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shimmersing · 4 years ago

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Constellation

Part One | Part Two | Interlude | Part Three

Rating: General Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: F/M, Gen Relationships: Female Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor/Male Republic Trooper, Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor/Republic Trooper Characters: Female Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor, Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor, Qyzen Fess, Yuon Par, Parkanas Tark-Lord Vivicar Additional Tags: Angst, Tython, Emotional, Mentioned Mutual Pining, Fluffy, Sad, Melancholy

Returning to Tython after shielding the last master suffering from Vivicar's Force plague, Aitahea is faced with more struggle in her efforts to heal the Order and keep the Force in balance. Tired, injured, and longing for someone she can't have, perhaps ever, the lines of her responsibility as a Jedi and her own convictions begin to blur. As Aitahea nears the end of her quest to save Yuon Par and the other Jedi Masters, she’s confronted with painful revelations and answers that only give rise to more questions. Shouldering the lives and minds of Jedi across the galaxy – alone – may prove to be more than Aitahea can bear. AN: Welcome back! This story follows shortly after the events in Best Intentions and closes out Chapter One of the Consular storyline for Aitahea (and Erithon, peripherally). The one-shot, first-person piece Impending occurs in the interim between Parts 2 and 3. Thank you and enjoy! *Now with paragraphs in proper order!*

Part One

Aitahea trembled next to Satele Shan on the bridge of the transport, fingers pressed to her lips while starlines streaked past.

“What troubles you, little one?”

The girl dropped her hands to her sides without looking at Master Satele, keeping her gaze focused on the soothing radiance of hyperspace. “Nothing, Master. How long until we reach Alderaan?”

“Soon now, Aitahea.” Satele dropped to one knee and placed a hand on the child’s shoulder. “You’ll be safe there. Your training will continue. We need you to be strong for the Order. For our future.”

She drew in a deep breath. “I know, Master Satele. I am strong.” But beneath her robes, her stomach flipped and flopped.

Aitahea trembled next to pilot Prelsiava Tern on the bridge of the Luminous, fingers pressed to her lips while they slipped from the grasp of Alderaan’s gravity.

“What’s got your head turned around, Jedi?”

The Jedi dropped her hands to her sides without looking at her friend, watching as the once-familiar constellations blurred out of sight. “Nothing, Sia. How long until we’re underway?”

As usual, her pilot’s concern was genuine, attending in a gently cavalier way that often left Aitahea feeling uplifted. “As soon as we clear the gravity well; just a few more minutes.”

Qyzen had no such compunction, his words blunt as a training saber. “Soldier remains forefront in your thoughts, but past also. Put these away so we may focus on Yuon. Both mate and memories will wait until dark thing is vanquished.”

“I have every int-” Aitahea choked at the sudden comprehension of Qyzen’s words, face flushing a bright rose. Sia craned her head around the pilot’s seat to grin at Aitahea with unabashed glee. Aitahea shrugged at the Mirialan woman and turned to Qyzen. “Excuse me… mate?”

“Herald’s Republic lieutenant, met on Taris. Thought perhaps you’d accepted as mate on Alderaan,” Qyzen mused. Sia whistled low and turned back to the pilot’s console, doing an impromptu and quite thorough safety check of the seat’s crash webbing.

The Jedi took a deep, calming breath, the carefully measured motion keeping her from bursting into terribly unsuitable laughter.

If Qyzen noticed her discomfiture, he gave no sign. “Human emotions strange; sad one moment, amused next.”

Aitahea primly lifted her chin, focusing seriously on her friend. “Forgive me; I apologize for the, ah, unexpected level of emotion. But no, Erithon-” She paused to frown and clear her throat. “The lieutenant and I don’t have… we aren’t what you’re presuming.”

Qyzen squinted in what she had learned to recognize as wry skepticism, usually reserved for someone they were facing in conflict.

Aitahea swallowed, nodded. “We have work to do.”

Sia waved over a shoulder. “Hey, call from Tython on the holo.”

Grateful for the diversion, Aitahea swiftly moved to escape the bridge. “Thank you, Sia. I’ll take it in the common room, please.”

After a few moments, Master Syo flickered into view, looking pleased when Aitahea entered the shared space.

“Master Sidonie just checked in. She seems well but very frustrated with herself.” Aitahea briefly wondered if her own demeanor was similar, though for distinctly different reasons. “She reports that you were able to prevent war from breaking out on Alderaan, however. You’ve once again done exceptional work in a tense situation, Aitahea.”

Despite the obvious praise, Aitahea winced. She had been painfully unsettled by Master Sidonie’s baseless accusations, despite their depraved falsity. They’d sounded conspicuously familiar, another voice confirming all the cynical criticisms Aitahea most dreaded. Unspeakable consequences lurked behind every failure, and Aitahea was certain she would fracture under the burden of responsibility, despite everyone’s blithe confidence. All so certain of her, save Aitahea herself.

And she would never breathe a syllable of it to the people depending on her. She couldn’t. Instead, she slid into a default stillness and bowed her head. “I relied on the teachings of the Jedi,” she insisted, voice trembling through the half-truth.

Master Syo beamed. “A mark of a true Jedi – being able to trust in the Force in all circumstances.”

Aitahea shuddered and hoped the motion wouldn’t be seen in the grainy holo.

Oblivious to her struggle, Master Syo continued. “Tell me, did you learn anything about the plaguemaster, Lord Vivicar?”

“I’m sorry. No new intel came from Master Sidonie.”

“She was the last of the lost Masters, and yet Vivicar still eludes us,” he mused, then waved a hand and refocused on Aitahea. “Return to us here on Tython immediately, and we will discuss what you have learned. Lord Vivicar cannot remain hidden forever.”

Aitahea’s heart leapt. She’d longed for the comfort of Tython for months; now, the call seemed almost too good to be true. Unable to trust her voice, she bowed, lifting her eyes again in time to see Master Syo’s benevolent smile. “Come home, Jedi.”

When her boots touched Tython’s sacred ground – even the metallic plates of the Temple’s shuttle pad – Aitahea felt suffused with new hope. The home of the Jedi never failed to welcome her, making her role in the galaxy apparent and her relationship to the Force simple and effortless. Even breathing felt easier.

Master Syo Bakarn, Master Jaric Kaedan, and Grand Master Satele Shan were waiting when Aitahea arrived at the Council chamber with Qyzen. The rest of the crew had opted to stay in orbit while the Jedi and Trandoshan shuttled to the surface.

“Welcome home,” said Master Syo, leaning forward to offer the greeting. Aitahea bowed low to her mentor, wondering silently if Yuon would be join the meeting as well.

Master Jaric was quicker to the point. “I wish we could greet you with better news.”

Master Satele nodded her own welcome. “Despite using every resource available to us, we’re no closer to finding Lord Vivicar.”

Aitahea, buoyant on the glory of Tython, took a bold step forward and offered her final, horrible theory. “Actually, I believe we are. A common thread binds all the plague victims: the loss of Parkanas Tark at Malachor Three. Vivicar’s influence forced the infected Masters to relive their failures on Malachor.”

The Council’s Force signatures and facial expressions were meticulously shielded with more years of experience than Aitahea could rightly grasp, but even so, emotion in the room spiked, rattling her earnest calm. She continued, her voice hushed. “This is revenge, personal revenge. Only one man would have that much anger and pain. The man who was left behind.”

She hesitated; her next words could unravel everything else she’d accomplished, but unless she spoke the truth, the plague would never end. “I believe Lord Vivicar is Parkanas Tark.”

Master Jaric shook his head in disbelief. “Jedi.” He pinned Aitahea with a steely gaze, and she was certain that her suggestion had indeed gone too far. “Parkanas Tark is dead.” Aitahea took a breath -

“Far from it, Jaric.” Yuon strode into the council chamber, feisty as ever. On the edge of panic, Aitahea broke into an enormous smile that her Master returned with a gracious nod. Even Qyzen, silent until now, uttered a brief growl of approval and welcome.

“Yuon?” Satele demanded, half-rising to address the other Master, exasperation coloring her words. “I told those Padawans to keep an eye on you. You must rest!”

“No. My pupil -” Yuon paused at Aitahea’s side, placing a hand on her last Padawan’s shoulder, “My fellow Jedi deserves to hear the truth about Malachor.”

Aitahea winced, noting the dark shadows under Yuon’s eyes; only one of the victims could explain the twisted path that lay both behind and before them. They all needed the truth. “Don’t speak more than you must.”

Yuon gave Aitahea a wan smile, then continued, turning to address the Council. “Malachor Three isn’t just strong in the dark side; the planet is the resting place of Terrak Morrhage. Our work on Malachor woke Morrhage’s spirit. One by one, we fell under his power. The things we did… still haunt me.”

Yuon shuddered; Aitahea reached for her in concern. Realization clicked into place, and she paused before laying a comforting hand on Yuon’s shoulder. “Somehow, you broke free of Morrhage’s power.”

The Master composed herself and nodded to her Padawan. “Yes. Together, we managed to break his control, but at a terrible cost.” Yuon’s voice grew soft, then broke over the last few syllables. She kept her gaze to the side, as if afraid to look into Aitahea’s eyes. “Parkanas was the youngest and weakest. We had to abandon him to Malachor’s darkness. His sacrifice allowed the rest of us to escape. But it seems he survived and took Morrhage’s dark path.”

“You couldn’t have predicted this,” Aitahea insisted in a pained whisper.

With fierce determination, Yuon shook her head. “I must make amends.” She seemed more vulnerable than ever, perhaps even more so than in the worst throes of her affliction. “I have a plan to help you find Vivicar.”

The Council looked worriedly at each other, and even Aitahea shook her head, uncertain how to respond. “How?”

“If the plague created a link between my mind and his, your shielding ability may allow me to use that link to find him.”

Master Syo stood, his disapproval and worry dimming the Force in the room. “No. You’re already weak from the plague, Yuon. This could kill you.”

But Yuon’s eyes, finally meeting Aitahea’s, were pleading. Aitahea wondered, had her Master’s suffering truly begun with the plague, or had it been long before that? She wasn’t certain she was ready for dealing with either answer, but her path, her role, was to serve. Releasing her Master, her teacher, her friend from this plague surely was of equal importance with stopping Morrhage.

If the work served both purposes, it would be worth it, more than worth it. “Vivicar won’t get the chance,” she said to both Yuon and the stunned Council. “I will stand between him and my Master.”

Yuon’s gratitude was palpable. She turned to the Council, earnest and energized. “It’s our best chance to find Vivicar.”

Qyzen spoke up. “Yuon is fearless and wise – a true hunter, like Herald.”

Aitahea wasn’t certain she agreed, but the Trandoshan’s support could only bolster their position.

