dislike. Rather, a deep respect for life, an attempt to understand it and its connections, and an endless drive to reduce suffering where they can.

That, to a Jedi, is love.

A Jedi must love everybody. They love the starving, the abused and the slaves of the galaxy, because they need their help. They love pirates, slavers, and corrupt politicians, when they dislike and want to stop them.

They even love the Sith.

But for many beings in the galaxy, that is not enough. For many beings in the galaxy, that is not love. And as long as the Jedi reject the cruel thing the galaxy calls love, that grasps and steals and demands to own, long as the Jedi accept the inevitability of death, the futility of holding on to what is not meant to be held, there will be those that call the Jedi loveless.

How sad, a Jedi would say, to be unable to conceive love without cruelty.

[lightsaber-dorphin]

Jedi Order Corps and Subdivisions

More of my worldbuilding for the inner structure of the Jedi Order. This time focusing on the Corps and the schools of thought/ roles within the Order.

Some of these are canon, others are my own creation. The Jedi consolidating to one temple on Coruscant during the Ruusan Reformation is canon, but I’ve taken my own liberties with it. Without further ado, lore!

Prior to the Ruusan Reformation, there were a number of independent denominations of the Jedi. Most of them merged into one order based in the Coruscant temple during what was called the Reunification.

Many denominations had different ideas of what a Jedi should be/ how they should use their powers. As a result, Jedi from certain traditions tended towards certain jobs within the reunified order. The corps and their branches formed as a result of certain traditions and teachings being passed down by Jedi who occupied certain roles.

The corps aren’t administrative divisions. Individual Jedi have their corps and branch affiliation listed on file as a marker of what they specialize in/ what they’re trained to do. Jedi are selected for missions based on their corps and the specifics of the mission, and answer to whichever body sent them on the mission. (see my Jedi Order Bureaucratic Structure)

Reunified Jedi Order:

One permanent location on Coruscant

Wayfinders:

Wandering Jedi who are technically members of the Order & follow its precepts but don't answer to the Council

Nonspecific:

Individual members can and do have corps/ division affiliations, but the group as a whole doesn't have a corps/ division affiliation

Usually part of the Sentinels or EduCorps

People aren’t selected to be trained for these jobs it’s all volunteer work

A lot of people do it part-time or for short periods, but a few folks make it their permanent gig

Maintenance workers:

Sometimes someone says “what if instead of going on missions I patched all the holes in our drywall” and why would they stop them

Lots of part-time volunteers

Most are Sentinels, because their philosophy encourages learning random useful skills

Quartermasters:

Distribute supplies

The Order buys stuff in bulk and then Jedi pick it up from the quartermasters office

Kitchenmasters:

Jedi way of saying chef

Transport mechanics:

Do you know a Car Person? Imagine if they were a monk.

Accountants:

The most dedicated to preserving the Jedi way of life of any group in the Order

Without these unthanked warriors the Jedi Order would’ve been destroyed by late-stage capitalism

Most are Lore Keepers

Lawyers:

Usually hired from the outside

Inspired by "Jedi Counsel” on ao3

Sometimes a Jedi goes to law school

Temple Guards:

Protect the temple and are its first responders

Based on the lore from "Nameless"

Very connected to the living force within the temple

A little spooky!

Education Corps:

Advance in rank via academic achievement

Maven is the title equivalent to Knight

Can have multiple padawans at one time (but usually don’t)

Lore Keepers:

Strongly believe in the importance of academics

Believe knowledge is the path to connection with the Force

Based on "The Librarian's Lineage"

Preceptors:

Teaching is hugely important to the Jedi, and all Jedi teach & learn how to teach to some degree, but for Preceptors it’s their main focus

Like the MedCorps it has a lot of transfers

Normal Preceptors:

Classroom teachers

Have formal education training

Either work for the Department of Classes or the Department of Primary Classes

DoC and DoPC are roughly the same thing, except the DoPC is for the general education classes all Jedi take as children and the DoC is for elective and continuing education classes

Battlemasters:

Teach lightsaber classes

Have formal education training

Inspired by "Careless to Let It Fall" on ao3

Main differences are that there’s more than one & they take education classes

Crèchemasters:

One lead crèchemaster and two-ish assistant crèchemasters per every 6-ish younglings

Formal training in early childhood education

Must serve as an assistant crèchemaster before being a lead crèchemaster

Assistant crèchemasters are from "aphelion" on ao3

Exploration Corps:

One-on-one apprenticeships

Rarely in the temple (unless they have a padawan, when they’re required to be there more often)

Usually have a bed in a communal room at the temple instead of their own apartment

Use Knight title. Yes this is sometimes confusing

Vanguards:

Wandering explorers/ patrol the galaxy

Instead of responding to specific requests they visit places & are available if anyone wants their help

Specific purpose is to make sure the Jedi don’t neglect/ are unaware of certain parts of the galaxy just because it hasn’t requested Jedi aid in a while

Seekers:

Find potential Jedi and offer them a place in the Order

Bond with new initiates and ease their transition into the Order

Archaeologists:

Expertise in Force-temple ruins

An undead Sith~ sleeping in your bed. Who you gonna call? Ghost! Busters!

Work closely with the Lore Keepers

Most likely to become Wayfinders or leave the Order (by percentage not numbers)

“Former Jedi who got really interested in a niche of archaeology without many Force-related ruins” is a thing in the archaeology community

They can work on normal digs but the Senate won’t approve sending them/ use of Jedi funds

Medical Corps:

MedCorps padawans are very rare. Most members transfer in from another corps

Student healers from other corps have a healing mentor in charge of their healer training, separate from their lineage-master

Healer is the equivalent title to Knight. Healers-in-training are called Student Healers, no matter what their rank is

Knight Corps:

Knights being a fifth corps

This is the corps we see most in canon

One-on-one apprenticeships, Knight title

Guardians:

Focus on fighting abilities & lightsaber combat

Consulars:

Negotiators, ambassadors, diplomats

Focus on Force abilities

Sentinels:

Focus on non-Jedi skills such as hacking

Considered a midpoint between Guardians and Consulars

Shadows:

Jedi spies

Answer to the High Council

Watchfolk:

Permanent/ long-term posting within a system

Agriculture Corps:

Focus on nature-related abilities

Grow most of the food for the Order

Very involved in disaster relief work

Rarely in the temple & usually have a bed in a communal room instead of a personal room

Have long-term postings & typically get settled there

Padawans are assigned to a group rather than an individual

Maven is the Knight-equivalent title

The chapter that inspired this whole project

Terraformers:

Large-scale Force usage

Can revitalize uninhabitable areas

Use the Force to rapidly speed up regrowth, kickstart life on planets where there is none, etc.

Conservationists:

Don’t believe in using the Force on the scale that Terraformers do

Use the Force to help individual plants grow, stave off rot and parasites, connect with animals, etc.

Beastmasters:

Creature specialists

Force-sensitive animal control

Inspiration

[425599167]

would you be willing to share more of your thoughts about barriss's relationship with luminara? i feel like they interact very little in both canon and--for obvious reasons--your series, even if the shape of the relationship is clear. i'm most interested in how much of barriss's whole deal you envision luminara being aware of; is she being distant on purpose or is she just clueless? but i'd be interested in any tangentially related ideas you have as well. it seems like you always have something insightful to say that i've never thought of before

I think Luminara was actually aware of how Barriss felt, but underestimated the seriousness, didn't know what to do about it, and couldn't imagine Barriss becoming so volatile. Like almost all of the Jedi, Luminara considered it the order's duty to do their part in the war, and Barriss is her apprentice, so she doesn't get to sit this out no matter how much trauma and brain damage she gets.

An idea I had for Luminara is that despite the elegant style, she's kinda average. For a Jedi Master, "average" is still a highly trained, educated, psychic superhuman, but she is average. From what little we see of her she isn't a particularly skilled fighter or strategist compared to other Jedi. That's not meant to criticize her, as I don't consider combat to be a good measure of a Jedi, but she's not great or particularly smart. Luminara took on little Barriss as a padawan, found her to be intellectually gifted on top of the knack for healing, and wasn't quite sure what to do with the girl.

The bombing plot is often criticized by saying it makes no sense for Barriss to protest war with violence. Part of Barriss's message is that violence is what she's been taught to do. She is directing lethal force against people she believes are a threat to peace. It's not the first time she's set off a bomb in someone's home. Not the first time she's killed clones. Not the first time she's killed civilians. That's what Jedi do, apparently. This is her apprenticeship.

In my work, Barriss goes from idealizing Luminara to accepting she was far from perfect. Though Barriss shifted blame for the bombing primarily onto Palpatine and herself, a hundred horrible things happened to her while going along with Luminara's instructions. Barriss still loves Luminara, but she's also a little mad at her and gets burned out just thinking about it all.

Funny you should ask about this now, since I've been working on related stories. A few excerpts are below the cut.

"My master chose me early on as an initiate, as Mirialans training each other is a tradition, and I was one of the few in my generation. She liked to keep poised, but snuck in cutting remarks often. She wanted me to have a life beyond the war, to become a Jedi Knight. She believed I would save countless lives through my skill as a healer, and encouraged me to study under the woman who helped kill her. She had high expectations for me, and she believed I met them, even when I knew she was wrong. She wanted the best for me. We loved each other. We failed each other."

That anger came back, anger at the Republic, the Empire, and herself. All those reasons to be angry twisted up inside her, unresolved and undying. Twisted emotions towards Luminara, too, always a confusing mixture. Admiration and disappointment. Nostalgia and bitterness. Deference and rebellion. After years of reflection Barriss found one source of certainty in her feelings about Luminara: she considered herself more intelligent than her master. That may seem prideful, but Luminara herself expressed the same belief more than once to encourage Barriss. The encouragement had failed. Now, far too late, it began working.

“Bombing operations-” Falling rocks crushed fleeing Geonosians into bloody smears in the dirt. “-turbolaser barrages-” Fields of the agriworld Ukio burned, a prelude to mass starvation. “-starfighter combat.” Explosive decompression launched Umbarans into space as their warships crumpled. “Do you have ANY idea how many people I killed because General Unduli commanded me to?”

“Is this how Luminara would want you to fight? With underhanded, dishonorable tactics?” “Luminara is no longer with us.” “Then I suppose you think whatever you do is all my fault.” “My actions are mine alone.” Fourth Sister was pulled into what she thought was a wall, passed through the hologram and into Barriss’s territory. The rebel’s boot impacted the inquisitor’s stomach.

[varpusvaras]

It's a pretty afternoon on Coruscant, for once.

They are standing just at the entrance of the Jedi Temple, waiting for Wolffe to come out, and Fox is enjoying his moment of sunlight without having a barrier over his head, when there is something flying towards his head. In a snap, he has raised his hand and caught whatever it is.

"Nice catch!" Fox looks over to see Wolffe jogging towards them, with a small bag in his hand. He glances down at his own hand and to whatever he had just caught.

It's a fruit of some sort, round and with a very light and soft pink color.

"Souvenirs from General Koon", Wolffe says, opening the bag in his hand. "He called these Hallous and said we had to try them."

He starts to give everybody else a fruit from the bag as well. It's moments like these that Fox kind of wishes he also had a Jedi, who would call them all by their names and give out fruits and other treats. Fox isn't even sure when the last time was that he actually ate fresh food.

Everybody is taking a bite out of their fruits already, not bothering to wait until Fox gets his musings to an end. They all seem to enjoy it with smiles on their faces, so Fox takes a bite as well.

Fox hadn't thought before this that it could be possible for a food to punch him inside his mouth, but now he has to believe it. The fruit is spicy like those hot peppers in the stew that Thorn had bought in one of the first weeks of their posting, and it leaves a rough, tingling afterburn in Fox's mouth. The same afterburn follows the piece of fruit down his throat when he swallows, making him cough.

Cody, who is standing closest to him in their circle, reaches to pat him on his back.

"Don't choke", he says. "Wolffe probably doesn't want to go and tell General Koon that his fruit killed you."

Fox draws in a deep breath. He looks all of them over. Rex and Bly are still munching on on their fruits, with not one twitch in their expressions.

Fox's eyes are burning with gathering tears. He hurries to wipe them away.

Is his spice tolerance this bad? He hadn't thought so before, but...

Fox looks back at the fruit in his hands, then back at the others. They are almost done with theirs.

Fox is not going to give them any more reasons to make fun of him. They've been doing it lately more than enough, about everything they just possibly can. He takes a second bite and keeps his face still.

He's almost out of breath after the last bite, but he doesn't let it show. Thankfully nobody is pointing it out, too busy with heckling Bly at the moment because he just happened to accidentally call his General by her given name.

The burning feeling inside his mouth and throat don't leave him fully until the next day. He really, really needs to work on his spice tolerance.

---

"Oh, love", Breha is giving him a slightly concerned smile. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine", Fox manages to mumble, before he has to sneeze again. Thank Manda, he already had a tissue in his hands. His eyes and nose are burning.

Breha sighs.

"I should've made sure", she says. "You haven't really lived anywhere with this much...nature, before."

"You couldn't have known", Fox coughs. "And really, the Kaminoan's were supposed to engineer us without these kind of promblems."

"I don't think that's possible, with how many of you there are", Breha says. "Some things like this must've slipped, or happened during the gestation."

Possibly. Fox is not going to pretend that he understands anything about genetics.

Breha leaves for a moment, and Fox hears her move around the kitchenette area their living quarters have. She comes back with a steaming cup in her hands.

"The Hallous are in season in the Northern Hemisphere", she tells him, setting the cup in his hands. "They make a sweet tea blend infused with them, and it's good for your immune system."

Right. Fox guesses that something that spicy might as well burn all the nasty gunk in his airways away, so he takes a sip. He scrunches up his nose a bit from how much it burns, and Breha gives him another tissue, before getting up again.

She comes back a few minutes later with her own cup, and starts on her work while calmly sipping from it.

Fox is honestly impressed. He hadn't thought that Breha had much of a spice tolerance. Bail certainly doesn't have, and much of the traditional food of Alderaan is very mild and puts great emphasis on clean flavours. Oh, well, he learns something new every day. This all just now means that even his wife has a better spice tolerance than him by far.

He finishes his tea. It doesn't make him feel any better, as now his throat is even more scratchy than it was before. All it really does is making him even more tired, but he can't really sleep because of how hard it is to breathe.

He glances longingly out of the window. It's pretty out there, with gentle sunlight and green trees and everything in blossom, and he is allergic to all of it.

Fox grumples and closes his eyes.

---

Bail comes home the next week with a mild cold, and Fox watches him drink the tea like it's water. Alright, now this is really just embarrassing.

