#the emperor is rolling his eyes in the prism

[sycobyte]

ooo the girls are fighting (right in front of the big powerful netherbrain)

[mediumsizedwildcat]

edit: minors please do not interact. i can't control what you read, if you pop up in my notifications i'll block you

well, this spiraled out of “thought” into “ficlet”

durgetash, after durge quest, endgame, genderneutral (they/them) redemption durge, death, resurrection, sad, happy ending, major spoilers (obviously)

when allying with gortash, you meet him at the brain's location and walk the last bit together. he takes the netherstones from you and tries to command the brain. it retaliates, commands him to die.

what if durge realizes this before the brain commands?

what if-

“no.” free of bhaal, they wrap their arm around gortash's neck, nuzzle their nose against the side of his head. amused by defiance, the netherbrain hesitates.

the memories will never return, but this close to their former beloved, durge's heart lets them know exactly how important gortash actually was to them. “he's mine,” they growl.

the brain sends out a vibe, almost as if it means to caress as well as edge on. do it, it challenges, though it doesn't say it, doesn't think it for them to hear.

knowledge flashes in their mind, where to stab to prolong the blood loss. no doubt they studied this to get off to their victim's deaths. to torture efficiently, let their victims believe there was a way out.

durge snarls, shows their teeth to the brain, their dagger pierces skin. they hold their breath, listen to gortash's death sounds. his gasps, the pain in his voice, the satisfaction that it was durge in the end. hope they remembered.

a tear rolls down durge's face, drops and soaks into gortash's robe. they pull out the dagger, hold gortash as he sinks into their arms. part of them wonders if he is that fragile or if he pretends. the brain is satisfied. durge realizes they couldn't win this fight of minds no matter how hard they tried, certainly not with gortash in their arms. but there is an archwizard in their ranks.

durge passes the stones to gale. “your turn,” they say. they pick up the dagger from gortash's lap, wrap their arm around his waist.

gale hesitates, “are you sure?”

durge laughs, no humor behind it. “i'm in no condition to beat an elderbrain, but you're an archwizard. you defied mystra, bested that orb, you'll get that crown, you'll return it to mystra, and she'll free you. if you cannot do this, gale of waterdeep, none of us can.”

gale steps up to the challenge. he binds the brain with every move. it doesn't matter, the brain breaks free. the emperor pulls them into the astral prism.

durge looks up, turns to halsin, to shadowheart. “someone heal him,” they plead, gortash still in their arms, barely alive.

“soldier,” karlach warns, anger radiates from her.

“he can-” meeting the fury in karlach's eyes, durge chokes on their words.

“he planned to blow up children with toys! he sold me to zariel!” karlach picks up her battleaxe. “he doesn't get a second chance.”

durge holds gortash closer, as if to shield him. “ketheric died, orin died. i was much worse than them combined,” they remind. “i raped, killed, and ate babes. i haunted children's nightmares, made them watch as their parents sacrificed themselves to keep them safe. carved their names into their parent's flesh as i killed them, ate dwarf regularly, experimented, tortured, kept the corpses to satisfy sexual urges.”

their body shivers. those are unthinkable horrors to them now, something they would never dare. they're good now. their friends shaped them.

“he did what he knew, what he grew up to do, all he ever saw. if i get a second chance, why can't he? if i-”

gortash chokes and despite the blood loss, pushes out of durge's arms. durge reaches out, places their hand on his cheek, pushes their thumb against his lip.

“we can be better,” they say quietly, “we can be good. he can help with your engine, karlach.” they meet gortash's eyes, hopeful, pleading, “we can be good.”

gortash's expression twists into one of disgust. “weak,” he chokes out. “changed.”

durge's breath catches in their throat, tears begin to sting their eyes. “but,” they trace his bottom lip, “we can be better? together? we can-”

gortash turns his head up, snarls, bares his teeth. disgust in his gaze as it wanders over his former lover's body.

the emperor rolls its eyes. “the netherbrain-”

“shut it, ghaik,” lae'zel warns.

durge pulls their hand away, takes out stillmaker from its place on their thigh. they show it to gortash, a reminder of their time together. a gift from bane's tyrant to bhaal's spawn. “karlach,” their voice shakes with heartbreak, “i need a hand.”

with durge's knowledge of anatomy, they know exactly where to place stillmaker to avoid ribs and puncture the heart. karlach places her hand on the pommel, looks at durge, and nods.

durge turns their head away, closes their eyes, lets the tears fall. they nod. karlach pushes stillmaker into gortash's chest, right where durge positioned it. they pull it out together.

gortash gasps, then his body goes limp.

the party is quiet. they follow the emperor to prince orpheus. no one mentions durge carrying gortash's body.

durge uses the pain. they pretend to let the emperor eat the prince's brain, convince it to bring down the barrier. they use magical chackles to bind the emperor to prince orpheus. they hand the orphic hammer to lae'zel and urge her to free her people's prince.

somehow, durge manages to make them all work together. they carry gortash's body out of the astral prism, they promise voss that once this is over, they will remove the chackles. they watch as the allies they've gathered, the friends they've made, question their sanity. their leadership.

finally, durge speaks up. “i cannot fight.”

silence follows. none believe them. halsin is the first who understands.

“you speak truth,” he says. “the headaches, your intestines... i remember from my examinations. you would need healing at all times. no matter, we have come this far and you have put together a good team. you will be missed during the final battle, but, oak father willing, we will make it.”

make it they did. they defeated the netherbrain, they celebrated. durge reaches for withers' arm. withers understands, but denies.

“one last act to piss off the dead three,” durge pleads.

gortash returns to life in their arms. this time, no sign of disgust. he lifts his hand, cups durge's cheek, “you carried me all the way here?”

“we can be good, enver,” durge pleads again.

gortash smiles, pained by bane's torture. “we can,” he agrees.

[blackjackkent]

"Why? Because of what you are." or "We tried, and we failed." for hector for the lyric prompts?

(TY for the prompt! Sorry it took me this long to respond lol. I hope you see this since I can’t tag you. D: 

I'm not sure if you are the same anon-friend who said they were tickled by Hector's previous interactions with the Emperor, but if so, well… this one is definitely not funny, but it is about the Emperor! And it’s long! And feelsy! So there’s that. :P

I'm going to go ahead and set this within Hector's liveblog and directly after this post specifically, because I am still emotional about it; originally my intention was to let him vent and expend some frustration but this definitely ended up going in a very different direction. The game doesn't give us an opportunity for a followup conversation with Karlach until morning, which leads me to believe she straight up just doesn't come back to camp that night and Hector lies alone in their tent, staring at the ceiling for hours in a sort of emotionally fragile haze before finally drifting off into restless dreams…)

PROMPT: 70 Lyric Prompts - “Why? Because of what you are.”

-----

Hector knows where he is without opening his eyes. The air within the Astral Prism is still, but there is something undefinable about it that feels different, some scent or taste or even the texture of the atmosphere on his skin. Foreign. Strange. Wrong. 

He shudders. He doesn't want to look around. He doesn't want to see anyone right now, not really; after the conversation with Karlach over Gortash's dead body, he feels like something ripped into his chest and removed his heart. He barely even spoke to anyone when they returned to camp, just spent hours bashing his fists desperately into the training dummy beside Lae'zel's empty tent and then collapsed into his bedroll as if there was any relief to be found in sleep. 

But he wants least of all to see the Emperor, and that is what he knows he will see if he looks around - the mind flayer's beady lavender stare and twitching tentacles and implacable agenda of transformation and destruction. 

“Go away,” he mutters hoarsely, and does not open his eyes. 

“We must speak,” the creature rumbles. “Gortash is dead. Our plan must move forward.”

Hector's eyes squeeze tighter shut and he rolls onto his side away from the illithid voice, curling into himself. “There is no our plan,” he growls. “There is your plan and my plan. And I want no part of yours tonight.”

“Yet you will hear it, nevertheless, because you must,” the Emperor continues implacably. There is the soft, almost imperceptible sound of shifting fabric, of the illithid levitating along the ground. “With Gortash dead, you will mean to face down Orin. The battle ahead will try your abilities to the utmost. You must reconsider the use of the Astral Tadpole if you are to--”

“No.”

“Why will you not simply--” 

“Why?” Hector answers flatly. “Because of what you are. Because of what you want me to become. I want no part of it, I never have, and we are not having this conversation tonight.”

“It is not a question of wanting. It is a question of what must be.” The mind flayer pauses, then continues implacably, “Karlach's death is a regrettable loss, but you must look beyond it. You and I--”

Something snaps inside Hector's brain and he feels suddenly choked with a surge of emotion too complex for easy definition - rage and grief and exhaustion and disgust. “Leave me alone!” he snarls. His eyes come open and he rolls to his front, through his knees and onto his feet in a smooth motion that curves itself into an unthinking punch in the direction from which the Emperor was speaking. 

The Emperor is too quick, and darts backward before the blow can land. It hovers just out of reach, looking at him with that unreadable stare, and makes a clicking noise from somewhere within the maw beneath its tentacles. “Foolish,” it murmurs. “I am not your enemy, Hector. I never have been.”

Hector stares back at it, for once not bothering to hide any of his anger. “You know,” he spits angrily, “you do a very good impression of humanity. You've almost made me believe it sometimes. But sometimes it's really obvious that Withers is right - that you have no soul. Because no human would ever think that this was the right time for a strategy meeting.”

