#you don’t know your father once fought the rise of the very empire you stand to inherit with that blade. you don’t know who he defended

[unfinishedslurs]

The boy stops in his tracks. “I know you,” he says, tilting his head curiously. He’s not tall, but he’s regal nonetheless, dressed all in white. Something about him makes Leia’s hair stand on end, and although she hides it she feels a stirring in her own chest. I know you like I know my own soul, she thinks wildly, and wonders where it came from. Has she gone insane?

“That’s nice,” she says, and shoots him anyway.

He deflects it in a flash of light, a glowing blue laser sword appearing in his hand like magic. She’s only seen one of those before, and it’s Vader’s. If this boy is anything like Vader, she realizes, she’s in deep shit.

She’s smart enough to know when she’s outmatched. Leia makes the tactical decision to run for her life.

Later, as she’s getting the hell out of there, she wonders why he didn’t try to stop her.

She remembers being young and tugging on her mothers skirts, demanding to know why their guest was so sad. “Does he not like it here?” She’d asked, and then, trembling, because Kenobi always seemed saddest around her. “Is it…because of me?”

“Oh, Leia,” her mother sighed, lifting her into her arms. “It’s not that, I promise.”

“Then what is it?”

“Master Kenobi lost a child under his care, years ago.” Breha’s eyes grew deeper, darker. “It was not his fault, but he blames himself. You remind him of that child, that’s all.”

Leia had quieted at that, contemplative.

The next time she’d seen Master Kenobi, she had given him a hug. He didn’t seem to know what to do with that, so she resolved to give him more of them. “He’s lonely,” she’d told her mother. “No one should be lonely.”

Looking at Obi-Wan Kenobi now, the memory seemed so far away. He’d aged thirty years in the ten it had been.

He looks, Leia thinks with a small twinge of regret, very lonely.

“Leia,” he greets. “It’s been a long time.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Leia sees a glint of white.

Kenobi freezes in his tracks. “Luke?” He whispers, and through the distance Leia can hear it as if he’d been speaking directly into her ear.

Master Kenobi lost a child under his care, her mother whispers in her head. He blames himself.

In an instant, Leia understands everything.

Kenobi is still staring at the boy he’d lost so long ago when Vader cuts him down.

Later, as she’s pacing around on the Falcon to Han muttering darkly about Princesses and supernatural abilities, she rememberers the way the boy collapsed, as if all his strings had been cut. Vader was too occupied with him to even look at her as she shot at him desperately.

Luke. She hates him more than she hates herself.

“They know where you are,” he hisses frantically. “They’re coming for you. You have to run.”

“Wait!” Leia quickly pulls up their sonar. Nothing yet, but it would explain the distant queasiness she’d felt since they’d landed. She tended to trust her gut. “How do you know? How much time do we have?”

“Not important, and not enough,” he says. “I have to go, and so do you. You need to leave yesterday.”

“How do I know I can trust you? I don’t even know who you are.”

He pauses. “Call me Skywalker.”

“That’s not an answer, Skywalker.”

“Yes it is.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but there are faint voices on the other end, drawing nearer.

“Shit,” Skywalker mutters. “I have to go. I’ll be in contact, okay? Don’t ever tell me where you are, or where you’re heading. Vader and Palpatine aren’t shy about reading minds. Just leave as soon as you can, and figure out the rest.”

“But—“

It’s too late. The comm has disconnected.

She stares down at it, disbelieving. How would the Empire know they’re here? Why should she trust a stranger who somehow got her personal comm code?

Gut feeling or not, on paper this was a perfect location. Supplied, armored, and most importantly, extremely well hidden. There was no real reason to think it would possibly be found out.

It’s probably a trap. Almost definitely a trap.

Han sticks his head in the door, a sour look on his face. “Hey Princess, can you tell these idiots—“

She makes a decision then and there.

“We’re leaving.”

“What?”

“We’re evacuating, effective immediately.” She pushes past him, and he follows so close he’s nearly stepping on her heel.

“Why? I think it’s pretty cozy here. Actual sunlight doesn’t hurt, either.”

“Apparently too cozy.” She grabs the first person she sees, a pilot who stares at her with wide eyes. “Emergency evacuation. Spread the word to pack everything you can and leave, I’ll let you know where we’re headed when we’re in orbit.”

He salutes and scurries off.

“Woah, hey now.” Han snatches at her elbow until she turns around to face him. “What’s going on?”

“There’s a new informant. He told me the Empire knows we’re here. They’re coming for us.”

“And you trust this person because…”

“I don’t have a choice,” she snaps. Someone runs past them, holding three packs filled to the brim with rations. “It’s either he’s lying and we’re not in danger, or he’s telling the truth and we’re going to die if we don’t listen. It’s not exactly hard math.”

It could be a trap of course, but he hadn’t suggested any sort of direction or destination to follow, and Leia wasn’t inclined to share. Especially not after his tidbit about Vader and Palpatine reading minds.

He squints at her. “That’s not it.”

“What?”

“I don’t believe you,” he insists. He’s so infuriating. Leia doesn’t know why she hasn’t kicked him out yet.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do, and you’re either gonna tell me why, or find a different transport when we head out of here.”

“Who said I was riding on your hunk of junk?” She demands. She actually was planning on going with them, since the Falcon has more than enough room for all the supplies that can’t fit in the other ships and none of the trustworthiness of the other pilots, but Han doesn’t need to know that.

“Well?”

Damn him. Damn him for knowing how to read her. She doesn’t know when she let that happen.

“I feel it,” she admits, defeated. “Something tells me he’s trustworthy. We’ll wait and see if it’s right.”

He studies her. She holds her head high, but inside she’s jittery at the scrutiny. They don’t have time for this.

“Yeah, all right,” Han finally says.

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” He rolls his eyes, like she’s not acting absolutely insane by putting all her trust in a random man she’s never even met. “Now come on, Princess, weren’t you the one who said we had to hurry?”

What is it about this man that makes it impossible to tell whether she wants to punch him or drag him into the nearest supply closet? They don’t have time to find out.

“So there’s good news and bad news.”

“Bad news first,” she demands.

“They know there’s a mole.”

“Shit.” Of course they know, how could they not? She should have been more careful, less obvious about the correlation of their movements with the Empire’s plans. “The good news?”

“They’ve tasked me with hunting down this ‘pathetic rebel spy,’” Skywalker says, humor in his voice. “That should buy me some time.”

Leia can’t quite stop the snort she lets out. “Seriously?”

“Yep. You’re speaking to a professional mole-hunter, here.”

“Well congratulations on the promotion, Skywalker.”

“Thank you,” he says grandly. Then, quieter, “It won’t last, Princess. They’ll find out eventually.”

“I know. Just hang in there, it will be over soon.”

“Will it?” He asks, suddenly sounding very young. She realizes that she has no idea how old he is. She doesn’t know anything about the man who has saved them more times than she cared to admit, and the idea rattles her until they sign off.

Later, she looks up the name Skywalker in their archives. There are a few results, but only one sticks out.

Anakin Skywalker, Jedi Knight and hero of the Clone Wars. Killed at the hands of Darth Vader. There are gossip articles too, speculations on his relationship with the pregnant Senator Padmé Amidala, who died around the same time Skywalker did. The baby, it seems, died with her.

Unless he didn’t.

It’s ridiculous. It’s impossible. The idea is so ludicrous that Leia almost rejects it entirely.

But it makes sense. By the Maker, it makes sense.

The child of Anakin Skywalker, it seems, would be a powerful Force user indeed. Powerful enough for Kenobi to take the baby and run. Powerful enough for the Emperor to want him for his own gain. Powerful enough to send Vader after Kenobi and take the boy himself.

Maybe even powerful enough to shield his mind from Vader and Palpatine’s intrusions.

Powerful enough to hide the fact that he’s a spy.

Leia sinks into her chair, covering her face as she laughs.

Maybe Luke isn’t so bad after all.

“No, no, no,” she mutters, digging through the smoking wreckage of the TIE fighter. “Don’t be dead, please don’t be dead.”

“Princess…” Han lays a hand on her shoulder that she immediately shrugs off.

“No, he’s not dead. He’s not. Luke!”

A faint cough answers her, and she’s so relieved to hear it she could cry. Behind her, Han starts bellowing for a medic and, “Some damn help here, do you expect us to move all this ourselves?”

“Luke, it’s me,” she sobs. “It’s Leia. You’re at the Rebel Base. You’re safe.”

More coughing, and there’s a worrying rasp to his voice when he says, “You know…my name?”

“I figured it out.”

“Smart.” This time, the coughing is so bad Leia and Han both wince.

“Shit, kid,” Han says, moving another piece of rubble. “Don’t talk. We’re gonna get you out of here, all right?”

“Stand back,” Luke chokes out.

“What?”

“Stand back. Please.”

Han protests, but something in Leia knows they should listen to him. She drags him back, and motions everyone else to fall back with them. They do, albeit reluctantly.

“Clear,” she calls, hoping Luke can hear her.

The TIE explodes.

“Fuck!” Han goes back in, Leia on his heels with the terrifying feeling that she’d just allowed Luke to die, before they both stop in their tracks. Around them, the broken pieces of the TIE are floating.

And curled up in the middle is a man dressed all in white.

“Luke!” She pushes past Han to start dragging him out, and after another moment of staring around them, he helps her.

As soon as they get clear, the pieces fall to the ground with a clatter. Luke falls limp with them.

Han is still looking at the TIE. “Can you do that?” He asks quietly.

Leia pauses her examination of the unconscious man in front of her to glare at him. “Is that what you’re most concerned with right now? Really?”

“Excuse me for asking, Princess!”

“It’s white,” Luke grumbles, pulling at his hospital gown bitterly. “I hate wearing white.”

“Should I be offended?”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t even. You look great and you know it. I just feel like I never left.”

“Well,” she says gingerly. “I guess it’s a good thing you got sick of it. If we went around in matching outfits all the time, people might think we’re twins.”

He snorts. “Yeah, right.”

[anime-alyssa]

also on ao3. if you enjoy this, support me by buying me a coffee. 

its here! i’m so proud of this and i already have 5 full chapters written. this first chapter establishes things a little more but next chapter we get into it. 

be’jetii masterlist.

o n e.

It had been since years since the Empire had fallen. Six years of peace among the galaxy, the New Republic rising to restore peace that the Empire had stolen. Things were back to normal now, there was no war and life seemingly went on after the destruction of the second Death Star. Everybody seemed to turn their lives around mostly for the better after that, seeing that now there was a reason for living since there was no war on their doorsteps.

Leia Organa-Solo took her place as a Senator for the New Republic, crucial in the re-building efforts of the Senate and the galaxy. People were amazed at how she managed to do so and raise her son, but she was a smart woman who knew what to do and when to stop. Han Solo kept smuggling for a living afterwards, putting a dent in that relationship, but he always made it work.