---

Fox tugs nervously at the collar of his suit. It's dark blue and goes together with what Breha and Bail are wearing, and he suddenly feels like he is out of his depth. Wearing the armor had given them all some sort of anonymity, even to him with his distinct paint job. It's probably going to take a while until Fox gets used to people looking at him, and looking at him without it.

It's also still strange to not be the one who is standing on guard, but to be the one who is guarded. Fox's job tonight is to stand there, look presentable, and not make a scene.

Things are still a bit...tense. There have been deglarations of peace and all that, but in many places, it still feels like one wrong move can light up everything again.

Fox can't help himself but to keep an eye out for everything that happens in the room. This is the first time after the War that Breha has travelled anywhere that is not in the Deep Core, and Fox is not going to stop himself from feeling protective of her. She is his wife, after all, and Fox has all the training necessary to keep her safe, if the situation demands it.

In the meanwhile, he tries to fullfill his primary job. Stand there, look presentable, and do not make a scene. He is still new to his position, so he is not yet expected to make some deep political statements.

Stand there, look presentable, and do not make a scene. He can do this.

Things are going well when they are served the first drinks of the evening.

"Here, Your Majesty", the server gives Breha a glass first, and then turns to Bail and Fox. "Your Highnesses. We do appreciate a lot of the same flavours as you in the Deep Core, and I think you will find this drink familiar. It's made with Hallous concentrate, to bring out the natural flavour powerfully and really make it the star of the drink."

"Thank you", Breha smiles brightly at them. "That sounds lovely."

Fox also thanks the server as he takes his glass, and does not show anything as their host gives out a speech and then a toast, and drinks with the rest of the guests. He manages to keep his face still by breathing deeply through his nose. All those years of training saving him in this moment, even if nothing what he learned while growing up was supposed to prepare him for a situation like this.

The drink is awful. Absolutely disgusting, if you ask Fox. It's so spicy that it stops tasting like anything at first, and then leaves a raw, bitter burn all the way down to his chest. His tongue feels immediately like it doesn't fit into his mouth properly anymore, pressing painfully against his back teeth. Fox really, really does not understand how every single person in the room can drink something like this and not automatically make even the slightlest of faces. Is this really just a thing he doesn't understand about people who were born into Royalty? Is it really just that much of an acquired taste, and him not liking it just shows that he really is just a nobody compared to them all?

Fox is proud of how well he managed to power through it, all of those things concidered. He tries to swallow a bit, to wash the taste out even a little, but he's barely getting his own spit down.

He sucks in a breath between his teeth. It's not reaching his lungs properly, leaving him feel weirdly unsatisfied. He tries again. It's barely getting past his lips, which feel...oddly numb. Huh. Was the spice really hitting him that bad?

Then it hits him that he can't breathe.

Fox tries to swallow again. It gets stuck somewhere at the back of his throat, the same place where all the air is getting stuck as well, and he clears his throat a bit behind his hand. It helps a little, letting him get something down to his lungs, but Fox has been choked out before and he knows when it's not enough.

It's not enough.

Sateen is with them, and he is standing closest to Fox and Bail, with Breha's own bodyguards standing next to her, and Fox, in his rising panic, sees him turn towards him.

"Fox?" Sateen asks, keeping his voice low as he steps closer and carefully grabs Fox by the arm. "Are you alright?"

Fox tries to say no, but then there is white static taking over his eyes and he vaguely feels himself pitching forward-

-and he wakes up with something heavy on his face and a rush of cool air, and he gulps it up desperately. It enters his lungs with a deep, sweet relief, and then makes him cough.

There is a hand on his forehead, large and warm and familiar. Fox has the mind to open his eyes.

The first thing he sees is Bail's extremely concerned face above him, and then somebody else's as they lean closer to him.

"Deep breaths", they say, and Fox obeys. The more air he is getting in, the more aware he is becoming of his surroundings, and that is when he notices that there is a lot of commotion all around him.

He tries to look back up at Bail, to ask what is going on, but the other person telling him to breathe is really insistent of him doing just that and not talking, so Fox relents just for a moment longer.

He does glance around from the corner of his eyes, though. The whole room is in absolute chaos, with people shouting and screaming in a rising cacophony, and with multiple Guards in different uniforms trying to contain it all with seemingly very, very bad results.

The people leaning over him are talking something about oxygen levels and adrenaline and blood pressure and a lot more that Fox doesn't have the capacity to understand right now, so he just breathes.

He does feel a sense of disappointment in himself. His job had literally been just to stand there, look presentable and not cause a scene.

He isn't standing, most likely doesn't look presentable while lying on the floor, and this definitely counts as a scene.

Fox presses his eyes back shut. Just his luck.

---

Rex: I can't believe that you out of all of us managed to almost cause a full blown conflict because everybody thought you were poisoned, while you were just having an allergy attack

Rex: I thought that was a thing only Skywalker and General Kenobi were able to do

Fox: Shut up

Bly: No, no, really. You really couldn't tell that you were allergic to that stuff? You've seen all of us eat them with no problems!

Fox: You guys are all a bunch of weirdos, how was I supposed to know that you all didn't just enjoy eating shit like that?

Wolffe: Next time you see us eating something without problems while you are actively choking on it because it tastes like molten lava to you, please call us a bunch of weirdos out loud. That could save the Galaxy in the future, apparently

Fox: Cody, Ponds, they are bullying me. I almost died!

Ponds: and almost caused another conflict while doing so

Cody: Stop it, everyone. We're glad that you're okay, Fox'ika

Fox: Thank you. At least somebody here still loves me

Cody: BUT, there is a saying Obi-Wan used to say-

Fox shuts down his commlink at that point. Bail gives him a sympathetic look from the chair next to Fox's bed.

"Are they making fun of you?" He asks.

"Of course they are", Fox huffs, and then resists another urge to just reach to his back and scratch. "I almost died and I'm suffering and they're making fun of me."

Bail takes his hand gently to his.

"I'm not making fun of you", he says, with humour in his voice but enough soft love in his eyes that Fox lets it be for now.

"Thank you", Fox says, squeezing Bail's hand. Partly to show back affection, partly to stop himself from giving into the urge to scratch. "How long do I have left?"

Bail looks at his chrono.

"Another hour", he says. "I'm sorry. We just want to make sure this doesn't happen again."

"It's fine", Fox sighs. "I would rather it doesn't happen again, either, but why does testing for allergens take so long?"

"That, I do not know", Bail says. He then straightens up a bit to take a look at Fox's back.

Fox sees the grimace on his face, even though Bail tries his hardest to wipe it away quickly.

"I'm karked, aren't I?" Fox asks.

"Well, I wouldn't say so", Bail tries to smile placatingly at him. "I'm sure it's completely normal for it to look like that."

He, very wisely, understands to shut up after the next look Fox gives him.

[fantasyinvader]

It’s just all clicking into place.

The Kingdom’s culture promotes the idea of living without regrets. As @randomnameless pointed out, in the Japanese script the way of it’s renowned knights is to follow your heart and the justice that you believe in, and Annette will point out in Wind how there’s a belief there that people who die with regrets will suffer underground from them.

Now think about Dimitri. Dimitri knew the people of Duscur were innocent, that what the Kingdom was doing to them sure as fuck wasn’t justice. Even the Church’s teaching about it being okay to kill with reason wouldn’t work here because Dimitri knew there was no real reason to go after Duscur. But Dimitri lacked evidence. He was sent by Rufus to help put down a rebellion while fighting a general involved in the Tragedy. But at the same time, Dimitri did something he viewed as wrong by killing others even if it was punishing bad guys. This is where something in Dimitri broke and he scared Felix into pissing himself. Dimitri came to Garreg Mach in order to investigate the truth and bring the real perpetrators to justice and clear the people of Duscur’s name. But Dimitri is still suicidal in part because of this past and his actions, believing himself a monster because of them. His character growth in Moon is him learning to not live for the dead but for himself, doing what he believes is right. He attempts to talk to Edelgard about the war to solve things peacefully, and on top of that realizes that he actually wants the duties and responsibilities of a king in order to help people.

And it’s not just Dimitri in the BL house. Felix and Ingrid have different endings in AM than the rest of the game. We know Felix in Flower views himself as a monster over his father’s death and will mourn Dimitri while wondering if he could have saved him, and Ingrid doesn’t follow her dreams of being a knight and instead manages her family’s territory and it’s noted in her ending with Ashe she isn’t received warmly by the people she left, spending her life working for their sake. Felix loses his sword-arm in their paired ending in Moon saving her, and is said to not regret it.

Dedue returns to Duscur without the sadness caused by Dimitri’s death in SS and VW.

Sylvain regretted what lacking a Crest did to Miklan, so he worked towards making it so that Crests and Relics weren’t seen as necessary. In addition, he improves relations with Sreng, which makes sense in light of Hopes revealing they killed Miklan’s mother.

Annette can only bring her father home in Azure Moon.

Mercedes gets an extra scene during Emile’s death only in Azure Moon, making it so he doesn’t die as the Death Knight with his helmet removed. Kinda like Darth Vader dying as Anakin Skywalker at the end of Jedi.

Ashe quits working for House Rowe when they become a vassal to the Empire according to his bio, so he isn’t recruited as a turncoat. (randomnamless: His ending with Caspar confirms they hold the same views on justice, and Ashe is trying to live up to his ideal as a kingdom knight. Just more proof that Caspar is what the kingdom knights idolize). In his AM ending with Ingrid, they both go down in history as peerless knights serving Dimitri.

Rhea won’t die under any circumstance in Moon, so Catherine and Cyril are able to save her.

(Also this tidbit about Catherine’s solo ending if Rhea dies really shows that she isn’t the monster people accuse her of being “Catherine left the Knights of Seiros and set out to travel across Fódlan. With Thunderbrand in hand, she wandered the countryside, seeking always to defend the innocent and punish the wicked. Her many years of heroics ensured that she would always be remembered by the people as a beloved folk hero.”)

AG wanting to look at the Knight culture of the Kingdom also makes sense of the ending. Dimitri was a hero until the defeat of Thales, as evidenced by the light symbolism (or rather, Shez’s influence not bringing about a dark dawn). But his dawn of darkness is coming, he’s going to wage a punitive campaign against the Empire over the war, believing that it’s justice even though they were manipulated. And when you consider what happened to Duscur when they were accused of killing Lambert and now the people knowing that forces within the Empire were involved? And Rhea isn’t going to be around to broker a peace if Claude manages to assassinate her. Despite being the One-Eyed Demon post-timeskip in Houses (Bar Flower), Dimitri was still seen as a folk hero for his actions against the Empire. Dimitri is always a heroic figure of sorts within Houses, but in the ending of Gleam he lives long enough to see himself become the villain because Dimitri is going to end up doing what he believes is right.

In a sick way, he becomes like Edelgard in this regard just like how GW sees Claude become like Edelgard as well.

[momojedi]

Happy May 4th to all my Jedi friends out there!

This year we celebrate not only the 20th anniversary of ROTS, but also 20 years of Star Wars Animation. To me, that's my childhood and with that, a special reminder of how growing up has affected me.

Star Wars in itself has always been a safe space for me. At night, I would always lie in bed and dream of fighting stormtroopers and flying X-Wings. I would get excited watching the new season of Clone Wars after coming home from school and draw myself with lightsabers and Jedi robes. I found my first fictional crushes in Rex and Obi-Wan, too but let's... let's not get into that...

In fact, the Rebel Alliance was probably the trigger of my wish to become a pilot or an astronaut! I always wanted to fly over the world or see space up close, to me, it was the closest thing to piloting an X-Wing in person. But unfortunately, that has become impossible to me due to my illness - still, I want people to be able to experience that, too!

Experiencing Star Wars, living out fantasies and stories, that's something I want to experience more in my life. And I want to share it with others! Becoming an actor, that's unfortunately not likely for me, once again thanks to my wonderful medical issues. But writing, creating, producing... yes, that's for me. I want to build up new stories for this universe that's saved me more than once.

There are a lot of people out there with the same goal as me. I'm nothing special, I don't stick out and I'm not exactly good at selling my ideas well - but I have such a bright mind and so many ideas that I need to get out there and share with others. I don't believe in myself a lot and I probably give myself much less credit than I really deserve, but my imagination and writing is something I hold very dearly and it's a talent that I refuse to keep a secret from others. I think life has already taken so much from me, I deserve to share my passion with others.

I'm going to start working on small fan projects (less x reader writing and more proper stories, sharing ideas and concepts, maybe art, some 3D animation for college, etc.) from here on out, maybe that'll grant me some practice and maybe even some exposure, even though I don't really count on that. Still, it's far better than nothing. You can also check out my original SciFi novel "Fireflies" and its process on @thefireflyproject. It's a universe I've been building in the past couple of years now and I've finally begun putting into words!

I hope someday to have you read my name on a big Star Wars screen, game or show, as a producer or writer! (Hopefully animation, that's what gets my heart going.) I'm working hard towards this success and I hope you'll support this dream moving forward!

And with that, I'd like to thank everyone, people like @thecoffeelorian and @dumbasswhorebug who's been so patient and supportive through all my works on here (I see y'all, don't worry!), especially considering how introverted I can be. I made this blog to express my love for a franchise and I met so many kind people on here, too. Thank you all, you're the best Jedi brothers, sisters, and siblings I could ask for!

May the Force be with you!

Momo, signing out

[separatist-apologist]

The Acolyte

Summary: When a mission on the planet Umbara goes wrong, Jedi Padawan Feyre Archeron will come face to face with the one creature the High Republic has believed long extinct: a Sith Lord.

Read on AO3

Note: This is a collaboration between the beautiful, smart, perfect, all-around talented @velidewrites who, upon watching the previous episode of The Acolyte, said, "Qimir is so Rhys coded." This has been our brain rot ever since.

DO NOT REPOST SITH RHYS

-

Drumming her fingers along the arm of the chair, Feyre waited with little patience. She ought to have it—it was unbecoming for a Jedi Padawan to be so antsy, so fidgety, but she couldn’t help it. It felt like years since she’d gone anywhere outside the temple besides hunting down street food. Master Tamlin wasn’t over their last mission.

Reckless, he’d called her.

Efficient, was how Feyre would have described herself. What was the point of tradition if it resulted in the deaths of so many innocents? Rules, protocol—it was all meaningless to Feyre in the moment. What mattered was the lives of innocents, not making sure Master Tamlin was satisfied she did everything by the book.

Tamlin loved the code, loved rules, loved everything except doing things the way Ferye wanted to. It was tempting to wonder why, of all the possible Padawans he could have had, he’d chosen her. They were a strange match even by the Jedi’s standards. Tamlin said the force had called out to him, urging him to take her under his wing.