He turns away, walks to the edge of the floating rock on which the two of them are standing. “If you have something in mind that can save Karlach, I want to hear that. But I don't want to hear about your plan, or our connection, or our partnership. I don't want to hear about the Knights of the Shield, or bloody Stelmane and how she was the love of your poor misbegotten life. And I don't want to hear about your fucking tadpole.”

Anyone else might have been surprised to hear the curse on his lips, but the Emperor listens impassively, its tentacles barely even twitching. 

“So shut up,” Hector finishes coldly, staring out at the unending starscape. “And leave me be.”

There is a long silence. Finally the Emperor speaks, and even for it, the words are slow, low, and very carefully controlled. “Perhaps you think I tolerate such disrespect with equanimity.”

“Oh, go ahead, then,” Hector says with a humorless laugh. “Kill me. Suck my brain out. You won't, of course. Because you need me.” He scowls. “Pity. I would welcome oblivion right now.”

“Were I weaker of spirit than I am,” the illithid growls, “I would grant it. It is lucky for us both that I am not.”

Hector's fists clench at his sides. “Why?” he asks, and it's a demand less of the Emperor and more of the universe, of any gods that might be listening. “Why do I get to live and she gets to die? Answer me that, if you can, you eldritch bastard.”

“I have no more control over Karlach's fate than you do.” A pause. Its tentacles give a sharp, spasmodic twitch.  “Except in one regard,” it adds, with a sudden strange cruel brightness in its voice. “The tadpole would transform her, you know, just as it would transform you. She would have no need for her engine heart. No limit to the years you could have together...”

Hector goes utterly still, the blood draining out of his face. “No,” he whispers.

“There, you see?” the Emperor says caustically. “It is I who offer to heal her, and you that would let her die.”

“Shut up.” He tries to put force into the words but they emerge hollow, broken. The Emperor has found the weak point in his armor, stuck a knife into it, and twisted.

“Are you so selfish,” the mind flayer presses, “that you cannot see the value of what I have to offer? It is strength, and it can be life.”

He sinks to his knees on the edge of the platform, his breath starting to come in sudden sharp bursts. “She has taught me… some things are more important than living or dying…”

“And when you see her burning from the inside out, I am sure those things will seem very important indeed,” the Emperor murmurs. 

“Shut up,” he says shakily.

“I am sure you will watch her scream and think fondly on your principles, on the strength that you turned down because you lacked the courage to evolve.”

“Shut up.” Hector hunches forward, his fists pressed into the stone beneath him, as if curling away from a physical attack.

“And when she is gone, your forbearance will provide great comfort in a cold bed.”

“SHUT UP!” The roar bursts from him and cracks apart into a sob. Tears flood his eyes, blurring his vision. “Gods… please… just leave me alone. I can’t… I can’t… she is dying and she is in so much pain, and I can’t help her, I can’t stop it. If you were anything less than a monster, you would grieve with me, you would want to help her… you would give a single, solitary damn… but you don’t. All you care about is your fucking worm, and it’s all falling apart… it’s all gone… it’s all gone…”

The tears are coming heavier now, choking him, blinding him. “What the hell am I going to do?” he whispers. “I won’t… I won’t do it, I won’t do what you want… I won’t become an… an abomination just to save my heart… I won’t take her choice from her… but how will I bear it…? ”

He realizes, suddenly, that he is awake, that his fists are clenched into his pillow which is soaking wet with tears, that his whole body is being wracked with each gasping sob, that his bedroll is tangled around his legs, constricting him, trapping him. “Oh, gods…” he whispers brokenly. “My Lady, help me, please… please… the night is so dark…”

“Hector?” Shadowheart is crouched at the flap of the tent, peering through at him with an expression of uncharacteristic concern. As he rolls over awkwardly to look at her, he sees faint movement behind her, a flash of Jaheira’s eyes in the dimness, the curve of one of Wyll’s horns. Gods, did he wake the whole camp bawling?

“I’m-- I’m sorry,” he mutters hoarsely. “A bad dream… I’m-- I’ll be fine.”

She frowns, glances sideways at someone unseen beside her in the dark. “Do you… erm. Need to talk about it?” she asks, with an awkwardness that he might find touching if he were not so utterly lost in his own grief. 

“No,” he answers. It is an old habit now to turn away, to hide his feelings, to withdraw into an air of aloofness and control-- though he makes a poor show of it just now, with his eyes red and body trembling. Oh, what’s the point? “Yes,” he adds in a low mutter after a pause. “Maybe. But…not now. Rest. You need to rest, all of you.”

She looks at him for a long moment, then nods and withdraws into the darkness. 

He rolls over and stares at the ceiling of the tent with a heavy breath out. The grief still sits in his gut like a heavy stone, and his breath still feels caught in his throat.

And the Emperor’s voice still whispers in the back of his mind, implacable and cold as ice. “Think about what I told you. We both know that very little time is left…”

[rosheendubh]

AWAY…(have a ficlet From Latticeof Infinity/Elegy of Dead Kingdoms—from this shattered disaster of a crack SpaceRockOpera—the lyrics are from Nightwish’s, ‘Away’. Because some divine being posted 4+ hours of Nighwish’s Top50–and this song embraces quite the Theme of this segment from my particular AU crossover of StarWars-through TTT/HandofcThrawn/Merged Dark Empire1/Shadows of Mindor/events of the YuhzanVong War with Firefly/Serenity, and the Keltiad-squished into the Firefly ‘verse as an Independent system…)

~

“Away, away, away in time Every dream's a journey away Away, away, to a home away from care Everywhere's just a journey away

Cherish the moment Tower the skies Don't let the dreamer Fade to gray like grass…”

~

The first time Thrawn kissed Rhyanon it was after he’d destroyed a fair bit of the Galaxy by collapsing the Wormhole connecting the Terran quadrant with the quadrant of the Imperial Remnant still in conflict with the Republic Alliance. He had good intentions, because there was really no other way to slow Abaddon. But, the fallout by anyone’s measure, even megalomaniacs like the long-deceased Sith, Palpatine, proved a little apocalyptic.

Thrawn, of course, had a contingency plan for the survivors, leading them to the old ruins of the 2nd Death Star, which existed in a sort of fluctuating twilight-world of shifting space-time corridors. An after-effect of the cataclysm imploding through the continuums of the meta-verse.

Amid other events leading to this moment, Rhyanon eventually found him kneeling in the sands of the Oceans of Time, staring off into a horizon of fire and storm and cosmic winds. Pain and anger stained their shared past, dating back years to her time as a courtesan-trained-medic while in Palpatine’s court, when Thrawn was promoted to Grand Admiral on the eve of the Emperor’s death.

Until this moment, she never would have suspected Thrawn capable of suffering as other sentients. Loss, the great price of sacrificing the Ascendency to stall Abaddon’s dark ravaging of planetary systems, wrought lines of weariness heavy upon his brow, around his mouth. The shadow haunting the scarlet eyes cut raw in her heart.

Thrawn asked if her people, the Keltoi, had a word for the kind of grief that formed a void beyond emptiness. “A ballad or a lay, perhaps?” His words stumbling out in that eloquent cadence of velvet and steel, edged in bitterness. “The Keltoi—the legendary race of warrior-poets.”

Rhyanon couldn’t recall any from her youth. But then, her youth had been stolen prematurely, swept away by a brutal act of violence, taking her from everything she’d known and loved.

A memory came to her then, of her brother. Bard-trained Talhaiarn, an officer of the Keltoi fleet in service to the Ardrian Aeron Aoibhell. Warriors, the Keltoi as the Chiss, and Talhiarn renowned as a fearless pilot, a devoted commander. He’d indulged music’s magic as an escape from the horrors of war.

As she knelt before Thrawn, Rhyanon spoke gently. “I may have no verse to offer, but my brother often says the first song was born of sorrow so deep, words were inadequate to lift such sadness to the skies.”

Thrawn’s grief, his remorse, buried under the armor born of leadership, broke through, etched in rivulets of moisture, liquid garnet, like blood, rolling down his azure cheeks.

Rhyanon, with her biokinesis, accessed the nanoplexus integrated into her central nervous system. A graceful curl of her wrist, bend of a finger, she directed a green-gold plasmic current, capturing, analyzing the composition of his tears. The microscopic manifesting as vision, the molecular shaped into an endless weaving of threads imparting life. The profundity of sorrow captured like a globular prism, a raindrop, a teardrop, restless as the cosmic storms ravaging the horizon of this liminal plain.

“Chiss lacrimal secretions,” she murmured as he stared at the mirage coalesced between them, rapt by her enchantment, “while differing in certain constituents, hold a similar salinity to human tears, an osmolarity nearly matching the ocean waters.”

Rhyanon tried offering some other surcease beyond an academic text, wiping at a blood-tinged track from against his cheek. “Our tears flow, as our lives, and our griefs, rivers washed into the Sea where all things end. And emerge again.”

He searched her face, trying to find some salvation from the decisions he’d made. Dreamlike, she slowly leaned toward him, hearing his muted gasp at the softness of her lips upon his cheeks, his dark lashes, wet, salt like human tears—why would she expect differently—where she kissed away his silent sorrow. His surrending sigh as she chastely brushed his mouth with hers, held the synchronicity of their breath, shared in this precious moment.