Syo eased back into his seat. “Very well,” he said, sighing. “But we will monitor the ritual, and your former Padawan must stay at your side.”

“Of course, Master,” Aitahea said, and offered Yuon an encouraging smile.

“Thank you, Syo,” Yuon said, punctuating with a bow to the entire Council before turning back to Aitahea. “I will go to the meditation chamber to prepare. Please meet me there when you are ready.”

“I’ll be fine, Qyzen; it’s just a short way from the Temple. There’s no safer place in the galaxy.”

“Even from own thoughts, Herald?”

“Let her go, just as you always did for me,” said Yuon, smiling impishly at Aitahea as she approached. “This Jedi knows her own mind.”

“Master, I know you have much to prepare. I don’t intend to go far to meditate, just a little away from the temple, so I might not be disturbed.” Aitahea couldn’t quite raise her eyes to meet Yuon’s, glancing instead toward the tree-lined paths of the outer grounds. Since Aitahea had first arrived on Tython, the issues of refugees, Flesh Raiders, and rogue Force users had been mostly resolved. The forests surrounding the temple were secure, if not precisely safe. Aitahea had played no small part in several of those events and recalled them as experiences of tremendous growth as a Padawan. Yuon seemed to agree.

“Off with you now! I’ve enough for this old friend to help me with; you must make your own preparations,” she stated, ushering Qyzen ahead in a way only Yuon Par was capable of, while waving Aitahea away from the temple grounds. “Go!”

Yuon seemed uncharacteristically upbeat, perhaps even giddy. It’s just that we’re so close to the end of this journey. I’d feel the same, if I weren’t so… her thoughts trailed off as Qyzen and Yuon turned back toward the temple, good-naturedly chiding each other on the perception of stuffy behavior.

Aitahea chanced a smile and wave in reply, inhaling sharply to keep tears from spilling from her stinging eyes. She turned to one of the well-worn paths, tread smooth by the growing residents of the Jedi Temple, their minders and masters, and visitors such as herself.

No, this is home, she thought urgently. Master Syo welcomed me home. I am home. She raised her hood and quickened her pace, rushing by several curious initiates.

Aitahea dashed across the bridge and toward the stream just beyond the grounds. There was a spur of rock suspended over one of the smaller falls. She hadn’t been there in years, her training with Yuon so often off-world or in remote areas. There were usually a few uxibeast grazing in the shade, unbothered so long as they could eat in peace.

She was obligated to ford the shallows to the opposite bank of the stream in order to reach the outcropping. Aitahea considered a simple leap over the stream; a nudge of the Force would keep her robes and boots dry.

Instead, she left her boots with her outer robe folded carefully beside them and now stood at the water’s edge considering the communicator in her hand. She shouldn’t be needed for the brief hour she had to prepare for Yuon’s desperate ritual; who in the galaxy would need to contact her who wasn’t planetside? Was there anyone she needed to talk to privately? Tember? Her parents?

Aitahea fiercely dismissed the memory of Erithon’s smiling face that clamored for her attention, fingers trembling as she thumbed through her contacts to his entry. The hard lump lodged in her throat was the only thing that kept her from pressing the call button.

Cold water splashed over her toes; the nearest uxibeast lowed. Shaking her head, Aitahea unceremoniously shoved the commlink into one of her boots and waded into the water, gasping at the freezing temperature. She splashed across, only slightly questioning her sanity, and padded gingerly up the rock spur on icy toes.

The perch afforded a stunning view of the Temple and grounds, but distance allowed a certain privacy. Aitahea sat at the edge of the outcropping, watching the practiced motions of lightsaber training, but the clashing sounds of those sparring were lost beneath the roar of water. Some in groups, others in isolation, all went about their various practices: meditating, channeling, seeking to understand more of the Force in myriad ways.

Everything will be fine, Aitahea assured herself, bringing her knees up to her chest and closing her eyes. We’re so close to finishing this. Maybe even saving Parkanas Tark if he can just be released from Morrhage’s dark control. Victory is close. Just a little longer.

Aitahea dropped her head into her arms and sobbed, the cries lost in the rush of the waterfall below.

Constellation: Part One | Part Two | Interlude | Part Three

#swtor fanfiction #swtor fanfic #jedi consular #star wars the old republic #fanfiction #fanfic #a03 #oc: aitahea daviin #yuon par #jedi council #angsty

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shimmersing · 4 years ago

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“Ah, Lieutenant!” Erithon swallowed hard against the wave of apprehension that was gathering in his throat as Duke Organa flagged him down. “A most splendid representative of our allies in the Republic. Come!”

He managed not to squirm like a cadet when the Duke clapped him on the shoulder, turning him toward the ballroom’s grand stairway. It wasn’t that he didn’t like parties. This was just a few steps away from the usual military shindig: salute a few times, don’t spill anything on the dress uniform. Nobility wasn’t that far removed from the brass, right? Same kind of handshake deals that meant something a little different to each party, and something else altogether for the people under them. He shrugged inside the stiff sleeves of his jacket, not exactly uncomfortable, just… unfamiliar. It fit fine. But it didn’t feel quite right. Like this whole scene.

“Ah, excellent,” Organa drawled, slowing as a commotion drew everyone’s attention. Flashes sparkled as various holocams swarmed like killiks around the newest arrival. The duke glanced sidelong at Erithon while the soldier craned his neck to get a better view, squinting past the glare.

He knew – obviously; he wasn’t a complete nerf herder – that it would be his Jedi, the same way he knew when a blaster was about to overheat. He just knew. Was that how the Force worked? He didn’t think so, and a question like that seemed so utterly childish he almost laughed aloud. Would she, if he asked? Nah, she wouldn’t. She’d smile and offer him a gentle analogy like that morning, when he’d gathered enough nerve to ask her how he came to be sitting next to her on the transport and not in a body bag.

“Force healing is…” Aitahea had replied, their shoulders nudging companionably as the transport rumbled back toward the palace, “…hard to explain.” Her cheeks had flushed a little, the darting glance from below her lowered lashes full of shy apology. “But I’ll try.” She’d explained her method, which to him didn’t sound all that different from any other medical scanner he’d been in, only a lot more pleasant if his experience was any example.

“My sister on Brentaal is a nurse. Thought it was a little funny when we were younger. We always had medical droids to take care of everything, right?” The Jedi had bobbed her head, eager to hear his next thought. “But after I woke up in a kolto tank the first time alone, I mean, no personnel…” He’d flailed for some explanation of the isolation he’d felt, but it had been hard to recall while her shoulder had been jostling against his. He’d shrugged, grinned, and continued, “Now I think I prefer seeing someone friendly on waking.”

She’d gazed at him with a solemn wonder that had quickened his breath, had him doing everything he could to memorize the ever-so-slight parting of her lips before they curled into a smile.

Just like they did now.

Erithon was so preoccupied with following her gaze that the sudden smile blooming in his direction took his breath away. Again. Aitahea was resplendent. Gossamer enshrouded, bound hair freed from utilitarian plaits and tumbling over her bare shoulders – he throttled back a ridiculous urge to elbow Duke Organa and point out that she had shoulders, and weren’t they nice, too?

Organa smoothed his hands over his lapels, looking pleased with himself, while Erithon struggled to recall his higher vocabulary. “I expect the press will want a holo of our heroes.”

“A holo of-” he began, but she floated over to them right then, luminous and exquisite. It became quite clear who the press would want a holo of. The Jedi offered the duke a generous curtesy, and Erithon found his looming panic - particularly at the words “press” and “holo” - replaced by fascination with the way her earrings brushed against her jawline. Duke Organa caught her hands as she rose and enfolded her in a paternal embrace.

“Thank you, it’s beautiful,” Erithon heard Aitahea whisper to the duke.

“Superb timing, my dear.” The duke’s eyes crinkled merrily around an affectionate smile. He turned to nod at Erithon, adroitly pressing one of Aitahea’s hands into his, then stepped expertly into the background with a final, grand pronouncement: “Our Paladins!”

A cascade of flashes set Erithon’s vision shimmering, but training swiftly rose to meet unfamiliarity, and he managed to remain stoic even as his heart clanged wildly against his ribs. Clever fellow, that Organa, he mused, and with a smirk as bold as he could muster, he deftly hooked his arm under the Jedi’s hand and guided her away from the press. The Duke’s laughter echoed through the hall behind them, but Erithon couldn’t hear it and wouldn’t have cared anyway; he was busy memorizing the sound of her restrained giggle at his shoulder.

“That was a bold move, diplomatically speaking, Lieutenant,” she said playfully, drawing them to a stop to hold him at arm’s length. Flashes sparkled again, unnoticed by either. Her scrutiny didn’t bother him, and it did give him an opportunity to reciprocate.

“You’re… you look amazing,” he breathed, unable to push his awe aside. She could have been a daughter of any of the noble houses on Alderaan, only she couldn’t because none of them were as radiant, as otherworldly. She couldn’t, because even without her lightsaber (that he could tell, anyway), she remained a veritable force of nature. Unexplainable and irreplaceable, flushed cheeks and wide eyes and little white flowers caught up in her hair. Because when he’d said something as trite as ‘you look amazing’ her eyes lit up like she’d never heard anyone say it before this.

“Pardon me, Master Jedi? Lieutenant?” A fidgeting Haley Organa interrupted as politely as possible, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “We’re ready for you.”

Erithon blinked, overwhelmed with the sudden lurching feeling that he hadn’t studied for a test. Hadn’t he just deftly navigated them out of this nonsense? “For…us?”

Before the young page’s nervousness could escalate to panic, Aitahea intervened: “An introduction. The formal presentation. It’s mostly for the holonet, so they can put a name with your holo, and hopefully spell it correctly.” Her brows lowered, and he caught a glimpse of solemn concern behind her light tone. “It shouldn’t be unlike one of your military events.”

He inclined his head, discomfort ebbing away. He didn’t think it was a Jedi thing, not this time. “Smile, but not too much.”

“Just so,” she replied softly, reaching up to brush away some unseen particle from his collar. He straightened, willing his face back into a mask of quiet confidence. Her own features settled into practiced serenity, but her eyes, fixed on his, danced.

Just another kind of battlefield.

[BREAK HERE]

“Republic Lieutenant Erithon Zale of Havoc Squad and Master Aitahea Daviin of the Jedi Order.”

The cluster of press at the foot of the grand stair disappeared momentarily behind the coruscation of flashes. Beyond them Aitahea briefly glimpsed, through the sea of elaborate costume and outlandish headwear, the dancers at the center of the hall. Over the buzz of voices, she could hear the notes of a familiar waltz. Haley Organa gave her a relieved smile as he slipped away to his next charges, leaving the Jedi and the soldier to descend the gauntlet together. Beneath her hand, Erithon’s arm was reassuringly steady.