Feyre sometimes thought he merely saw chaos where order ought to reign supreme, and made it his personal mission to bring her to heel. He was holding her back—Feyre wanted to be a Knight and free herself from Tamlin’s hold and he refused, telling the council she wasn’t ready.

She was, though. Feyre was stronger, faster, better than her pupils, a good number of whom had already graduated and were working under the watchful gaze of all Masters rather than just one. 

Let him take me on this mission, Feyre thought, sending it out into the world. One last mission—I can prove I’m ready.

Tamlin appeared from behind arched, hissing doors, his white robes swishing around beige boots. He’d tied his shoulder length blonde hair half off his face which made him look more severe, somehow. Green eyes pinned her in place, keeping her from standing even when she wanted to. Something about the hard set of his mouth made her think twice.

“The council wants you to join me,” Tamlin said, a muscle flexing in his jaw. “It’s a bad idea.”

“Who are we to argue with the will of the Council?” Feyre asked breathlessly, finally standing. It was good luck, the first of many, she decided. “I’m grateful for the opportunity.”

“This is too dangerous and you’re too reckless,” Tamlin said, turning for the long stretch of hall between them. Feyre’s long braid swung from her shoulder, tracing a path along her spine as she worked to keep up with his fast strides. 

“I’ll do as you say, Master,” she swore, truly believing she would. Tamlin only shook his head because he knew better. Feyre could be impulsive—it was one of her worst qualities.  

“You never do,” Tamlin replied with a heavy sigh. “It’s a mistake to bring you to Umbara.”

Umbara? Feyre practically vibrated with excitement, swallowing to keep her feelings in check. She’d heard of the Shadow World, seen it in the archives when she studied. She’d never been there, though. It felt like a waking dream, too good to be true.

“What’s happening on Umbara, Master?”

“Deaths,” Tamlin said, eyes cutting toward her as he carved a path through a gathered crowd of awed younglings. “Jedi deaths. That shouldn’t be possible.”

“Perhaps they were caught by surprise,” she said, though Feyre, too, found it troubling. What was the point of training if a regular blaster bolt could end them, same as anyone else? She’d always imagined her death would be more spectacular. A fiery inferno, likely as she jumped in and out of hyperspace while Tamlin shouted at her. 

Oh, but what a way to go.

“We’re only investigating,” Tamlin said, turning so abruptly that Feyre tripped over her own white and gold robes in her haste. “Remove all ideas of grandeur from your mind.”

“I will,” she promised, but it was too late. This would be her test, she decided—one last mission to prove not just to Tamlin, who would likely never believe her ready, but to the Council themselves that she should be elevated to Knight. Tamlin had held her back for the last time.

They parted ways, Tamlin mumbling under his breath as Feyre practically skipped her way out of the temple. She wanted to tell her sisters what she was doing and knew if Tamlin realized she still had this connection, he’d march them right back into the Temple and demand she be put back in the Archives.

Feyre swore she’d tell them she couldn’t read if he did.

She, like all children, had been taken to the temple before she had a chance to truly know her family. And either by luck or the force or some other cosmic entity, she’d stumbled into Elain first—and then Nesta. How many women in the galaxy had the last name Archeron, after all? Elain was a rising politician, unhindered by an overbearing Master and Nesta the head of a Bounty Hunters Guild.  There was no denying the relation—they all had the same heart shaped faces, the same cheekbones, and the same whip-fast wit. 

Nesta ought to be back by then, though if not, Elain would be in her little office working hard to make a name for herself. Nesta had explained their family had once been wealthy before a few bad investments ruined it all. Sending Feyre away had been a mercy, and when their mother died, well…that was one less mouth to feed. 

Nesta learned to fight with vibro weapons, Elain with words. If their father was still alive, they’d never said and Feyre hadn’t dared to ask. Deep in her heart, she felt a small amount of resentment for the man who’d sent her away, depriving her of the connection with her family. Even if it had been selfless—even if he’d wanted to give her a better life. 

On climate controlled Coruscant, Feyre found herself standing amid a sunny, breezy day. Tilting her face skyward, she swore she felt a phantom breeze caress her skin. Turning, she decided she’d get something to eat, first, and to see him. It was wrong, the strange attachment she had to the man who ran the turbo dog cart closest to the Jedi temple and yet he remembered her name. Remembered the things she told him.

He was her friend. 

Feyre’s feet began moving of their own accord, body slipping into the throngs of people that lived on the planet. The cacophony of smells and noise—the chaos of it all—made her blood thrum with excitement. Feyre never felt more alive than she did just outside the Temple. Here, Feyre could pretend she was just like anyone else…ignoring the slice of hair woven into the traditional padawan braid, separate from her own thick, long hair she’d refused to cut, and the purple saber clipped to her belt. Still, she was practically bouncing as she made her way down the steps toward rows upon rows of shops advertising anything a person could ever want. Somewhere among the madness was Nesta’s little cantina, run by her friend Emerie most of the time. Feyre might stop in for a drink if she was feeling bold, though Tamlin wouldn’t approve.

What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, she reasoned. She’d just have to be careful to drink slow as alcohol went straight to her head.

Most things did, in truth. After a lifetime of denial, anything heady was practically a drug. 

Feyre fell into line, catching sight of the man handing out turbo dogs. Rhysand.

He’d appeared one day—or perhaps she’d merely never noticed him, though it seemed impossible that she could have walked by and not noticed him. His hair was so dark it gobbled up all the light around him, gilded blue in the late afternoon sun. Piercing blue eyes seemed practically violet when the shadows fell over his face just right, with brown skin that looked warm to the touch and just the shadow of a beard gracing the cut of his jaw. 

Not that she’d dare. She was definitely forbidden from that, though all the teaching in the world couldn’t truly stop her wanting. He looked up right on cue, smiling when he saw her just like he always did. There were people in front of her, so Feyre waited, schooling her face into careful neutrality when all she really wanted was to bound up to him and tell him everything.

What did it matter? Who was he going to tell? Feyre imagined, when she needed to temper some of her interest in this stranger, that he told stories of the Jedi Padawan to his friends in whatever local watering hole he frequented. Perhaps they all laughed.

But maybe he didn’t. 

“There you are,” Rhys said when it was finally her turn, large hands deftly putting her dog together. He was, without a doubt, the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. And Feyre considered herself rather well-traveled. She’d seen a lot of faces. Rhys’ was all sharp angles and graceful lines, drawn together just so—on anyone else it might have made them seem too severe or perhaps lopsided. Not Rhys, who seemed blessed by some otherworldly entity despite his rather humble profession. 

There, in a black tunic, she caught sight of the familiar black tattoo crawling up his neck, half hidden beneath the white shirt just beneath. What did they mean, she wondered? She’d never dared to ask.

“I was looking for you,” Rhys added when Ferye didn’t speak. Heat stole over her cheeks, causing her to duck her head. 

“I’m where I always am,” she replied, grateful there was no one behind her to hurry things along. 

“Still trapped in the Archives?” Rhys asked sympathetically. 

“Not for long,” she said, unable to contain her excitement. “I’ve been assigned to Umbara.”

His dark brows rose. “What business do the Jedi have on Umbara?”

Feyre shrugged, wishing she could tell him the truth. It was a betrayal, even if he was harmless enough. She’d tell him everything when she returned, besides. Likely with some embellishments to make herself seem more heroic and more skilled than she was. As if he knew the difference. 

“I thought Umbara was supposed to be dangerous,” he continued, quickly turning the sign on his stand to read closed. Another elicit thrill raced up her spine. He wanted to walk with her while she ate, dragging out their conversation just a little longer.

Feyre wiped sauce from the corner of her mouth quickly, hoping he didn’t notice how the red stained her sleeve. “It is,” she said through a mouthful, hoping Rhys found her charming and brave rather than young and a little pathetic. “But nothing I can’t handle.”

“Oh, I’m certain of that. Is your Master still angry with you?”

She nodded, swallowing her bite quickly. “He thinks I’m reckless, but…” Biting her inner cheek, Feyre thought of the children who would have been swallowed by flames had she not intervened. Tamlin, and many other Jedi, would remind her it wasn’t possible to save everyone. She couldn’t let herself become so attached to simple strangers.

Feyre could feel them all in the force, just like every other Jedi. Their fear overwhelmed her, and try as she might, she simply could not block it out. Feyre let it all in, let their emotions rush over her like water until they clouded her judgment. And then she acted, honed by instinct and twenty one years of training. 

“But?” Rhys prompted, slowing his steps so Feyre didn’t have to work so hard to eat and breathe. They walked further from the temple, descending into one of the lower levels where the Jedi were unlikely to venture. He lived down there, somewhere. Did he see sunlight from his windows, she wondered? Or was he, like so many others, trapped in darkness? 

“It was wrong not to help,” she said fiercely, flooded with righteous emotion. Rhys smiled.

“I agree,” he said, running a hand casually through his hair. Feyre tried not to notice how a lock flopped into his eyes just as she tried not to imagine what it would be like to brush it away with her own fingers. 

“If I do this by the book, though, I think I can go around Tamlin to the Council and ask to take my trials,” she said, confessing to Rhys something she hadn’t even told her sisters. Again—it was harmless to tell him. He was just a man on Coruscant, her friend, truly. He had a passing interest in the Jedi and a passion for turbo dog meat. 

“What will you do then, once your Jedi Knight Feyre Archeron?” he questioned, eyes sliding to the padawan braid draped over her shoulder. 

“I don’t dare to think about it, just in case,” she said, finishing the rest of her meal and tossing the trash into a nearby bin. “I don’t want to jinx it.”

“Smart,” Rhys praised. “Who knows what’s waiting on a planet like Umbara.”

“Something dangerous, I hope,” she said with more bravado than she felt. If he guessed, he didn’t say.

“You should be careful,” he warned, just like he always did. It didn’t annoy her as much as when Tamlin said it, perhaps because Rhys wasn’t asking her to remain behind on Coruscant for safety reasons. Sometimes Feyre thought Tamlin wanted her to remain a Padawan until she died despite the early conversation they’d had all those years ago about her hopes and dreams. He’d been so supportive when she was younger.

Now he felt like a tyrant. 

Feyre left Rhys not long after when he said he needed to pick up a crate of meat, disappointed they never managed more than about ten minutes of time together. What she would say if she ever got more eluded her, though sometimes she conducted long conversations with him in her mind. At least there she was always witty, always charming, and he was always impressed with her. 

Feyre went to see Nesta and Elain, told them of her mission hastily, and promised she wouldn’t be gone too terribly long. How much time could it reasonably take to investigate the murders of a couple Jedi? They weren’t Masters, after all—it had been a trio of Knights she knew in passing, their bodies still missing. All that had been found were parts.

A hand here.

A torso there. 

Weapons missing. 

Feyre had a nightmare that evening, her mind grappling with what could have gone wrong to take out three Jedi in such a manner. Perhaps a bomb? A sniper hidden on a roof, cloaked somehow? 

Or, more thrilling and terrifying all at once, a long-extinct Sith somehow rose from the grave. Feyre had only ever heard stories of the legends—unlike Jedi, who were numerous, their Sith counterparts moved only in groups of two. A Master and Apprentice. Having spent so much time in the archives, Feyre read that once an apprentice finished their training, they’d kill their own Master and take an Apprentice of their own, thus repeating the vicious, cannibalistic cycle in perpetuity. 

The Sith were extinct, hunted to nothing centuries before Feyre had been born. If one managed to pop up, they’d be cut to pieces before they could manage to find and corrupt an apprentice, nevermind how they’d manage to truly immerse themselves in whatever perverse culture the Sith claimed. Still, it was an interesting fantasy and even after Feyre woke in a cold sweat, mind still racing from the shadows that seemed to press against her temple, she let herself imagine what it would be like to encounter one.

To cut one down.

Feyre bet they’d let her skip her trials if she did. Not that she wanted a Sith running around, of course. It was merely the wistful imaginings of all padawans hoping for glory. Feyre wanted to make a name for herself.

Old resentment bloomed in the morning as she packed her things into a sack, careful not to fill it to the brim. It would irk Tamlin, resulting in a lecture about how materialistic she was. Was it materialistic to not want to wash her robes every single night? In the sink, no less, while they were conserving water for drinking and washing? Tamlin would tell her to wear her tunic and robes more often between washings but Feyre got sweaty sitting in the cramped quarters of the ship. They started to smell like onions and while Tamlin might not mind, she certainly did.

Rolling them tight, Feyre packed three sets, closed up her knapsack, and made her way toward the shipyard just as dusk broke over the horizon. The light bounced off the metal buildings, half blinding her as she walked. 

What she wouldn’t have given for some shadows right then. 

Tamlin was waiting, handing over credits to the dock worker along with his clearance papers while they worked out which lane they’d take and what time they’d leave. It was all terribly boring, though she supposed it was important that they didn’t make the leap to hyperspace while another ship came out, obliterating them both in a fiery inferno.

Why did the thought amuse her? Feyre suppressed the smile forming as she clenched her fingers into fists, nails biting against her palm. Tamlin turned, eyes drifting toward her back at the pack slung over one shoulder. He didn’t say a word—he didn’t have to. Feyre could feel his disapproval coming off him in waves.

Silence was its own blessing, she supposed. Better than having to defend herself and submitting to the eventual lecture that would go on for what felt like ever. Still, she could feel his disappointment as they took their seat in the small, sleek craft they’d be in for only the force knew how long. Tamlin did the preliminary checks while Feyre settled everything in, finally sitting in the co-pilot's chair. 

Not a word was spoken until they jumped to hyperspace. Feeling his eyes burning holes against her skin, Ferye finally sighed with exasperation. “Just say it.”

“I think it was a mistake to involve you in this,” he said in that measured way of his, unaware of how deep his words cut. “You’re not ready for this kind of mission.”

“You don’t trust me.”

It wasn’t a question but merely a statement of fact. What other conclusion was she supposed to draw? Tamlin balked at every outing, especially as of late. Feyre had heard it a million times before and though she considered herself relatively tough, she thought she might cry if she had to listen to him list her faults again.

“When did I say that?”

“You didn’t have to say it,” Feyre snapped, swiveling in her chair to face him. Multicolored lights lit up the otherwise dark cockpit, while the console separated them. Feyre could see the saber resting lightly against Tamlin’s thigh and knew if he ignited it, she’d find the familiar green blade humming before her. It had once been a comforting sight.

She didn’t know what it was now. 

“I think I do need to say it in order for it to be true,” Tamlin replied, infuriating as ever. She wanted to wring his neck, an inappropriate thought she couldn’t shake.

“No, you don’t, because you say it a million different ways. I’m too reckless, I don’t think, I’m impulsive and every other little thing. And when you’re not constantly saying that, you’re arguing passionately to the Council that I don’t belong on missions and you refuse to help me prepare for the trials—”

“Have you considered that I am not ready to let you go?” Tamlin asked in a low voice.