When Rhyanon drew back, she seemed as mystified as he, her action leaving them both pensive. Her eyes drifted shut, as she turned from the wonder in Thrawn’s look.

And in those moments where Rhyanon still seemed held by that light first brush of lips, Thrawn, utterly mesmerized, reached toward her, her eyelids fluttering wide as he guided her face close. Before she could tense back, his mouth claimed hers, thirsting, seeking, wanting. Her breath caught in surprise, but she responded, easing to the exploration of lips and tongue, eyes closing once more, lost to the taste of warmth, and the heady euphoria of wandering hands, his arms encompassing her supple form, her hands clinging onto his shoulders and neck… ~ It was said, of the 5 Greatest Kisses in the Galaxy, this one was ranked somewhere in the top 10. A true Cold Mountain performance, as Kaylee might have approximated. Had she been there to witness the Kiss. But because no one of the Serenity crew, or the Wilde Kaarde had any idea what transpired between the biokinetically gifted Keltoi medic, and the former Grand Admiral, now Supreme Commander of the Imperial Remnant united with the Empire of the Hand, and they only found out about it after-the-fact, it was ranked in the top 10, without ever receiving any explicit ordinal denomination.

The Republic Alliance and the Fringe systems of the Terran Core were amid a truce with the Empire of the Hand, but the split of forces on either side of the spatial conduit had delayed progress. The conundrum of truncating communication and travel in the absence of the wormhole left River Tam with a puzzle more entertaining than figuring out how to overcome the thousands of meteors orbiting Coruscant, utilizing the antiquated tracking of spatial aquatonics, accelerated by River’s unique talents. A mind operating in fractal domains, dimensional analytics reducing equations to a few hours, that would have taken the Republic’s best physicists a month, she needed something else now, to keep her distracted, or the sound of Abaddon’s Reaver-Hybrid Clones, never far from her consciousness, might threaten the precarious hold she’d only recently recovered of her sanity after Miranda.

Thus, on that rare evening while Rhyanon and Thrawn continued groping and caressing each other like teenagers riding passion’s hormonal tidal wave, Ar’alani was subjected to learning why Terran humans seemed so obsessed with quoting script-lines from long-dead movies. A favorite of these oft-repeated one-liners: “as you wish,” Jayne, Serenity’s weapons-happy muscle-man, babbled every time Ar’alani drifted somewhere in his general vicinity.

This was the penance for losing the Girls’ Night Drinking Game to Zoe and Saffron—aka Mara Jade. Subjected to Jayne’s movie-night choice of Old Terra’s cinematic selection stored in Serenity’s archives. Who knew a man who strolled through civilian markets with a rocket-launcher on his shoulder because ya’ never knew what fruit-vendor might turn into an assasin indulged a secret fetish for romances.

Resignedly, Ar’alani settled back on the worn cushions of the sofa, housed in a back storage pit of the ramshackle smuggling ship. Serenity gloried in its disarray and disrepair like a flick-off to Talon Kaarde’s well-maintained vessel, and orderly crew.

Stale beer and cigara fumes filtered through the air of Serenity’s makeshift entertainment center, holos projecting what Jayne swore as the greatest movie of all time.

“Want some?” Jayne asked, rattling a bowl of heat-reactive seed kernels under her nose, crunching down on a fluffy piece of styrofoam-looking cellulose lathered in butter and salt.

Ar’alani’s expression puckered at the charred pungency of fumes wafting from the bowl, and altogether overwhelming for the refined senses of Chiss olfactory centers. “No, thank you,” she said, trying to keep the forebearsnce from her voice, seeing Jayne’s puppy-dog eyes. “And if you say, as you wish one more time, I’ll dump those seed kernels—popcorn—“the word awkward from her throat”— over your head.”

A mistake, she realized, quickly learning females speaking in a commanding voice only made Jayne more moon-eyed. Which was enough for Ar’alani to toss back another Ewok microbrew.

Keth roach piss would have tasted sweeter*, she thought spurring another curse at Thrawn for bringing them to this lost twilight realm. The crash site of his old Emperor’s mad battalion of destruction. She chokied down the beverage, because drunk was the only way she could envision sustaining Jayne’s company for the next 2 hours, and hoped whatever involved the Supreme Commander in that moment, it was either thoroughly tormenting or worse, boring to the point of death.

When she learned later, the indulgence that had indeed occupied Thrawn, she had no regret for the data-pad aimed at his head from across the conference desk of his office. Thrawn caught the object effortlessly of course, which irked her all the more. Fuming, Ar’alani stalked out from the office, vowing over her shoulder as she exited between the sliding doors, Thrawn could spend the next movie-night subjected to Jayne’s visual art tastes, his rancid popcorn, and cheap alcohol. She heard the low laughter in her wake, the words, “As you wish,” reaching her as the doors whisked shut.

For a moment, she considered turning back around, marching through the doors, up to Thrawn, glaring fire to match the subtle teasing glint in his eyes. And stuffing as you wish right back at him.

As entertaining as the vision was, of smashing a few more data-pads over Thrawn’s polished composure, Ar’alani prided herself on possessing the rare trait of taking the high-road, as the saying went.

Especially because of the laughter. That had been good to hear. Clean, honest laughter, something like joy and the bravado she recalled when Thrawn had been an infuriating captain under her command.

After all the loss, the death, and decimation swallowing their Galaxy, with Abaddon, and forces of the Coroniad-Virathi [read: my analog to the Grysk, but adapted from the Keltiad verse] still afoot. It was the first time she’d heard that sound from him in decades. And if it took basting the Keltoi medic—Mal Reynolds kept calling her Gaia—in reference to some ancient Terran goddess that recalled Rhyanon’s abilities of organic molecular manipulation. Well, Ar’alani decided, if this was what followed a good basting for Thrawn, it was better than the melancholy devouring him since the Battle of the Event Horizon.

So, she held her peace that day, hope’s candle, a flicker in the storm, but present, wakening for the first time since she’d led the few Chiss survivors to this rendezvous of Endor, fleeing their home-worlds, a cold rage constricting her chest, watching Csilla’s incinerated caracass fade away like a million ashes blasted across the Star-ways.

Hope, that flickering candle in Ar’alani’s mind. She strode down the passage to the main hanger-port, notified of General Skywalker’s return with a new collection of refugees from the Infernal Regions bordering the dimensional rift left by the Wormole’s collapse, dubbed Ginngungagap, after some other archaic Terranism.

Echoing through her mind, with that candle, the words, As you wish, yourself, Vu’rawn.

[rejectory]

It provokes.

Feyd-Rautha has the Voice without having it. Where there’s a blister of a memory of him bumping up, an ant against the lid, Paul can’t. His thoughts. They have legs in the hundreds, supracoLor through a prism so fast they’re cutting time, shattering light.

The burst of halo salts his eyes. His blink-blink traces back to his jackrabbiting heart.

They slope, or the horizon does, and fall.

He licks. Up Feyd’s jaw, licks. (Paul.) Paul is crouched on Feyd-Rautha like a vulture. He sticks his beak behind his ear. Down in the fine sand, it’s like rolling in spice. He’s a splinter of muscle on Feyd’s body, tightly splayed. Knees apart.

A door opens backward to a man. A weak, good one. You know why I killed him?

Paul desperately tries to kick away—

Leto Atreides, slumped naked over a chair. He’s paralyzed; he has no body of his left to speak of, only thoughts of his family and a desire—Paul, Paul is also desiring—for something awful as the Baron’s toddler head floats over on his whale body. He’s watching the Devil. Clicks his shield on like the coward he is.

The thought comes again: if he undressed Feyd-Rautha,

Screw you—-

what would he find what would he find

what would he find

A cold tickles down Paul’s back.

He didn’t mean that. Dad. It’s not real.

Come back.

A past that didn’t come to be does instead. The Emperor, spared. Paul, plunging his knife into Feyd—

Someone’s in a knot whining like a sacrifice just north of his head, and he’s half curious who. Three someones, twelve limbs, ugly on top of each other, an image of interrupted gestation. It smells like being born.

A hand that’s not a hand but his own impulse starfishes on his spine, bucks it low. He’s rubbing dry against Feyd-Rautha’s stomach until he’s weak-kneed and delicate. His mouth forgets to close. It’s not real. He wants more.

He can’t stand it.

Shishakli can’t stand up. Paul’s holding the flamethrower, he likes it, she deserves it,

No.

Feyd’s nose is a bump in the cave dark. His neck... Something tugs behind Paul’s belly button. Hazed, he finds the cuts he gifted and bites to the blood on the second try.

Oh. That's good. She's good. See-haya knows your body. he doesnt accept leftovers. I know it better. whole arena inside the ramus-shaped stamp on his knee.

He winds that wet around his tongue, less bite than slip, Mah-di's a shivering, too-narrow bow that Rautha pulls inside, tucks in, all swells and bruising pressure, give already, finally, just come

In.

Mmmnn, that gushes, dry-pop split like ozone cracking the sky in two where the blood's coming out, into the box. Beading, beading, it only coming up in heaves while Rautha's worming, he gasps like she does. Fire in mua deeb's spindly fingers, just a barely-man boy, then, but Rautha's already fire, so she's God. Her box as heaven. He's clotting under it, somewhere, spider-weaving screams in her womb. Take it, go on, watch while I watch you

He's prickling into the chaste fabric of their ritual matrimony, is that you, so soft, so scared, so let me

Skewer him on a pike where his little sister can see. You're vile, how disgusting, how'bout your mother? Should she watch us too?