Uncertainty flickered in his eyes only once they reached the last stair and the press drew close again. Erithon looked down, one brow raised in a wordless plea: What now? Aitahea laughed and nudged him toward a knot of familiar faces.

“Guess we made an entrance,” he admitted, sparing a last glance toward the lingering press, and turned toward Elara Dorne and Arik Jorgan, both in military dress like their commander, and a beaming Brant Sonn. “Hey, we know them.”

They exchanged greetings; the more formal commentary was punctuated with the chatter of battlefield allies good-naturedly enjoying each other’s company. Aitahea listened to the companions, struggling to keep her eyes on the others and not so frequently on Erithon. Grasping rather tenaciously to his arm was helping but had to be forsaken well too soon for her preference when Tharan and Holliday approached, asking that the Jedi make introductions for them, it wouldn’t take but a moment.

“Of course,” Aitahea agreed, all politeness, turning back to Erithon to excuse herself. He winked at her and caught her free hand in a quick squeeze when she began to pull away. Aitahea found herself suddenly and agreeably conscious that neither of their finery required gloves. His hands were warm.

“Hurry back,” he said, eyes crinkling with mirth, and Aitahea nearly forgot to let go before being ushered away by a harassed-looking Tharan.

‘Hurry’ became three different conversations with seven different nobles from at least two houses and a science corporation headquartered on Organa lands. At last, Aitahea was finally able to withdraw from the conversation, wandering over to where dancers traded partners and minced steps rather than words or plans. It was one of her favorite court dances, learned and practiced enough in her youth that even now she felt muscles tensing for steps she hadn’t taken in years. Orderly and precise, patterns were traced and rewritten, dancers finding each other again, over and over.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

Aitahea was so entranced that she startled when Erithon spoke at her shoulder and laughed a little breathlessly. “Forgive me, I was so preoccupied with the dancers.” He offered her his arm and another charming grin, and she accepted, grateful that only she knew how an adolescent glee had settled so comfortably under her superficial calm. “I haven’t heard this since I was a girl – an initiate, in the enclave, that is.” She winced at her rambling explanation.

“Pretty.” He hadn’t seemed to notice her discomfort, occupied with carefully watching as the dancers divided, exchanged partners for a cursory bow, then returned to join hands. “Do you know the dance, too?”

She nodded. Well, if you’re going to be preposterously transparent may as well carry on, she thought vehemently, but her voice and expression remained blithe. “It’s traditional on Alderaan. Are you familiar with it?”

He grimaced at the dancers, chagrin drawing his brows low. “Um, no. But,” he offered cautiously, “I’m reasonably good at following orders. And you’ve kept me from embarrassing myself so far.”

“I’ve never… I haven’t in years, I don’t know if I can recall all…” Aitahea focused determinedly on his eyes while she tried to hold fast the wild fluttering in her chest, something delicate and precious that had lingered, and after a moment she found she liked it there simply fine. She inhaled slowly, then asked, “You’re certain?”

“I trust you.”

Erithon had made his mind up to ask if she wanted to dance before he’d even spotted her. He might not have any empathic sensibilities, but he’d watched her seek out the dancers even while they were walking down the grand stairs. Even he could tell she’d wanted to be out there, and if he could just manage to stay on his feet long enough to give her the chance, he’d handle any ribbing from his crew later. She deserved it.

“Listen,” she murmured over her shoulder as they waited, poised at the edge of the dance floor. “Can you hear the rhythm? One, two, three?”

“Mmhmm.” He nodded, swallowing hard when she stepped back against him. “Got it.” He shifted, hovering at her side, and hoping his heart wasn’t thumping in her ear like it felt like it had to be. “I think.”

Humming her amusement, she turned herself expertly into his arms and placed her left hand in his while she raised their right hands to her shoulder, fingers entwined. “Just start walking in time with the music.” She tapped a finger into his left palm. “Begin with your left.”

He took a breath and nodded. The dance was stately but leisurely, giving Erithon plenty of time to hear the next step whispered over Aitahea’s shoulder. She made it effortless, her body easy to follow, featherlight touches guiding his motions.

Good thing that was all he had time to focus on.

After a few minutes of mostly successful instruction, Aitahea uttered a warning about the impending partner change. Erithon swallowed hard, nodded, and next thing he knew, he was tripping over the shoes of an unfortunate noblewoman with what looked like an entire miniature thranta nest perched precariously on a tower of powdered curls. Thankfully, the exchange ended quickly and Erithon was relieved to have Aitahea guiding him once again.

“I didn’t think anyone in the whole Core was still powdering their hair,” the Jedi bubbled unexpectedly into his ear. He laughed a little too loud and swept her gratefully – though perhaps a little too enthusiastically – back into the progression. He liked this part best, he’d quickly discovered. The leader – his role apparent, though he might have disagreed technically – picked up their partner for a little lift and turn. Aitahea had warned him verbally the first time, but the second time he’d wrapped his hands around her waist he’d been too busy looking into her eyes and had missed the lift.

Erithon was determined. This round he got everything perfect: an effortless lift gave him a few moments to enjoy when her eyes widened and smile bloomed. If he put her down a second or two late, she didn’t seem to mind.

The song wasn’t quite through when Aitahea’s steps slowed, drifting out of the pattern. Erithon tensed, an arm already around her waist, and opened his mouth to ask if she was all right when she stumbled. He caught her easily; she was breathing much harder than one should be for a Jedi in fighting form – and the shadows beneath her eyes seemed suddenly more pronounced.

Alarm buzzed through him. “Are you okay?” She still had her feet under her, so he kept hold of one of her hands and curled the other arm securely around her waist. Just in case.

“Yes!” she exhaled quickly, leaning into him, and added a breathy laugh. “Perhaps we should get some air?”

“Here, come on.” Guiding her past guards in Organa livery, the terrace appeared mercifully empty while the festivities continued inside. Erithon led Aitahea to one of the benches by an elbow, easing her down first before sitting beside her, keenly aware of his now-empty arms. “Better?”

“Much, thank you,” she replied, swiping at her hairline with the back of one hand before she lifted her face to smile at him. “That was lovely. I’m so sorry it had to end that way, and so soon.”

“Me too.” He smiled, unexpectedly pleased with her response. “You learned that here, as a kid?”

She shifted, easing back against the stone. “Yes.” She glanced sidelong at him, a droll smile playing across her lips. “No doubt the Duke has already regaled with you with mortifying stories from my youth.”

“He didn’t get to that,” Erithon said with a roguish wink. “Not that I’d believe a word of it, of course.” Erithon frowned back at her, worry wrinkling his brow. “You look tired.”

She sighed noncommittally and closed her eyes, leaning back against the cool stone behind them. Underneath the surface flush, she was still pale, almost sallow. When she opened her eyes again, the glitter in them was past the dazzle of a party and looking almost feverish.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Erithon shifted uneasily as the silence stretched out, trying not to guess at her silence and just leave her some space to breathe.

“I am… carrying a burden.” She paused, twisting her fingers while she seemed to search for words. “I’m shielding several masters who were infected with a Force plague, standing between them and madness, perhaps worse. Even my own master…” She trailed off, staring into her hands, dropping them to rest open in her lap.

“Anything I can do?” He meant anything. He’d face down more Sith, however many it took to disengage her from this burden and give her some peace. Anything.

Aitahea looked at him with eyes suddenly glittering with tears; her expression nearly stopped his heart. Her voice was a whisper, her eyes dancing again. “Erithon…” Her focus shifted, gaze flickering past him just as Erithon himself caught the sound of approaching footfalls. He ground his teeth to keep from muttering the curse he caught grumbling in his throat, instead giving Aitahea a bemused grimace as he rose and offered her a hand.

The Jedi was a portrait of ethereal serenity again, eyes that only moments before had shone with desperate anguish had shuttered, hiding the woman who’d whispered his name like a plea, leaving only the Jedi, glorious as she was, incandescent but incomplete.

“Ah, Master Jedi, I’ve been hoping to track you down all evening. I’m Hallam Organa, head of House Organa’s diplomatic corps.” The broad fellow made a brief bow, then indicated his companion. “This is my younger, more handsome brother, Lew.”

Lew Organa gave his brother an indulgent look. “Please, Hallam. You do yourself an injustice.” His lips twitched. “Your age gives you a stately difference.”

“My lords, it’s an honor to make your acquaintance,” she replied, eyes crinkling with amusement, then turned to Erithon. “Allow me to introduce Lieutenant Erithon Zale of the Republic, commander of Havoc Squad.”

“Ah, the liberator of the Spears! What an opportunity, having our newest Paladins side by side, such fine company!” Hallam exclaimed, offering Erithon a deep bow that Lew also made. Erithon glanced at Aitahea, uncertain how to respond, and she inclined her head, giving him an encouraging smile. He copied the motion, appreciative but still a bit mystified by all the pomp and circumstance.

Rising, Hallam returned his attention pointedly to Aitahea. “Master Jedi, I’ve been told you’re seeking Master Sidonie Garen.”

She hovered close to Erithon’s side, her hand curled around his arm. “It’s urgent that I speak with Master Sidonie as soon as possible.”

“You just missed her, I’m afraid. She’s already left for the peace summit,” Hallam explained. “A peace summit on Alderaan! Imagine that!” He slapped his thigh, shaking his head incredulously at Lew, who nodded thoughtfully in response.

Erithon watched Aitahea’s lips thin almost imperceptibly, but the next moment she was tilting her head, tranquil and erudite. “Indeed. Can you put me in contact with her?” Erithon could feel her tensing, fingers tightening on his sleeve. Master Sidonie must be one of the infected Jedi masters she’d mentioned a few moments ago.

“I can call her, certainly.” Hallam flicked another glance at Erithon, considering. “The location of the summit is a secret for obvious reasons, but I’m sure she’d welcome your assistance. Meet us first thing tomorrow morning, diplomacy wing?”

He felt her shudder, but she nodded affirmation. “Thank you, my lord, the Council will be eager to hear any updates.”

Their shoulders brushed again and again as they walked, sending her heart skipping every time. He hadn’t let her go further than arm’s reach since she’d stumbled out of the dance progression, nor as they wandered back to their suites after finishing the stilted conversation with Hallam and Lew Organa.

She slowed, eyes flickering to the nearby door of his suite, then back across the hall to her own door before she turned to face him. “We’re here.”

“Right.” He caught up the hand she’d left lingering on his sleeve and offered one of those extraordinary lopsided smiles. “I’m glad we found each other again.”