Feyre paused. Oh, that was a dangerous thing to admit and they both knew it. Feyre’s eyes slid to the windshield before them, suddenly nervous. “You have to.”

“I know. I know,” he said, unaware that the low, urgent way he spoke those words angered her. He’d hold her back because he liked her? Even if it wasn’t forbidden—and Feyre had to believe that any kind of relationship between a Master and a Padawan was—it was downright cruel. She could be his peer, at least, and in a position to have this conversation with him without worrying he’d drop her in the archive again while avoiding her so she had no one to practice with. 

“I want to be a Knight, Tamlin,” she told him, fingers twisting in her lap. 

“There’s time—”

“You’re wasting it!” she burst out, rising from her chair so quickly she slammed her head against the low ceiling. “For the sake of feelings you know we can’t act on!”

“It’s only attachment that’s forbidden,” he argued, as if he hadn’t just admitted he was holding her back to satisfy his own desires. Feyre wanted to scream—wanted to wrap her hands around his large neck and squeeze until his eyes bulged and a raspy apology split from his lips. 

She’d take it too far if she didn’t get away from him. There was practically nowhere to go—down a ladder and into the hold, Tamlin right behind her. 

“Feyre–”

“No.”

Her heart thudded rapidly, lodging itself in her throat as she spun around. Tamlin’s tan skin paled at whatever he saw looking back at him, palms raised in defense. 

Take a breath. You are one with the force. Take a breath. 

“Feyre, can we talk about this?” he pleaded. There would be no avoiding it, and Feyre, never known for her tact, would have to figure out a way to navigate the conversation without throwing a wrench in her entire future. 

“Not now,” she said, exhaling through her nose. “I need—I need to think.”

Hope sprung like weeds in his eyes as Feyre tamped down her fury. Feyre knew, looking up at the man she’d once loved like a brother—respected like a father—and knew he would hold her hostage until she agreed to his terms. Lying felt wrong, deceiving him worse. If she went to the council, would they listen? Would they believe her over a Master? 

Tamlin nodded, mouth opening and closing like a fish as he tried to find the words he wanted. “I just…I’m not ready to say goodbye.”

Feyre could think of a dozen Masters and Padawans who continued to work alongside each other. Was he not ready to say goodbye to her, or to the power he had over her? The thought chilled her, filling her with fear. 

“You don’t have to,” she replied in a careful, measured tone though every inch of her vibrated with panic. “Very little has to change.”

Tamlin offered a humorless laugh. “Even you don’t believe that, Feyre. You’ll race off on a dangerous mission by yourself the first moment you get.”

“I won’t,” Feyre protested. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she hated being alone. A mission by herself seemed like a particular brand of hell. Every moment Feyre got she was looking for company—seeking out the other padawans, her sisters, hell, even the turbo dog guy when she could catch him.

But rarely Tamlin. Not since he’d begun to sideline her and her resentment had grown like one of Elain’s gardens. When had that begun, anyway? Racking her brain, she realized it had been around the start of her nineteenth birthday. Two years—how foolish not to realize the underlying problem. There was so much wasted time and too much ground lost. 

Tamlin only shook his head. “Let's table this for now. You rest—I’ll keep watch.” She nodded, swallowing all the words she wanted to say as a plan began forming in her mind. She’d petition the council, she decided as she watched Tamlin climb back up the stairs. Either they’d believe her or they didn’t, but she was entitled to another Master if she wanted one.

The thought didn’t give her peace, though. As Feyre slid into the small bed hidden within the wall, her anger burned hot in her chest. This was not the Jedi way—she needed to find a way to forgive him for what he’d done to her.

But she couldn’t. Even in sleep, Feyre did not find peace. Her dreams were tinged red and shadowed, as though her anger had been made manifest. She woke to the sound of light beeping and Tamlin pulling open the small door so light flooded in.

“Can we trade?”

She only nodded, rubbing at her eyes as she scooted out of the narrow space. His fingers grazed her collarbone as she hopped to the ground, narrowly avoiding his hands reaching for her waist. Feyre had to resist the urge to slap him away, to not bark out, don't touch me. Tamlin merely watched, his disappointment obvious. What he thought was going to happen, she wondered? That he’d admit she’d been purposefully holding her back and hobbling her self-esteem simply to meet his own needs and she’d swoon? Fall into his arms? Abandon all the tenants of her teachings for him?

Feyre let him sleep longer than he had—Tamlin had only given her four hours, but Feyre gave him the remaining eight. She flung the door open just before they were about to burst out of hyperspace, and only because she was required to. He was still the Master, she his student and her whole future was in his hands.

“You’re angry.”

Feyre flipped the switches that would pull them just outside the atmosphere of Umbara, the neon blue of the stars fading as they slowed their descent.

“I’m frustrated,” she admitted, not wanting to give him any honesty at all. He was manipulating her, using the teachings of the Jedi against her and Feyre didn’t know how to fight back. She wasn’t equipped for these sorts of games, didn’t know the rules to even play. 

“I’m sorry,” Tamlin murmured, as if that was enough to erase two years of wasting her time. “Do you want to discuss it?”

“Is there any discussion we could have? Am I allowed to say no?”

“Stars, Feyre, I’m not—of course—” Tamlin set his jaw, grinding his teeth together loudly. “Of course you can.”

But everything in his body told her that he’d be angry if she did. It was written all over his face.

“Can we just wait until we’re back on Coruscant?” she asked, forcing herself to speak softer, lighter, to avoid whatever was brewing in his gut. “You don’t feel it?” Tamlin demanded.

“Tam,” Feyre breathed, invoking an old, familiar nickname. It was enough to settle him, the tension between them evaporating. “We’re in the atmosphere. Let's do our mission, go home, rest, and then we can discuss…us.”

She didn’t dare look at him. Could he taste the lie? Did he suspect she intended to speak with the council the minute her feet were back on Coruscant? Could he stop her? Feyre had too many questions as they were plunged into shadowy darkness. Umbara demanded her attention, pushing everything else to the side as Feyre stared. The local star was simply too far for its ray to penetrate, its reach beyond even the Republic. 

“What were they doing out here?” Feyre wondered aloud, breath curling around her face like shadow. 

“I don’t know,” Tamlin replied, deftly landing on the landing pad in the local ship port. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”

“Where do we start?”

Tamlin knew, of course. They’d been too busy arguing over the state of their tattered relationship to discuss the mission, and now Tamlin had all the clues and all the control, just like he always did. Feyre would be given information piece-meal, rewarded when she pleased him and iced out when she irritated him. It had been that way between them for a while. At least she understood that part of the dynamic, bothered as she was by it. 

“This way,” he said, disembarking with barely a glance back. Fingers balled to fists, Feyre followed after him, eyes searching the dark hungrily. Umbara was hardly some backwater planet that barely had running water, let alone civilization. Umbara was advanced in a way that would have made the cosmopolitan Coruscanti residents weep. Towering buildings tried to banish the shadows, bathing the surface in artificial lights. If she strained her eyes beyond the urban sprawl, Feyre thought she could see rolling hills rising like mist in the distance. 

Maybe that was her imagination filling in the gaps. 

What was beyond the gloom, where not even technology and light could touch? What secrets did the shadows hold? Perhaps it hadn’t been anything sinister at all, but merely the wildlife that had gotten the Jedi. Feyre shivered in spite of herself, wishing she could step closer to Tamlin without it being uncomfortable. In one fell swoop, he’d wrecked the delicate bond between master and padawan.

Her resentment reignited, hot as any flame. Her emotions were all over the place, though carefully guarded to keep Tamlin from sensing them. She’d learned to do this as a youngling, annoyed that she broadcast her every feeling to anyone who happened to be near, but perfected it when she found her sisters. Feyre didn’t trust the Jedi not to make them leave, even if it was a little unfair. Maybe they wouldn’t have.

But maybe they would have. And Feyre simply couldn’t take the risk. 

On the busy streets, Feyre kept her eyes straight ahead even as she examined the people from the corners. Umbarians were near human—their skin pale and bluish from the lack of sunlight, their hair white or silver, though sometimes so impossibly black that Feyre wasn’t sure if it was hair at all. Pale blue eyes peered through the gloom and she’d heard they could see colors regular humans couldn’t, though who knew how true that really was. Feyre wished they could linger and she could spend some time immersed in the local culture, but Tamlin walked quickly, determined to get them both in and out. Whether that was merely to conclude his investigation or bring their conversation to the fore, Feyre couldn’t tell. He was inscrutable that way. 

Along one of the neatly laid streets stood a rather shady looking cantina, even by Coruscant's standards. Feyre felt a thrill of excitement as Tamlin walked through the hissing steam of the door into the smell of liquor and sweat. 

Feyre’s eyes snagged on the chrome bar and the two impossibly large men seated on too-small stools. They likely would have fit a regular man perfectly fine—Tamlin could have sat with no issues at all. These men were built like warriors, with warm brown skin so at odds with the milky paleness of the locals and strange, scrawling tattoos inked in black. They both turned, their hazel eyes nearly gold as they landed first on Tamlin, and then Feyre. 

The larger of the two had his wavy, dark hair pulled half off a face marked with scars, confirming her theory he was a warrior. The other, more classically handsome, with shorter hair and sharper features, seemed entirely unblemished. That didn’t mean he looked less lethal. Feyre reached out with the force, trying to get a sense of these men but nothing but oily cold greeted her. Likely mercenaries, she decided as they turned back to their cups and the beautiful blonde woman wiping down the counter with a stained rag.

She had familiar eyes, though Feyre couldn’t quite place them. Was it the dark brown, or the shape? Blonde hair cascaded over fair skin, neatly curled either by her own hand or good genetics. Tamlin’s eyes lingered for a moment, too, before his lips pressed in a severe line. He didn’t speak as he approached—he merely swept his robe to the side to reveal his saber hanging from his belt.

The two warriors sitting at the bar grinned. Feyre didn’t think Tamlin noticed. Around them, people of varying species sat at tables, the hum of chatter enough to drown out their own conversation. 

“I wondered when your lot was going to turn up,” the blonde said, offering Feyre a smile that felt less menacing and warmer than what she’d given Tamlin. “Might as well sit down.”

Feyre did before Tamlin could stop her, hand on her shoulder as she slid next to the massive, long haired man. 

“We’re not here to drink. Three Jedi were slaughtered nearby, and the last place they were seen was here. In your cantina.”

“I’m Morrigan, though my friends call me Mor. You, I think, can call me Morrigan—you don’t seem like you have a lot of friends and I don’t see that changing anytime soon,” the woman told him, filling up a tankard of ale as if Tamlin hadn’t said anything. She slid it right past him to Feyre and somehow it felt like a test.

Antagonizing the locals wasn’t going to help them, Feyre reasoned. They needed information and they sounded like police. Relax, she wished she could say to Tamlin. But he was too rigid, too set in his ways and too proud to ever admit there might be a better way to get things done. His disapproval frustrated her even as she raised the spicy brew to her lips.

It earned Mor’s approval. 

“Look,” she said, cutting Tamlin off just as he was about to speak. Her eyes were still trained on Feyre as she pulled out a holo disc. “Your friends were here—I never disputed that fact and I’m not now. They came in for a few drinks, as you can see here…and then they left. Alive.”

Feyre did see that. The holo, sped up, showed all three knights order a drink, sit at a nearby table, and eventually leave with all their limbs in tact.

“It’s a rough planet,” the man next to her said, obviously eavesdropping. “Plant probably got them.”

Feyre rolled her eyes. It was possible, of course, though it seemed unlikely.

“Did they say what they were doing out here?” Tamlin demanded, his irritation plain. 

“Bet they were following the rumors,” the other man said, his voice icy and dark. Feyre nearly choked on her ale at the sound, eyes sliding of their own accord back to his beautiful face. He wore fingerless gloves, revealing horrific scars over the little skin he had revealed. What had happened to him? 

“What rumors?” Tamlin’s temper was rising, his force signature warming Feyre’s cool skin. 

“Is this a local ghost story?” Feyre asked them, offering up her most charming smile. 

“Something like that,” the man beside her chuckled. “They say he’s some kind of force user. Powerful.”

“Impossible,” Tamlin dismissed. 

“Cassian. Azriel,” Mor murmured, though there was no displeasure on her face. It was merely an order to mind their own business. Despite her more diminutive stature, both men returned to their drinks looking a little shamed. 

“Do you think they’re true?” Feyre asked, ignoring the waves of frustration rolling off Tamlin.

“I know three Jedi walked out of this bar alive, and met something in the dark,” Mor said, leaning forward so her hair spilled across the bar. “The wildlife and fauna here are dangerous if you’re stupid or careless. I didn’t think Jedi were either.”

“They’re not,” Tamlin all but hissed.

“Then maybe you ought to start there,” Mor said, eyes still only on Feyre. 

“They say he’s just outside the city,” Cassian added, nosing his way back into the conversation. “Lives on the edge of a mountain.”

“Or was it in the mountain?” Azriel asked with a sharp grin. Feyre knew they were trying to scare her and Tamlin, but she was genuinely intrigued. A dark force user seemed unlikely, but perhaps some kind of equivalent ability, like the Nightsisters were said to have. She wanted to know more than she wanted to unravel the mystery of the dead Jedi. 

“This was helpful,” Tamlin said in a tone that suggested the exact opposite as he tossed a couple credits onto the bar. Thanks for nothing, she swore she heard him say, though his lips never moved. Feyre gulped down the rest of her drink while Cassian and Azriel went back to studiously looking anywhere but at the rest of them. 

“Take care,” Mor said only to Feyre, offering a pretty smile. “I’ll see you around.”

Cassian and Azriel both turned to look at her with those unnerving eyes, their smiles suggesting the same thing. No one looked at Tamlin at all, who half jerked her off the stool and toward the door. Feyre stumbled, looking over her shoulder to find their smiles gone, replaced by some other emotion that almost looked like fury. 

“There was something strange about them,” Feyre said the moment they were back in the dark. “Didn’t you think—”

“Why didn’t you let me handle it?” Tamlin demanded, rounding on her so quickly that she did fall back then, her ass hitting the ground hard enough to rumble up her spine. She scrambled to her feet, eyes smarting with embarrassment. “They were making fun of you!”

“They—they weren’t,” she insisted, swallowing the urge to cry. She thought of how Mor had looked at her with respect, pulling out that puck so Feyre could see the Jedi had left unharmed.

If she’d been crueler, she would have told Tamlin the truth. They spoke with derision because they didn’t like him. 

“Let's go,” he said, his eyes like ice. “We can circle back in the morning.”

“Fine.”