Luke Skywalker opened up a training academy for the younger generation of Jedi, of course. He wanted to teach the new generation the ways of the Force, and pulled a lot of inspiration from his old masters. He never turned away a student and was determined to see them all through.

And then there was you - the only one out of the group of ‘heroes’ to fall into habits that weren’t necessarily the greatest. After your father Obi-Wan died at the hand of his old padawan, and some disagreements with Luke on the ‘Jedi way’, you left them all behind and fled back to Tattooine to live a different life.

In Mos Eisley, you could find any job you wanted that was under the radar for the right price. Bounty hunting, mercenary work, prostitution, you name it, you had done it. You stole goods off of unsuspecting people on the streets and sold them for double the price - your favorite place to do this was Coruscant. That shit sold for triple the money back in Mos Eisley, there was always someone stupid enough to buy it for more than it was worth.

Leia disagreed with your choices, but she wasn’t going to sway you from them. She knew you too well, you were stubborn as a mule. You never exactly told her what you did for a living, but she assumed correctly enough. You hadn’t been right since your father died, you had cut off most of your relationship with the Force and hadn’t actually turned your lightsaber on in god knows how long. Since the day he died? It had to be then, because it was then that you had Han drop you back off on Tattoonie.

“A lightsaber is a Jedi’s most powerful weapon, my darling. It is your life, you must never lose it.” Your father’s voice echoed in your ears whenever you thought about your lightsaber. It stayed attached to your belt at all times, hidden under layers of tunics and sweaters. Though you may not use it, you couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing your father from beyond the grave by not keeping it on you. So it lives on your bed, the silver metal hilt taunting you every time you look at it. The crystal still calls to you though, a sign to you that it will be there when you need it.

Luke and Leia had tried to reach out to you after you went back home. They were worried about you. You gave them almost total radio silence for a few months after that, until they quite literally showed up on your doorstep.

“I’m done with this fight, Leia, Luke. He was all I had left of my family and Vader took him from me.” you said, tears streaming down your face.

“But Kenobi - that’s why you should come back. Help us take down the Empire, make things right so no one suffers the same fate!” Luke fought back. You and Luke had known each other for years. You went to schooling together, made quick friends. You liked to say that Luke knew you the best, at least back then.

Leia shushed him quiet, pushing Luke out of her way as she walked over to you. You barely knew her at this point, having left right after she had been rescued. But she looked at you with empathy, knowing how you felt. You had forgotten that her entire planet was decimated on the same day, Leia too had lost everything.

“It’s alright. But please - reach out if you need anything.” Leia had said to you, before embracing you. You let the tears fall down your face once more as you trembled in her arms.

You had taken her up on the offer at least once a month since the fall of the Empire. She had taken up residency on Chandrilla with Han and her son Ben, and you would appear in the middle of the night, most of the time at least a little scuffed up. You’d crash at her place overnight while her droids worked on repairing your ship and left before Ben could even wake up. You didn’t want the kid to see you in the state that you were in.

You talked to Leia as often as you could. She reached out regularly to make sure that you were still alive, however your response rate was what was spotty. She let you know whenever you actually responded how stressed it made her - she would never let you live it down.

To make up for it, you told her that after you did this quick little ‘supply run’ in Coruscant you would pop in to Chandrilla to see her, Han and Ben. You hadn’t properly seen Ben since his birthday the previous year and the last time you had seen Han you had punched him in the nose. It was on the same day, and he deserved it, to be fair - he was late to his son’s birthday.

But first you had to steal a few more items off some people in the marketplace. Stuff that looked expensive, too. The more expensive it looked, the more money some idiot would back for it back on Tattooine. You had gotten something for Ben, not stolen to appease the questions you knew Leia would throw at you, so technically you could go. But one more item would do - just so you know you’d have enough money for food when you got back.

A glimmer on the wall caught your eye as you sat in the shadows, observing your surroundings. A Mandalorian walked by you, in full beskar armor. Now that would be something to steal - but you didn’t have a death sentence. Your eyes looked over to an object dangling from his, as equally shiny. It looked like a Mandalorian necklace of some sort, to signify the covert he was apart of or something. That would have to do.

You got up and walked a couple paces behind him so he wouldn’t notice you following him. It was crowded anyway, he wouldn’t notice you even if he tried. This is where being a force-user came in handy; once you got close enough with a flick of your wrist, the necklace was out of his pocket and into your bag on your hip. He hadn’t noticed a thing, as you expected.

You dipped into the next available alley way and speed-walked back to the hangar where you had parked your ship, satisfied for the day. Throwing some credits at the parking droid and leapt up the ramp to your tiny little ship, setting your course for Chandrilla as you sat in your pilots seat and took off. Once you made the jump to hyperspace you leaned back and relaxed.

Your ship wasn’t impressive, but it got you through. It was small, and your cockpit and hangar all connected. You had one bunk on the side wall to sleep on when you were making multi-day trips and a small refresher - one that you worked hard to close off. You had Han and Chewie help you with making sure it stayed off all radars, making it damn near impossible to track.

The console beeped to signal the jump out of hyperspace and before you knew it, you were landing on Chandrilla outside of Leia’s house. You smiled seeing Ben eagerly awaiting your arrival and lit up at his smile when he saw the two miniature X-Wing toys you bought him.

“Just for you bud, straight from the market on Coruscant itself.” you said to him, kneeling in front of the six year old. “Where’s mom and dad?” You asked, standing back up.

“Mom’s in a meeting, but Dad and Uncle Chewie are back here.” he said to you, taking your arm, but making damn sure he wasn’t dropping those X-Wings you bought him, and dragging you to the back where the Falcon was parked. Sure enough, Han and Chewbacca were working on the Falcon. The pair of them stopped to look at you and Ben.

“Look what Kenobi got me! Look!” Ben excitedly said to his father.

“I see, nice.” Han said to his son, looking back up at you narrowly as Ben ran off into the yard, pretending to fly his new toys. “Who’d you steal that from?” he asked you. You scoffed in response, rolling your eyes as Chewbacca let out a growl that sounded like it could be a laugh.

“I bought those with my own credits, thank you very much. You shouldn’t be the one to judge, Solo.” you said, sitting down on a crate and putting your bag at your feet.

“I’ll give you that one. What do you got, anything good?” he asked, taking a pause from the repairs and sitting across from you.

“Nothing that I’m gonna sacrifice to you, that’s for damn sure. I did steal this off a Mandalorian, though - ” you said, taking the necklace out of the bag.

“You stole from a Mandalorian? Kriff, do you have a death wish?” Han interrupted, seeing the necklace in your hand. Chewbacca growled a response, signaling his agreement with Han.

“You guys have no faith in me at all. I can take a Mandalorian. I was a Jedi, you know.” you said to them, offended by their lack of faith in your skills.

“Mandalorian’s don’t take kindly to their things getting stolen. Especially something like that - do you even know what it is?” Han asked. Hearing nothing from your mouth, he continued. “It’s a sigil of a Mandalorian covert - the only way to prove that they belong to the way of Mandalore. And you just stole it.” he said in disbelief, Chewbacca shaking his head behind him.

“Well if it’s made from the same beskar this one had all over his body it’s gonna feed me for months.” you commented, putting the necklace away. Chewbacca growled an ‘Oh god’ as he looked down at Han who had looked away for a moment to keep track of Ben, but then snapped his head right back in your direction upon that revelation.

“A full beskar curiass? You’re dumber than I thought, Kenobi. It was nice knowing you cause once he tracks you down, and he will, cause that particular Mandalorian is a bounty hunter, you’re going to be in carbonite for the rest of your life.” Han said, getting up to begin work again on the Falcon. “And trust me, that ain’t pretty.”

“It could be a different one Han, lighten up.” you mumbled.

“There’s only one Mandalorian that I know of that steps out of the shadows in full beskar, and it’s that one. Rumor has it he got the beskar from doing a job for former Imperials. And stole back the quarry for the job, banned from the Guild.” Han explained to you in detail.

“Well then you’re definitely bullshitting because the Empire is no more. You guys made sure to take care of that six years ago.”

“Believe what you want, just make sure Leia doesn’t see it when she gets here or you’re going to be dead before the Mandalorian finds you.” Now that made you shudder. You weren’t afraid of much, heck hardly anything, but if there was one thing that terrified you it was Leia Organa-Solo angry.

“Mom!” As if on cue, Leia walked into the area, Ben running over to her. You quickly made sure your bag was shut as you stood up, leaving Han and Chewbacca behind. Leia finished embracing her son and she looked up at you.

“Well aren’t you a sight.” she commented.

“Good to see you too, Leia.” you mumbled back. She gave you a one armed hug before ushering you indoors. You felt Han’s eyes burning into the back of your head, but you ignored it.

——

After a very good meal, some playtime with Ben and Leia, and yet another lecture on trying to convince you to move to Chandrilla that you ignored, you were back on Tattooine. Immediately you made way to Mos Eisley, eager to get rid of the items in your pockets. Turning a corner off the main walkway, you spotted Janar’s stall on the market from a mile away - your best buyer. Janar himself was in the backroom you knew of course, so you made your way past the shop keep and into the back room behind the curtain.

“Kenobi! I was beginning to wonder if you had gotten lost.” The Twi’lek said to you. You rolled your eyes as you began to empty your bag in front of him and he dug around for credits. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked, eyeing the necklace you had stolen off the Mandalorian.

“Right out of the pockets, Janar. If it’s made out of the same beskar this dude was wearing - you owe me three times what you got on you.”

“God, you’re good. Alright, here you go.” he said to you, throwing you three bags of credits across the table. You slid them into your bag and made way to leave. “If that Mandalorian shows up here, you’re dead though.” Janar made a point to add what Han had already explained to you earlier.

“God, why are people so terrified of Mandalorians? Solo said the same god damn thing.” you said to him, turning on your heel and leaving the stall. You walked frustrated, but still with a feeling of satisfaction inside of you and in your bag.