Squirm. Itch. I like it. your pets watch us squeeze inside each other, they wanted this. thrash some more

No.

not that. what did I say. pluck out your eyes for it, you can't—

(Where do you think you're going? Stop, now, there, that's it, I'm only petting you)

—kill

it a second

time.

I'll drown you in your vomit. Plug up your ribs. You know what organs go where. Here, I'll help you blind you excise you what did I say, Cousin

Mother gets to die, her guts so fine so pretty. Here's her fine leg, here's her shining teet. Here's my blade, now, my mother, I repay you— just interest. Just mud. This is what Uncle taught me, only gentler

Back.

Going sideways. There's hot oil and string between contractions, muscles, the stick of skin, syrup on syrup, am I so much, so painful, do you like how I ache you? Plug your ribs. Paul.

Sensitive as the worm. Feyd's grit under scales. The fruit's rotten and sallow, Where's the outworlder, here we are, blood to blood, wet to wet, here's a tooth for you, tell your worm to go forgive itself. Ha ha. Does See-haayaa lick you into wounds, bundle you up so fragile. Which of us makes her scream prettier. Usul, o base of pillar, taste your shame off me.

[bedlamsbard]

Part 4 of the other side AU concept!  This will probably be six parts in total.   The AU is Backbone-based and uses Backbone backstory up until the present day.

Previous: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

About 5.8K below the break.

***

The air was hot and humid, making both Twi’lek women wince as the Ghost’s ramp opened.  Hera looked automatically at Kanan, anticipating his indulgent grin, but he was looking straight ahead.  There was nothing of her Kanan in him now – nothing of Kanan at all, just the Imperial Inquisitor left, the lethal sword hand of the Force clad in human raiment.

The sea was visible through the trees just to their left.  The Imperial base here on Scarif was made up of an archipelago of small islands, connected via transit tubes.  The salt tang of the water made her nose tickle; Hera half-expected it to be overlaid with the scent of blood.  So many people had died here.  So many good people, so many bad people, so many who had just been doing what they thought was right, both Rebel and Imperial.  She had known and liked Cassian Andor, and a few of the other commandos who had gone with him to Scarif against orders.  Chopper had actually gotten along with Cassian’s droid K-2SO, which had been a minor miracle.

Cassian should have lived to see the Rebellion succeed.  So should Jyn Erso and Bodhi Rook and Admiral Raddus, everyone who had died at Scarif, at Yavin and Hoth and Endor and the hundreds of other engagements between the death the of the Republic and today.  Bail and Breha Organa.  Saw Gerrera. Her mother.  Ezra and Kanan.  They should all have lived.

The Death Star plans are here, Hera thought with shocked realization.  Right here, right now.  The battle station wouldn’t be complete for another six years, but most of the plans would still be accurate.  And it would prove it existed.

She dragged her attention back to the present.  There were stormtroopers standing guard on the vault-like entrance to the landing pad’s transit tube, eyeing them with clear distrust and a little fear.  Kanan and the other Hera ignored them, striding forward in perfect step.  Hera and Chopper followed, suspecting that she probably should have fallen in on Kanan’s other side for symmetry’s sake but knowing that she couldn’t manage it now.

The stormtroopers fell back before Kanan’s approach, one of them hitting the door control.  The other Hera nodded a little to them as the four stepped inside; the doors closed with a frighteningly final sound before the transit car began to move.

“How are you planning to get into the vault?” Hera asked in a low voice.

The other woman tapped the code cylinders next to her rank badge.  “ISB has access.  So does the Inquisition.  It will drop a flag, but I overwrote my access level with Agent Beneke’s so with any luck that won’t be immediate.”  She glanced at Hera. “There aren’t a lot of nonhumans in the service. I’ve never actually met one of them, but I know there’s at least one woman in the ISB, a Togruta.  That’s who your creds will read as if you have to use them.”

“I’m not a Togruta,” Hera pointed out.

“I know, I changed it in the system to read as a Twi’lek and replaced her image with yours.  It shouldn’t end up mattering unless someone here has met her.  Most people don’t bother checking creds when there’s an Inquisitor in the room.”  She smiled at Kanan, who tilted his head a little in acknowledgment but didn’t speak. “Besides, most humans can’t tell nonhumans apart.”

“Twi’leks and Togruta are very different,” Hera said, startled.

“Most humans are stupid,” the other Hera said. “Present company excluded.”

Kanan snorted softly.

Hera held back her automatic response, which was something along the lines of, You spend too much time with Imperials.  It wasn’t that she hadn’t run into that problem within the Alliance or among civilians, but it hadn’t happened more than a dozen times since she had left Ryloth.

The other woman flicked a sideways glance at her, but didn’t say anything else.  They stood in silence until the transit car deposited them at the Citadel Tower, the doors sliding open to reveal wide gray corridors filled with more Imperials than Hera was, frankly, comfortable being near – stormtroopers and shoretroopers moving in formation, officers and technicians, security droids and a few astromechs –

She squared her shoulders and reminded herself that as far as anyone was concerned, her borrowed uniform was hers and she was as much an Imperial officer as any of them.  She followed Kanan and the other Hera out of the transit car, Chopper rolling along beside her.  She was interested to note that Kanan’s mere presence cleared their way without him having to do anything more – a few officers actually jumped out of the way when they saw him coming.  If he noticed, he didn’t show it.

Gone, Hera’s mind gibbered silently as they made their way down the long corridors.  All gone.  Kanan had been one thing; but this part of Scarif was simply gone, vaporized by the Death Star.  She would have had the same reaction had she gone to Jedha or Alderaan – she had been expecting to have to do the latter.

No one stopped them. They arrived at the entrance to the data vault to find a single technical officer at the data station outside the vault’s heavy doors.  She looked up at their approach, then did a double-take. “Sir – ah – Inquisitor –”

Kanan tipped his head a little.  The other Hera stepped forward, her expression cool, and slid her code cylinder out of its pocket.  “We require access to the vault,” she said. “ISB-327, ISB-398, INQ-065.  Authorization, ISB Five Nine Seven Eight Aurek Senth Isk Three Nine Two.”

The technical officer’s eyes were still fixed on Kanan as she took the code cylinder with shaking hands. It took her three tries to get it inserted.  Hera held her breath, watching and wishing that she had a blaster just in case, but at last the data station chirped approval.  The technical officer handed back the code cylinder and touched a control on the console, opening the massive vault door behind her.  “You’re – you’re cleared, ma’am – ah – Inquisitor. What files are you –”

“We’ll recover them,” the other Hera said, sliding the code cylinder back into her uniform pocket. “Take a caf break, Lieutenant.”

“I – I’m not supposed to –”

Kanan met her gaze. She squeaked and almost tripped stepping out from behind the data station.

“We’ll be done in fifteen minutes,” the other Hera said. “Come back then.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the technical officer said faintly.  She gave them a wide berth, skating the wall until she reached the exit.

The other Hera let out her breath. “Chop, plug in.  Find us that file – Cluster Prism, you said?”

“Cluster Prism,” Hera confirmed.  “And Stardust.”

Kanan gave her a sharp look, and the force of that pale glare over the black mask staggered her for an instant. “You only said Cluster Prism before.”

“I – I’ll explain later. Just – let’s get those files.”

The other woman’s mouth compressed into a thin line, but she nodded to Kanan.  “You get the files.  Chop and I will stay here and locate them for you and head off anyone who comes calling.”

“Why you?” Hera said, a little surprised.

“An Inquisitor can’t stay out here,” she explained. “It looks bad.  And my creds are real; yours aren’t.”

Hera nodded.  As Chopper rolled over to the data station and plugged in, she and Kanan turned down the long, dark corridor to the data vault. The corridor let out into a harshly lit platform with a window that revealed the data vault itself – long columns that stretched out of sight up and down, each closely stacked with thousands of data files.

What the Rebellion wouldn’t do for all of this, Hera thought, looking up at them as Kanan bent over the computer station.  Some of it – maybe most of it – wouldn’t be relevant anymore, but others would be.  All the Emperor’s surviving projects that the Alliance knew about had been spread out between his successors, but Hera had no doubt that more of them were lurking out there, waiting to take the Alliance by surprise when they were least prepared for it. It would take months to retrieve and copy all the files here, though, and she didn’t have that kind of time.

Kanan was speaking quietly into the comlink on his left gauntlet.  As Hera was looking up at the data vault, she saw a green light flash to her right and a little below her line of sight. “That’s Cluster Prism,” Kanan said, removing his mask and hooking it to his belt. “You’ll have to use the handles.”

Hera supposed that with the sheer mass of data here there wasn’t really a more efficient method. She stepped up to the window and grasped the handles, turning them this way and that until she got the hang of their movement.  It wasn’t too different from flying a starfighter, actually, if less exciting; she supposed the adrenaline rush of stealing data from the Empire made up for it. She was able to retrieve the Cluster Prism file from its location and bring it over to the window, where it slid into the drawer at the base.

“I’ll get the Stardust file while you copy that,” Kanan said.