But it wasn’t fine. Feyre stewed as they walked toward the inn they’d be sleeping in, grateful for the two beds that were provided rather than one. If she had to sleep next to Tamlin, she thought she might have flung herself out a window. They still shared the small space, dodging the other as best they could, tempers still high. He kept sighing, waiting for her to ask him what he was thinking like she often did in the past. She didn’t, though. 

Feyre fell asleep thinking not about Tamlin, but what Mor had told her. Of the man who supposedly lived in or around the mountain and the power he commanded. It seemed more like a children’s story meant to keep them from wandering and yet…had those Jedi gone looking? It would be tempting, certainly, especially if that man had been framed as a force user. She wanted to go looking, too, even if Tamlin didn’t, though she didn’t know how to convince him of it. 

Feyre woke to darkness and Tamlin already dressed. He was standing by the door, hair left around his face.

“You’re awake. Good. I’ve been thinking about last evening,” he began, hand reaching for the control panel on the wall. Feyre sat up, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her palm.

“What about it?” she asked.

“I think it’s best if I conclude this investigation on my own. You’re…you’re safer here, I think.”

Feyre’s mouth fell open of its own accord, snapped shut as she processed his words. “Safer?”

“I want you to remain in this room until I return—”

“No!”

“I’m sorry, Feyre. But things will move much faster, and go smoother, if you just let me handle this.”

“Tamlin!”

She scrambled out of bed, but he was quicker, reflexes sharper. He offered one last glance back, eyes hardly apologetic at all.

“Tamlin!” she yelled, but the door hissed shut just in time for her palm to smack against the cool metal. She screamed his name twice to no avail. He’d locked her in the room. Feyre turned toward the window, too small for her to crawl out of even if she shattered it. 

Think, she ordered herself, but the walls of the tiny room seemed to close in on her, the darkness heavy and oppressive. Tamlin was a lot of things, but at their foundation, he was her mentor. Her teacher.

Her friend.

Did she mean anything to him at all? Or was she merely an object for him to protect with no consideration of her own wants, needs, or desires? Feyre’s hurt shifted into anger, her mind replaying the argument in the ship. The realization he had been holding her back because he wanted to keep her around longer, that he would derail her entire life to satisfy himself. He was supposed to put his padawan above himself and yet…

Feyre went back to the door, reaching back into the force. It was wrong—so, so wrong—to use it the way she was. The once warm air chilled as she embraced, just for a moment, the hatred she felt. Metal crunched and snapped, the bolts whining before they broke entirely. When Tamlin returned, he’d know what she’d done and how she’d done it.

Let him, she thought as she gripped tight to that anger. It was a lifeline right then, antithetical to her teachings as it was. Hatred, anger, fear—all led to the dark side of the force. She needed to let it go.

All Jedi touch the dark side. 

She’d read that in one of the books in the archive. Well, here she was, touching it too. Feyre stepped from the ruined wreckage feeling more powerful than she ever had in her life. She’d atone when she returned to Coruscant, would tell the Council everything and hoped they understood her reasons, her feelings.

But right then, Feyre didn’t care about any lesson Tamlin had ever taught her. He’d betrayed her many times over, so thoroughly that it couldn’t be repaired with centuries worth of time. It was tempting to hunt him down and confront him, but Tamlin was a Master who’d been trained by someone who valued his education. He’d beat her easily—smugly.

No.

Once outside, Feyre’s gaze turned toward the darkness and the mountains she assumed lingered just beyond. For only a moment, Feyre took stock of herself. Was she afraid of what she’d find? 

Was she afraid to die?

No.

Feyre stepped with confidence, unafraid of the darkness around her. Maybe it was unchecked hubris that guided her, or some sense that the force would protect her. Feyre didn’t bother thinking too much about it, vanishing out of the city toward the mountains that loomed overhead like great, craggy fingers. All at once, Feyre understood why people would imagine a monster lived here—who else might survive it? It occurred to her, as she got further and further from the city, that this was foolish—she ought to go back to the ship and send a message to the Council before Tamlin knew what she had done. 

Feyre nearly turned back—she should have. If it hadn’t been for an overwhelming tug in her gut, she might have abandoned her plan entirely. Feyre kept moving, her body knowing the way even as her mind raced. She could feel the presence of something—someone—watching, waiting. The wind picked up, ruffling her hair around her face and too late, Ferye realized she hadn’t bothered to braid her long hair, nor had she changed from her training pants and tank-top. She’d merely run out, caring only that her feet were laced up in her white boots and her saber was clipped to her belt. It should have felt cold but Feyre was warm as her speed picked up, eyes trying desperately to cut through the dark. 

It never occurred to Feyre she might be running straight into a trap until a strong, bare arm wrapped itself like a noose around her neck. Clotheslined back, Feyre gagged as her fingers attempted to pry the grip off to no avail. She twisted, catching sight of a strange, angular mask in the gloom and familiar black tattoo’s scrawled up her assailant's strong bicep and Feyre swore smoke trailed off him, creating massive wings just behind him.

The man was strong, but Feyre was quick, kicking behind her to catch him in the knee. He grunted through the mask as she spun, heart racing, and ignited her purple blade. Whatever he was, Feyre was certain he was no match for an armed Jedi. Feyre didn’t wait for him to regain the upper hand, swinging furiously with all the skill she’d earned over the years.

Her breath caught as his own blade ignited, a brilliant, bleeding red, to block her strike. For a moment they were deadlocked, her staring up into that eyeless mask while their sabers hummed with anticipation. 

“You’re—”

He pushed back though he didn’t come forward to strike her again. Instead, he cocked his helmeted head as though curious to see what she’d do next. Feyre couldn’t breathe fully, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

“That’s a Jedi’s weapon.”

The dark, mechanical laugh that sounded in response made her heart stumble. 

“Where did you get it?”

She didn’t expect an answer, though Feyre could force one from him. He wasn’t a Jedi—she’d never seen a blade that color before. Lunging, Feyre struck again, expecting to reveal his inability to truly wield it. A lightsaber belonged to a Jedi the way a person’s arm did—it was instinctual, innate. Not just anyone could pick it up and wield it. You needed a connection to the force and this person…

This person had it. He blocked her with skill, moving quicker than he should have been able to. Feyre was all offensive strikes, hair whipping around her face until she could smell the singed edges on the wind mingled with the sweat dripping from his skin. 

“Who are you?” she panted when he forced her back, just hard enough to put six feet of space between them. 

He didn’t answer, head snapping up to look behind her as something rough gripped Feyre around the navel and wrenched her back so forcefully it stole the remaining breath from her lungs. Tamlin has used the force to remove her from the fight, stepping around her with his green blade ignited. Feyre wanted to scream, though if it was to warn the assailant or Tamlin, she didn’t know. She couldn’t move, dazed and pinned by Tamlin’s superior use of the force. All she could do was lay there, desperately gasping for air, as Tamlin spoke words she barely heard. 

The warrior with the red blade made the first strike, moving in a blur of color that made her stomach roil. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might have been toying with her and yet watching him match Tamlin blow for blow, Feyre knew with sickening clarity what was coming. 

“Let me go,” she whispered. His pride would be his downfall, would get them both killed. “Let me help you.”

If he heard her whispered plea, Tamlin didn’t respond. He moved just as quickly, dodging rocks half hidden beneath the soft grass. The pair vanished over a hillside for a moment before they were back, dodging and striking like two masters determined to see the other one fall. For a moment, Feyre thought Tamlin had the upper hand when he kicked the warrior in the chest, his blade slipping from his grip. Tamlin attacked three in a row, bashing the assailant over his mask until it was cracked-useless.

Tamlin raised his own saber to make the killing blow but she knew, somehow, what was coming. The assailant reached out, his own blade flying back into his hand. He pulled, turning one red blade into two. 

Tamlin couldn’t react fast enough. With one hand, his green saber was blocked while the other humming red blade drove neatly through Tamlin’s throat. His grip on her relinquished and Feyre scrambled to her feet, noting that Tamlin had managed to cut open the warrior's helmet. 

Tamlin fell to his knees, turning his head to look at her before he died. If he truly saw her or not, she didn’t know.

He was dead before his shoulders touched the ground.

Feyre made her way over, holding her own blade with something akin to fear. Blinking, it didn’t register who was standing in front of her until she heard a familiar voice.

“Surprise.”

Exhaling a shaking breath, she drank in the sweat soaked onyx hair now falling into violet-blue eyes. Rhys cocked his head again to look at her, a half smile playing on his lips.

“You killed Tamlin,” she whispered.

“Was that its name?” he replied without remorse. “You brought him here.”

“I—” Feyre didn’t know what to say. Rhys continued to look at her with that cold amusement. “You didn’t kill me.”

“I didn’t come to kill you, Feyre.”

Her grip on her blade tightened. “Then why are you here? You…you pulled me here.”

His smile widened as he stepped over Tamlin’s still warm body like it was little more than trash. Perhaps to him it was. 

“Just as you pulled me to Coruscant,” he said, peering down at her with curiosity. 

Feyre yielded a step, keeping distance between them. Her mind was screaming static, unable to string together anything coherent. Feyre couldn’t figure out what was happening. She wasn’t adrift, but she didn’t feel awake anymore. This was a dream, somehow, and Feyre would wake up still angry with Tamlin, who would be alive.

She hadn’t wanted him to die. She’d just…she’d just wanted to be free.

“What do you mean?” she heard herself ask, her own voice taking on a dream-like quality. 

Something soft pulled against her—not the force, or, not exactly. It wasn’t like when Tamlin had pinned her to the soft grass, the force a boulder against her chest. This was more muscle memory, something that lived within her. 

“You’ve been calling me for a long time. When I was a boy, I used to dream about skies the color of your eyes,” he murmured, tilting his head again to study her. 

“You’ve been watching me.”

His grin widened. “Yes.”

“You’re going to kill me.”

He shook his head, hair sliding along his forehead. “You know that’s not true. I feel it, you know. Your pain, your anger…your hatred. I feel it all, Feyre. I could take it all away from you.”

She stumbled back another step. “No,” she whispered, unsure if she was telling him, or herself. He only smiled, his face still illuminated beneath the hum of his vibrant blade. 

“The Jedi are holding you back, Feyre,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. Feyre swore she could feel the words caress her cheek like a phantom kiss, cool against her overheated skin. “They refuse to see how magnificent you are and are afraid of the power you hold. They will never give you what you want.”

A strange, half-sob, half breath escaped Feyre. All she could do was shake her head back and forth, still stumbling back. She shouldn’t have come, she should have stayed in the room. Tamlin—Tamlin had been right. “This is my fault,” she managed, panting as she continued to move away from Rhys.

“Feyre,” he warned, stalking forward for her. Feyre broke into a sprint he interrupted with the force, lifting her off her feet and dragging her back to him. Feyre’s toes skimmed against the grass and though she could not move, Rhys wasn’t hurting her, either. He merely held her gaze, searching for something she prayed wasn’t there. 

“What do you want from me?” she whispered. “What are you?”

He stretched his neck left, and then right, his tattoos catching in the light. Too late, Feyre realized she’d seen them in the cantina the day before—Cassian and Azriel had sported the same ones. They’d told her about the force user, they’d lured her here. But worse, even, was the knowledge that they’d only been able to do that because Feyre had told Rhys before she’d left. She’d told him she was going to Umbara. She’d laid her own trap for him.

“There is no name for what I am, though I think the Jedi call me Sith,” Rhys said, his voice low and cold. “I want you, Feyre. Join me. Let me train you, teach you—not as an apprentice or acolyte. An equal.”

Sith. 

Fear won, in the end. Feyre pushed against his hold, shoving him so far back that he spun several times through the air before landing far from her in the distance, his saber finally sheathed. Feyre didn’t wait—she took off running as quickly as she could. There was no escaping him on Umbara, but if she could warn the Council, she could—stars, she didn’t know. 

Feyre made it to her ship, closing it up and turning it on before she managed to catch her breath. It was a betrayal to leave Tamlin’s body on Umbara, to not give him a proper burial befitting a Jedi Master and Feyre was afraid. 

She should have been. The moment Feyre made the jump to hyperspace, she heard him.

“Feyre, darling,” Rhys murmured, appearing seemingly from nowhere. He had her cornered in the cockpit, his larger body blocking the only way out of the ship. Anger replaced fear as she screamed, launching herself from the chair with such force she didn’t feel pain when her thigh clipped the edge of the dash. She and Rhys went plummeting into the hold, tumbling to the hard, cold steel in a tangle of elbows and limbs. He groaned when her knee connected between his legs, causing her to slam it against him again, just because she hated him.

Straddling his waist, Feyre hit him so hard a small amount of his blood splattered against her cheek. Raising her fist to hit him again, Feyre realized he was grinning with red stained teeth, eyes watching her not with anger or horror, but delight.

“Do it,” he said, pushing his hips into her as his hands held her firm against him. “Hit me. Hurt me.”

“I thought you were my friend,” she accused, trying to writhe free of his grasp. There were a pair of stun cuffs hanging just beyond the door to the sleeping chamber and if she could grab them, she could restrain him. Could at least force him to face justice for what he’d done.

“I am your friend, Feyre. You just haven’t realized it because you’re so indoctrinated,” Rhys replied, still holding her tight.

“Let me go,” she ordered and to her surprise, he did. Feyre scrambled to her feet, careful not to look at the stun cuffs even as she inched close enough she could have snatched them. Rhys, too, stood, wincing slightly. Good. She hoped he hurt, that he had bruises in places he couldn’t even mention. That they reminded him of her when he was alone in a cell buried on Coruscant. 

“I’m not going to join you,” she threatened. 

Rhys only shook his head. “You will.”

Feyre backed away slowly as he approached, letting him play predator for just a moment. She wasn’t sure she liked the look in his eye—the same she’d seen on Tamlin’s face when he admitted why he wouldn’t let her take the trials. Rhys reached for her face, fingers curled to brush her cheek and Feyre struck. Quicker than he expected, she slid the cuff around his wrist, chaining the other to a nearby beam.

Rhys only laughed. Even when she pulled his sabers off his belt he still laughed, watching her like she was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen in his entire life. “Feyre,” he all but crooned, still looking exactly like a predator. His eyes seemed to shift right then, the violet shifting to red and back just long enough for her to see what the darkside had done to him. “Feyre, darling. You’re acting as if I am not exactly where I want to be.”

“In a prison cell on Coruscant?” she hissed in response.

“Oh, I don’t think we’ll make it that far, do you?”

“Yes. I think I’ll testify at your trial and watch them behead you.”

Rhys only grinned. “We’ll see.”