She returned the expression with delight. “As am I. Thank you for…” She began the elaborate thank-you she’d begun contriving as they’d walked back to the guest wing, but when he reached up with his free hand, twining one of her loose curls around a finger, every word fled her all at once. The silence between her heartbeats was impossibly sustained, well more than enough time for him to notice her gaze lingering on his mouth. When he drew closer still and smoothed his thumb over the curve of her cheek, she lost track of them entirely.

“Do you think we’ll ever dream of each other again, like Taris?” he asked, low and earnest.

Some resolve she’d fashioned in the wake of their dearly-won victory, Yuon’s coy encouragement, and the bravado of familiar surroundings fractured at his innocent question. The connection that often lingered after healing blazed with unfamiliar sensations that she hadn’t the strength to unravel now. Even without the physical contact, even with all her practiced resolve and Jedi training, his emotions wound around and through her, as impossible for her to ignore or deny as a starship could the pull of a gravity well. Waiting for her answer had allowed him plenty of time to sweetly tilt her face up to his.

With an austere resolve she was distantly surprised to find intact, she pressed a hand to his chest, where not long ago she’d smoothed her palm over his bare skin in the wake of the most desperate healing she’d ever undertaken. Aitahea answered, her whisper breaking on a last fragment of jagged verity: “I never stopped.”

She closed her eyes against the onslaught of overwhelming, unshielded, achingly reciprocated need, and pushed him away. She bit down hard on the soft sound of loss that threatened to escape her throat when he jolted back, the sudden distress and regret that tolled through her – no, him – no. Through them both. She struggled to inhale a tremulous breath.

When she could bear to open her eyes again, Erithon looked physically pained, his confusion and concern shearing through her own exhausted disappointment. He’d stepped back, hands open and empty, doubt beginning to tarnish the bright threads that had encircled them. “That was out of line, I’m sorry.”

“No, I was… You – I’m not –” Aitahea pressed her lips together hard to keep them from trembling, but it couldn’t stop the stinging in her eyes, the ache in her chest. “I’m sorry.”

“No. No.” He shook his head, vehement. “Don’t be. Please.” Erithon hesitated, trying to work up a friendly grin in contrast to his stiff posture, but only managed a wan quirk of his lips. “I told you on Taris that we’d do something better.”

She exhaled in a rush and allowed a smile to flutter across her face. It didn’t reach her eyes. “Yes, you did. Thank you.” Better! It was wonderful. Too wonderful. I never wanted to stop. We should have finished the song. “I should… retire for the night… if I’m to pick up Master Sidonie’s trail tomorrow.” She glanced toward her door, promising the solace of isolation and hopefully sleep. She was exhausted, utterly, but couldn’t resist one last watery smile. “Thank you, Erithon.”

His usual ebullient charm at least marginally recovered, he offered her a bow as crisp and practiced as any noble in the castle. “Goodnight, Aitahea.”

Aitahea waited for the door lock to engage before she sank back against it, hands over her face, about to release the pent-up sob clawing at the back of her throat.

On the suite’s balcony, Qyzen Fess shifted carefully but deliberately, his armor creaking in the silence. The door rattled noisily as she flattened against it in disbelief, reaching for a lightsaber that was not there. Of course not.

“Apologize if I startle you, Herald.”

Disquieted by her own panic, Aitahea bit back an uncharacteristically sharp retort, closing her eyes to draw a calming breath in its place. After releasing it, Aitahea raised a carefully neutral face to her friend. “I’m sorry, Qyzen, I wasn’t expecting you. Well done, you successfully snuck up on a Jedi.”

“Was not aware of such challenge.”

She sighed. “An attempt at a joke, Qyzen. A failed attempt, apparently. To add to the rest I’ve made this mission.” Aitahea sank gratefully into an overstuffed chair, letting the beautiful but unfamiliar shoes slip off her suddenly aching feet. “What changed your mind about the castle?”

“Mind not changed. Will return to ship after speaking.” Qyzen hovered near the balcony doors, clearly uncomfortable and anxious to depart. “Must see how Scorekeeper’s Herald fares.”

Aitahea tenaciously schooled her expression to serene but was unable to shake the tendrils of failure and regret that clung like shadows. “Tired, Qyzen. Thank you for checking.”

“Herald will rest.” Aitahea couldn’t decide if that was a question or suggestion, but either way, she agreed.

“Yes.”

AN: It's been such a journey to get here, to this chapter in particular that I’ve been imagining for such a long time. I’ve been stuck here since 2020; I’m so glad you’re still here with me. With us, I suppose. Enjoy. May the Force be with us all. Thank you.

Thank you to the ever-present, dependable, and brilliant Taraum for beta-reading.

#swtor fanfic #swtor fanfiction #star wars the old republic #fanfiction #jedi consular #republic trooper #alderaan #adventure #romance #fluffy #oc: aitahea daviin #oc: erithon zale #erithon/aitahea #chapter 8 #chapter eight #NEW CHAPTER #UPDATED

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shimmersing · 4 years ago

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My real name will do.

#swtor #jedi consular #oc: aitahea daviin #jedi #star wars ocs #screenshots #rishi #star wars

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shimmersing · 4 years ago

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“Until then, feast, celebrate, and hope we live to see a kinder age.”

The Organa throne room was packed with jubilant soldiers and subjects, all of whom gave a cheer as the Duke offered his grand benediction. Erithon and his crew shared a good-natured shout with the rest, and Aitahea’s smile was punctuated by her bright laughter. They’d returned from the assault triumphant and celebratory, Brant Sonn leading the troops in song as they had marched victorious through the Organa streets. Erithon had marveled when Aitahea had raised her own voice to join the soaring anthem. When she’d caught his astonished stare, Aitahea had laughed and leaned close to make herself heard over the other voices.

“Did you ever hear a lullaby called ‘Star by Star’?” Erithon had nodded, still confused. “It’s the same melody, simply with different words. Listen.” And he had, snippets of some long-lost tune floating in and out of recognition as her voice had spiraled around him.

Once the forces had arrived at the palace, the Duke himself had announced that they would carry on with plans for a grand ball that was scheduled that evening – not to mention the revelries rippling throughout the region as news of their victory spread. After the hearty dismissal, Aitahea accompanied Erithon from the throne room, leading them toward the central hub of the castle.

“It seems the Duke insists on our remaining in the castle as guests,” she explained. “Our belongings have been brought from our ships.”

He blinked, surprised and uncertain. “Uh. Okay. Used to packing in my own kit; how’s that work?”

The Jedi placed a soothing hand on his arm. “We’re guests of House Organa. It’s all very auspicious; they work with your protocol droid.” She hesitated a breath, in the pause slipping her hand back to her side. When he caught her eyes again, they were warm but reserved. “Come, I’ll show you to your rooms. The guest wing isn’t far.”

“Thank you.” He offered her the lead and fell in easily at her side. “I’ll admit, a shower with real water is awfully tempting. What are the odds?”

“Quite in your favor. I think you’ll be more than pleased with the accommodations,” Aitahea agreed as they crossed the wide expanse of the central hall. Subjects and nobles alike bustled through the vaulted space, making hasty preparations for the celebrations. No one seemed to take notice of the disheveled pair as Aitahea played impromptu hostess, answering Erithon’s faltering questions about protocol among the nobility as they navigated the grand hallways.

“Fortunately, it’s easier than several thousand years ago. At one time, there was a complex system of obeisance based on the height, metal, and number of gemstones on a noble’s coronet.” Aitahea lowered her voice conspiratorially. “It only ended after an entire household suffered severe neck injuries.”

Erithon couldn’t help but arch a brow. “You’re making that up.”

“I would never!” She wed a flutter of lashes with a too-innocent smile. “You can ask the Duke himself.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll ask him about that the next time I invite him on a wild glooth hunt. You can come, too,” he taunted.

Aitahea’s eyes sparkled. “I’d be delighted.” She slowed to a stop near a set of elaborate doors. “This is the Apalis Wing. There’s a private bedroom suite for you and each of your squad members; your belongings should be just inside. The keypad will prompt you to create a new code for the lock upon entry. If you need anything else, you can use the comm unit to contact the castle steward.”

Erithon pushed open the doors and whistled low. “Can’t imagine needing much of anything else here.” The room was filled with elaborate furnishings and sumptuous fabrics, hinting at other luxuries through the open doors of the private suites. He wandered inside, looking back at the Jedi when she lingered at the threshold. “What if I need… you?” He held his breath after the last word, unexpectedly shocked that he’d had the audacity to say those words in that order.

Her gaze flickered away for a moment, aglow with reserved pleasure; when she returned her eyes to his, both her smile and blush remained sweetly steady.

“I’ll be right across the hall.”

“Great.” Erithon started to breathe again, exhaling a chagrined chuckle. The sudden rush of his own pulse in his ears was impossibly loud. “Uh, thank you.”

She took a step back, holding his gaze as she began to turn away. “See you this evening.”

When Elara and Jorgan arrived a few moments later, he was still standing in the doorway, ruefully staring across the empty hallway. Erithon’s squad mates exchanged a look just as Erithon roused at their approach.

“Oh. Hey.” Erithon shuffled from one foot to the other. “Uh, how long have you been there?” Jorgan folded his arms, and Elara smiled broadly.

“Long enough, sir.”

By the time the door clicked shut behind her, Aitahea was already halfway across the common room to her private suite, hands stuffed into her thranta’s nest of sweat-stiffened hair in search of the pins that held it securely in place. Quickly abandoning that effort, she instead grimaced at the grit under her fingernails while she dictated a brief message to her private comm. Then she turned, looking for the refresher door, and caught sight of herself in a tall mirror. She nearly recoiled at the unfamiliar reflection: sallow skin smudged with soot, ragged hair that no thranta would deign to call a nest, thank you very much, and -

Aitahea took a breath, wrinkled her nose, and dissolved into laughter.

There is no emotion indeed!

Sinking down onto a gilded chaise, Aitahea wriggled out of her cloak and draped it over the back. After another bout of giggles passed, she again began trying to release her hair from its bonds, this time teasing out the tangles with gentle fingers.

A more measured glance around showed that her meager personal belongings had been supplemented with the palace’s own necessities, all organized meticulously in her rooms. Over the holo earlier, Tharan had exclaimed about the opportunity to rub elbows with some of the nobility who, according to him, were more than eager to ‘part with some of their fortunes for a connection on the cutting edge of science.’ He - and presumably Holiday, in one format or another - had settled into their suite, but the third set of rooms remained empty of their last companion: Qyzen.

The Trandoshan had declined the Duke’s invitation to both the palace and celebration, despite having the Duke’s personal thanks for his role in the hostage crisis and the battle that had followed. He’d hunched down at Aitahea’s shoulder as the column of soldiers had begun to file into the castle. Voices had dropped to muttered whispers as they’d passed by the warrior and Jedi. “Apologize if others stare.”