If the Mandalorian showed up, you could take him. Right?

taglist (let me know if you want to be added): @waiting-for-motivation @theocatkov @killtherandomness @domino-oh-damn

[deploybits]

You are lucky some types of torture are legal, i now will have an anxiety attack looking at the sky

So here we are... The Ultima Weapon will almost certainly be housed in the depths of the complex. This is it, my friend! Gaius! Ah, Cid, my boy... You are late. There is something I always meant to tell you, yet the time never seemed right. It concerns your father. ...What of him? In the winter of his years, Midas came to abhor his part in Meteor. He told me that he wanted nothing more than to wash his hands of the whole sordid business. But he did not wash his hands of it. He helmed the project until the day it killed him! Come now, Cid... you must know that he did not have the luxury of choice. By the time he realized his error, it was too late. Meteor had him completely in its thrall. Shortly before his... transformation, mayhap sensing that something was amiss, your father confided to me all the regrets of his life. Most of them concerned you. Early on in your career, he realized that while you had a talent for devising armaments, it would never fulfil you. Long before you knew your own mind, he saw that you would be far happier using your knowledge for peaceful purposes, and the thought touched him. He was a changed man for it, though he could not let it show. You blew holes in this place just so you could say this to me!? What is it you want, Gaius!? I want you at my side, Cid. Take up your father’s mantle, and become the Empire’s lead engineer. It is your destiny. My father had a change of heart - you said so yourself! Besides, I have long known my destiny, and I assure you, it lies not with the Empire! A pity. And what of you, adventurer? Will you not consider making common cause with me? No? And I can expect no better answer than this? So be it. It was your strength that made me proffer my hand in friendship, and it is your strength that makes me proffer now my blade. Save as an ally, you are too dangerous to be let to remain. Run, Cid. Or stay. It makes no matter. You cannot escape the past. Gaius, wait! ...Damn it! Knowing Gaius, he is headed for the Ultima Weapon. If we find him, so too will we find our quarry. With these instruments, we can monitor every nook and cranny in the castrum. I think it’s time we divided our forces. Pray go on and give chase. I’ll track your movements from here and guide you through the complex. We’ll stay in contact via linkpearl. Be careful, all right? Ah, there she is! I trust you recognize our old friend. “Maggie,” was it? They must have shipped her here from Centri. Considering all she’s been through, it’s a wonder she’s still operational. Tough old girl! Now that you’re suitably armed, you can blast open that bulkhead. The external walkway will take you back there. Follow it till you come upon a way down to the lower level. That bulkhead is composed of a special alloy. Extremely tough. Ordinary fire won’t leave a mark, I’m afraid. You’ll need to divert all power to the magitek cannon, as I did so memorably once before. As you may recall, the armor’s core is like to expire from the strain, but there’s no help for it if we want to press on. Now, listen well. Press...<buzzzzzz>...the control...<fizzzzzz>...engage ancillary...then fire away. Don’t mind the warning lights. You’re a natural at this! All right, the way’s clear, but it’s just you and your own two feet now, so be careful. You have been leaving a fine mess in your wake, adventurer. Is someone there!? Garlond, old friend. How it warms the heart to hear your voice again after all these years. ...Nero? Is that you!? You sound well. It would seem this savage land agrees with you. The highest ranking tribunus of the XIVth... It was you all this time? Tell me, Garlond. How long do you intend to keep all the glory for yourself? Uh...what? You’ve lost me. Don’t play the fool with me. Ever since the Academy, I have been condemned to live in your shadow. By all objective measure, I was the more talented of the two of us, yet that fate counted for naught beside your privileged birth. You were admired as the young prodigy simply because your father was the great Midas nan Garlond! When you defected, I felt sure my star would finally rise... But by disappearing, you acquired the status of a legend - your reputed genius gaining credence merely by dint of your absence! Instead of cursing you for a traitor, the people actually came to think of you more fondly! To this day, you are still the young prodigy of magitek! I, meanwhile, have ever been made to feel second-rate - I who have continued to serve our nation faithfully. Whenever I fail to excel - why, it is only to be expected! Yet when I exceed all reasonable expectations, people proclaim that I walk in the footsteps of the great Cid nan bloody Garlond! Nero, I... I don’t know what to say. It matters not a whit what I achieve. Your existence has rendered mine worthless. Even Lord van Baelsar saw fit to offer you a place at his side - and this in spite of your betrayal! Did he extend any such offer to me - the man who has remained loyal to him for all these years? Why, no. He did not. Long have I endured this injustice...but no more. Lord van Baelsar is in the midst of activating the fully powered Ultima Weapon. It is my magnum opus - the creation that will win me the recognition I am due. I will not let anyone interfere. Nero! What are you-!? Ever since I first set foot in this benighted land, I have watched you - ever move you have made, every step you have taken. You have felled eikons, a feat made possible by the Echo, a peculiar power which shields you from their corrupting influence. It is of little wonder that my lord has taken an interest in you. As have I, if truth be told. It is my desire to harness your power for use in the Ultima Weapon. Should I succeed, Lord van Baelsar will surely take notice! Beside this, Garlond’s achievements will be as child’s play! Come, adventurer, and yield to me the secrets of your power! This changes...nothing... Ahahahaha! The Ultima Weapon is activated, and it brims with the power of eikons! Nothing can withstand its might! Are you all right!? What of Nero!? ...Fled!? Damn it! In the instant prior to the blackout, the instruments detected a massive power surge from the deepest chamber. Gaius is certain to be there! We have no time to waste! Word arrived from the Alliance a short while ago. It seems the Order of the Twin Adder has completed its blockade of Castrum Centri. What hands they can spare are hastening this way even as we speak, and likewise for the Maelstrom. All that’s left is to destroy the Ultima Weapon! ...I should warn you: the chamber which houses the target appears to be saturated with aetheric energies. There’s bound to be heavy interference. But even if we lose contact, you must go on. Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, all right? Look for the lift’s control panel - it’ll be somewhere nearby. Take the lift down, and you should find yourself in the chamber of the Ultima Weapon. Keep your eyes peeled - Gaius could be waiting for you down there. Oh, and don’t even think about dying. You’re too bloody useful! The interference is getting worse. I don’t think the connection will last much - Tell me...for whom do you fight? Hmph! How very glib. And do you believe in Eorzea? Eorzea’s unity is forged of falsehoods. Its city-states are built on deceit. And its faith is an instrument of deception. It is naught but a cobweb of lies. To believe in Eorzea is to believe in nothing. In Eorzea, the beast tribes often summon gods to fight in their stead - though your comrades only rarely respond in kind. Which is strange, is it not? Are the “Twelve” otherwise engaged? I was given to understand they were your protectors. If you truly believe them your guardians, why do you not repeat the trick that served you so well at Carteneau, and call them down? They will answer - so long as you lavish them with crystals and gorge them on aether. Your gods are no different from those of the beasts - eikons every one. Accept but this, and you will see how Eorzea’s faith is bleeding the land dry. Nor is this unknown to your masters. Which prompts the question: why do they cling to these false deities? What drives even men of learning - even the great Louisoix - to grovel at their feet? The answer? Your masters lack the strength to do otherwise! For the world of man to mean anything, man must own the world. To this end, he hath fought ever to raise himself through conflict - to grow rich through conquest. And when the dust of battle settles, it is ever the strong who dictate the fate of the weak. Knowing this, but a single path is open to the impotent ruler - that of false worship. A path which leads to enervation and death. Only a man of power can rightly steer the course of civilization. And in this land of creeping mendacity, that one truth will prove its salvation. Come, champion of Eorzea, face me! Your defeat shall serve as proof of my readiness to rule! It is only right that I should take your realm. For none among you has the power to stop me! I had not thought to be so hard-pressed. Your strength is...most impressive. Such power befits a ruler! Yet you lack the resolve to put it to proper use. A waste. Allow me, then, hero, to do that which you will not! Bear witness to the true power of the Ultima Weapon! But the Ultima Weapon is all-powerful! Why does my enemy still stand!? Can her strength truly be so great? It is the blessing of Light that confounds you. Lahabrea. Your foe acts under the protection of the Crystal she bears. So, this is what empowers her. Beyond mortal limits. If you are to prevail, the hammer of Darkness must needs be brought to bear upon the shield of Light. And so it shall, for the Ultima Weapon is host to a power of which you are as yet ignorant. Speak plainly, Ascian. The Heart of Sabik. It is the Weapon’s core - an enigma whose surface even the vaunted scholars of ancient Allag failed to scratch. The magic within has lain dormant for eons. Of what magic do you speak? A spell without parallel. Ultima. I sought the life force of the primals for no other reason but to quicken the core. For the true power of the Ultima Weapon lies within its now-beating Heart! Lahabrea... What have you done? No more than was necessary...for my god to be reborn. Damn you, Ascian! The hour is at hand! Behold but a sliver of my god’s power! And from the deepest pit of the seven hells to the very pinnacle of the heavens, the world shall tremble! Unleash Ultima! Ahahahahahaha! Such devastation... This was not my intention... Oh, Hydaelyn...it seems the task of keeping your champion alive has exhausted what strength you had left. Van Baelsar... Your enemy’s shield is broken. The rest I leave to you. We will speak later, Ascian. But first, I must deal with you. The question of who is mightier remains! Come, adventurer! Let us find the answer together! No... No, no, NO! Uh! Heed me... The subjects of a weak ruler must needs look to a higher power for providence... and their dependence comes at a cost to the realm. The misguided elevate the frail... And the frail lead the people astray. Unless a man of power wrests control...the cycle will never be broken. You... You of all people must see the truth in this. You who have the strength to rule... Pathetic. You boasted of unrivaled power. You were entrusted with the ultimate weapon. The ultimate magic! And still you failed. So much for the glory of man. The growing imbalance afflicting the planet must be redressed. If it is permitted to worsen, the very laws of existence - both aetheric and physical - will be warped beyond all recognition. Know you the root of this corruption? Hydaelyn! Like a parasite, she must be burned out if the planet is to recover. And naught but the return of the one true god will ensure her complete excision. Yet to pave the way for the master’s return, a chaotic confluence of untold proportions must needs be brought about. And that will necessitate the presence of the primals. needless to say, both you and your Scion accomplices can not be suffered to interfere in this endeavor. You will not leave this place alive. It is past time your flame was extinguished...“Bringer of Light.” If thou wouldst pierce the shadows...make thee a blade of Light. What!? The Light...it binds them... They are too many!

Aaaaaaaaarrrgh!!!

[carewyncromwell]

Anybody want some more POTC AU? Well, this time we’re getting some focus on our Davy Jones (Finn McGarry @theguythatdraws, based on this concept) and our Commodore “Carey Weasley” (Carewyn Cromwell)! In the original films, their respective roles are on opposite sides of the fence (hell, Davy Jones kills Norrington in the movies damnitDisneyNorringtondeservedbetter >>), and even in this AU, Davy!Finn has some history with Carewyn’s brother Jacob...so how will they interact, when they collide? We’ll just have to wait and see...

17th-18th century pirate ships were -- in a bizarre way -- tiny, floating representative democracies, about 50-60 years before the American Revolution. In a world where nearly all European countries were run by kings chosen by “divine right” and one could usually only “rise above their station” through fighting in wars or through marrying someone of a higher class, pirate ships operated under the idea of “one man, one vote” and their captains both were chosen by popular vote and could be replaced at any time, oftentimes rather peacefully. The Age of Enlightenment sparked by thinkers like John Locke started in the midst of the Golden Age of Piracy and really kicked off as soon as it was over, circa 1730. Those same ideas ended up inspiring both the American and French Revolutions in the later 18th and early 19th centuries...so yeah, in a weird way, you could draw a direct connection between the values and grievances against the monarchy expressed by pirates to the ones expressed by America’s Founding Fathers and the figures of the French Revolution!