Feyre left him there to gather her thoughts, strangely calm in the wake of the restrained Sith Lord in her hold. No one had prepared her for this—she’d never been trained for this situation. She shouldn’t be angry with Tamlin, who couldn’t defend himself, but if he’d just taught her like a Master should have, she might know. Everything Feyre knew, she’d taught herself and it showed. 

Her fingers hovered over the console, hesitating when she went to dial the code to reach the Council. She didn’t need Tamlin’s advice to teach her that, at least. They could advise her. 

Tell them. 

Feyre’s indecision cost her. She was exhausted, her adrenaline ebbing as she sat in the cockpit, warring with herself on what to do, how best to act. What even to say. How to explain that this was her fault, that she’d kept secrets even when having friends outside the temple wasn’t forbidden. She should have known, though. Should have sensed him.

Why hadn’t she?

Feyre’s fingers pulled back against her chest, her decision made when she felt him behind her. She barely had time to turn before Rhys raised his hands.

“Forgive me for this,” he murmured before he ripped the force over her head like a blanket. The world went dark, and Feyre was lost to slumber.

To peace.

Feyre woke with a start. The air was warm and she was in a rather large bed, still clothed in her tank top and trousers, though her boots were missing and her feet were bare. Reaching beneath the heavy silver blanket, she found her saber, too, was gone. Feyre kicked off the blankets and made her way across cool marble for a door that was, predictably, locked.

A note on a table just beside, in elegant cursive, read, 

Feyre,

You are not my prisoner, though the door may suggest otherwise. Please relax until I return.

I will explain,

Rhys

Would he explain why he’d disarmed her, too? Feyre crumpled it in her fist before stalking for a set of large windows overlooking an amethyst river winding down the mountain peaks. Certain he was about to give her some lecture about how she was his guest who simply wasn’t allowed to leave, Feyre took herself first to the ‘fresher to wash the blood, sweat, and anxiety from her skin before putting on the only clothing available to her.

He was a bastard, offering up those satin cuffed pants in a pale blue color, alongside a matching top that tapered to a point just above her navel. No shoes, no socks—nothing but bare feet and an exposed collarbone that offered far too much real estate for him to damage should they come to blows again. 

There was nothing to do once she was dressed but pace and ruminate. Feyre tried to hold her anger over what had happened on Umbara, and in her own way, she supposed she did. Only, instead of seeing Rhys cutting down Tamlin with ruthless efficiency, she saw Tamlin’s face as he admitted he didn’t want her to take the trials because she’d leave him. She saw his dismissal when he told her she couldn’t complete the mission with him.

Saw how he’d died because he refused to let her fight alongside him. 

And in her heart, Feyre knew that if she’d been allowed to join the fight, Rhys would have backed down. Wouldn’t have fought them both as hard because she was important to him for some twisted reason. They could have destroyed Rhys. They could have walked back to the Jedi as heroes who’d seen the faces of other Sith and could better hunt them back into extinction.

He didn’t trust her. Hadn’t viewed her as someone who could help. 

Now he was dead and she was somewhere she shouldn’t be. Feyre turned as the door hissed open, her thoughts settling as Rhys strolled in.

He, too, had showered, his dark hair pushed off his face and his beard a mere shadow clinging to his jaw. The faint red of his eyes shifted in the light, slipping into violet as he came fully into view. 

“Is there some sort of dress code here?” she asked, noting his sleeveless black attire once again. 

“Blue looks wonderful on you,” was his reply. “You look well rested.” “No thanks to you,” she snapped.

Rhys shrugged his broad shoulders. “Someone ought to attempt to take care of you.”

“I don’t need you to take care of me! I need you to let me go.”

“Where will you go?” he asked casually, glancing at the door still open behind him. “Back to Coruscant.”

Feyre opened her mouth to tell him yes, but the word didn’t come out. She’d hesitated on the ship and she was hesitating now. 

A smile spread over sensual lips. “Ah. See? You don’t want to return.”

“That’s not true.”

Rhys reached for his belt where her saber was clipped and tossed her to her with ease, eyes tracking the movement. “No, you don’t. You could have cut me down—”

“I can’t,” she said with an air of breathless desperation. “I’m only a padawan.”

His brows crinkled. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means I’m just a student. I…” Feyre didn’t know how to explain it to him. “You didn’t have a Master?”

His grin widened. “Once. For a time, I suppose.”

“Did you kill him?”

Rhys only continued to smile, his silence answer enough. 

“I couldn’t have killed you,” she repeated, trying to get her point across. “You spared me.”

“I had no intention of taking your life, but I wouldn’t have stopped you from taking mine. To die at your hands…that would have been an honor. To see you take up my helm, lead my warriors…” His smile was almost dreamy.

“I thought Sith only moved in pairs.”

“I am no Sith, Feyre,” he said, cocking his head so a lock of dark hair fell against his eyes. “Those are Jedi terms, not mine. I never said I was Sith, nor do we put labels on what we are.”

“But you are evil,” she shot back.

Rhys arched one dark brow. “Am I? From where I’m standing, it seems I did you a favor. I freed you from the shackles of a man who warped his teachings and traditions to keep you under his thumb for his own selfish desires—”

“And what do you call all this?!” she demanded with a shriek.

“Liberation,” he replied easily, as though he’d practiced this very speech and it was going exactly as he hoped. “You can be free of Jedi doctrine and dogma, can do whatever you like. Feyre, your power, I—”

He ran a hand through his dark hair as he stepped toward her, more cautious than he’d been on Umbara. “I could show you.”

“Sith don’t do equals,” she said, well aware she was really asking with curiosity rather than slinging accusations. “Only Masters and Apprentices.”

“I am Sith only by your standards,” Rhys replied with more earnestness than he had any right to express. “Dark, light…it’s all just the force.”

This was dangerous and she knew it. Rhys’s eyes flashed red for just a moment, reminding her that the Sith were liars by nature. Master manipulators. It was working, though and he must have known it. When had he gotten so close? Rhys reached for a lock of her hair, curling it around his fingers.

“I feel your pain, Feyre. I’ve felt it for a long time. You’ve spent a lifetime trying to meditate it away but what if you embraced it?”

“I’d be a traitor to everything I believed. Just like you are,” she repeated, stepping away from him before she could get too lost in his words. They tempted her, pulling her down as though he were some great, all-encompassing current. 

Back turned, Feyre only heard the hiss of his ignited saber. “Fight me, Jedi,” Rhys snarled, his voice laced with condemnation. “Fight me so I can show you what you really are.”

Feyre whirled around too fast, forgetting to think about what was happening. With a pushing leap in the air, Feyre’s blade was lit and crashing against Rhys’s before her feet touched the ground again. He grinned savagely, blocking the blow like it was nothing to him. Who cared how she killed him, Feyre reasoned as she lifted her blade again. So long as he was dead.

Rhys dodged her in a flurry of swings, but didn’t move to attack her back until Feyre got a little too close to his throat. Her blade singed over his cheekbone, sparing his facial hair, drawing a neat line of blood over his otherwise immaculate skin.

He was brutal, then, eyes a burning red as he spun on her, forcing Ferye to take on the defensive position rather than the offensive. Her wrist ached from the effort to keep that saber in her hand, though Feyre did not back down, either. Feyre, perhaps, should have realized what he was trying to do when the backs of her knees hit the side of the bed, but Feyre hadn’t put Rhys’s plan together until he’d wrenched her blade from her hand, tossed it across the room, and pinned her beneath his body and the mattress.

“You hate me,” he panted, sweat sliding down his forehead. His dark hair was soaked again, falling into those unnatural eyes like branches of a willow. He was beautiful right then, unfairly so, with his cheeks flushed and his wild eyes. “Say it.”

“I hate you,” she replied, gaze drifting toward his mouth. She shouldn’t want someone like him. 

“I almost believe you,” Rhys replied, chest heaving from the exertion of their fight. She hadn’t realized she was panting, too, until he leaned close enough she could practically taste his breath. Feyre hitched her leg up over his hip in an attempt to roll away, but Rhys grabbed her thigh, holding her so she could feel how uninterested in fighting her he was. 

“I’ve waited,” he murmured, lips caressing the side of her jaw as his other hand came to her throat. Rhys pinned her by her neck, fingers squeezing just enough to make her dizzy. “You’re the only woman in the galaxy I’d pretend to serve turbodogs for.”

“You think turbodogs are beneath you?” she asked. Feyre would have laughed at the realization that this brutal Sith Lord spent years on Coruscant pretending to be little more than a vendor if she hadn’t been so turned on right then. 

“I think pretending to be something I’m not was beneath me,” Rhys said, mouth touching hers. It was brief, a whispered breath before he pulled away to look, but Feyre felt it. His touch was electric, waking up a slumbering piece of her soul she hadn’t known existed at all. Rhys saw it, his smile triumphant.

“You’re mine, Jedi,” he murmured, cocking his head to the side as he arched a brow. Tell me I’m wrong, that arrogant look seemed to say. 

She couldn’t and he knew it. Rhys had known it the moment he turned up on Umbara because Feyre had been telling him so since they’d become friends. She’d told him her frustrations, her hopes, her irritations…Rhys knew it all. Could sense her even when she’d been too clouded to sense him. Maybe this dormant part of her had always recognized him.

Or maybe she merely liked the man hovering over top her, his eyes giving away his plan. Feyre met his gaze. Rhys stopped playing his games, mouth slanting over hers with a heady, desperate groan. Feyre kissed him back, tasting the sweat and heat on his tongue mingled with the left over copper from their fight. Feyre learned quite quickly that kissing him was a lot like fighting him.

He wanted to break her down until she gave in, and this was a far more effective battle in which Feyre yielded too much too soon.

After all, it was her leg he had hitched around his waist. She could have pretended he was driving the whole thing but Feyre was rubbing against him like a cat. It felt good, his hand around her throat, his cock between her legs, his tongue in her mouth. Worse, even, were her hands slipping from where he’d pinned them over her head, stuck thanks to the heaviness of his body laid across her own. Distracted by the kissing, Rhys didn’t notice until Feyre had them against his chest, not to shove, but to run them down the smooth material of his tunic. Rhys sighed, his thumb pressing against the hollow of her throat for only a moment.

Feyre gasped, arching her neck for a deeper breath. Rhys pounced, kissing her deeper, more fervently. She’d done exactly what he’d wanted, opening entirely so he could 

“You really didn’t know it was me?” he breathed, a lock of hair falling over his forehead. “Not even deep down?”

Feyre fisted her fingers at the nape of his neck, wanting him to just shut up, even for one second. No, she thought to herself as their teeth collided in a frenzy of need, the darkside clouds everything. 

But she’d been clouded by her own anger, her frustrations with Tamlin and the lack of movement in her career. Feyre wouldn’t have noticed Rhys was sith if he’d worn a badge printed to the front of his chest declaring him such. Surely he knew it.

“I need you. Right now,” Rhys breathed, his mouth sliding from her lips to kiss a path down her jaw. His teeth caught on her earlobe, tugging just a little rougher than she thought he meant to, though Feyre enjoyed it. The hand on her thigh moved toward her bare stomach, teasing the thin material as he pushed it higher and higher.

“I don’t—I’ve never—”

“I’ll talk you through it,” he promised, taking his other hand off her throat as he slid himself down the length of her body to settle on the floor between her legs. “I’m going to lick your pussy now.”

Feyre blinked, her mind frustratingly blank. Rhys took advantage, removing the pants he’d provided for her with ease to toss them over his broad shoulders like they were nothing.

“Peace is a lie, Feyre,” he murmured, once she was bared before him. Callused fingers slid up her thighs, parting them wider and wider until she was spread obscenely. 

“No peace,” Rhys repeated, his gaze burning as it raked over her half naked form. “Only passion.”

Rhys did exactly as he promised, licking up the center of her body while holding her gaze. It felt like there was some kind of magic there, something hypnotic that kept Feyre from looking away. Maybe it was simply her need for control that kept her eyes pinned on him. Whatever it was, Feyre panted as she watched, her arousal burning through the last remaining defenses she had.

No peace—only passion. 

Peace had always been hard, even with hours of mediation. Feyre understood passion well, though—she’d been battling it her entire life. Swallow her anger, swallow her frustration—swallow everything in an effort to find some higher purpose. She’d failed over and over.

Maybe a better teacher could have shown her a clearer path.

Maybe she’d always been destined to fall. 

Feyre arched her hips as Rhys drew her closer, eyes fluttering shut as he continued to tease his tongue over her clit. Over and over, in rhythmic circles, until she felt like she might die. Feyre was too hot, the desire burning through her from the inside out.

Rhys moaned against her skin, fingers spreading her wider before teasing her sensitive opening. Inch by agonizing inch he went, pushing that finger further and further until Feyre was whimpering, hips rolling against his hand and mouth looking for relief. Rhys only chuckled. 

“Needy,” he taunted, his voice strained. “What will you look like impaled on my cock?”

“Please,” Feyre replied, though she wasn’t sure if she was asking him to return to licking or shutting up. “Rhys, please.”

He lowered his face again, eyes rolling back into his skull before he resumed his attention on her swollen clit. Feyre barely noticed the way he worked that second finger into her body until he pulled away again, swearing softly about the tightness of her body. She was so close to finishing and desperate for it. 

He knew it. Rhys began pumping his fingers in and out of her body rougher, his mouth sped up until Feyre’s head hit the mattress, staring upward at the dark ceiling. “Rhys,” she pleaded. Her body was on fire, electric and aching. Her arousal wound its way up her spine, settling at the back of her throat and in her lower belly. He sucked, fingers curling so they found some secret spot only she’d ever known about and Feyre was undone. She screamed without meaning to, half plea, half prayer—the only word that escaped his name. Rhys didn’t stop until Feyre whimpered, boneless and exhausted on the bed.

“You’re not done yet,” Rhys said, rising up to his full height. Feyre could only watch as he peeled off his clothes, head cocked like a predator once more. “I won’t rest until I’ve had all of you.”

“And then what?”

“Then you’re mine,” he breathed, fingers unclasping the button on his pants. He’d already removed his top, revealing a toned body worthy of the arms she’d seen during their fight and more muscles than she’d known one person could reasonably have. The tattoos were on full display, unbroken by clothing though still just as indecipherable. She started to ask him what they meant, but Rhys’s pants fell to the floor, revealing the thick, hard length of him and Feyre forgot about everything else.

“You can’t put that in my body,” she whispered as he crawled toward her, the muscles of his back shifting with each graceful movement.

“I can,” he murmured, lowering himself over her flushed body for a kiss, “and I will.”

Feyre let him, forgetting for a moment what was going to happen. He tasted sweet after having his tongue in her body and his hands managed to take her top off before Feyre registered how he did it.