Aitahea had whirled, a sudden protectiveness sharpening her expression. “Never apologize for others’ conduct, my friend.”

Qyzen Fess had remained silent for a long moment. “With Herald’s leave, will find more private camp on Organa lands.”

“With delight, Qyzen,” Aitahea had answered. “Raise me on the comm any time.”

He’d given a nod, then a shrewd glance with his good eye. “Remember promise.”

Aitahea had smiled sheepishly. “I will. Good hunting.”

Now, she could sense her friend moving steadily away from the Organa compound, into the deepest stands of the surrounding forests.

Markedly nearer, Erithon’s bright presence beckoned, unaware, and she swallowed hard against an unfamiliar but not unwelcome tenderness. She put her hands to her still-flushed cheeks, warmth lingering in the wake of his hesitant question. “What if I need… you?” Why would he –

The urgent chiming of Aitahea’s private comm startled her from her reverie, and she absentmindedly answered the summons to see Yuon Par’s face resolve from the bright static.

“Oh! Yuon!” Even from systems away, her master’s warm expression at once soothed Aitahea’s frazzled nerves. “I was moments from contacting you. We’ve only just returned from the field.”

“We’ve received reports of developments on Alderaan and had suspected your involvement. What’s happened?”

“I was engaged in an… unexpected diplomatic incident.”

Yuon pursed her lips wryly. “…Padawan.”

Feeling like an initiate, Aitahea attempted to conceal a self-conscious squirm by pulling her half-unraveled hair over one shoulder. “It’s the lieutenant.”

Yuon’s face bloomed into a delighted smile. “That’s marvelous!”

Aitahea couldn’t help but agree, feeling her face color – yet oddly grateful it wouldn’t show up in the holo. “I miscalculated when assisting the Duke, and he happened to be part of my rescue.”

“This doesn’t sound like anything that’s been in our intelligence.”

Aitahea related their efforts on Alderaan so far: the Wolf Baron’s hostage-taking, Aitahea’s attempt at diplomacy, her subsequent rescue, and their success in the battle for the highlands.

“I see. This same man, met as a child, again on Taris, now here on your own childhood home.” Yuon smartly ticked off items on her fingers. “And now after he rescues you from peril, you in turn tend to his grave injury on the field.”

“Well, when you describe it like-”

Yuon’s peal of laughter interrupted Aitahea’s mumbled protests. “You must admit, it does sound a little like a holodrama. Has the military’s public relations recruited him for a poster yet?”

Aitahea coughed sharply, recalling her indulgent vision of him the day before, helmet doffed not unlike the covers of a number of romance holos she’d seen. Sometimes Yuon was unsettlingly astute – even for a Jedi.

“You didn’t hesitate like this with previous lovers,” Yuon continued, both a little too suddenly and far too matter-of-factly for Aitahea’s taste. The consular gaped at Yuon’s visage, hands pressed to her blazing cheeks.

“Master!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, youngling.” Yuon looked uncharacteristically wistful for a moment, then shook her head and continued. “We may be Jedi, but we’re still feeling beings. The Jedi way isn’t the eradication of emotion, but the control of it.”

“That’s precisely my concern. Even with our best intentions… My-” she broke off, shaking her head, and tried again. “If I were to pursue… this, I would want to be able to devote- no, I mean, plan… I can’t help but be afraid-” She wrinkled her brows in frustration and waved a hand as if to clear the air of her uncertain words. “This is the wrong time.”

Yuon’s expression softened. “You’ll find that there is rarely a ‘right’ time, my student.”

Aitahea drew her arms tight around herself. “I fear that as well.”

“Fear will draw you closer to the dark side than love ever could.” Eloquent as they were, Yuon’s words were more troubling than comforting.

“Passion, yet serenity?” Aitahea wondered aloud, her frown softening into something more introspective.

“That sounds more like my Padawan.” Yuon nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Take your time. Restore yourself. Alderaan was your home before you came to Tython. Are you comfortable there?”

Aitahea paused to consider. “The warm welcome was a little abbreviated, but we won a generous lead in the conflict here for House Organa and the Republic, nonetheless. I couldn’t be more pleased with our progress.”

“I’m not asking about your mission, Aitahea; I’m asking about you,” Yuon pressed. “We can feel your protection, and we sense the burden you bear. I worry for you. We all do.”

“I hope to get a little rest before the gala this evening.” While she explained the Duke’s planned celebration, Aitahea’s gaze lingered on the unfamiliar gown that had ostensibly been delivered along with the rest of her things, hung on a changing screen, nearly aglow in the low light. According to the note attached, it was ‘a gift in recognition of service to House Organa, compliments of the Duke and his family.’ It was unquestionably the height of Alderaanian fashion, the simplicity of its lines embellished by an array of wings picked out in strands of tiny gems. The generous cut of the skirt and sleeves mimicked her usual robed silhouette, but the bared shoulders and lustrous gems were considerably different from her typical somber attire.

It delighted her enormously, yet left her worrying about how it might appear, a Jedi accepting gifts of such luxury. She’d admired the ladies of nobility as a child, coiffed and dressed in gowns just like this, but so far, she’d attended less than a handful of anything resembling a formal function. She’d rarely had the opportunity to wear anything other than the functional robes of her order, and certainly never something so breathtaking.

And, she thought with smug sensibility, someone you’d like very much to see you wearing it.

“Consider it a diplomatic event! Celebrating another successful joint mission between the Jedi and Republic. It’s good for morale.” Yuon gave Aitahea a pert smile, once again unreasonably astute. “I’ll be looking for photos of you on the holonet tomorrow.”

Aitahea smothered a choked giggle behind her hands. “Master.”

Yuon gave Aitahea a blithe wave, laughing her farewell. “Have a lovely time, my Padawan! May the Force be with you.”

Aitahea smiled fondly and picked up the comm to disconnect the call. A blinking light reminded her that Erithon’s holo remained unviewed, and she intended for a moment to finally watch it. Her gaze slid from the communicator to the glittering dress before drifting over to the refresher door, halfway open and boasting of long-lost comforts. Aitahea dropped the device gently on the bed, humming the refrain of a lullaby.

#swtor #swtor fanfic #swtor fanfiction #star wars the old republic #fanfiction #oc/oc #best intentions #alderaan #jedi consular #republic trooper #adventure #romance #fluffy #oc: aitahea daviin #oc: erithon zale #erithon/aitahea #dorks #chapter 7 #chapter seven

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shimmersing · 5 years ago

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Soooooo I’m hoping aboard the “learn a skill during quarantine” bandwagon and uhhhhh well, here we go. I have had the delight and privilege of some formal art education, and I'm an experienced artist in other mediums (like cosplay & metalwork), but digital drawing & painting has been a skill I mostly admired rather than practiced. I also have a lot of wonderful friends who are kind enough to share their strategies! It's a little intimidating but really fun! 😊 TLDR try something out, you might like it!

Anyway, here's Aitahea. 😘

#swtor art #wait shimmer did you say art?#oc: aitahea daviin #my art? my art!#swtor #jedi consular #i have a lot to learn #art #fanart

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shimmersing · 5 years ago

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Meditation |Jedi Consular Aitahea Daviin | @shimmersing

#swtor #swtor fanart #art #jedi consular #fanart #pretty palettes #star wars #oc art #oc: aitahea daviin #wait shimmer did you say art?#my shadows are a hot hot mess #what is a light source #learning art

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shimmersing · 5 years ago

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Definitely feeling that ’I liked it better before I finished it’ feel. Learning!

#oc: aitahea daviin #drawing #fanart #star wars #jedi consular #art

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shimmersing · 5 years ago

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Chapter Four: In My Arms

“I feel like we keep arriving late to the party,” Erithon said dryly to Jorgan and Dorne as they entered the Thul warehouse uncontested.

A young man dressed in Organa colors ordered a group of beaten, grumbling Thul guards into a makeshift holding cell at the back of the building. The same guards that Erithon and the rest of Havoc Squad had expected to be battling themselves, but apparently someone had beaten them to the punch… literally.

The man tapped a code into the keypad with relish, and the forcefield lit up the doorway, sealing the indignant guards inside. He grinned and turned to Erithon, rushing over with a look of awe. “You’re with the Republic?”

“Havoc Squad. You’re with House Organa?”

“Brant Sonn, sir,” he replied with a bow.

Definitely from here, Erithon thought. “Wait…” Erithon frowned at the young man, recalling the briefing. “Brant Sonn? One of the hostages?”

“Yes!” He answered with a shade too much enthusiasm, pausing to compose the rest of his answer thoughtfully. “The Wolf Baron freed us when the diplomat turned herself in. We came for her as soon as we’d heard what happened. We couldn’t allow a friend of our house to remain under Thul’s hold, not after she sacrificed herself for us.”

“Was anyone hurt? I mean, besides…” Erithon nodded toward the bruised Thul guards, ensconced safely behind the forcefield.

Brant grinned. “No, sir, but the diplomat was sedated, we think. She’s a Jedi, so we-”

Erithon grasped the other man’s shoulder. “The Jedi. Where is she?”

“There, with the Duke, still in the other cell.” Brant pointed toward the other storage area where Charle Organa paced restlessly behind a slicer working at unlocking the forcefield. Beyond the crackling barrier, Erithon could just make out a human form.

“Thanks. Jorgan, see if there’s anything else we can do for Brant here. Dorne, with me.” He clapped Brant gratefully on the shoulder before turning toward the duke.

Organa looked up as they approached, his surprise lasting only a moment before being replaced by relief and gratitude. “Lieutenant! Please, tell me you’ve brought medical supplies.”

“Yes, sir,” Erithon answered, just as the slicer made one final adjustment. The glowing shield dropped, allowing Erithon, Elara, and Duke Organa to finally reach the unconscious occupant.

The prone figure was swathed in neutral shades, and a glimpse of dusky blonde hair peeked out from under the familiar hood. No, no, this isn’t what I meant when I-

The sickening lurch in his stomach almost sent Erithon to the dusty floor of the warehouse.

Aitahea.

“What in blazes happened?” Erithon demanded as he rushed to her side and yanked off his gloves. Elara dropped to the floor beside them, digging through her kit.

Duke Organa scowled furiously while he hovered. “They drugged her. Some kind of gas. Barbarians. Can you wake her?”