Hera nodded and took it over to the computer set into the wall, pulling a blank datacard out of her jacket.  Modern datacards could store almost twice as much as they had been able to a decade earlier, so with any luck it would transfer without difficulty as long as the computer could still read it.  She held her breath as she inserted the card, then let out a relieved sigh as it slid into the slot.  The bulky data file took a big more finagling, but after a moment it beeped confirmation as Hera set the computer to copy it over.

Kanan came up behind her, another data file in his hand. “What is this one?” he asked.

“It’s the plans for something called the Death Star,” Hera said.

His eyebrows shot up. “That doesn’t sound good.”

Hera grimaced. “No. And it’s not for the Alliance; we already have those plans.  I want to give that to someone in this universe, to prevent what happened in mine from happening here.  If you and Hera don’t mind making a stop after we leave here –”

“What’s the Death Star?”

“It’s a battle station,” Hera said, wincing at the memory. “A massive battle station the size of a small moon, capable of destroying a planet.”

“That’s not possible.”

“It is,” Hera said. “I’ve seen it.”  She glanced back at him. “That’s what happened to Scarif.  The Empire destroyed their own base in an attempt to keep the Alliance from getting the plans, but the commando team here had already transmitted them to the Rebel fleet.”  She didn’t bother going into the details between the Death Star at full planet-destroying capacity and the lesser havoc it had wrought on Jedha and Scarif.  With any luck, this universe would never have to know.

“And who do you want to give the plans to?” Kanan asked. “There’s nothing like a – a rebel alliance, not right now, anyway.  Just a lot of partisan groups that operate in different systems and sometimes share information.”

“There will be,” Hera said with certainty. “There’s someone I can give them to.  I have a message for him anyway.  It’s who I would have gone to if you hadn’t agreed to help me.”

He didn’t ask why she wasn’t naming her contact here, not in the middle of an Imperial base.

The computer beeped as it finished copying the Cluster Prism file and spat out both the original file and the data card.  Hera switched over to a new data card and exchanged the Cluster Prism file for the Stardust one while Kanan went to return it to its original location.

“What will you do?” she asked Kanan as he came back over. “Once we’ve left here, I mean.  You can’t go back to the Empire.”

He shook his head, though his eyes were shadowed.  “Hera wants to see her family,” he said. “And we do know where Free Ryloth is right now – the ISB keeps track of the fleet’s location, even if they usually don’t do anything with that.”  He glanced sideways at her and added carefully, “She doesn’t talk about her family, but she was upset when you said your mother was dead.”

“If it’s any help,” Hera said, “my father liked Kanan.  More than he liked me sometimes, to be honest.”

The corner of his mouth curled up. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

“I left home when I was eighteen,” Hera said. “My father has never really understood why, even today. He thinks I should have stayed on Ryloth.  Not that he was trying to keep me safe, but he thinks I should have been fighting the Empire back home instead of somewhere else.  It’s not that I don’t know that he loves me, but he’s always resented that I decided to prioritize fighting the Empire over fighting for Ryloth.  He does love Jacen, though,” she added, and Kanan’s face did something complicated.

“What is he like?” he asked. “Your son, I mean.”

Hera glanced down, smiling. “He’s smart.  He likes animals – every time we’re back on Lothal, half a dozen Loth-cats and sometimes a Loth-wolf turn up at the Ghost to say hello, and the blurrgs on Ryloth love him.  I think he’ll be a good pilot, too, he’s already got the reflexes. He’s – he’s a very happy child.  I just don’t see him enough.”  She looked up at Kanan again.  “Ah – a friend of mine says he’s Force-sensitive, but it might not last.”

“It doesn’t always at that age,” Kanan said. “You can usually tell, but not always.”  He frowned a little, as if in memory, but didn’t explain further. “He sounds like a good kid.”

“He is,” Hera said. “I wish –”  She didn’t go on, relieved when the computer beeped it conclusion.  She retrieved the data card, handed the file to Kanan to return, and made sure both data cards were clearly labeled.  The last thing she needed to do was turn up back in her own timeline with outdated Death Star plans instead of the Cluster Prism ones.

He had his mask back on by the time she turned around.  They left the vault to join the other Hera, who was standing next to the data station with Chopper.  “Got them?” she asked.

Hera nodded.

“Then let’s get out of here.”

*

“Do you normally get this reaction?” Hera asked after the Ghost had left Scarif behind and was ascending upwards towards the shield gate. The traffic control officer had been ecstatic to see them go, in a subdued, Imperial kind of way. “They practically threw us offworld.”

“Imperials hate Inquisitors as much as everyone else does,” Kanan said, his hands on the co-pilot’s controls and his gaze fixed straight ahead. “They especially don’t like having me around; I scare the blazes out of them.”

“Why?” Hera said, startled. She had never seen any Inquisitors other than from a distance, but she didn’t think that Kanan was worse than the ones her crew had intercepted.

“Because I’m human,” Kanan said, his voice even. “There were one or two others when the Inquisition started out, but these days I’m the only one.  Everyone else is a nonhuman, and that’s the way the Emperor likes it, since it keeps the rest of the service on their toes.  As far as they’re concerned, the aliens can do what they want to each other, but once a human’s in the mix –”  He stopped abruptly, a muscle working in his jaw.

His Hera shot a sideways glance at him, a little grief in her eyes.  Kanan’s gaze cut towards her briefly and he went on, “Most Imperials don’t like the reminder that they’re just vulnerable as all the alien rebels out there.  And they take orders from a nonhuman Inquisitor easier than they do from me. And when I was in the field with my master –”  He stopped abruptly.

He was silent as they slipped through the shield gate and began to move past the star destroyers. The other Hera had a short exchange with the traffic control officer onboard the gate, then they proceeded past the star destroyers and went to hyperspace as soon as they were out of range of the planet’s gravity well.  The girl got to her feet and said, “I’m going to change,” leaving Kanan and Hera alone in the cockpit.

He started to strip off his armor without looking at her.  Hera unfastened the top of her jacket, but said, “If you want to tell me what happened – she doesn’t know, does she?”

“No.”  He put his fingers to his forehead, looking weary. “A lot of junior officers are around the same age as me,” he said finally. “Stormtroopers too.  My master –”  He touched his notched ear, but it was clear that the injury wasn’t what he was thinking about.  “By most standards,” he said haltingly, “my master didn’t treat me – well, I guess. And I’m human, and except for the uniform look pretty much the same as most of them.  And I’ve got the right accent,” he added, this last in such pure upper-class Coruscanti that it made Hera’s back teeth ache.  The first time she had heard her Kanan use it she had almost jumped out of her own skin.

“My master hurt me pretty badly,” Kanan went on, not looking at her. “And he didn’t really care who saw him do it.  Imperials really don’t like seeing a Pau’an do – that – to a nice human boy.  And even in uniform I look right, and I sound right, and – there was nothing they could do about how he treated me, though if they were high-ranking enough they could at least tell him to take it to his own tent or cabin or whatever.”

“Which didn’t make it any easier for you,” Hera said gently.

Kanan rubbed his knuckles across his scarred jaw. “No.  But I was never paying much attention to anything besides him at the time, unless he told me to.  And he didn’t do that when we were in camp – on base – whatever.  I didn’t really realize any of that had been going on until the first time Hera and I were on an op with someone who had seen me with him.”

“How did that go?”

“He was a friend of Hera’s. He was scared out of his mind for her. That was three months ago, by the way.” He touched his fingers to his forehead, looking unspeakably weary.  “My master didn’t think he was being cruel.  And I didn’t – I didn’t really realize it either, not by the point when they were letting me out in the field with him.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Hera asked, tentative.

“Last week.”  He shot a sideways glance at her.  “I had to go back to the Crucible to check in.  The Whip won’t let us be in the same room alone together anymore – which is not on my behalf by any means.  He just doesn’t like the Hunter.”  He looked down at his hands.  “She doesn’t know and she’s not going to.”

“Who’s the Whip?”

“He’s the head of the training facility at the Crucible – Inquisition headquarters, I mean.”  Kanan ran a weary hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to tell you all that.”

“I asked,” Hera said.

He shook his head. “She doesn’t know.  She can’t know.  She can’t. She can’t.”

“Kanan –” Hera began uncertainly.  The helpless grief on his face was utterly unfamiliar.  Hera had seen it before on Alliance soldiers who had seen too much combat, Imperial deserters who had finally hit their breaking point, freed prisoners finally seeing the outside of an Imperial prison – but not on Kanan.

The door slid open behind her.  The other Hera came past her in a rush, putting her arms around Kanan as he buried his face in her shoulder. After a moment he raised his head and looked at her, anguished; she cupped her hands around his face and tipped her forehead against his, murmuring to him.

Hera got to her feet, fighting down her wave of irrational hurt. “Can I use your comm unit?” she asked quietly, not wanting to disturb them.

“There’s one in my room,” the other Hera said without looking up.  Kanan’s hands came up to grip her upper arms, tears streaming silently down his face.

Hera slipped out of the cockpit.

*

Later she sat by the comm unit in the other Hera’s cabin – her cabin – with her head tipped back against the wall.  She was balancing her holoprojector on her knee, looking at the old hologram of Kanan.

He should have been here.