“You’re remarkably unobservant,” Rhys breathed, shifting his hips so the tip of his cock brushed against her wetness. “We’ll work on that.” Rhys slid himself inside her just an inch, though it was enough to draw a gasp from Feyre, fingers digging into his biceps.

“Breathe,” he ordered, eyes searching her face. “You’re doing so well, Feyre, darling.”

“I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted, pushing deeper. “You will.”

Even if she’d wanted to escape him, it was too late. Rhys made good on his threat from earlier, slipping deeper and deeper into her body until Feyre was certain she couldn’t take it. But he’d been right—by the time he bottomed out, she’d begun to adjust to the stretch it required to accommodate him, her discomfort turning to pleasure. 

“Look at you,” Rhys breathed, the tendons in his neck strained from keeping himself still inside her. “You take my cock so well.”

Rhys pulled out and thrust back in with the same brutality she’d come to associate with him. Feyre gasped, not out of pain, but desire. It felt good to be treated like she could handle something rough. Like she wasn’t fragile—like she was strong. 

Rhys kissed her again and she realized she was practically screaming her thoughts at him through the force. “You’re mine, and I’m yours,” Rhys breathed, nose nuzzling her own. “Those are our own tenants, the only code we live by now.”

Feyre met him thrust for thrust, kissing him rather than answering. She could feel the cold of the dark sliding through her, washing out the light that had once existed. With each new slide of Rhys’s cock, Feyre fell further and further into shadow. 

Where she belonged. 

“Take it,” Rhys moaned into her neck, teeth scraping sensitive skin. “Take all of it.”

As if she had a choice. Rhys gripped her hips, pulling her into him harder and faster, until all Feyre knew was the taste of the salt on his skin and the sound of his breathing in her ear. His hand found her throat again, pinning her beneath him as Rhys thrust over and over. His fingers squeezed just enough to leave her breathless without hurting her.

Feyre came again, surprised by the intensity of her orgasm. Her teeth sank into his shoulder to suppress the urge to scream again as Rhys moaned her name, whining ever so softly before slamming himself entirely into her body so he, too, could release himself.

He collapsed a moment later, face nuzzled into her neck. Sweat slicked down his back and over his forehead, making his golden skin glistening beneath the lights.

Rhys rolled over a few moments later, one powerful arm thrown over his eyes.

Feyre sat up, ignoring that she could feel the proof of his desire sliding out of her body. “What do these mean?”

Rhys glanced down at his tattoos inked over the top of his chest, arms, and shoulders. “Luck in battle,” he murmured, tracing one of the swirling lines with his finger. “According to the customs of my people.”

There was no point in asking if they worked. So instead, Feyre held his gaze as she said, “He locked me inside.”

Rhys leaned up on his elbows, hair half falling in his eyes. “I know. I know. Never again, Feyre. Never. Again.”

There was rage in his words—a promise that they would make themselves strong no matter the cost. Feyre wanted that. She wanted to be untouchable. Not a pet, not the delicate woman some man loved, but fierce. Strong.

Feared.

“Never again,” she whispered, lacing her fingers through his as he brushed a kiss over her knuckles.

“Sleep, first,” Rhys murmured, opening his arm in invitation. “Then we train.”

“And then?”

Rhys offered her a sleepy smile as Feyre pressed her head to his chest. “Revenge.”

[dotjpeg]

now for Fox and Thorn’s personal captains, Serpent (any) and Kuusar (he/him) respectively. they aren’t that very well liked within the Guard and outside of it bc of their personalities & the fact they’re friends with each other, though Kuusar swears he’s nobody’s friend. like rest is under a readmore since it got a bit too long (won’t go into their friendship on this post though)

Serpent is mischievous & energetic, is always pranking/lying to people, and sneaking around even when he has no reason to. he’s shockingly insubordinate, to the point of coordinating (mostly harmless) attacks on Fox, and many wonder why Fox ever chose him as his personal Captain, but Serpent is scarily good at gathering information + less than legal things that Fox needs for my reason, and has no strong morals besides “keep x alive to keep annoying them”, and even that comes and goes. it can also be used for good if he’s convinced (or threatened enough) that whatever he’s doing has a chance of causing chaos in his favor, something Fox utilizes a lot. he’s basically Fox’s extra set of eyes & ears, but it’s a 50/50 chance if that means anything that day. officially though, he’s in charge of the slicers, coordinating/executing recon/infiltration missions, and keeping backup records of Fox’s “resets” (when CC-1010 fronts).

Kuusar is the exact opposite. he’s extremely serious, blunt/honest, and not stealthy in the slightest. He’s definitely got morals that he sticks to… moving on. he’s scary in the sense that he’s very strict and pushes the new men he trains too far at times, and doesn’t take any shit from anybody. he’s also got insomnia and has no way to help ease it atm, so his mood/attitude is constantly in the gutter and he looks exhausted/angry all the time. his health is also not the best because of that and he’s made too many mistakes lately, so he’s recently been forced to work with Serpent closely (though this is also to make them balance each other out, will not work that well) compared to before. he doesn’t trust anybody because he’s sure everyone can be convinced to turn on him, it’s only a matter of resources and time, but does care for his brothers and wants them all to live through and after the war, even the ones he hates. Thorn has him in charge of training/scaring the new Guardsmen, selecting for ARC training, overseeing missions the ARF Scouts take, occasionally reinforcing a certain amount of fear within civilians and GAR troopers, and managing most weapons the Guard has since he was a regular heavy weapons specialist before his promotion. the only time he’s chill and a bit wild (the knife fights) is when he’s drunk after having recently slept.

now for Serpent’s mental stuff. he is 80% convinced he died and was given a second chance out of pity to mostly do whatever he wants in the same shitty universe, this is due to having to fake his death way early into the war and be smuggled to Coruscant even before the clones implemented the “send unfit troopers to the Guard to hopefully save them” plan and getting way too into it, and eventually completely believing he died. he doesn’t confront that 20% (but is vaguely aware of it / knows people don’t believe him) because it results in moments like the attempted eye removal and severe depression, so the medics don’t actually think it’s a great idea to force him to or even gently nudge him towards reality until they can be more sure that they can truly help him. he is kept away from all Jedi & his past battalion, and has limited contact with old squadmates as a safety measure, but doesn’t usually speak with them anyway because they don’t get it + fear he’s gone crazy. it’s one of the few times he lets himself be upset and question his reality, but doesn’t linger on it.

[marvelstars]

I don’t know if you’ve talked about this before, but how do you think the story would’ve played out in Star Wars if Qui-Gon had lived?

Does he get to train Anakin? Does he remain with the Jedi if he doesn’t? If they leave the Jedi together, what becomes of them? You know things like that. 

Hi Anon

Well there are two takes we can consider here, I will start with the one Lucas and co wanted to show in PT movies.

Lest begin with battle of the Fates, the battle between Maul, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan in the phantom menace is called like that because they are literally, wether they realize it or not, battling over Anakin and the Galaxy´s fate. Jedi vs Sith.

In canon Palpatine didn´t want Qui-Gon to be able to train Anakin because his unorthodox approach to being a Jedi as well as knowledge about prophecies would give him the tools to be able to guide Anakin away from his influence, he could not afford that so he gave Maul the indication to kill Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan at the battle of Naboo. So in canon we are pretty sure, from Lucas perspective, that Qui-Gon´s influence would have been good for Anakin´s early training.

After this we have to make some head canons because the rest of the story is harder to predict:

First off I want to leave clear I don´t believe Obi-Wan is a bad Jedi or a bad mentor or that he purposelly was mean to Anakin or tried to keep him from his family, the problem is that the way Obi-Wan grew up at the temple, the Jedi ARE HIS family, he didn´t truly understood how normal families worked until he was older and maybe until he lived on Tatooine, his personal beliefs didn´t prepare him to be a good master for an apprentice like Anakin, who had his own painful background as a slave with a loving family who remembers them and needed a different approach, Obi-Wan needed more experience, he needed to grow on his own as a Jedi and mentor, he also needed a better start to their relationship to be able to do this, so I could see him doing all of those things on his own before deciding to take an apprentice himself after being made a knight and with Qui-Gon alive he would have been able to do all of this without the pressure of training the "Chosen One" tm.

If Qui-Gon didn´t die, I believe he would have been able to guide Anakin at the temple but here we may find some differences in relation to Obi-Wan´s training, for example if I take in consideration legends canon and remember Anakin´s problems to adapt to the temple, his difficulty to make friends as well as the Council´s distance or judgmental actitude towards Anakin as well as the Chancellor´s insistent calls to talk to Anakin alone, given Qui-Gon´s perspective, I don´t believe he would have left the Jedi Order, he is a jedi, he will always be a Jedi, that´s his call but he may have asked for time to take Anakin and himself into a long term travel to be able to train him without interference to address those issues and given he already tried to free Anakin´s Mother, I am pretty sure their first stop would have been Tatooine, so I see their training similar to Yoda´s training with Luke on ESB.

In this scenario I am very sure Palpatine would have tried everything in his power so to kill Qui-Gon and maybe Anakin as well because then, Anakin would be like Luke, he would be better off dead than become a Jedi and Anakin would not have a Sith father using his influence to soften the persecution.

Still Palpatine would have to deal with his own problems, an alive Qui-Gon also means a non- Sith Count Dooku, he cares too much for Qui-Gon to fall if he was still alive, as much as he respects Palpatine´s political pov or his power as a Sith Master. So Palpatine would not try to show himself as a sith to Dooku but rather as a supporter of his ideas, he could still use him to become the main oppositor and representative of the Separatist movement but he would not have fallen.

Palpatine would have done the same thing as canon, he would have used the conflicts inside the republic and the separatist to lead to a war and put the Jedi at the frontlines. They decide to go to war just this time with Qui-Gon, Anakin, Count Dooku, Obi-Wan and Ahsoka on their side.

After this is a matter of time, If Palpatine decides Anakin is a lost cause then he would have used Order 66 earlier, the Jedi Order still falls but there are way more survivors than in canon and an adult Anakin with the survivors of the Jedi Order could probably give the new Empire an early defeat.

So I guess this is why Qui-Gon definitely had to die in canon and Palpatine knew this.

Now my personal take is that Anakin, even if not a full Jedi, works better as a family man with a mission, in fact kid Anakin is clear about this, He wanted to free all the slaves and to help people, an Anakin able to hold onto his belifs with training to be able to control his powers, as the chosen one it´s possible the Jedi jumped the gun when they believed Anakin HAD to "destroy" the sith to fulfill the prophecy, there are many way one can destroy something, in the sith case, it´s not just the people the problem it´s their ideology of hate, anger and wish for power so imo, I personally believe an scenario in which Anakin is trained by Qui-Gon on Tatooine, where they are able to free slaves and later marry Padme and fight with Obi-Wan and Ahsoka in the clone wars it´s an Anakin who would have keep his initial compassionate pov as well his non-aligned perspective.

So If this Anakin meet Palpatine and Palpatine showed himself as he did with canon Anakin, I could see Anakin being stronger emotionally to deal with his grooming with his friends and family supporting him openly and curiously I could see him even trying to bring Palpatine over to the light side, in fact even canon Anakin fell precisely because for a short time, he felt compassion for Palpatine when Master Windu was trying to kill him(and he also needed him to save Padme and all that). Like that was kid Anakin biggest virtue, his compassion, I don´t think it would have worked on Sheev but it would have been worth a try. This is my personal head canon, so I know it´s bonkers but it´s fun to think about.

Thank you for the question :)

[callmeaiden]

THE LAST PIECE - a SWTOR story

Three years after the Zakuul Invasion, Jedi Knight and the Barsen'thor, Zsira Nazo, is hiding from Emperor Arcann's forces. Unexpectedly, she receives a message from a person she wasn't sure she'd ever hear from again.

She stepped out of the prom. “What a strange place,” she thought, as she saw the 'landscape' of Asylum. A haven for the escapees from Zakuul, and yet so close to it. 

Zsira, being high-placed in the Zakuul Most Wanted ranking, should not have even been taking the risk. Yet, here she was. She never imagined it would be so easy to literally abandon everything after just one message from her. Three years since they last talked, three years since the Eternal Empire Invasion, and Zsira still thought about her, wondering what she had been doing. Is she safe? Is she planning something? Did she give up? As it turned out, the first option was correct. Zsira should have never doubted.

She started walking towards the meeting point. Hood on the head, mask on the face, Zsira hoped that nobody would recognise her. Asylum might be a safe place, but one can never be too safe. 

She had her lightsaber hidden in the bag, with only a small blaster hooked on her belt. It was a gift from her brother, but Zsira was not very good at shooting, so she had hoped for this day to be calm.

‘I need you, Zsira; there is no one else I would ask for this.’

Zsira wondered if it was real. If there really was not anybody else. She could think about a few other people. 

She came to the meeting point but did not see anybody unusual. Everybody looked the same, refugees, gangsters, not a soul to really trust. Then she felt it, that presence in the Force. Lana.

Zsira turned around. She saw her, similarly hidden under a hood and a mask. They looked at each other for a few seconds, silently not believing that it was happening. Then Lana moved her arm and gestured towards some narrow street. Zsira followed her there, and Lana opened a door and entered an empty room. Zsira did the same.

They uncovered their faces.

“I wasn’t sure you would come,” said Lana.

“Well, I did,” Zsira responded, “you said, you are planning something. That you want to save Ikar."

“So you don’t believe he is dead?”

“No. Though I had my doubts,” she said, “but I do believe that is not the only thing on your mind.”

Lana chuckled, “You know my mind well.”

Zsira smiled, and for the first time in three years looked Lana Beniko in the eyes. Lana did the same.

Silence was surrounding them. The last time they were looking at each other like this was on Ziost. Frowns on their faces. Lightsabers in hands. And the clear difference between them, that Zsira always tried to ignore. A Jedi and a Sith. There would always be something between.

Zsira turned her gaze on the floor, “So what are you planning?” she asked.

“There are many people that hate the Eternal Empire. They are, of course, mostly from our part of the galaxy, but there are even some Zakuulans."

“I thought Zakuul prospers, shouldn't they be glad?”

“Maybe, but some also see what Arcann has done to us. Such is the case with Koth, who you will meet soon.”

“I understand you want to build a… rebellion?”

“Exactly.”

“You are talking about the Republic, Empire, and Zakuulans?” Zsira questioned, “Do you think it will work?”

“Haven’t it worked with Revan?”

“Yes, but it was on a smaller scale, and—”

“And we had Ikar.” Lana interrupted, “A true leader, who already killed the Emperor twice and is a legend across the whole galaxy, including Zakuul.”

“And why do you need me?” asked Zsira.

Lana looked puzzled, like she had just heard the most ridiculous thing, “You, you are Zsira Nazo, a Barsen’thor.”