It looked like she’d been tossed unceremoniously over a shipping container after the drug had taken effect; the very thought set Erithon’s teeth grinding. He scooped the unconscious Jedi into a sitting position, pushing her hood back and shifting gently to let her head rest on his armored shoulder. She was white as the snow outside, lashes stark black against hollow cheeks. Biting back a particularly vicious curse, he pressed his fingers to her neck and exhaled sharply when he found a steady pulse. Elara Dorne finished her search and pulled out a handful of stims, efficiently scanning the labels before passing one to the waiting lieutenant.

“Antidote for general sedatives, sir.”

Erithon wasted no time in pressing the stim to Aitahea’s throat, watching anxiously as the medication worked its way into her system. He let the empty cartridge fall away, cradling her cheek in one hand as he waited for a response. “Come on, Jedi.”

The trooper held his breath while she stirred. Her eyelids fluttered, then opened, green eyes clouded as she focused on his face.

“Oh. Lieutenant.” A slow blink drew her eyes closed for a long moment before opening again to reveal a dreamy smile. “I was just thinking of you.”

He broke into a wide grin, elated and undeniably pleased. “If we keep meeting like this, Master Jedi, I might start getting ideas.” He closed his arms around her, unable to hide the deep sigh of relief that rushed out. “How is it you end up in my arms every time we meet?”

She gave a soft laugh, for a fleeting moment nothing more than a pretty girl amused by his witty banter. She lifted a hand and tapped gently on his chest plate. “I received your message, but I haven’t had a chance to watch it.”

Now it was his turn to laugh, only to be interrupted by the understated sound of Elara clearing her throat. Erithon started, realizing he still had Aitahea cradled close, his thumb idly brushing the curve of her cheek. Erithon spared a glance toward Duke Organa, who had watched their reunion unfold with a charmed expression. Erithon self-consciously dropped his hand from Aitahea’s face and hastened to help her sit upright while Elara thoughtfully offered the Jedi water. Aitahea gave the other woman a grateful smile, then looked toward Duke Organa.

“Your Grace. Are the hostages safe?”

“Indeed, and once free they immediately came to your aid.”

Aitahea blinked, brow knitting. “They came… for me?”

“Without hesitation.”

Aitahea nodded solemnly, thoughts elsewhere for a beat before finally lifting the container of water to her lips with trembling hands. Erithon hovered protectively at her side, frowning when he realized her already-slight form was thinner than on Taris. It had been months, of course, but… what had happened since then?

Elara leaned closer, peering carefully at Aitahea. “Master Jedi, I’m Sergeant Elara Dorne.” The sergeant glanced briefly at Erithon before continuing her queries. “How do you feel? Any pain or discomfort?”

“Woozy, Sergeant, but I expect that’s normal, thank you. A vast improvement from a few minutes ago. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

“Lieutenant,” Aitahea turned back to Erithon, eyes clearer than they’d been moments ago, color returning to her cheeks. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re the cavalry, of course.” Erithon jerked a thumb back over one shoulder. “Been helping the Duke out with his troublesome neighbors. We were supposed to rescue some diplomat,” he intoned, playing at charming nonchalance. Aitahea’s lips curled in a smile again. “But it seems the folks you helped felt they needed to return the favor first. We just brought the medkit.”

“Oh!” Aitahea marveled, eyes aglow, as she pieced together the last few hours. “It was you who took back the Spears!”

“Guilty as charged, Master Jedi,” Erithon replied, basking in her attention. She’d been in his thoughts so often. He’d found himself scanning through his messages for her name every time he’d had a reasonable signal. There’d been no more dreams of her since Taris – at least not of them as children again, anyway – and this wasn’t the exact reunion he’d hoped for, but having her whole and close was better than he could have asked, even under these unusual circumstances.

Then again, this was starting to look more like the norm for them.

“It seems you two know each other.” Organa’s eyes danced, amusement lightening his knowing tone.

Aitahea’s eyes flickered from the duke to Erithon and back, her smile shy but bright. “On Taris, Your Grace, we retrieved impossibly valuable data from the wreck of an old starship. The mission was a great success.”

“I beg your pardon, Master Jedi, but I think it’s advisable that you see a medic once we’ve returned to Organa Castle,” Elara said, gathering up the few items she’d removed from her pack. “Otherwise your condition seems to be improving rapidly.”

Aitahea nodded, her attention shifting past the sergeant to where Qyzen Fess and Aric Jorgan approached, led by Brant Sonn. “Good. Because I don’t think we’re finished here.”

Erithon observed the scowl on Jorgan’s face before turning back to Aitahea, rising slowly but steadily. “Are you sure you’re up for that? You were out cold just a few minutes ago.”

“Whatever your companion administered is working quickly, and I have the Force with me, as always. All will be well.” Aitahea studied him, and he couldn’t help shuffling sheepishly under her reserved scrutiny. “I am… so pleased to see you, Lieutenant.”

He shrugged casually, but a gratifying warmth had settled quite firmly in his chest. “Erithon is fine, you know, if it’s okay with you.”

Her lips parted, the shade of a smile appearing before she looked toward their waiting allies.

“We have a problem,” Jorgan said. “The Thul army is on the march again. General?” He lifted a holocomm, the bluish projection brightening the dark corner of the warehouse as General Kashim appeared.

“It is good to see you alive. Matters are moving quickly, and House Organa is in dire need of reinforcement.”

“What can we do to help?” Aitahea asked, steadying herself with a hand on Erithon’s arm. He found himself biting his lip to avoid interrupting the Jedi with an admonishment for offering her assistance, knowing full well – after a moment of careful consideration – that she knew her boundaries better than he would. As much as he wanted her out of harm’s way, that wasn’t in the cards for either of them.

“The Empire has sent several Sith apprentices to support the Thul army. Organa soldiers are proving no match.”

Those gathered murmured their concern, but Aitahea looked positively alarmed. “Sith, even apprentices, are not to be trifled with.”

“We’re used to fighting blasters,” Brant Sonn added with a deep frown. “Not the Force.”

Kashim continued over the holo. “So long as the Sith are in place, we cannot win this battle. You must make a full assault on their war camps immediately.”

Aitahea dropped her head, resignation darkening her words. “It seems peace must wait.”

“This is the greatest challenge House Organa has faced. If we win, Thul will be repelled, and we can go on the offensive.”

“Aitahea, I can hardly ask you to risk yourself once again, but it seems I have no choice,” Charle Organa added, shaking his head in disbelief. “If we lose, House Organa will be forced into exile.”

Aitahea drew a sharp breath at his admission, fingers tightening on Erithon’s armored wrist. “Your Grace, I will not allow that to happen.”

Organa smiled tightly. “I expected nothing less from a paladin of my house. And you have strong, courageous allies.” The duke nodded at Erithon, who returned a practiced salute.

“May the Force be with you,” General Kashim added as his final word, and the comm went dark.

The Jedi lifted her eyes to Erithon’s again, clear and determined. “We have work to do.”

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shimmersing · 5 years ago

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The Barsen’thor of the Jedi is an uncommon representative of the Order. One of only a handful of children who survived the Sacking of Coruscant, she excelled in all aspects of her training and chose the path of consular, healer, and diplomat. As the last Padawan of Yuon Par, she demonstrated exceptional calm under pressure and created harmony in the face of chaos. She healed a Force plague and released from torment the masters of her own order, gathered an army, and united the Rift Alliance. Exceptional, as any Jedi named with the title should be.

Yet other tenets of her Order she refused. She kept ties with her birth family on Coruscant, and fell in love with a Republic soldier, later receiving sanctions from the Jedi Council to wed. Their first child was born just as Coruscant was blockaded by the Eternal Empire, and despite having a babe-in-arms she remained in the field, defending the oppressed and helpless alongside her husband.

She joined the faction that would become known as the Eternal Alliance, along with her sister Tember, a former Republic privateer. As part of the Commander’s inner circle, she provided a temperate voice of reason when the diverse group quarreled. She was reunited with her own Padawan when she aided the Jedi on Ossus. She had a second child during this time, a boy named Syo after the Jedi Master and close friend. She remains affiliated with a number of Imperial contacts, including former Dark Council member Lord Isme Kallig, Darth Imperius.

#swtor #jedi consular #oc: aitahea daviin #MOM #just oc stuff

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shimmersing · 5 years ago

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Chapter Five: Trajectory

Aitahea watched, silent, as Brant Sonn ripped the Thul banner down from its place outside the warehouse, tossing the fabric aside and hoisting aloft the blue and gold of House Organa. The adjacent farmlands were clear of their enemies, and she hoped the families that tended them would soon be able to return, to have lives again peaceful and orderly.

The Thul warehouse had quickly become a staging area for the merged Organa and Republic forces once Aitahea’s rescue had been completed. A painstaking search of the building had revealed no trace of the Wolf Baron or his Blackguard, leaving them with only the low-ranking guards who’d been Aitahea’s unfortunate jailers. They would be sitting tight while prisoner exchanges were arranged and negotiations finalized.

The strike team that Aitahea and Erithon had agreed to lead had opted to wait until the following day to advance on the Thul and Sith forces. Qyzen Fess and Aric Jorgan had volunteered to scout the Sith camp, their experience making them ideal for the initial part of this new mission. Elara Dorne had efficiently organized the Organa subjects into something that suggested typical rank and file.

Aitahea found herself surprisingly grateful to be ensconced in the same warehouse in which she’d been held prisoner, working alongside Erithon as they organized the next morning’s attack. Though they’d barely had a moment to speak other than in communication about the impending battle, just being near him seemed to ease her spirits. It went without saying that his presence was making the wait and the work that much more pleasant, delighted as she was to see him.

Her abbreviated captivity hadn’t left her any worse for wear; she couldn’t help but entertain the morbid thought that she probably hadn’t had as significant a rest as those few hours of forced unconsciousness in weeks. Nevertheless, Elara continued to regularly check in with her, and Erithon remained within arm’s reach.

Erithon. She had known, even in the depths of her stupor, the Force still a guiding path for her unconscious mind, that she was safe and would eventually be rescued. But waking to that particular set of blue eyes? A dream come true.

“Jedi?” He appeared at her shoulder again, real and warm and safe; Aitahea swallowed hard and tried to calm her escalating heartbeat.

“Yes,” she answered, scanning his face again. Again.

She was looking at him too much. Someone was going to notice. Someone else, since the duke and the sergeant had obviously already witnessed her absolute nonsense upon awakening from the drug-induced sleep. What had she said? I was just thinking of you? She wanted to simply blame it on the drugs, but when he’d pulled her in close, what he’d said… How is it you end up in my arms every time we meet?

All she had managed at that singular moment had been a giggle. Honestly. Honestly.

“We’re close to done here, if you want to take a break. You’ve been going nonstop since you woke up.” He was trying to smile at her, but a crease kept appearing between his brows. Even had she not been a Jedi, his worry would have been palpable.