Previous part is here, whole tag is here...and I hope y’all enjoy!

x~x~x~x

When the Flying Dutchman returned from Tortuga, the brig was stuffed to the brim with about two hundred prisoners -- and yet, even with that, Cutler Beckett was not pleased. None of those captured were particularly well-known or wanted pirates: instead the group largely consisted of retired pirates, pirates’ families, or other such refugees from the law who hadn’t committed any crimes except through association.

“The pirates refused to be taken alive, Beckett,” spat Jones impatiently. “All of the ones we captured fought to the death rather than be imprisoned.”

“Admirable excuse, Jones,” said Beckett airily, “but at present, we need prisoners to interrogate -- and although you may be comfortable dealing with dead men, they don’t do much good for us that way. Unless you can give us the location of Shipwreck Cove yourself?”

Jones’s eyes flashed dangerously. Alas, he couldn’t answer that question -- and so Beckett railroaded him.

“I’ve come to the conclusion that you need some oversight, Jones -- so from now on, Commodore Weasley and my associate, Patricia Rakepick, will remain on board the Dutchman...just to make sure things run smoothly.”

Jones watched as a line of soldiers escorted the Dead Man’s Chest on board his ship. He had felt the presence of his heart earlier, but it being so close made his chest feel like it was on fire, blazing with wild, storm-like emotions he hadn’t felt in years that made him want to hit something, scream in pain, and burst into tears all at the same time. It was agony, after so long, and it made Jones whirl on Beckett with a murderous expression.

“I will not have that thing on my ship!” he snarled.

“Perhaps you will not, but I will,” said Beckett.

He glanced at Rakepick. “Did the key Jones handed over work?”

Rakepick dangled the key to the Chest off of her finger with a smirk. “Aye -- I checked it before we brought it over.”

“Good.”

Beckett returned his gaze to Jones.

“From here on out, you shall answer to the Commodore and Madam Rakepick for your orders -- all orders, naturally, that come directly from me. Should you not, they will have the authority to discipline any misbehavior.”

Jones’s gaze flickered over Rakepick and then over to the shorter Navy-dressed officer standing perfectly straight beside her.

The Commodore -- yes. This was the one called “Carey Weasley” -- Black Jack Roberts’s younger sister and, as per Jones’s deal with Jack, his future crew member, Carewyn Cromwell. She truly didn’t resemble her brother much at all, Jones thought: it was little wonder no one had made a connection between her and the infamous captain of the Tower Raven. And Jones thought, it was irony at its finest, the thought that one of the people Beckett was using to restrain him was in fact destined to scrape before him instead, within the next two months.

Jones’s gaze returned to Beckett pretty quickly. He snapped his claw at his side as he loomed over the much smaller man.

“The Flying Dutchman sails as its captain commands,” he said fiercely.

“And its captain will sail it as he is commanded!” Beckett shot back, his usually detached and arrogant voice betraying some real aggression for the first time.

Jones’s crew muttered among themselves, both shocked and a bit intimidated. The leader of the East India Trading Company took several steps forward, his eyes boring into Jones with pure contempt.

“I already disposed of your pet,” he said softly. “I would hate to have to also dispose of you so quickly, when you might still have some use.”

Despite saying this, it was clear that Beckett felt no compassion for Jones’s life at all.

“This is no longer your world, Jones. There’s no place in this new world of ours for the immaterial. In short, the immaterial...has become immaterial. Best you learn that quickly, and fill the new role you’ve been dealt.”

Jones loathed having the two red-haired women and their battalion of Navy soldiers aboard. Although a lot of the time neither of them spoke to him, he hated having their eyes on his back and hated knowing that they as agents of Beckett’s were there to be his “leash.”

Rakepick flaunted her authority noticeably more than Carewyn did, dictating their course and openly contradicting Jones’s orders. About the only time Carewyn seemed to speak up was in response to the treatment of prisoners -- while the Flying Dutchman sailed back toward Port Royal, the Commodore frequently checked on the condition of the prisoners in the brig. One of Jones’s sailors even reported to him that he’d seen her bringing one of them a Bible on request. It was odd, considering that every single one of those prisoners was going to hang as soon as they arrived in Port Royal, unless they had “valuable information” to give. Unfortunately the only valuable information that Beckett wanted were the identities of all seven Pirate Lords, the significance of their “Pieces of Eight,” and the location of Shipwreck Cove, the last secret pirate haven on Earth -- and, to every prisoner’s credit, if any of them did know the answers to those questions, they refused to say...perhaps because they knew that it’d be the place the pirates who were able to escape the Dutchman’s attack would go.

Carewyn escorted the prisoners on shore to Port Royal, while Rakepick stayed behind with the troops aboard the Flying Dutchman. When she arrived, she met up with Percy, who had been in charge of the fort in her absence. The hangings started the very next day. A long, long line of prisoners all locked in irons pooled out of the brig and were walked one by one closer to the gallows. In groups of seven, they were sent up to the hangman’s noose -- men, women, even children -- all without trial and without any chance for mercy...all thanks to Lord Beckett, and by extension the King of England who had given him that power. It broke Carewyn’s heart standing on the sidelines with Percy, unable to do a thing to stop it.

Cutler Beckett arrived in Port Royal in the midst of the executions, looking incredibly smug. It took everything in Carewyn to not yank out her pistol and stick in his disgusting, weasel-like face...especially when he brought her and Percy away from the gallows to speak to them privately.

“I admit, Commodore...your plan has not produced the intelligence I wished for,” said Beckett as he considered the map in front of him. Once again, he was playing with a silver piece of eight absently in his right hand. “But it has been a very effective showcase of the British Empire’s new position on piracy. My proclamation would’ve lacked the proper teeth, without such a visible display.”

‘You’re despicable,’ Carewyn thought, hatred pulsing through her heart as a tiny boy was placed up on a barrel at the gallows.

“Thank you, sir,” she said lowly.

Percy glanced at the gallows too, and he winced at the sight of the boy standing on the barrel.

“It’s unfortunate that the information they offered was not useful to you, Lord Beckett,” he said, his voice betraying some hesitance. “I thought that the locations the boy provided for where the Dennis and the Andromeda make berth and the routes the Blackbird uses to plunder ships seemed promising...”

“You think too small, Captain,” said Beckett.

There was a rather arrogant gleam in his eye as he glanced from Percy to Carewyn, the piece of eight lingering between his pointer and middle finger.

“Chasing pirates one at a time would take up more resources and time than I have a desire to use. What I want is to bring order to this world -- and to do that, all pirates must be dealt with...either by being brought into line to serve our interests, or by being disposed of. And to do that, the pirates’ spirit must be decisively crushed.”

He glanced at the piece of eight between his fingers.

“...How much do you two know about the Pirate Brethren Court?”

Percy turned to Carewyn. Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“I’ve heard of it, but I’m afraid I don’t know much.”

That was a bald-faced lie. Charles Cromwell himself had been one of the original Pirate Lords ages ago, before the curse no doubt interfered with his old duties and the Mediterranean was taken over by someone else.

“They are -- from what I understand -- representatives, who only gather whenever pirates as a whole need united leadership,” said Beckett. “They are a Parliament for piracy -- one that selects a ‘King’ to represent them all, in times of crisis.”

Percy frowned in confusion. “A King chosen by the people? I’ve never heard of such a thing...”

“Pirates do not believe in divine right,” Carewyn explained. “Even when it comes to their captains, the crew can vote to replace them at any time.”

Percy turned to Beckett. “...Then do you think the pirates will attempt to convene this ‘Brethren Court,’ in response to the attack on Tortuga?”

‘That’s definitely what I hope...’ Carewyn thought to herself.

Beckett nodded. “I am assured of it.”

Carewyn’s eyes drifted away, back up to the line of chained prisoners still being forced up onto the gallows.

“If they were to convene this ‘Court’ of theirs and select a King, my Lord,” she said softly, “it sounds like they could be a greater threat than ever. Individual pirates might be more expensive to chase one at a time...but if they were somehow able to unite, they could create a formidable army.”

Beckett raised his eyebrows. “I did not think you would fear a War, Commodore.”

“Not at all,” said Carewyn. “If the British Navy could stand toe to toe with the Spanish and French, we should more than be a match for a smattering of rag-tag galleons -- especially with the funding of the East India Trading Company behind us...”

Her eyes narrowed a bit more as they swiveled over to Beckett’s face.

“...But...if you were to advocate such a mission, you’d be at the head of the charge for it. Its success or failure would rest on your head more than any of ours...regardless of any efforts we might make to protect your reputation.”

Beckett’s lips curled up in a smile that held no warmth.

“Your concern is appreciated, Commodore Weasley,” he said, and his eyes seemed to gleam upon her. “But I assure you...I’ve waited long enough, to get the revenge I’m owed...”

He turned his focus to the piece of eight coin in his hand.

“After the injuries I’ve sustained, thanks to one of these ‘Pirate Lords,’” he said in a very soft, cold voice, “I have no intention of letting them live in peace. Wherever they decide to make their final stand...I shall be there to meet and destroy them.”

He slammed the coin down into the table with a slap of his hand, making both Carewyn and Percy flinch despite themselves.

After the hangings were complete, Carewyn returned to the Flying Dutchman, once again leaving Percy in Port Royal. The youngest Weasley brother was troubled by the thought of Carewyn being on board Jones’s ship, and she tried to reassure him as best as she was able.

“Captain Jones has to follow Lord Beckett’s orders just as much as we do,” she said softly. “Regardless of who he is, he’s been impressed into our service...it wouldn’t be in his best interest, to fight against that.”

Percy, however, didn’t look very reassured. His gaze kept flickering up to the Dutchman, even though he tried hard to look Carewyn in the face.

The Commodore offered her surrogate younger brother a smile, resting a hand on his shoulder and giving it a squeeze.

“It’ll be okay,” she reassured him gently.

Percy stared at Carewyn for a long moment, his brown eyes dark with emotion. Then, very abruptly, he actually threw out his arms, grabbing hold of her and pulling her into a full hug.

“Percy?” said Carewyn, completely taken aback.

Percy didn’t say anything -- instead he just gave her a squeeze, his chin resting on her shoulder. Although he was facing away from her, Carewyn could hear a faint shakiness in the breath he took.

“Come back safely,” he mumbled, his voice harsher than normal as he tried to keep his composure. “You hear me? Come back just as you are now.”

Carewyn’s blue eyes filled with pain as she realized what was going through Percy’s head. Yes, he was scared for her safety, but it wasn’t just because he cared about her -- it was also because, with the loss of Charlie and Bill, his real brothers...she was the only family Percy had left, here in Port Royal. The only sibling he could rely on, for emotional support.

Her heart filling with compassion and affection for the young Captain, she brought her arms around Percy tightly in return, resting a hand on the back of his head and cradling it as though she were his mother.