Hera sighed and dragged her gaze out of the past, looking around the room.  It was scrupulously neat, with uniforms hung on a hook on the wall. Unlike Hera’s own cabin, there were no Twi’leki designs painted on the walls; the only real sign of personality was a discarded silk robe draped over the back of a chair.  Hera recognized it; her Kanan had given her the same one the year after they had met.

The comm unit beeped. Hera leaned over to read the transmission, then sent back the correct code.  There was a chance this wouldn’t work – but the response came almost immediately.  Hera noted the coordinates and got up.

She found the other Hera alone in the cockpit, her head in her hands.  She looked up as Hera came in, tear streaks on her face.  “What?”

“Can you go to these coordinates?”

“Yeah.”  She sat back as Hera leaned over her to input them in the navicomputer. “Kanan said you wanted to meet with someone else while you were here.  Is it –”

“It’s probably better if I take the Phantom,” Hera said. “I don’t think it will take long.”

The other woman looked like she was too tired to argue. “Take Chopper with you.”  She glanced at the coordinates.  “I’ll let you know when we’re there.”

Hera didn’t want to push her.  She started to leave, but the girl said suddenly, “He thought I didn’t know.”

Hera stopped, then went back to her.

“He was so badly hurt,” the girl whispered. “And I did notice when Cado found out about him being with me.  And I saw him with that – that Pau’an.  He doesn’t know I saw them.”  She looked at her hands, helpless.  “How could he think I didn’t know?”

Hera put a hand on her shoulder.  For a moment the other woman resisted, then her face crumpled and she leaned forward, crying silently as Hera took her in her arms.

*

They came out of hyperspace in an unoccupied system.  The star was a distant gleam just visible through the Phantom’s viewport, with a handful of planets unable to support life doing their slow dance around it.  The other ship in the system was too far away to make out with the naked eye, its running lights blending in with the star field behind it.

“Detaching now,” Hera said, hitting the control on the dash.

“Acknowledged.”  The other Hera’s voice was clear and calm, as if having something to do was helping her grief.  Hera suspected it did.  “We’ll be here waiting, Phantom.”

Hera gripped the control yoke and eased the Phantom forward out of the dock.  It gave her an uneasy feeling of déjà vu; she had forgotten that it would be the original Phantom and not the Phantom II until she had walked onboard.

Chopper muttering to himself was a familiar background sound as she brought the Phantom out of the Ghost’s dock and set her course for the ship showing up on her nav console. She flew by instrument until she was close enough to see it through the viewport, then transmitted the code she had been given.  A voice on the other end of the comm, fuzzy with encryption, told her what to do.

The corvette’s dock was only meant for speeders and skiffs, not a shuttle the size of the Phantom.  Hera docked at the airlock she was instructed to and shut down the Phantom except for the magnetic clamp.  She was met at the airlock by three crewmembers in familiar blue-and-gray uniforms; the female crewperson patted her down and came up with Hera’s holoprojector and the datacard with the Stardust file on it. After inspecting both, she handed them back to Hera.  Chopper got scanned by another crewmember and complained the whole time.

They led Hera and Chopper through the familiar corridors of the corvette to a room that she knew very well. It was something she had expected but wasn’t prepared for, aware of places where there should have been dents or repairs made that were still spotless, or, in one case, where a hatch had been entirely replaced in her own time.  The man sitting behind the table in the room stood up as she entered, and Hera fought back another wave of disorienting grief.  She hadn’t known him well, hadn’t met him more than a handful of times, but she had known him.

“Senator Organa,” she said, resisting the urge to salute. “Thank you for seeing me.  I’m Hera Syndulla.”

“A relative of Cham Syndulla, I presume?” he said. “Not the missing daughter.”

“Actually,” Hera said, “the answer to that is a little complicated.  I am Hera Syndulla, but I’m not that Hera Syndulla.  I’m from an alternate timeline, some years from now.”

Bail Organa’s eyebrows went up. “That’s a rather bold claim.”

“I have a message that might convince you,” Hera said.  She took the holoprojector out of her pocket and slid it down the table towards him; she had switched out the datadisk inside before coming over.

Senator Organa took the holoprojector, inspected it briefly, and then set it back down on the table before activating it.

Leia Organa’s image sprang up between them.  “Hello, Father,” she said.  “If you’re seeing this, it’s because General Syndulla was able to reach you.  I wish I could have come myself, but the method we used made that impossible.  I know that what General Syndulla has told you will seem very unlikely, but I swear to you that it’s the truth.  Please help her for the good of the Rebellion.”  Leia’s voice and expression had been calm through all of this, but for an instant that cracked, and she added, “Father – Mother – I miss you,” in a voice that trembled a little. “There are some other holos on this datadisk.  I don’t know if you’ll want to watch them or not, but they’re for you, both of you.”  She took a deep breath.  “I love you.”

Senator Organa paused the holo as it began to repeat.  He looked at Hera through Leia’s transparent image as Hera tried to remember how old Leia would be now.  Ten or eleven, she thought.

“General Syndulla?” he said.

“Of the Alliance to Restore the Republic,” Hera said.  “Or the Rebel Alliance, as it’s more commonly known.  The vote on the ratification of the New Republic will be held within a week, in my time.  Emperor Palpatine has been dead for almost a year.”  She met Senator Organa’s gaze and added, “Luke Skywalker was the one who sent me here.”

Senator Organa’s reaction was so slight that if Hera hadn’t been looking for it, she would have missed it.

“I assume I was executed by the Empire for treason,” he said.

“After a manner of speaking,” Hera said.  She took the datacard out of her pocket and laid it on the table. “I don’t need your help. I was able to accomplish my mission with – um – local aid.  But these are the plans that the Empire in my timeline to destroy Alderaan, a battle station called the Death Star.”

“To destroy –”  He went as pale as his complexion allowed, which, like Kanan’s, wasn’t very.

“I think it won’t happen here,” Hera said.

“Leia,” Senator Organa said, his gaze on the hologram. “She was offworld?”

“Yes.”  Unless he asked, Hera wasn’t going to tell him that she had been onboard the Death Star when Alderaan had been destroyed.

“I’m glad.”  His voice was low, distracted.  He looked at her suddenly.  “Do you know what else is on this disk?”

Hera shook her head, though she could guess.  If she had had any idea that there was a possibility of seeing her mother here, she would have brought more holos too.

Senator Organa activated the holoprojector again, switching it to the next hologram.  In it, Leia sat at this same table in the other version of the Tantive IV, holding her young son in her lap.  She looked a little tired, but then again not only were they still in the midst of the war but she had an infant only a few months old.  Hera remembered how those days had been for her, though not terribly well since she had spent the entire time sleep-deprived.

“Hello, Father, Mother,” Leia said. “If you’re seeing this, then either you believe Hera or you’re looking for evidence one way or another.  This isn’t meant to be evidence, but maybe it will be.”  She swallowed.  “Hera has probably told you what happened to Alderaan – what happened to you.  I know that you can stop what’s coming and that your daughter will never have to feel the way I do.”  She stopped as her son made a gurgling sound and waved one chubby fist; he was clutching a soft stuffed model of the Millennium Falcon in it that Chewbacca had made for him.

Leia lifted him up so that he faced the holoprojector.  “Ben, can you say hello to Grandpapa and Grandmama?”

Senator Organa made a low, stunned sound; he looked like he had been poleaxed.  Ben waved the Millennium Falcon vaguely in the direction of the holoprojector with Leia’s help, then she settled him back in her lap.  “I wanted you to see some things,” Leia said.  “I thought – Ben will have them when he’s older. But I wanted you to see them too, because my parents never had the chance.”  She smiled, a little shaky.  “I love you, Papa, Mama, and I miss you.  I wish you were here.”

Senator Organa put his hand down on the holoprojector, pausing it.  “Can you wait?” he asked Hera, sounding like he was suddenly having a hard time breathing. “I’ll have refreshments sent up.”

“I can wait as long as you need,” Hera said.  She hesitated, then said, “I – can take something back.  If you want.”

He nodded distractedly and left the room without saying anything else.  Hera sat down in one of the empty chairs at the table and looked at Chopper. “That could have gone worse.”

He told her that it still could, sounding so exactly like her own Chopper that for a few moments Hera could have been back on the Tantive IV in her own timeline, waiting for Leia to finish feeding her infant son before she joined Hera for the most recent reports from the front.

*

Kanan was sunk so deep in meditation that the world had frayed apart at the edges, leaving him with only the breathtaking clarity of the Force.  He didn’t like going that deep; it had left him uneasy even when he had been a child back in the safety and security of the Jedi Temple.  At the moment he wanted that clarity; nothing had been clear to him since he had gone to the Crucible, except at those times when the drugs the Inquisition sometimes used had sent him this deep into the Force. He hadn’t liked what he had seen then.

He could sense Hera sitting in the cockpit, fiddling listlessly with her datapad.  Her grief stained the Force; Kanan fought down the urge to go to her and let himself sink deeper into the Force instead.  Emotion bled away; he was aware of his tie to the Hunter stretching out from him, connecting him to the other Inquisitor. He didn’t know how to break that bond save by killing the Hunter, and he didn’t know if he could do that without dying himself; the Hunter had bound them together so tightly that back at the Crucible, they had breathed in unison, heartbeats matching each other; he had turned his head and Kanan had done the same without even thinking about it. Kanan hadn’t had to speak to him by the end; the Hunter already knew what he was going to say.