“Thank you, I think you’re right. Today has been… remarkable, to say the least. Like this, since before I arrived.” She waved a hand at the bustling warehouse before offering a rueful smile. “I’m sorry I haven’t had the chance to see your holo. It’s just been…”

Erithon chuckled. “It wasn’t urgent, I mean. I just wanted you to know I was on the way here. Worked out after all.”

“It has indeed.” She folded and refolded her hands, eyes flickering to where Elara Dorne gave a small squad some cursory training drills. “Your team has grown since Taris.”

“Yeah, Sergeant Dorne is great. She joined us on Taris, actually.”

“Her accent…”

“Yup. She was an Imperial citizen. Didn’t like how they did business on the other side, so she joined us.”

“That’s incredible.”

He shuffled, distracted for a moment by some sheets of loose flimsy that shifted when he tried leaning against a table. “So, this is where you grew up, right?”

She smiled, delighted. “You remembered.” Much to her continued wonder, he blushed and stammered over the next few words.

“Hard to forget.” He paused, swallowed hard, and took a deep breath before continuing in a rush. “Well, we’ve sort of been on this, uh, trajectory, right? I mean we practically flew into each other over Nar Shaddaa.” He quieted and stepped closer, something wistful on his face. “Looking at the same stars over and over again.”

The rest of the room seemed to hush along with him, but even so, Aitahea could barely hear anything over her madly rushing pulse. Stars. She had a sudden wild urge to embrace him, just absolutely throw herself into his arms. I must still be suffering the effects of that gas. What am I doing? She promptly quashed the superfluous impulse, instead holding up her datapad.

“You said we’re finished for now? Let’s…” she trailed off, looking around the room for another suitable distraction. “Have a look outside? I’m sure the sergeant would agree to a quick lap around the perimeter, just to-” By the Force, did you just ask him to go on a walk with you? “-see how our allies are faring?” She finished in a rush, looking somewhat desperately for a charging dock for the datapad she still held.

He chuckled again, plucking the instrument from her hands and setting it aside. “I think they’ll be fine. But you seem to need it, so let’s get out of here.” She inclined her head gratefully as he gave her the lead and wasted no time in heading for the warehouse exit.

Aitahea blinked as they walked out into bright sunlight, raising a hand to shade her eyes. The farmland they’d be crossing tomorrow was lush, already planted with crops that she hoped would survive the battle. A farm vehicle still smoked among some of the scorched plants, but the Jedi felt certain that their team wouldn’t allow any more harm to come to the farmlands or its people.

Erithon fell into step next to her and angled their path toward the coast. They walked in companionable silence until they reached the rocks that marked the edge of the coastline, heedless of the light snow that had gathered in the shade of the evergreens. The sea churned against the rocks, calm but still very, very far below.

“What a view. Come on.” Erithon broke the silence, clambering onto a boulder and turning to offer her a hand. “Aren’t scared of heights, are you, Jedi?”

Aitahea laughed, recalling with some amusement when he’d pulled her to the edge of a much smaller, much nastier body of water on Taris, and reached to take the proffered hand. “I am not, fortunately. But I must admit that thranta is one of my least favorite forms of transportation.” She nodded toward a nearby platform where a few nests were visible.

“Those big bird things? Yeah, no thanks. I’ll take a speeder.” He pulled her close, sliding his free arm protectively around her waist until she had her footing.

Aitahea took a long breath, fighting the urge to look anywhere but his eyes, earnest and warm and still a little worried. Oh, I missed you, she thought and swallowed hard to keep the words to herself. They were well back from the edge of the sheer rock face, but she couldn’t help feeling a little bereft when he released her and dropped his hands back to his sides.

She turned away from the coastline, looking back toward the battered towers of Organa Castle. “Tell me about how you regained the Spears of Organa. The Duke only gave me a brief outline, but he wasn’t able share any details.”

Erithon grinned at her. “It wasn’t what we expected to be doing as soon as we were dirtside, that’s for sure.” He straightened, squinting at the surrounding landscape for some point of reference. “Haley Organa caught us at the spaceport, desperate as anything, asking us to disarm some baradium bombs. That was the first we saw of these Thul clowns.” He pulled a face, like he’d gotten a whiff of something foul-smelling. “Didn’t like their tactics at all. They fought dirty, set up ambushes all around those turrets. Took all three of us, if I’m being honest.” Any bashfulness he’d displayed since their reunion fell away as he spoke of his companions, giving way to a steadfast and proud commander. “Havoc’s becoming a good team.”

The Jedi had seen more than a few Republic military recruitment posters in her travels, but they paled in comparison to Erithon standing before her now, dashing and capable. Her fingers quivered as she reached out, but she placed her hand on his arm anyway. “They have a good leader.”

He gazed down at her, pensive for a moment before he broke into one of his now-familiar lopsided grins. “Just doing my job, Master Jedi.”

“You…” Aitahea pressed her lips together and swallowed hard, considering her hand on his arm before she lifted her eyes to his again. “Please, call me Aitahea, won’t you?”

“Of- of course. Aitahea,” he stammered in reply, and it was like hearing it for the first time. He hesitated for a beat before placing his own hand over hers, fingertips cool against her flushed skin.

Her breath caught in her throat, chased by a feeling like falling. Like gravity failing. Suspended and unsure how to move, what to reach out for. Oh stars.

“Lieutenant?”

Both their heads swung hastily toward the unexpected voice. Aitahea slipped her hand back to her side as surreptitiously as possible and willed her burning cheeks to cool. Aric Jorgan and Qyzen Fess approached, looking none the worse for wear, returning from their scouting mission. Jorgan saluted efficiently, while Qyzen remained unreadable as usual.

“Ready to debrief, sir. We’ve got footage to show you in the warehouse.” He nodded to Aitahea. “Master Jedi, we’ll need your assessment in particular, I think.”

“Many Sith,” Qyzen rumbled. “Soft things, but dangerous still.”

“Never a dull moment,” Erithon drawled, giving a perfunctory shrug. “Guess we better get back to work, huh?”

Aitahea nodded solemnly, tucking away the lingering feeling of loss that had lodged in her chest. “Indeed. Let’s head back.”

“Herald, a word,” Qyzen said, and Aitahea tilted her head.

“Of course, Qyzen.” She nodded to the Trandoshan, then to Erithon and Jorgan as they looked at her expectantly. “We’ll catch up shortly.” The Cathar shrugged, and Erithon gave her a smile and a wave as they turned back toward the warehouse.

She watched until they were out of hearing range, then turned to see Qyzen uncharacteristically fretting, a divergence from his usual composed demeanor. “Is something wrong, Qyzen?”

“Would ask the same.” His single seeing eye focused on her hands. She had one covering the other, as if she meant to hide the place where Erithon’s hand had lingered on hers.

She stiffened, sweeping her hands behind her and clasping them tight. “Nothing’s wrong, Qyzen. Why?”

Qyzen’s only answer was his own question. “When is last time Herald spoke to Yuon Par?”

Perplexed with the apparent change of subject, Aitahea shook her head. “Is that what you’re worried about? It’s been… weeks, I’m afraid. But she’s well; I can sense that much through the shielding.”

“Certain she is, Scorekeeper’s Herald.” The Trandoshan considered her for a long moment. “It is you who are not. Should speak with Yuon. For own sake.”

Aitahea nodded somberly. She glanced over her shoulder just as Erithon paused one final time before he and Jorgan disappeared into the warehouse. The consular closed her eyes and pulled in a deep, slow breath. “I will, Qyzen. I will.”

#swtor #swtor fanfiction #star wars the old republic #swtor fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #oc/oc #best intentions #jedi consular #republic trooper #adventure #romance #fluffy #oc: aitahea daviin #oc: erithon zale #luminous legacy #luminous #ao3

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shimmersing · 5 years ago

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OC Aesthetic

Tagged by @mimabeann <3 <3

bold the aesthetic that applies to your muse. italicize what can sometimes apply to your muse

Aitahea Daviin: Romantic

lovely artwork by @claudela <3

𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐋.

tired eyes. coffee stains on the table. listening to the bustle of the city. unmade beds. ponytails. sunlight seeping through the curtains. chapped lips. walking barefoot across the floorboards. dusty dictionaries. black and white reruns. huge sweaters. the ticking of the clock. hearing birds in the morning. fireplaces. falling asleep during class.

𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄.

freckles. the sun rising. watching the sea. taking shots of the city. historical museums. bright eyes. looking up at the clouds. walls covered in artworks. drawing in the middle of lessons. tracing your fingers on the sand. painting for hours. staying in uncrowded coffee-shops. worn paperbacks. messy braids. going to bed with your knee socks on.

𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐐𝐔𝐄.

dark hair. a little sophisticated. always observing the world around you. intricate designs. high ceilings. extravagant musical pieces. dim lights. colorless photographs. fancy furniture. pale skin. hearing soft footfalls coming from outside the room. mischievous looks. bitten nails. candlelight dinners. dark shades of lipstick.

𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋.

chandeliers. the clinking of a teacup mug. laced clothing. modern architecture. light hair. watching the view from the terrace. hidden birthmarks. drinking tea in the morning. wandering about in an empty building. botanical gardens. old films. ancient marble sculptures. expensive perfume. breakfasts in bed. reading stories about mythology.

𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐂.

compassion. short writings on scraps of paper. blushed cheeks. a bouquet of roses. reading collections of poetry late at night. loose hair. carpeted floors. attending operas. faint music playing in the background. staying under the covers until midday. the night sky. streetlights. picking flowers. dancing around in silk dresses. scented candles.

#oc aesthetic #oc: aitahea daviin #jedi consular #tagged #just oc stuff

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shimmersing · 6 years ago

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Their kiss was meant to be shared. Celebrated. So they did, all the trappings of titles and formalities slipping away, a breathless promise of forever. However long that might be.

Sometimes it seemed like it might be frighteningly short. That was who they were: heroes. Sacrifice was part and parcel of their story, in whatever form that would be. Both had accepted that when they had chosen their paths, chosen the people of the Republic and the way of compassion.

Before meeting, neither would have ever considered this near-mythological turn of events, the trials of their courtship, three long years of both personal and public battles fought through every corner of the galaxy, first separately, now together. Overcoming impossible odds to finally be standing in each other’s arms – truly joined now – on a softly rolling Alderaanian hillside, flanked by a ridiculous retinue of security, military, Jedi, and several important heads of state. It was hardly a wedding anymore; it was a state sanctioned high security galactic celebration for the Heroes of the Republic. The real royalty in the galaxy paled next to the fairy tale of the beautiful Jedi and her heroic Republic Trooper. The kiss that could save worlds ended, and husband and wife simply looked at each other, nothing reflected in their gazes save each other.