“We will see each other again soon, Perce,” she murmured in his ear. “I promise.”

After she and Percy parted ways, Rakepick met Carewyn at the top of the ramp heading up to the deck of the Flying Dutchman. The older woman gave Carewyn another long, analytical look as she came up on deck, which Carewyn returned with a much shorter, faintly suspicious look. She didn’t like how Rakepick looked at her. It just made Carewyn feel like she knew something...but Carewyn frankly had no idea what that “something” was. One thing Carewyn did take note of, however, was the chain she wore around her neck and tucked under the low collar of her red jacket -- the chain that no doubt held the key to the Dead Man’s Chest.

That night, after all of the officers went to sleep, Carewyn entered the Dutchman’s captain’s cabin and ordered one of her lieutenants to send Davy Jones to her. Jones was not pleased to be summoned to his own cabin, least of all by the Commodore Beckett assigned to “watch” him.

“I cannot be called like some mongrel pup,” he snapped.

“Yet you came,” said Carewyn coolly. “I appreciate the promptness.”

Jones looked incredibly surly. The ginger-haired Commodore looked at her lieutenant, who was trying hard not to cower in Jones’s shadow.

“Go ahead and return to your patrol down below with the Chest, Lieutenant,” she told him. “I’ll take it from here.”

The scared young man gave a salute and then quickly left the room. Once the door was closed, Carewyn turned up at Jones with a much grimmer look on her face, her arms crossed behind her back in standard “Naval” fashion.

“...Captain Jones...Lord Beckett has ordered that we seek out Shipwreck Cove.”

Jones’s lip curled. “I believe I’ve already made it clear that I don’t know where the damned Brethren Court meets.”

“I know you don’t. And I’m glad for it.”

Jones’s eyebrows knit together suspiciously. Carewyn’s eyes flickered absently over to the door as she listened for a moment to make absolutely sure no one was listening it.

“...I don’t want Beckett to find Shipwreck Cove,” she said lowly. “I don’t want him to send Navy ships after us once we’ve found it and destroy it. Just as I frankly don’t want you under Beckett’s rule at all.”

Jones gave a loud snort. “Haha! And I suppose this is all out of the goodness of your heart, this...sympathy you deign to spare such a pathetic wretch as me?”

His eyes hardened as he bore down on her, dwarfing her with his height.

“I don’t need your pity, Carewyn Cromwell,” he said very coldly.

Carewyn was visibly taken aback.

“Oh, aye,” said Jones with a smirk, “I know your name. A ferryman of the damned knows everyone’s true names.”

Despite how taken aback and faintly disconcerted Carewyn was, however, she didn’t seem intimidated. Instead she kept her posture straight and tall and looked Jones straight in the eye.

“Then you know why I don’t want Beckett to succeed,” she said seriously. “A lot of people I love are probably on their way to Shipwreck Cove right now. As much as I know a battle will be imminent, I want them to initiate it. I don’t want Beckett to get there before they’re ready.”

“So you aim to make a deal with me, then, Miss Commodore?” asked Jones, raising an eyebrow in amusement.

“No,” said Carewyn firmly. “I just want to set you free.”

Now it was Davy Jones’s turn to look startled.

“I don’t believe in anyone being impressed into service against their will -- least of all by a captor as cruel and despicable as Cutler Beckett,” the Commodore said, feeling glad to finally let loose her bile a bit. “And if getting your heart back to you so that you can do as you please makes it that much harder for Beckett to destroy Shipwreck Cove...all the better.”

“Ah...so you think to trade my assurance that I won’t attack Shipwreck Cove for your services,” said Jones coolly. “Well, I hate to break it to you -- but I have no love for the Brethren Court myself, since they took all ownership of the seas for themselves. I daresay your dear granddaddy told you all about that...”

“‘The seas be ours and by the powers, where we will, we’ll roam’ -- yes, I know the song,” said Carewyn. “But that doesn’t matter. I’m not asking you to help the Brethren Court. I’m not asking you to help me with anything. I plan to set you free whether you want to be nice to me or not.”

Jones’s eyes narrowed as they flickered over Carewyn’s face, analyzing her critically. At last he raised his claw the way a man might raise a hand, but its size made it so it came within inches of her face.

“...Let me make sure I have this right, missie,” he said lowly. “You’re offering your assistance in restoring my heart to me...without making any sort of deal with me that benefits you?”

Carewyn nodded, not flinching at all in response to Jones’s claw getting into her personal space.

“Because you being free helps me, as it is -- by making things harder for Beckett.”

Jones considered Carewyn for a long moment. Whatever he had been expecting from the sister of Black Jack Roberts, it certainly wasn’t this. Even from a sanctimonious Navy officer, he didn’t expect this level of...well, for lack of a better word, decency...especially for someone who had showed her no kindness and she owed absolutely nothing to. He never would’ve admitted it aloud...but it impressed him.

‘Seems a bit of a shame that such a decent person should be fated for a lifetime of service aboard my ship,’ Jones thought to himself.

Perhaps because his heart was so close to him, the thought made some reluctance and guilt pick at the inside of his chest.

Pushing the feeling aside, the captain of the damned lowered his claw again. Then very, very slowly his tentacled face spread into a fuller, brighter smirk.

“...What do you have in mind?”

[astoldbycrimson]

Bring Me Back to Life

Summary: You and Din were always protecting each other. It’s never a conscious thought, just a natural instinct at this point.

Pairing: Mando/Din Djarin x f!Reader

Warnings: injuries, mentions of violence, angst, and sweet fluff

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 4.5 | Part 5

———————

The concept of love, for many, was a myth that traversed the galaxy. In a time when there was war and carnage, it was a tale long forgotten, written in a language that no one could understand. Death, chaos, and destruction were all some people knew. Din Djarin had been no different. 

He watched as the Empire destroyed his home and wept as he was hidden within a storage cellar. He was helpless as the droids brutally ripped his parents away from him. They nearly took his life too… While the Mandalorians had shown him mercy and raised him as one of their own, the stories of love had died with his family. All those feelings had been lost in the shadows of his mind, buried deep until he eventually forgot where he’d hidden them. 

But then you came along. First, you were just the kind waitress in a cantina on Dathomir. The one with the interesting eyes and pretty smile. And then, deep in the woods of your homeland, you saved his life for reasons he didn’t understand. Your powers were unlike anything he’d ever seen. Somehow you’d managed to talk your way onto the Razor Crest. And slowly, with minimal effort, you mapped out his mind and found each piece he’d buried so long ago. 

While your life hadn’t been without pain, you knew love from the moment you took your first breath. Your mother treasured you more than the heart in her chest. Your father had broken the old jedi way just to bring you into the world. Love was everywhere you looked. Sometimes so abundant that it suffocated you, like when your mother had passed and your village had wept with you. But you never forgot what love felt like. Not like Din did.

Boarding the Razor Crest had been a massive change for you. The air wasn’t filled with the love you had grown accustomed to. Instead it was filled with deafening silence. It smelled of blaster fire, sweat, and blood. And the taste it left on your tongue was incredibly bitter. Never before had anything left you feeling so cold and lonely. It took over a cycle for the stale air to clear. Then love surrounded you once more and that warmth had finally enveloped Din too.

You reminded him every day of just how real love really was. He felt it when you cooked him a hot meal. When you smiled at him so sweet with nothing but adoration in your eyes. Din felt your love when you’d remove his helmet with the utmost care, as if it were made of glass and one wrong move could destroy it forever. When you kissed with such fervor that you stole the air from his lungs. You sang the tales of love so beautifully. Everything was foreign, but with your help, he slowly came to understand.

Love did not come without a price, however. You became reckless as your feelings clouded your judgment. Din was your priority, so you repeatedly put yourself in harm’s way to ensure his safety. In your mind, it was your job to protect him, no matter the cost. Even if it meant you drew your last breath.

You weren’t alone in that feeling. Din, the normally calm and collected veteran hunter, was ready to throw himself between you and the first sign of danger. Even if he knew you could handle the situation, he was unable to stop himself from taking a hit or two. And it was for that very reason that Din was now in near critical condition.

Fortunately you had ended the fight rather abruptly upon seeing him wounded. You had used far too much force to ensure the ending was swift and absolute. Had he been conscious to see it, you’d likely get a scolding. Because you shouldn’t use your extra abilities unless the situation demanded it. He’d come to know what happened to most of the jedi. Din didn’t want that to happen to you.

The fight had left him unconscious and bleeding. He didn’t hear the curses you muttered in your native tongue, even though he’d come to recognize a few from your frequent use of them. Din didn’t hear you whisper that you loved him and to hold on. But you managed to get him back to the ship in record time. Now he was sprawled out your shared cot, seriously wounded but breathing. 

Given your massive overuse of your force abilities, you only had enough energy to make him stable. You’d have to stop the bleeding without using the cauterizer… you feared your shaking hand and his inability to guide you would’ve wounded him worse. So, unfortunately, you had to rely on the old fashioned medkit to treat his wounds until you fully recovered. 

You carefully stripped him of his armor, taking note of where the wounds were on his body. You applied bacta spray to the more pressing ones and bandaged them accordingly. Then you cleaned up the lesser scrapes and cuts, leaving them to air and heal on their own. 

Once every injury was addressed, you washed the blood and dirt off him. Then you dressed him in fresh clothes and set his helmet beside the cot. The wounds wouldn’t heal perfectly overnight, so you’d be required to keep him off his feet for at least a day. You pressed a kiss to his cheek, grabbed his hand, and waited by his side until he stirred.

You stayed there for hours, struggling to stave off your own exhaustion. When you’d start to nod off, you bit your cheek to jolt yourself awake. And you kept his hand in yours, not only to calm your nerves, but so you’d be alerted when he finally stirred. 

Unfortunately, you didn’t last more than 13 hours before your body slumped and you succumbed to your own exhaustion. So Din woke first, brown eyes fluttering open to find you asleep beside him. It would’ve been cute if you hadn’t looked as though you had just fought a war by yourself. There were bags under your eyes and bruises littered your exposed skin. You were still dressed in your dirty clothes, caked with grime and blood.

He immediately tried to sit up, worried about all the blood on you. But the groan that escaped his lips and the sudden jolt of your arm awoke you instantly. It took you a second to find your senses before you were standing and ushering him back onto his back.

“Shh, mulovda, you’re fine. I’m here. Just relax,” you whispered reassuringly. 

“(Y/N)… are you okay?” Of course the first words he uttered would be to ask about your well being. 

“Din, I’m fine. You’re the one who nearly died.” Honestly if you weren’t so worried, you’d be rolling your eyes at him. 

“You…” a groan as he adjusted his position on the cot, “…look terrible." 

A sigh left your cracked lips before you laughed softly. ”…Thanks, Din. You really know how to make a girl swoon.“ 

He chuckled, but it made him stiffen at the pain. "Kriff, (Y/N). Don’t make me laugh.”