He sank further into the Force; if he lingered too long at this level the Hunter might well sense his attention and yank on that tie like Kanan was an anooba on a leash.  Kanan didn’t want to deal with that until he absolutely had to.

The Jedi taught that they were the Force.  Kanan felt it now; his physical body was a fading memory, the old agony of injuries nothing more than a shimmer someone else had felt.  They weren’t just his injuries, either; he felt a lightsaber burn slash across his eyes, a vibroblade take off his hand at the wrist, flames roar up around him.  He was back in his body now, but not his own body. He opened his eyes, but saw nothing but darkness.  Shut them again, and was alone with the Force.

No, not alone.

Somewhere in the dark, a wolf howled.

*

Hera returned to the Ghost feeling more exhausted than the excursion should have left her.  She was carrying a shoulder bag with a small box in it; she hadn’t asked what was in the box and Bail Organa hadn’t offered that information.

Kanan met her at the foot of the ladder in the common room. “Did you get what you needed?” he asked.

“I think so,” Hera said. She frowned at him; he looked tired, but also somehow triumphant, and there was something uneasily familiar about it that she couldn’t identify.

His Hera was standing near the door; she knelt down to smile at Chopper as Hera stepped out of the way so that he could descend.  He rolled over to her and began a diatribe about how rude the senator’s people had been. They hadn’t been; he just didn’t like being scanned.

Kanan bit his lip, then said carefully, “Hera – I think I can get Kanan, your Kanan.  Do you want me to try?”

[velvet-tread]

so revisiting octavia blake (especially after what we’ve seen of her in s5e06 tonight)... what’s your understanding of octavia blake, in relation to bloodreina and also as one of the most disliked characters in the fandom?

 TW – there follows some discussion of abuse so if that is one of your sensitivities, I wish you well and recommend caution with what follows. Are you asking if I still stan Octavia now she’s Blodreina? Because the answer to that is complicated but basically yes. For clarity: stanning, to me, doesn’t involve nailing my colours to the mast and then contorting myself into ever more unlikely shapes to justify every single thing my fave has ever done. It’s possible to love and emphathise with a character, while also acknowledging the terrible things they’ve done or are. Maybe I don’t need to tell you this, but maybe others need to hear it: don’t let ANYONE shame you for loving Octavia. And by that I mean if someone tries, just tune them tf out. They don’t get it, they never will. They aren’t worth your time and energy. Let that truth set you free. So yeah, I still love Octavia, with all her flaws and her sharp edges. I can’t love Blodreina, but while Blodreina is certainly Octavia, Octavia is not Blodreina. Blodreina is the very worst of Octavia. Spoiled, demanding, hard, judgemental, imperious, unyielding, cold, unempathetic and very, very violent. She is the culmination of the story of a non-person, disempowered and locked up under the floor, coming into being and being handed a sword. And power. So much power. She is a product of necessity. She is an amalgamation of Jaha’s lessons, Indra and Kane’s guidance, Kara’s support and Gaia’s teachings. She has a god complex which, imo, can only go the way of Mount Weather. By which I mean it will probably consume everything in its path before blowing to smithereens and taking at least one of our faves down with it. But while Blodreina is certainly real, let’s not get carried away with OCTAVIA IS REVEALED AS FOR THE MONSTER SHE’S BEEN ALL ALONG. Deep breaths everyone, and maybe a sip of water. Blodreina is a persona who enables Octavia to carry out the most monstrous of deeds (hi Jaha!) and live with it. Has Octavia drunk the Blodreina Koolaid? Most certainly. But Octavia embracing her worst is not the same has Octavia being the worst. Also see: Bellamy season 1 and season 3a. Would you look at that A PARALLEL WE LOVE PARALLELS. Blodreina serves a purpose for Octavia-of-the-butterflies too. Because this show is this show and we are never more than a few monologues away from “love is weakness”, Blodreina is also a protective casing that locks away Octavia’s grief, her pain and her misery, her loneliness and self-loathing, along with her vulnerability and empathy. It seems super obvious to me that Octavia’s personal journey this season, apart from trying and presumably failing to keep Wonkru intact, will be about disassociating herself from Blodreina. And that, probably, won’t come without falling spectacularly from grace and facing her pain, and reckoning with the things she’s done. Also see: Bellamy seasons 1-4. Huh. What happens when the exoskeleton crumbles? What’s underneath? What will Octavia-who-washed-Lincoln’s-wounds, come to think about Blodreina and the things she’s done in the name of her people? How will she confront the agony of being Octavia Blake, naked, piteous and vulnerable, the girl under the floor who was denied existence?

I want these things for Octavia. I want the narrative to subject her to the most abject moral scrutiny because that is what you should want for the characters you love. It’s what makes them interesting. It’s what makes them matter. ALSO SEE BELLAMY FOREVER. Now I’ve been in this fandom long enough not to expect many others to see it this way. We are balls deep in moral monochrome here in the Bellarke fandom, and while that gives me pause for a sip of tea and a short prayer to the patron saints of patience, it’s not a situation that anyone can change, least of all me. And why would I? People are free to engage with the show how they want, as long as they stay in their lane.

And look, I get why some people can’t see past some of her sins. I, too, have characters that I dislike with varying degrees of rationality. But objectively, Octavia’s level of moral turpitude is at about the same level as any of the main characters. That’s just a fact. People’s personal preferences, while as valid as any other preference, are just that: subjective opinions. Where I start to sip my tea and raise my eyes to the heavens is when people start presenting their subjective opinions as objective FUCK YOU AND YOUR INBOX truth and thanks but no. It seems to be fanon lore now that Octavia is unempathetic and…it just makes no sense. This is the girl who was filled with wonder at Earth, who refused to let Jasper die even when everyone in camp wanted him to. She saw the humanity in Lincoln when Bellamy, Clarke and Raven could not. She saw the humanity in humanity when all anyone wanted to do was kill each other until they burned in Praimfaya. Wonkru exists because Octavia inspired them with her faith in them. The only way it begins to make sense is when you consider Octavia’s actions through the prism of Bellamy’s experience – which 8/10 is how the BC fandom at least views the show. (Also valid btw. I also project onto my faves! Bellamy among them! But see above for subjective opinion vs objective fact.) With Bellamy, the lack of empathy is real. Octavia, or at least the Octavia of seasons 1-4 high key struggled to see Bellamy as a fully realised person with desires and feelings of his own. But, while this sucks for Bellamy, from Octavia’s perspective it is entirely understandable. No matter how young Bellamy seems to us, to Octavia he is her parent figure. How many of the people on here haven’t put their parents through hell from time to time? I shouldn’t have to point out the bleeding obvious here, which is that teenagers who care deeply about animal welfare, trans rights, LGBTQA+ rights, poverty and climate change can also go through phases of being absolutely fucking awful to their parents. Often, that’s because in our world, teens are subjected to an unholy amount of pressure with which they struggle to cope, and the overspill of that hurt lands on the people responsible for them. It doesn’t make them bad people. And, yes, that can, occasionally, tip over into emotional and, more rarely, physical abuse but we don’t usually call it that. We call that “teenagers being fucking awful” and I am 100% sure that this is the context the writers room is working from. Do I think it’s acceptable, or justified? Hell no. But it’s important to take these narrative threads in the context of the real-world understanding of the people who develop them. This show isn’t created in a vacuum. Now work the scenario I outlined above into a post-apocalyptic landscape with 2x traumatised victims of systemic injustice, one of whom was locked up by the other because of that injustice. Yeah. What is so interesting to me is that the blind spot Octavia has wrt Bellamy – the blind spot that denied him access to the empathy she showed everyone else - has come into play again now she’s Blodreina, but in a different way. After 6 years of having everyone kowtow to her, and after vowing not to love, suddenly Octavia is making concession after concession for her brother at huge personal risk to herself.  It might not seem like that to us, or to Bellamy (and legit! I get why, from Bellamy’s POV), but to Octavia it must seem like she’s trying SO HARD to give him what he wants within the framework of what she thinks is achievable. Consider love is weakness. Consider that she throws herself into his arms on sight, in full view of all of her people. Consider being the arbiter of life and death for 6 years. Now consider Bellamy asking her to trust him. She does and is rewarded with a sonic blast. Bellamy delivers her an ultimatum about Echo, and she concedes. She fucking concedes! When has she ever willingly conceded on anything and ESPECIALLY NOW SHE HOLDS THE POWER OF AN EMPEROR? It’s fairly obvious from the Blake siblings sparring session that Bellamy was the symbolic winner. He got through to her. Octavia NEVER forgives. But she offers Echo – the woman whose sins Octavia will never forget - a way out. When Echo and Bellamy refuse, does she banish Echo? She could do. She’s Blodreina. She’s used to doing whatever the fuck she wants. But, no. She accepts the alternative, and even helps Echo on her way. Yes, it’s brutal and Blodreina-y and serves a double purpose but still, she helps her. She’s not doing that for Echo.  She’s doing it for Bellamy. No, she’s not doing it with a winning smile and a cuddle, but that’s not Blodreina’s style. She tries to thank him for saving them, in the only way she knows how. She reaches out, and he lashes out with cold anger. And perhaps it’s deserved. No, it’s definitely deserved, but GODDAMMIT that was a “you’re dead to me” level of cruelty. Can I just roll back a second and talk about how co-dependent the Blake sibs are? Cool. A friend (I can’t remember who, sorry) once said that Bellamy and Octavia carried their cage back down to Earth with them. And for seasons 1-4 that is absolutely what happened. They are spectacularly co-dependent. Bellamy depends on her to give him purpose, and a direction and reason to live. Octavia depends on him to absorb the overspill of her hurt, to push against, to take the blame for all of the ills in her life. It sucks for them both, and they’re TRAPPED, so terribly trapped, and neither is the other’s jailer but neither can walk away either. And just, what strikes me about the interactions we saw in the sneak peek for 507 is that maybe, FINALLY, Bellamy has broken free of their co-dependent relationship.  He may not even realise it yet, but he has completely re-centred his world around Spacekru now. And I think, that if push comes to shove, he will prioritise Spacekru above Octavia, even if it hurts them both.  It doesn’t mean he loves Octavia any less, but after 6 years of love and support and peace and quiet, Bellamy has broken out of the cage. Bellamy is free. Excuse me while I cry tears of joy. But Octavia isn’t free. Octavia hasn’t had 6 years of peace and support and love. Octavia’s life has been marked by trauma from the moment of her birth, and the trauma hasn’t let up for a single goddamned second it just keeps coming and coming and coming until all she has is her walls and an alter-ego and the hope that she can keep Wonkru together and her brother by her side. Believe me when I say that Octavia is still very much trapped inside the cage which Bellamy has now vacated. IT IS ALL VERY HEARTBREAKING OKAY. IT HURTS. So yes, I still love Octavia and I am ready to see her again when Blodreina falls.