“Why does it matter? I am not as strong as you think. I already lost too much to all this. And there are so many more powerful people that you could ask for help.”

“But I asked you,” said Lana, “I don’t care about power and strength, Zsira. I  need  you.”

“But why?” asked Zsira, confused. “If you need help in rebelling and rescuing Ikar, you could ask Darth Imperius or Lady Wrath. They are much more capable than me.”

“Why won’t you believe that you are needed?”

“Because I gave up!” Zsira exclaimed, sitting down on the floor, “I do not know why I even came here.”

Lana looked at her, Zsira thought she would see disappointment on her face. But Lana was not disappointed, she was shocked. She sat down next to Zsira.

“It doesn’t change anything for me.” Lana said, “I still want you here.”

“Do you think about Ziost sometimes?” Zsira asked.

“What?”

“That was the only thing on my mind while I was getting here,” Zsira continued, “It should not be so heavy for me, should it? It seems like the whole world just forgot about it. I didn’t. I remember everything from that day. Every person I could not help. Every scream. Every kill. The planet — dead, after everything we have done to help. And I remember you there,” she looked at Lana, “How I disagreed with you, and how I was the first to pull out the lightsaber. And how it all just does not make any sense.”

“You are right,” said Lana, “it does not. And it was not your fault.”

“I know. But my mind sometimes disagrees with me.”

“Then I will remind you that you are right, every single day,” Lana responded, “You are extraordinary, Zsira. You were always like that for me. And I know that I will not be able to achieve anything without you. You are the most important piece; you are the one I need.

Zsira put her head on Lana’s shoulder. And so they sat like this for a while. And when they finally got up, Zsira did not ask any questions, and Lana did not give any answers. They just knew. Zsira might have given up, but she was still Zsira, and Lana got the last piece, her favourite one.

[auxxrat]

mother, where have you buried all your children?

Hi everyone !! this is a really quick oneshot that I just had to write out. I'll probably expand on it later, but !! had to get it out. my pookies gave me the idea so :>

I hope u enjoy it !!

the throat singing is inspired by this song from Avatar, bc I think it's beautiful and it emotionally moves me.

Tags !!

angst, shaak ti, delta squad

The Jedi believe that everyone is tied together within the Force. That no matter what, our souls remain connected, no matter how far apart. And once someone’s gone, they disappear from the Force completely—a noticeable wound—the feeling of emptiness. 

That was all Shaak Ti knew now: the waves of dread, the feeling of a hole punched through her chest, the knowledge that they were never coming home. Each clone had their own song, each verse and chorus an achievement or milestones reached. 

But every song had to have a last verse. 

Too many bodies came home. Sometimes the only thing that can be salvaged is a piece of armor, anything–just to take home and bury properly. These funerals could only be held at certain times when the storms of Kamino calmed their rage and the waves dulled. What was left of the fallen was decorated with the highest of honor.

The faces of the dead were painted, gifts given for the crossover into whatever waited after this life. The clones had to believe in something. 

Goodbyes were said as the eldest of them carried the bodies down to the depths of Kamino, where the platforms lowest to the sea hung. Everyone gathered, solemn faces, many hidden by helmets. The waves may have settled but the rain didn’t, it pelted down against armor and skin, matting the clones’ dark hair onto their foreheads. 

Shaak and Appo stood at the front while Delta Squad led the line of bodies. There were no voices as the bodies were set down, even the smallest of clones had the harshest glares. The rain didn't ease up, streaming down Shaak’s face in replacement of tears. She could not cry. 

Boss made eye contact with her as he set down the last body. But it would never be the last body; they both knew that. There were so many brothers here, so many pieces of them. When is it going to be enough? How many more need to die for this great plan? They both asked each other with their eyes only. 

Even now, Shaak could feel their bodies dropping. She could feel every single one dying, it didn't let up, not even when she was supposed to be burying them. 

Boss joined the small group at the front, while the rest of Delta worked on lifting the first coffin onto their shoulders. He joined the small group of boys, standing beside them, serving as an example. Backs straight, you're honoring your brothers. 

He began a guttural, pain-filled throat song, projecting their mourning for the Universe to hear. The boys joined in depending on how high or low their voices were, but the song was all the same. 

It was something deeper than pain, deeper than loss. They sang that pain through their chests, crying out in beautiful octaves. Boss’ voice ran deep towards the end, drawing out a long cry as the last body was cast into the roaring sea. Deliver them to somewhere better than here.  At the end of their long cry, there was silence again, the rain sounding like bullets on the metal of the platform. Shaak Ti and Boss made eye contact again, and this time Shaak was crying; eyebrows tied into a knot as the rain poured down her face. How many more are going to die before this is over?

Read it on AO3!!!

[professional-yearner]

Jumping off of the Order 66 question from a few weeks ago, I have to wonder; what if their cyare is a Jedi (one-sided) or a force sensitive? (Actually I wonder if force sensitivity is a gray area bc the orders were to annihilate Jedi specifically but anyway...)

I think things would go about the same, personally! Ultimately, in my own headcannon (that obviously doesn't really reflect canon), the clones obsession with these people that have been kind to them when so many others have not would sort of short-circuit their programming (organic chip or not, good treatment your not used to can change your whole brain chemistry!). The twisted love they have for these individuals after being deprived for their whole lives of care and consideration would override their urge to purge them, Jedi or not. (And I think force sensitives fall under this umbrella too, I dont think the chip is picky lol)

Unpopular opinion, though; I don't know how many clones would be overly obsessed with their jedi.

Of course, I'm sure some are at least fond or protective, but how many would tip the scale over to obsession I'm not sure.

I think, unfortunately, Slick had a point. The jedi are largely complicit in the clone's treatment and don't go out of their way to make their lives easier, some not valuing them as anything other than cannon fodder (Ki-Adi-Mundi when I CATCH you-)

Of course, jedi see the value in all life to some extent, but going out of their way to care and treat the clones with tenderness and consideration is just something that's not realistic with them following the jedi rule of attachments. Also, (not to excuse it) war hardens a person, especially a general. It's not too much of a shock to see that a lot of them have to gloss over the clones and resist the urge to form connections with them.

Instead, I raise you obsessed Jedi. So repressed and torn with their forbidden attachments to the clones, they either find themselves becoming increasingly infatuated with both the clones and you. (Or in competition with you, but thats a another sermon for another Sunday.)

They see how tender and sweet you are with the clones, they appreciate how much you do for them that they themselves cannot. (Maybe even find themselves wondering what that tenderness and care would feel like directed at them.) They would even be willing to share you with the clones if they would allow it. Which in my opinion, most clones would be wary of. Even if said individual left the jedi order just to be with them and you.

The clones have at best experienced cordial to lukewarm treatment from their jedi, (despite how the individual might want it, there are rules), they don't want to share with anyone they don't feel close with. Even if they do feel some comradery towards them, it's cultivated more of a bond you would have with your superior at work than a friendship in most cases. (Or a sibling bond, as I believe Rex and Ahsoka have, which I do think could lead to a platonic yandere fixation!)

So, it is very complicated in my opinion, but idk you can ignore this if you want 😭 I don't know how many people will agree or even understand this I'm mostly just rambling about my own theories and feelings.

[graylinesspam]

Older sisters

post war, O66 never happened, Au.

Ahsoka had been loved, cherished as a little sibling.

She'd dealt with a rash of over protective brothers, that despite their physical circumstances managed to hit all the awkward preteen sibling experiences. Like giving her stern lectures on boys. Cheering on her first crush. Being generally awkward about puberty. And stuttering around obvious sex jokes they wanted to make so bad, but couldn't because she was there.

She'd been the kid sister, in all the little mundane ways that made their relationships rich, that swelled her heart with affection.

But she'd been more than that too. She had to be. Through whatever cruel circumstances, men that would slap their hands over a chatty brother's mouth to keep him from making a dick joke in front of her would also bow to her order. She held their lives in her hands. It was a concept she never truly wrapped her head around. And maybe never would. But it was a responsibility that she took very seriously.

First on the battlefield doing every damn thing she could to keep them alive. Then in front of the senate and al over the holoweb and anywhere she could get people to listen to her; To listen to them. Then briefly in the war again. And now, now she was the shepherd leading them into the galaxy. Not as soldiers but as free men.

Ahsoka was responsible for the clones in a way that many of them did not comprehend. They still believed that she was their kid sister. Little 'soka, come to play house with them while they all figured out how to live. And she allowed them to think that. She enjoyed it. Needed it even. Needed them to believe that they were taking care of her and not the other way around. Needed them to feel useful. Needed them to not feel indebted towards her. Not like some of the clones did.

Dogma, Rex, Cody, Tup. Too many brothers still looked to her with gratitude in their eyes. With a knee jerk response to do whatever she commended of them.

She didn't want that. She wanted them to figure out on their own how to be men. men who ran their own live. Who made their own calls.

But that didn't release Ahsoka of her responsibility. She may have left the public advocation for clones in more trained hands, Like Senators Chuchi and Amidala. Or the Jedi council. Or the new Mandalorian government. But Ahsoka handled the nity grity. the detail work. Ahsoka taught them as individuals, how to budget, how to pay bills, how to travel without GAR resources. All things she'd had to learn on her own.

She has a unique perspective living amongst men who were simultaneously much older and much younger than her.

Or, at least, she'd thought it was a unique experience.

When Echo turned up, he brought company. And lots of it. Clone force 99 were some of the roughest men she'd seen outside of the outer rim. Certainly rougher around the edges than any clone she'd ever worked with.

They were pleasant enough. Just strange for clones. Wrecker was a trendous help to have during the building process of the little compound they were putting together. As was Hunter. He was an excellent leader. He was deffinitly no Clone Commander. Every CC that Ahsoka had worked with had the same bow to bow acknowledgement of Ahsoka. Recognizing her rank and trusting her intuition. Hunter had no such inclinations.

It was actually refreshing. He argued with her more than anyone else did. Never hostile arguments. They were all civil. He as just a particular man with many opinions about how she was running just about any aspect of the compound. He argued with her the same as he would with any other clone. He broke the seal on making crude jokes in front of her. And was generally a pushy crass soldier in her presence.

And the compound benefited from it.

CF99 didn't strike her as the kind of solders who were ready to settle down yet. They still had that itch under their skins to get out there and do somthing. Anything.

She hadn't expected them to make any real effort to stick around until she met the reason that they did.

Omega was just the most perfect ray of sunshine that Ahsoka had ever met. She was kind, resilient, and optimistic. Even in the face of her most brazen and unlikable brother, Crosshair.

In a sea of brothers Ahsoka found herself a sister. She blames the little blonde girl for how Hunter puts up with Ahsoka's presence. Ahsoka and Omega clicked in that primal almost telepathic way that young girls do. Like magnets drawn to each other and disrupting the electromagnetic fields around them, bringing something young and untamed out of Ahsoka who at barely 18 often felt old.

They were close, which is why it didn't take Ahsoka long to recognize a pattern she wasn't aware even existed in anyone else, or ever could.

Despite her physical age Omega had a lot of authority with her brothers. They were quick to do almost anything she asked of them. Like a herd of new parents scrambling to keep their child happy. Many children would have become spoiled on the attention. Getting anything they wanted out of their guardians. But not Omega. With her big heart and her many years more life experience than her brothers. She used to her influence to take care of them.

To lure them to sleep with bleary eyed stories of bad dreams. Or forcing a decent eating schedule on them by insisting on having one for herself and making everyone else join her. Or railing in their wandering spirits with games, and challenges, and new emotional frontiers instead of the endless expanse of the galaxy. Or smoothing over their arguments with a subtlety that Ahsoka admired.

She was wise far beyond her years, and as much as she could twist her face into the bright eyed gleam of innocence Ahsoka often caught her looking contemplative and nurturing as she studied her brother. She ruled their lives with a gentle care almost motherly.

Another little big sister dedicating herself to keeping her brothers alive and together.

It was the only way Ahsoka could live her life after the war. And it seemed whatever happened in the labs on Kamino had the same effect of Omega.

She opened her heart to her little sister. Made a space where they could exist, exactly as they were. Kindred spirits in the galaxy. Living for love and learning to love living again. That dimming of something old and wizened in their eyes slowly transformed from something painful to something contented.

As they played their roles of kid sisters and eldest siblings.

[cloneshipping-collector]

brief crosshunt thoughts because @wolveria has turned me to the dark side into a crosshunt girlie

so like i think that crosshair and hunter were a thing all throughout their time in the field. maybe it took a few weeks or months to make it official, but there was always something there and the entire squad knew it

then order 66 happened.

crosshair and hunter went to find caleb together, each believing that the other was on their side. hunter saw crosshair take the shot and realized, for the first time in their lives, something had shifted between them.

he tried to brush it off. ignore the feeling. but crosshair kept pushing. “you sure that padawan died when he fell?” “Hunter let that jedi kid escape. or do you want to keep lying to us?”

then they were sent to onderon and hunter knew that the two of them couldn’t go back to the way they were. he remembered the young clone the squad found on kamino and knew he had to save her.

we all know what happened when they went back to kamino. the batch got detained and crosshair got taken away to enhance his chip.

hunter had to have wanted to go find him and get his love back. he probably felt so betrayed when he saw crosshair in the imperial armor. he wanted crosshair to come with them, but in the moment, the best decision for his squad was to leave as soon as possible.

when hunter got taken by the empire towards the end of season one, i wonder if crosshair was hoping they could return to being lovers, just under the empire instead of the republic. they had missed each other more than words could describe. as much as they missed each other, there was a hurt that was just a bit stronger than the loneliness.

at the end of season one, when crosshair once again chose the empire over his squad, his batch mates, his hunter, he probably never expected that he’d see his (now former) love again. hunter probably felt the same way.

they both went their separate ways and had their own adventures.

crosshair thought he might’ve fallen in love again, only to have that comfort brutally ripped from his hands.

hunter focused on finding a place that he (and his squad) belonged in the galaxy.

they had accepted the fact that they’d never see each other again.

until tech found out that crosshair had been taken to tantiss.

after the failed mission to eriadu, tech was killed, omega was taken, and crosshair was seemingly lost as well. all of these factors very obviously took a heavy toll on hunter between seasons 2 and 3.

imagine the shock when crosshair stepped off of the ship that hunter’s daughter omega had just come off of. imagine all of the rage, betrayal, mourning, excitement, everything that came rushing to both of them.

it would take a while, but they were finally given another chance with each other, and they were going to take full advantage of it.

tl;dr: s1 e1 was kinda a crosshunt breakup, s1 e16 was a PROPER crosshunt breakup, s3 e4 they finally got a chance to be together again but really had to work to overcome everything that had separated them

….theres a reason i’m not a fanfic author lol, take my poorly structured word vomit over these gays