“Sorry, used up all my pity when I played doctor last night. You brought that upon yourself for insulting me." 

”…I didn’t mean it like that, (Y/N/N).“

A smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. "I know. You just really set yourself up for that one… How are you feeling?” Your face turned serious as you raised a hand to rest on his cheek.

You noted how he instinctively leaned into your touch. “I’m alive. Been through this and much worse before. How long have I been out?" 

"I lost count after the first 10 hours… Maybe half a day?”

He hissed through his teeth as he tried to rise. Your gentle, but firm hand on his chest kept him down. 

“That’s way too long. Let me up, I need to get us off this planet." 

Your tone was sweet, but stern as you spoke, "Din, we’re safe. They are all dead. We can stay at least another day. Right now you need to rest." 

He was silent a moment. "They’re all… dead?”

“Yes, dead. We’re safe now.”

You sensed the tilt in his head before he opened his mouth. “…How’d you manage that, cyar'ika?” The way he said your little nickname was accusatory. Borderline patronizing. “I remember a very different situation before I blacked out.”

“Your memory is failing you, mulovda. We were doing fine before you tried to play hero. You must’ve hit your head pretty hard,” you laughed as you carded your fingers through his hair. 

“…You’re lying.”

You tilted your head to the side. “Am I? Last I checked you couldn’t read minds, Din.”

He could tell when you lied. Your face was convincing enough for most, but Din knew you better than that. He wasn’t the most social of creatures, but Maker was he observant. He was ready to fight you on it, but he couldn’t deny that he enjoyed the attention you were giving him. So, for now, he’d let it go. 

“Now that you’re awake, I’ll make us a hot meal.” You went to walk away, but a hand circled your wrist.

“The food can wait. I think you should take a minute to wash up, (Y/N).”

You sighed. “Do I really look that bad?”

“…You’re beautiful, cyar'ika. You just… take care of yourself for a minute, okay? I can wait a little longer.” It was obvious that he meant what he said, which had you flushing lightly. He was always so thoughtful when it came to you.

Denying his request would only cause trouble and a shower sounded wonderful after your day. “I’ll just be a minute… promise me you won’t leave this cot, Din.”

Of course he had planned on sneaking up to the cockpit while you were distracted. But you knew him… too well, at times. So he let out a typical Din sigh and nodded. “…I promise.”

You were true to your word and kept your bathing brief. Honestly, you were far too tired to even think of taking a long shower anyway. So you scrubbed off the dirt and grime before washing your hair. Then you were out and in a clean set of clothes, making a hot dinner for your Mandalorian.

It didn’t take long before he was shoveling his face full of your food. Before you, he never got to enjoy the taste. Eating was a necessity, not a luxury. And time was something he didn’t have a lot of. But with you preparing most of his meals, he tried to give himself a moment to really taste the unique blend of spices. To savor his meal for as long as his hunger would allow. 

You, however, were savoring the moment. While you couldn’t see the face he was making, you knew it was a pleasant one. He always seemed to enjoy the food you made. Always grateful for a meal made with love. But you were just grateful to have another moment with him. Thankful to still have someone to cook for. To kiss and hold and love…

Din had come into your life seemingly out of nowhere. Just a Mandalorian that had stumbled upon your father’s cantina. At first he was just a way off your planet. To hone your skills and maybe make a name for yourself. But he quickly became so much more. He made you feel things you’d long forgotten. Had you thinking that maybe fairy tales existed here amongst the stars, on a ship with a Mandalorian named Din Djarin.

And now… now he was practically your world. A beautiful untouched planet that you had been fated to collide with. He didn’t know it, but he saved you in so many unspoken ways. You’d survive if he hadn’t made it, but you know you’d never feel alive again…

“…Why aren’t you eating?” Din had stopped his consumption long enough to eye your untouched plate. 

“Hmm?” You were quickly brought back to reality. “I’m sorry, just a little dazed, I suppose. Please, don’t stop on my account. There’s plenty more after you’ve finished that." 

He set his plate on the table beside him and reached for your cheek. As if he had been reading your thoughts, he said, "I’m here, cyar'ika. You saved me… like you always do." 

"No, Din, it was you who saved me.”

———————

@spacegayofficial @killtherandomness @thatguythatsshy @emyyjemyy @gothtechie @pandaperson51 (thanks for your request!)

[lukeleiahan]

Ripped at every edge but you’re a masterpiece

I read an AU, and I had to follow up...

Essentially, the Empire falls when Luke and Leia are five, and now their parents figure out how to go from here. Lot’s of appreciation for Bail and Breha Organa and Owen and Beru Lars, a generous helping of Sabe, and precious baby!twins Luke and Leia.

Also on AO3, read the fic that inspirated this here.

 Five weeks after the fall of the Empire

It starts, like many great things, with a knock on the door.

(No, that's not right. It starts with an old man, who isn't really that old at all, bringing a baby in the middle of the night. Or maybe with a freedwoman dying in the arms of her son. Maybe even with that same slave woman, not free yet, giving birth to that same son.)

Beru is standing in the kitchen, preparing a small dinner for her family. Luke is sitting to her feet, quietly playing with the spare mechanical parts Owen organised for him. He likes mechanics, that boy of theirs. Likes playing and tinkerin g and building and fixing things. He's got a talent for it, like Shmi always said her son, Luke's father, had.

It's the thought of Luke's father that makes Beru tense up. She isn't really expecting anyone, and while that doesn't have to mean anything...

Well, Beru's never really been a trusting person. She's freeborn herself, but her mother had been born a slave, and she's never really felt safe from the slavers. And ever since Old Ben gave them Luke, that little boy that is both Beru and Owen's sunshine, and told them only that Anakin was dead and the Empire wasn't to know about the boy...

Well, Beru's tense. She wishes one of her friends was here, or Owen. But wishing for something won't make it true, and so she puts down the bowl and bends down to Luke.

“Stay here, darling, please. I'll be right back.” She tells him. He nods, and then he smiles at her. He shines, whenever he smiles, that precious boy, and Beru drops a kiss on his forehead.

The woman at the door doesn't seem particularly dangerous, but that doesn't have to mean anything. Her clothing is dark blue, practical but with intricate details that remind her of water flowing. It's a beautiful effect, and one that immediately makes it clear that this woman is not of Tatooine.

Then Beru's eyes reach the woman's face, and she gasps. She's staring, she realizes distantly, but this... Old Ben said...

“I'm not Padme.” The woman says, sounding both resigned and sad, as though this is not the first time she's said it. “I know I look like her, a lot, but I'm not. She was a dear friend of mine, though.”

That's why she sounds sad, Beru realizes, and tries to get herself under control. It can't be easy to look so much like a dead friend.

“Come in.” She says, and steps aside. The house seems so small, so dirty and cheap, with this woman inside, but she doesn't seem to notice it. Now that the first shock has passed, Beru can see the differences between this woman and Padme. Padme had been... less purposeful in her movements, maybe, and her face hadn't seemed quite this sharp.

“What is you name?” She asks, once the woman is sitting down at the small table and she's brought her a milk. Luke is still in the kitchen, playing quietly. She doesn't want him to come out. Not yet.

It might not be the fair, or even particularly likely, but it has always been Beru's fear that one day, one of Padme's family would come and take Luke away from them. He's her boy, her son in everything but name, but she is very aware that there is no official adoption, nothing to stop rich offworlders from taking him away.

But that's not a reason to be impolite, at least not yet. So she smiles and sits down next to the woman.

“Sabe. Sabe Nertay.” The woman says, taking a polite sip of the milk. Her face is like a mask, completely unreadable. Then she takes a long breath, and looks Beru in the eyes.

“The Empire has fallen. I don't know if you've heard about that, out here, but it has. The Emperor is dead, and so is Lord Vader.” She says it in a rush, as though she has been waiting for a long time to say these words.

Beru has heard rumors, of course she has. But there are always rumors. She doesn't usually put much stock into them, and this time... well, it's not like life was so different under the Empire than it was under the Republic.

But it is important to the woman in front of her, and it caused her to come all the way to Tatooine, so Beru stays quiet.

“Padme... she fought the Empire, you know. She fought it before it had ever been founded, and she died... It was clear that the Emperor, that he'd want to use the kids, and Vader...”

Sabe stops for a moment, trying to regain her composure. In that moment, Luke comes in, smiling at Sabe, but heading for Beru.

“I made something for you!” He says with a smile, handing her the mechanics he was tinkering with before. They fit together, somehow, and when Beru takes it, she realizes it's a small holo recorder. She doesn't quite know how he made that out of some small junk parts, but that's her boy.

“Thank you so much. It's amazing!” Beru tells him, hugging him close. She is very aware of Sabe's eyes on them, but she doesn't look. She just looks at her boy.

“This is Miss Sabe Nertay.” She tells Luke. “Say hi to her.”

Luke goes over to Sabe, holding out his hand to great her. “Hi Miss Sabe.” He says, smiling. The woman seems shocked for a moment, then she takes Luke's offered hand, and smiles at him. It looks fairly honest, too.

“Hi Luke. It's nice to meet you.” She says, something almost... amazed in her voice. Luke looks at her. Beru doesn't know whether he realizes the tension in the room, the weirdness of this woman here in her kitchen, but she thinks he might. He's five, but he's also a perceptive sort, her boy.

“It's nice to meet you too.” He says, shaking her hand seriously.

“How about you go get your uncle, darling?” Beru says, and Luke runs off. Sabe looks after him, that amazed look still on her face. Beru can relate.

“He has her smile.” Sabe whispers, almost to herself.

She debates staying silent. Sometimes, she knows, listening is the best thing to do, but yet... she has to know.

“Are you going to take him away?” She asks, voice steady. She's not going to let the woman know her terror.

“No.... no, of course not. I would never... you have raised him for five years. He's yours. I'm not … I'm not going to steal him... He's Padme's son, but he's... he's yours, too.” Sabe says. She seems... insecure is the wrong word, but she doesn't truly seem to know how to handle this, either.

“Is he safe?” Beru asks. Another terror rises. If Sabe is not there to take Luke away, then why is she here? Is there anything else, something more terrible than even the Empire, coming for her boy?

“Yes.” Sabe says, louder than she was probably intending. She looks Beru in the eyes. “He is safe. Vader... Vader was the danger. Vader and the Emperor. They're dead now. They can't get him. They're dead.”

It shouldn't cause so much relief, Beru thinks, that this stranger, this offworlder, tells her Luke is safe. But it does.

“Why are you here, then?” Beru asks.

“I think... I think your husband should be here to discuss this?” Sabe sounds insecure now. It causes Beru's nerves to ratch up again, but she tries to control that. She thinks of what Shmi would have done.

“How did you know Padme?” She asks. Luke has asked about his mother. Not that often, but it's natural for him to be curious, and Beru knows so little.