[exploringobjectsofdesire-blog]

7/12/2017: Research Proposal Submission

I have been working on my research proposal to be submitted today, a copy of which can be found below...

Objects of Desire Final Research Proposal

The Object: Jade Mountain (DUROM.1960.2205), donated to the Oriental Museum by Sir Charles Edmund Hardinge.

Initial Description: The Jade Mountain is a jade stone carving that originates from Zhonghua, China. It dates back to 1700 – 1725 CE during the Qing Dynasty, under the reign of the Kangxi emperor, and was gifted to the Oriental Museum by Sir Charles Edmund Hardinge (1878 – 1968). The nephryte jade is celadon-green with some russet markings, and the object measures 14 x 20.5 x 12 cm. It is a kidney-shaped jade boulder mountain and landscape, carved with a scene depicting the three standing Daoist stellar gods of Longevity (Shouxing), Prosperity (Fuxing) and Happiness (Luxing), being worshipped by pilgrims.  

Rationale for Choice: Having grown up in Hong Kong, I have had numerous encounters with jade, which is considered to be one of the most valuable and precious materials in Chinese culture. I have been lucky to have been gifted pieces of jade from my grandparents, most often in the form of pendants and jewellery. Rolling the cool, hard pieces of jade between my fingers never failed to evoke a sense of awe and reverence in me. This emotional connection arises in part from how these gifts were often combined with well wishes for longevity and health. More specifically, certain carvings held well-established connotations, such as the Buddha, closely associated with spiritualism, and the Zodiac pic, denoting the good fortune of a family that could historically afford such a food source. I have witnessed how jade is imbued with cultural values and broader belief systems, and I was therefore instinctively drawn towards the Jade Mountain, and the Taoist universe it captures.

In fact, the opportunity to learn about Chinese art and culture, and to engage with this aspect of my heritage, were reasons I felt compelled to take this module in the first place. Reading Edmund de Vaal’s The Hare with The Amber Eyes further drew my fascination towards the ability of an object to tell a history and heritage, and to evoke emotions and memory, aspects I hope to unravel with my chosen object.

At first glance, I was immediately struck by the Jade Mountain due to its substantial size and shape, as I am more used to smaller-scale jades. I also became enraptured by the carving, so rich with three-dimensional detail, all the more impressive considering the labour-intensive process of abrasion required to carve the hard material. Moreover, I have primarily thought of jades as pieces to be worn, and am therefore interested to find out about other ways jade has been used and conceived of in the past, such as during the Qing dynasty. Through investigating the Jade Mountain, I wish to discover more about the significance of jade over time in China, its reception in the West, as well as jade iconography and how they featured in everyday life.

Contact with the Oriental Museum: I visited the Oriental Museum twice before settling upon my object, in order to familiarise myself with the rich variety of exhibitions on display. After the jade mountain caught my eye, I organised a meeting with Rachel Barclay, the curator of the Oriental Museum. She helped me reach into the museum’s databases and archives, and I went through past correspondences relating to Hardinge’s collection and his personal log of collected items. Rachel suggested I could compare this object to others in Hardinge’s jade collection and jade pieces elsewhere. She also recommended source materials, including other museum databases, journals and books, some of which can be accessed through the Oriental Museum’s private collection. Rachel emailed me high-res photographs of the object, which highlighted even more detail than I had initially noticed when viewing the piece in its glass cupboard.

Review of Existing Information: Fortunately, considerable information has been recorded at the museum for the Jade Mountain, not least because its donor, Sir Jason Hardinge, was a prolific jade collector and a meticulous recorder of his purchases. The Oriental Museum keeps Hardinge’s personal record of acquired objects; this particular object was recorded on the 1st of January 1934, and was purchased for £15.00 – a substantial amount for a man known to be tight-fisted with money, reflecting the perceived value of this piece. The Museum’s personal library holds one of Hardinge’s own published books, ‘Jade: Fact and Fable’, the fruit of the collector’s frustrations around the lack of differentiation around types of jades. The Museum’s online database also contains details about the background and context of the item.

Literature Review: For a contextual overview and understanding interconnections between Taoism and Chinese visual arts, ‘Taoism and the arts of China’, by Stephen Little and Shawn Eichman proves useful, as it explores the specific histories over 150 works of art rooted in Taoist heritage, originating from late Zhou to Qing dynasty. To obtain insight into manifestations of Taoism in everyday life, and to begin thinking about possible usages and perceptions of the Jade Mountain, Livia Kohn’s ‘Daoism and Chinese Culture’ sets Taoism in cultural context, and relates it to belief systems and forms of religious organisation, including ritual, meditation and modernity.

Honing in on research more specific to the jade mountain carving, Stanley Nott’s ‘Chinese jade throughout the ages: a review of its characteristics, decorations, folklore and symbolism’ explores the rich system of symbols contained in Chinese art forms, particularly in jade carvings. The comprehensive ‘Encyclopaedia of Taoism’, edited by Fabrizio Pregadio, contains a relevant section on sacred mountains within the Taoist universe. DK Publishing’s ‘History of the World in 1,000 Objects’ introduces arts and culture within ‘China’s Age of Prosperity’ of the Qing Dynasty, and even includes and elaborates upon the very object I have chosen. I have identified articles from the journal Orientations, including ‘Eight Daoist Immortals in the Yuan Dynasty: Note on the Origin of the Group and Its Iconography’, which sheds light on the three figures perched atop the Jade Mountain, and ‘The Art of Taoist Scriptures’, which explores Taoism through a contrasting medium that similarly depicts mountains.

To better understand the object’s journey from Qing Dynasty China to Hardinge’s collection in England, the article ‘Sir Charles Hardinge: the man and his jades’ is an informative piece about the collector’s activities. Further to this, Stacey Pierson’s ‘Collecting Chinese Art: Interpretation and Display’ is instructive in exploring how cross-cultural transmission forms a unique prism of understanding,

Further Sources: The Metropolitan Museum’s resource, ‘Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History’, contains a section on ‘Daoism and Daoist Art’, with additional reading and relevant objects exhibited at the MET, including a comparable Qing dynasty piece, ‘Boulder with Daoist paradise’. Ireneus Legeza’s booklet, ‘Art and Tao: an exhibition of Taoist symbolism in Chinese art’ was printed in conjunction with a 1973 exhibition of Taoist art at the Oriental Museum, which would allow me to situate the object within a greater museum collection. The National Palace Museum of Taiwan holds not only an extensive jade collection, but also online resources, including ‘Chinese Jades through the Ages’ and ‘the Smart Carvings of Jade and Beautiful Stones’. When I travel home for Christmas, I intend on visiting the Hong Kong Museum of Art to look at jade pieces in the Chinese Antiquities section for further comparison.

Research Questions:

What does the Jade Mountain tell us about the relationship between Chinese art and Taoist iconography?

How was Chinese art mediated through broader frameworks such as culture, cosmology, religion, philosophy, myth and belief systems? To this end, how were objects like the Jade Mountain manifested in everyday life?

Why did jade and Taoist iconography attract Western collectors such as Hardinge, and how might this cross-cultural transmission influence our interpretation and understanding of the Jade Mountain? Does Edward Said’s Orientalist ‘European gaze’ come into play?

Reflective Analysis: At this initial juncture, I have found extensive resources on Chinese jade and Taoist art, as well as information on the collector, Hardinge. Due to the sheer volume of information available, I initially struggled to narrow down my research questions. The challenge for me is to condense everything into a concise and focussed podcast, which I intend on overcoming by keeping to the research questions I set out to answer. A focussed direction can be further maintained by continuously logging my research and checking on my own progress through updating my research log on Tumblr.