Aitahea’s throat tightened around a bubble of laughter – or was it a sob? There was delight and perhaps just a hint of panic in the sound as it escaped her lips, but Erithon’s arms tightened around her and all was sudden perfection. He smiled, looking proud and relieved and dashing in his dress uniform.

“May the Force guide us.” So softly spoken that only Aitahea could hear, she shivered at the words her husband offered just to her, hushed beneath the applause of the attendees.

“And be with us,” she whispered, reaching to wrap her arms around his shoulders, breathing her oath against his lips.

“...always.”

Thank you so much to artist Eva Soulu eva-soulu for the art, I’m utterly delighted. Thank you so much for caring about my babes! <3

#swtor #star wars the old republic #art #fanfiction #fanfic #may the force guide us #wedding #OMG ART #um #luminous legacy #writing by shimmersing #my ocs #oc: aitahea daviin #oc: erithon zale #blessed artists

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shimmersing · 5 years ago

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Chapter Three: On Your Conscience

When Erithon Zale and the rest of Havoc arrived to find Organa Castle in an uproar, it didn’t come as a surprise. What was unexpected was that the hubbub was in fact not in response to their arrival, the conquering heroes who’d reclaimed the Spears of Organa. The news had preceded them, but the feeling around them was one of panic, not celebration. General Kashim spared them a glance as they were escorted into the command room.

“Lieutenant, you’re not too late.”

“Sir?” Erithon snapped a quick salute that was echoed by Jorgan and Dorne, swallowing the frown that was tugging at his lips. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.

“The reports of your victory at the Spears are welcome, but the briefing will have to wait. We have another pressing concern. Thul has seized hundreds of Organa citizens as hostages. The duke and his diplomat were to meet with the Wolf Baron, but something’s gone wrong. We just received a report from Duke Organa. The diplomat was exchanged for the hostages. We’re preparing to stage a rescue.”

“A diplomat? Who did-” Erithon paused as the holo began chiming, and Kashim swiftly opened the channel.

It was Duke Organa himself, looking furious and harried. “Kashim! The negotiations were a trap, blackmail!”

Kashim nodded stiffly. “Your Grace, Havoc Squad has returned from securing the Spears of Organa.” The general adjusted the focus of the holocam to Havoc Squad, and Organa’s strained expression eased.

“Lieutenant! We are indebted to you for your actions in returning control of the Spears to House Organa. My grandfather would be proud.” The signal flickered, and Kashim reached to adjust the controls. “We need your aid once again.”

Erithon fought to keep his expression stern. Nobles could be a little dramatic. “Havoc is at your service, Duke Organa.”

“The trap was… diplomat alone-” Organa continued to speak while the holo continued to shudder and crackle. “-aken in trade for our people. We will not leave her behind. General Kashim has… location-” The failing signal cut off any further instructions, but a glance at Jorgan and Dorne told Erithon everything he needed to know.

“General, give me the coordinates, and we’ll move out.”

Kashim tapped a few commands into the console and after a moment Erithon’s own datapad chimed, displaying a warehouse situated in the nearby farmlands.

“Excellent location for an ambush,” Jorgan muttered over the lieutenant’s shoulder. Dorne’s response was more measured, lips pressed into a tight line.

“Sir, if there are civilians involved, we are certainly within our capacity to aid the Duke once again.”

Erithon skimmed the attached report, wondering aloud. “Who was the diplomat involved? Someone from the Republic?”

“A Jedi, an old friend of the Duke. House Organa has close ties with the Order, even an enclave,” Kashim replied, nodding toward a robed, restless teenager standing outside the room, holding a stack of datapads. A training saber peeked out from behind one shoulder.

She said… it was supposed to be… damn. Erithon shook his head. It was stupid to assume every Jedi out there was Aitahea; there were thousands, right? He didn’t know if his last message had even gotten to her; the quickly recorded holo hadn’t received a reply yet when he’d last checked. Even if that was just a few minutes ago while they wound through the expanse of Organa Castle.

The soldier pulled his datapad in a little tighter, about to check just once more… Maybe a message had come in the last few minutes… Unless it really was… Nah.

Erithon cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “Back into the fray it is. Let’s move out, Havoc.”

...

Aitahea Daviin strode purposefully into the warehouse, Qyzen Fess close behind. The Trandoshan muttered uneasily at her shoulder, almost too softly for the Jedi to discern his exact words.

“Herald, this place…”

“I sense them too. The Blackguard.”

“Come, then, more offerings for Scorekeeper.”

Aitahea nodded, still uncertain about her strange role as religious figure, but sure of the approach of the handful of Thul assassins who rose from the shadows of the warehouse with hostile intent.

“This was not agreement,” Qyzen hissed, his voice quickly drowned by the sharp sound of Aitahea’s lightsaber igniting, the bright glare revealing a vicious challenge in the guards’ eyes as they closed around the two.

“No, it is not,” Aitahea replied evenly. “Brace yourself, Qyzen.”

The Blackguard were clearly enjoying the opportunity to hone their skills against a Jedi warrior, but Aitahea did not plan on simply leaving them to their entertainment. She began with a wave that swept half of the attackers off their feet, then whirled around to set the ground shaking beneath the feet of the others that faced Qyzen. On Alderaan, where so much of her growth and training had taken place, the Force felt like an old friend, ready and willing to lend her strength, and she leaned deeply into the sensation. The ambush, on the other hand, deteriorated spectacularly as the Blackguard struggled and failed, one by one, to rise to their feet. Satisfied, Aitahea deactivated her lightsaber and looked toward the human man slowly descending the warehouse stairs.

The Wolf Baron laughed while his applause echoed through the warehouse. “Impressive. The chance to see a Jedi in action… well, it makes this whole war seem worthwhile.” The baron strode confidently into the center of the room. His prideful aura was unmistakable; he had every confidence that he had the upper hand in the situation, that perhaps the tables had even – finally - turned in his favor.

Aitahea remained still as he circled, following his steps with her eyes. “My name is Aitahea Daviin. I stand before you as a Jedi and representative of House Organa. I am here to negotiate the safe release of the Organa people you hold captive.” The Jedi pushed her awareness deeper into the Force, but the baron’s pronounced overconfidence failed to give away any secrets.

The Baron gave her an appreciative look. “Well met, Master Jedi. I am Baron Jharkus Thul – better known as the Wolf Baron.” He gave a mocking half bow, glancing past her toward the entrance. “Is the duke on his way, or did the old man send you in his place?”

“The duke follows close behind,” she replied steadily, despite the Baron’s lack of decorum and her own growing sense of peril. “I request evidence of the hostages’ safety, my lord, before we proceed.”

“Excellent. Heronus? Show the Jedi what she asks.”

Thul lingered at her shoulder, Aitahea fighting the rising unease that crept up her spine as his henchman opened a holochannel on a nearby access point. The flickering hologram resolved into a handful of haggard subjects, one young man at the front.

“My name is Brant Sonn. I am an eighth-generation subject of House Organa. My family, along with many others, was captured by House Thul.” The holo showed Brant swallowing hard before continuing. “They’re treating us… well.”

Aitahea was about to voice her growing concern when a commotion made them all turn toward the entrance. Charle Organa came striding into the hangar, fury in his eyes.

“Baron!” Organa roared as he approached. Aitahea moved swiftly to intercept him, but the Duke only shrugged off her hands. “What’ve you done with my people?”

Thul sneered. “Keep your duke on a leash, please. The prisoners are in a very precarious situation.” At this, Organa began to reach for the baron, but Aitahea caught his arm, alarmed at his wrath. She offered an almost imperceptible shake of her head, eyes beseeching.

“Your Lordship, let us discuss the peaceful release of the hostages. Your Grace?” she said quickly, all courtesy and aplomb, glancing between the two men while silently weaving a tapestry of peace and patience around them.

Baron Thul looked down at the Jedi haughtily, ignoring the livid Duke. “I have three hundred forty-eight prisoners.” A dark gleam filled his eyes. “I am willing to make a trade.”

The Force was suddenly thick with treachery, and Aitahea fought to steady her breathing through the suffocating sensation. Something was not right here. Unaware of her struggle, Charle lifted his hands in desperation. “I’ll do it, Thul. House Organa will not fall, with or without me.” Aitahea began to shush him, but the Baron’s harsh laughter interrupted them.

“Ha!” he howled. “You misunderstand, Your Grace. I want your Jedi.” Aitahea startled at the sudden shift. “She will become my prisoner in exchange for the hostages.”

“What? Utterly ridiculous! I won’t-”

Thul cut him off with a sharp motion. “She is more useful to House Organa than you, Your Grace.” He chuckled, smug and sure. “With your Jedi out of commission, the next battle will be easily won. What say you, my dear?” Aitahea pulled in a sharp breath, alarmed. “You can rest happily in our jails until the Republic ransoms you back, or you can have three hundred deaths on your conscience.” He extended a hand as if offering her a dance. Her skin crawled at the look in his eyes.

This was no choice. A single life for more than three hundred was a generous offer, but the baron’s plan to attack once she was in custody could certainly turn the war effort against Organa and the Republic. Soldiers or civilians, one way or another, would be lost. It was no choice at all.

“You have my cooperation, my lord,” Aitahea replied solemnly, drawing away from Duke Organa. A bereft look marred his dignified features. “Release the hostages, along with my crew and the Duke.” She gave Qyzen a grim smile, unable to read his expression, but accepting his curt nod with relief. “I’ll submit peacefully.”

The Wolf Baron brayed in triumph, but the Jedi ignored his open hand, instead offering only a slight bow, little more than a nod. Baron Thul’s expression faded from jubilant to bemused, settling finally on red-faced rage.

“Aitahea,” the duke called, low and dangerous. “You will not be forgotten. I swear it.” Aitahea offered her friend a sincere obeisance before she was flanked by the remaining Thul guards. Qyzen grasped Organa’s shoulder and began leading the duke out of the warehouse, casting wary glances over a shoulder.

The baron clenched his still open hand into a trembling fist, and Aitahea worried for a moment that she’d severely miscalculated. Thul glared at her, lips twisted into a livid sneer, before flinging his hand toward her dismissively. “Use the gas. Keep her incapacitated until the transport is ready.”

“Wait!” she cried, straining against the hands that clamped around her arms. “You already have my surrend-” The mask that slammed over her face heralded a bitter odor, followed swiftly by darkness.

#swtor #swtor fanfiction #fanfic #swtor fanfic #star wars the old republic #jedi consular #republic trooper #alderaan #fluffy #adventure #cute #oc/oc #oc: aitahea daviin #oc: erithon zale #erithon/aitahea #ao3

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