“We were little girls.” Sabe says, sounding grateful to have something to talk about that she is comfortable with. “On Naboo, we do our civil service young, you know? We elect our princesses when they are about twelve, and out of these prinesses, we elect our queens.

“I started training as a handmaiden at the academy when I was twelve, and two years later I was sworn in to become handmaiden to the new queen. That queen was Padme. She was fourteen, like me, and she took the ruling name Amidala.”

“That's very young.” Beru can't help but say. Fourteen. She remembers being fourteen. She'd been a child. Of course she'd been. To imagine being in charge of a planet at that age... it's terrifying.

“It's how we do it on Naboo.” Sabe says, sounding unconcerned. “You have noticed we look the same. That's why I was chosen to be one of her handmaidens, you know? Us handmaidens, we are not just there to help the queen with her clothes and hair, we are also there to be decoys in dangerous situations. I was always the one who looked the most like her, so I was usually the decoy.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“It was, I suppose, but I knew what I was signing up for. It was a huge honor, you know. To impersonate the queen. And it was an amazing thing to share, with a friend such as Padme. She wasn't just the queen to me. We were all close, all of us handmaidens and Padme, but the two of us, she was... I never had a sister, but Padme became my sister. I served as a handmaiden for both her terms, and we stayed friends afterwards. She still had handmaidens as a senator, but... I left the service. I became a teacher. I've always wondered.... if I'd stayed...”

Beru takes her hand. There isn't really anything she can say. She wants to tell this woman it's not her fault, but she doesn't even know how Padme died. It would feel like lying to promise something like that.

The door opens, and Luke's chatter fills the room. He's telling Owen about building the holo recorder. Owen is listening, but he's also looking at Sabe with suspicion. Of course he is. Strange offworlders appearing isn't usually a good sign on Tatooine, and he's just as afraid of someone taking Luke away as she is.

“How about you look at those vaps in the garage.” He says, voice gruff but affectionate, running his hand through Luke's hair. Luke grins and runs off.

“So, what's going on.” He says, looking at Sabe. He's not quite glaring, but it's a near thing. Sabe does not seem intimidated, though.

“The Empire has fallen. The Emperor and Vader, they are dead.” Sabe says, looking him in the eyes, the way she did with Beru.

“So what? You gonna take Luke away from us now? 'Cause that's not happening.”

“No. Nobody is going to take Luke away. You are his family. But...” Sabe looks like she's trying to find the right words.

“But what.” Owen says flatly.

“He has a sister. Luke. He has a sister.” Sabe says, and she's looking at both of them now. Beru covers her mouth with her hand.

“Leia.” She whispers. Sabe's head wips around to her.

“Obi-Wan told you?” She asks.

“Old man told us jack shit.” Owen gruffs. He is willing to be nicer, though, now that Sabe told him she's not going to take Luke. “It's a Tatooine thing. Twin names. Luke and Leia... they're only given together.”

“We thought she might have been stillborn. Or died later, something like that.” Beru adds. Luke has asked for his sister. He has asked for her a lot. He was convinced she was there with him, he's dreamed of her. She thought it might be the knowledge that she had existed at one point, or that touch of the desert that allows him to see things others don't, allowing him to communicate with his dead sister. To know she lives...

“I didn't know that.” Sabe says, looking slightly fluxomed. “The thing is... I'm here because it's safe now. As long as the Emperor and Vader lived... if the twins had met, the danger was too high they would have found out.”

“So you do want to take him.” Owen says, defensive again. Beru hears the fear, but she doesn't think Sabe does.

“No! But … they are twins. They should be able to meet. Just meet. Bail and Breha... Leia's adoptive parents, they understand. Leia is theirs, the way Luke is yours. They'd never expect you to give him up. But we thought... we thought they should meet. They have a right to know the other exists. And Leia... she's asked about him. About her brother.”

“Luke's asked, too. About Leia.” Beru says, before Owen can say anything. His hand finds her, warmth and protection and safety.

“We thought they should meet. If you agree. You could come visit, bring Luke. Bail and Breha would be happy to welcome you. And Obi-Wan, of course.”

“I don't see what the old man has to do with anything.” Owen growls, but there is considerably less bite in it. A second set of adoptive parents... Beru can believe they understand.

Sabe seems confused. Beru wonders whether it's the hostility towars Old Ben, or the fact that they refer to him as an old man. He isn't, not really. Beru doesn't think he's much over forty, but he holds himself like a man at least twice his age. He behaves like that, too, so to think of him as Old Ben just feels more natural than anything else. And well... Owen's never liked the man. Too close to Anakin, to the Repbulic, to the sort of things and people that would endanger Luke. Beru doesn't share the dislike, but she understands it.

“He doesn't have to come. You are Luke's parents, not him. But he is an old friend of Bail's so I'm to invite him as well.” Sabe says diplomatically. For a moment, there's silence.

“What is she like, Leia?” Beru asks, and for the first time since Luke left, Sabe truly smiles. She takes out a small holo, places it on the table and let's it play. A small girl, Luke's age, with dark eyes and brown hair in braids, is sitting on the floor, flipping through the pages of a book. After a moment, she looks up, smiling at whoever is recording the holo, and Beru's heart melts. That's Luke's smile on that girls face.

She looks at Owen, and knows that they've both decided in that very moment.

     Four weeks after the fall of the Empire  

It's a day of celebration. It should be, by all rights.

The End of the Empire, and the Beginning of the New Republic, capitalized for importance, and what it means, now, after a month of celebrating and working and organizing a new government, should be a celebration.

And yet, the mood in Bail's brand new chancellors office is somber. They've all seen too much war, lost too many friends.

“To the lost ones.” He says, raising his glass. Breha, Mon, Carlist, Garm Bel Iblis and Sabe mirror the gesture silently, each of them deeply in thought.

The new government is running, sort of. Bail has been elected the new chancellor, more or less happily. The senate has it's old powers back, and there are three different motions started that should, if they go through as planned, at least put up some strong protections against another Palpatine. Nothing is guaranteed to stop a determinated, manipulative, powerful being like Palpatine to come and take over again, but at least with these new laws it should be more difficult. Bail hopes.

He'd once thought that there was no way for the republic to fall, either, and he'd been wrong. He won't let himself be sure of anything like that anymore.

“Padme should be here.” Mon says, looking at the empty spot at their table wistfully. They always leave a space for her, when they're together like this. The Empire tried to ignore her, but they won't. They won't forget her.

“She knows. In the Endless Sea, Padme knows what has happened.” Sabe says, a quiet conviction in her voice. It's a Nabooian belief, the Endless Sea of the afterlife, but Bail has always found comfort in the idea that Padme is there now, watching over them.

“She deserves her rest. Her and all the fallen.” Garm says.

 For a moment, they all stay silent, remembering all their lost friends. Too many of them, Bail thinks. Too many good people died in this fight. Then, Garm gets up.

He looks tired, Bail thinks. They all do, tired with exhaustion and grief and a sense of fear that doesn't seem to want to disappear, even though the Empire is defeated. And his marital troubles won't have gotten easier, either. How someone so passionate about democracy could marry a supporter of the Empire, he'll never understand.

It makes Bail all the more happy about his own marriage. He smiles at Breha, and feels warmth in his heart when she smiles in answer.

“I have an early morning tomorrow. The Imperial forces don't decomission themselves, after all. I'll turn in. A good evening to all of you.”

“Don't remind me. I'll come with you. Good night.” Carlist sighs.

“I'll go, too. My son has been having nightmares these last weeks, all the changes, probably, and the battles, and I promised him I wouldn't be out too late.” Mon says, standing too. “Winter and Leia don't have that problem?”

“Not yet, though it might still come. Currently they're still fascinated by all the changes, especially Leia.” Breha says.

“Consider yourselves lucky, then. We'll see us in the morning. Good night.” She says, smiling, and together they leave.

Bail waits until they're out of the room, then he stands up and picks up one of the holos of his daughters he has standing on his desk. Winters white hair shines next to Leia's brown, and both their smiles glow. They're healthy and happy and safe, he tells himself, just a few rooms down, guarded by Artoo, in hearing distance. Protected by Artoo and two guards in the corridor, to make sure no vengeful imperial gets any ideas.

“There is something else we have to do.” He says. It's been on his mind since the Emperor and Vader died, and now is the time to start doing something about it.

“Luke.” Breha says, putting down her glass. Bail nods.

Sabe seems confused. He never outright told her about Leia's biological parents, never sat down and told her the whole sad story of Padme's last days, but he didn't have to. Sabe knew Padme so well, knows him so well, had prepared Padme's body for the funeral, and Leia just looks like Padme. It wasn't difficult for her to piece it together, as he knew it would be.

But because they never talked about it, she doesn't know about Luke. Doesn't even know enough to suspect anything like this. Maybe he should have told her, but … well, people have always said that the Jedi can read minds. Obi-Wan had denied it, when Bail asked, years ago, but nobody ever truly explained the Sith to him, either, so he couldn't be sure. And though he trusts Sabe with his life, and more importantly with both his daughters lifes, the first rule of espionage still holds: One can't reveal a secret one doesn't know.

Breha knows, though, because she is his wife and he could never keep something like this from her, and she takes the lead.

“We need to call Obi-Wan.” She says.

“What are you talking about?” Sabe asks. She knows Obi-Wan, of course she does, but neither Bail nor Breha ever corrected her assumption that he died with the rest of the Jedi.

And she'll have assumed they'd contact the Naberries first, probably. They'll have to do that, too, Padme's family has a right to know, but it can wait a bit longer. Just a bit.

“Luke is Leia's twin brother.” Bail tells her. Sabe stares.

“It wasn't... it wasn't safe, to raise them together. Obi-Wan and Master Yoda... they said something about... I don't know, combined Force presence? It didn't make very much sense to me, but they were absolutely sure that if the children were raised together, the Emperor and Vader would find them. So Obi-Wan took Luke to be raised by Anakin's stepbrother and his wife on Tatooine.”

“Leia has... Padme had...” Sabe stumbles over her words, clutching her glass of wine as though it would provide her safety. Breha walks over to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.

“Twins. Yes. Now that it's safe, they have a right to know.” Bail says. They had a right to know since the beginning, he thinks, but now is the first time since their birth that it's a possibility.

“Are we sure? That it's safe. Are we sure?” Breha asks. Her voice doesn't betray it, but Bail knows she's scared. He is, too. Leia has never quite been safe, never really been out of danger. Neither of their daughters have, on account of being the princesses of Alderaan and the daughters of two rebels, but with Leia it has always been more immediate, the danger. The thought that she might be safe now is so strange. What if they've overlooked something?

“As far as we know, the only people who would pose a direct threat to Leia and Luke due to them being Padme and... Anakin's children are Vader and the Emperor, and they are dead.” He hesitates over Anakin's name, only briefly, but Sabe notices. Of course she does.

“What about Anakin? He died when the Jedi fell, did he not?” She asks. She's not asking whether he is Luke and Leia's biological father. Of course not. She'd known of Padme and Anakin's relationship before even Bail had. But there are things he'd never told her. Things he never wanted to speak about to anyone. He takes a deep breath, seeks stability in his wife's eyes.

“No.” He says, and tries not to get caught up in memories.

(Fire and smoke, Padme on a table, a child being murdered by clone troopers, Obi-Wan and Yoda suddenly broken old men, a newborn's cry)  

“Anakin Skywalker did not die when the Jedi fell. He died with the Emperor, a month ago.” Bail says. No one knows exactly how those last hours went inside the Imperial palace. All Bail knows is that the Alliance forces won the battle against the Imperial forces, and that when they came to clean up the palace, Vader and the Emperor had both been found dead. Bail himself had done the identification.

Anakin Skywalker had looked somehow both so old, scarred and tired and dead, and so very young. He'd only been 28 years old.

“What are you talking about?” Sabe asks, shouts, really. He's happy that the girl's room is far enough away that they won't hear. They're too young for this conversation. Much too young.

He should have explained all of this to her before, but he hadn't dared risk it. Hadn't dared take the risk that she'd get caught and talk, hadn't had the strength to deal with it himself.

He's only ever talked about it once, when he told Breha the day he brought Leia home. He'd broken down then, completely, and he hadn't ever talked about it again.

But he'll have to do it again. Now, and then at least once more.

“Vader. Anakin... was Vader.”

“What? How?” Sabe is pacing, he notes distantly. Breha has moved to stand by his side again, a supporting presence he's grateful for.

“I don't know. I thought … I thought, when Master Yoda called, that we were there to pick them up, Padme and Anakin and Obi-Wan and even Master Yoda. They survived the … the purge, they're calling it, aren't they? They'd survived, and when Master Yoda called I thought I was going to pick them up, and we were going to figure out what to do next.

“But then... Padme was giving birth, and when I asked Obi-Wan about Anakin, all he would say was that he'd 'fallen'. That was the word he used, 'fallen'. Didn't really understand it until I was introduced to Vader.

“And Padme... the med droid said she was fine, you know? I kept asking, because she was pale and so damned silent, but the med droid kept insisting she was fine. She named Luke and Leia, and then she... I don't know. She slipped away.” There are tears in his eyes, and he can't break down again, he can't. He focuses on Breha's hand in his, willing himself to focus.

“Slipped away? What does that mean?” Sabe asks, tears running over her cheek, but she's refusing to break down, too, just like Bail, and isn't that a testament to how much they're all politicians, all spies, that they won't let themselves break down over the death of a friend?

“Master Yoda said she 'lost the will to live'. As though that's a cause of death. I … you and Dorme and Yane, you were the ones who prepared her for the funeral. You saw how... you saw that there were no obvious injuries. Nothing to indicate what could have killed her. I still don't know how she died.”

It's something that's been bothering him since that day.      Lost the way to live    , what      bullshit    . Padme was desperate, and she was grieving, and she might have given up, but one doesn't die of that. Not without other things happening. And the med droid said she was fine...

And yet, the Sith... He's never voiced this thought out loud, but well... the Jedi were never open about the extent of their powers. And the Sith are supposed to be worse...

“That doesn't make any sense!” Sabe yells, throwing her hands up.

“We've been puzzling over it for years.” Breha says, calm and compassionate. “There is no answer we can see, but we can't help her now. We can help her children, though.”

 There's a long silence. Then.

“Where is he?” Calm. Focused. She was a handmaiden to the warrior queen Amidala, a spy for the Rebel Alliance against a fascist empire. It shows.

“Tatooine. Beru and Owen Lars are his parents now, at least that's what Obi-Wan said he was planning. We'll have to talk to them, make plans with them.” Bail says.

“I'll go. I'll talk to them. Bring them here.” Sabe says, running her hand over her dress. She wipes the tears of her face, resolute in the face of having a mission. Bail knows he won't talk her out of this, and he doesn't want to. He can't go himself, the new chancellor leaving would be seen as weakness. And Breha as the queen of Alderaan would draw way too much attention. Sabe though, a gouverness and former handmaiden, she can go wherever she wants whenever she wants.

“Bring Obi-Wan too, if he wishes, but the important ones are Beru and Owen and Luke. We need to figure this out, all of us. We're in this together.” Breha says, equal parts queen and friend.

Sabe nods.

“I'll be leaving in the morning.”

      Six weeks after the fall of the Empire  

The air is tense when Sabe leads the Lars' through the halls of the chancellors residence.

They had considered having Bail, Breha and Leia meet them at the shuttle, but it had been decided that it would be less weird for the children, if they didn't meet each other for the first time in a crowded and busy station. Not to mention the possible media attention that would be the new chancellor of the brand new New Republic, his wife the queen of Alderaan and one of their daughters meeting a family of poor moisture farmers from the territories.

Beru and Owen are holding hands, and every now and then they whisper in a language Sabe doesn't understand. She's fairly sure that they're talking about the wastefullness of such grand halls standing empty. If this were Naboo she'd argue, probably, if only out of patriotism, but after having seen their home on Tatooine, warm and small and lovely and      enough    , she can't quite disagree with them.

Luke, though, is running around them, always either a few steps ahead or behind them. He sticks close enough to them that Sabe always has him in her sights, and she knows that Beru and Owen, too, always watch him, but he doesn't seem to feel the tension.

He seems so fascinated, by everything, just like he'd been on the flight here. Sabe's ship, Nabooian build but stationed and customized on Alderaan for the last few years, had interested him just as much as the grand houses here, and the art that decorates the wall. He's staring at it all in childlike wonder, and Sabe can't help but smile at his genuine amazement.

Finally, they reach Bail's office. She opens the door and let's the Lars' go in first.

Leia is sitting on the floor, a book in front of her. Sabe wonders whether she was truly reading it, or whether she was just pretending. Leia is good at picking up on tension, so she might have just been trying to put her parents at ease. She's looking up now, though, staring at Luke.

It must be so weird for her, Sabe thinks. Five years old, and suddenly she's moving to another planet, and the Empire is gone, and her father is the new chancellor, and on top of that she now has a brother whom she's never met.

Then again, it must be quite weird for Luke too, to suddenly leave Tatooine, if only for a week, and visit a sister he never knew about on Coruscant. Though... he had been so excited about it. She turns to look at him, and finds him clutching his aunts hand tightly. He looks shy, suddenly, in a way he hasn't been with her … ever, she thinks. Maybe it's because she came to him, to his planet, into his house, and was offered milk and hospitality by his aunt. Maybe it's just this place that must be so strange to him.

“Welcome to Coruscant.” Breha says, straightening and holding out her hand to Owen and Beru. For a tense moment, they don't move, then Owen takes the hand. Sabe breathes a quiet sigh in relief.

“I'm Breha Organa, I'm Leia's mother. This is my husband Bail, and this is our daughter Leia.” She says, smiling at Beru and Owen. She offers her hand to Beru, and Bail steps closer.

“I'm Beru Whitesun Lars.” Beru says, her voice not betraying any nervousness. “This is my husband Owen, and this is our nephew Luke.” She shakes Bail's hand, too, and Owen follows suit.

There's a silence, again, and the Leia moves. She's up to her feet and running to Luke before anyone truly notices, and then she's hugging him. It's an absolutely adorable sight, and Sabe has to bite her lip not to break out in tears.

Padme would have loved this, she thinks. Padme would have loved seeing her children together.

“I'm Luke.” Luke tells Leia, looking at the floor, mostly. He doesn't seem to be too scared, though, and he's let go of Beru's hand when Leia hugged him.

“I know that.” Leia says, smiling, her eyes warm. Any worry about how they'd get along disappears in that moment, and Sabe feels a little bit of the tension leaving the room. They're all different people, from completely different backgrounds, but they'd all do anything to see these two children happy. It's quite something.

Leia takes Luke's hand and starts showing him around the room. Luke let's her. They'll be best friends before dinner, Sabe thinks. She hopes Winter won't be jealous. But then, she's spend some time with Luke now. He'll be Winter's best friend, too. At least he'll try.

“Come sit with us.” Bail says, leading Owen and Beru towards the table. There are some refreshments there, water and wine and some biscuits. “Did you have a good journey?”

Owen's not looking too happy, grim and worried and probably scared, but it's Beru who speaks.

“Yes. We have never been off Tatooine, and Luke has been fascinated by it all. And Sabe has been very kind.” It's awkward. Incredibly awkward. But Luke and Leia are running around the room together, holding hands, so... that's that.

Bail doesn't ask after Obi-Wan, and Sabe is glad for it. It had been strange, to realize just how much Beru and Owen distrust Obi-Wan, but Sabe accepted it. She'll have to ask about it at some point, but she had been relieved when Obi-Wan had decided to stay on Tatooine for the moment, to make plans, he'd said. He'd probably realized his presence at this meeting would only make things more difficult.

“What's your plan here?” Owen asks, gruff and hostile. He's scared, Sabe thinks, terrified of losing Luke to some rich coreworlders he doesn't know and doesn't care about. She hopes that Bail and Breha see it too. But she shouldn't have worried.

“For the moment, just to let the children play.” Bail says, looking at them. “For the future... that's for us all to discuss.”

“We're not taking him away from you.” Breha says firmly. “He is yours, like Leia is ours. But they are siblings. Twins, even. They have a right to know each other.”

It reassures Beru, Sabe thinks, though Owen is not quite convinced.

“What does that mean? Are we supposed to come live here? Because I'm not leaving Tatooine, that's for sure.”

“You don't have to.” Bail says. “Nobody would ask that of you.”

It would be easier, Sabe thinks, if they moved here, and closer to Naboo, too, but it wouldn't be fair. They have their own lifes, and nobody is expecting Bail and Breha to move to Tatooine, so why should the Lars move?

“We could just have them visit. Every few months, at least, you bring Luke here or we bring Leia to you. And com calls work too. We could set up a permanent holonet connection, so that the kids can talk to each other as often as they want.” Breha adds.

“We don't have to decide now.��� Beru says, taking her husbands hand. “We're here for the week, and we've had a long journey.” She looks at the kids, talking quietly. They're still holding hands, and are intensely focused on some game Leia is showing Luke. They look different, blond and blue eyed with tan skin to brown hair and eyes and pale skin, but their expression is the same. It's one of Padme's expression, the one she always had when reading some complicated law proposal. For a moment, the resemblance almost takes Sabe's breath away.

“Luke asked after her, you know. Leia. He's asked after her since he could talk, and the last few days, when he knew she's alive and there and he can see her... he's only stopped talking about it once we reached Coruscant.” Beru says, her eyes never leaving the children.

“Leia too. I don't know how she knew... she's always talked about her brother. We didn't tell her, but … she'd dream about two suns and the desert, and her brother. We never knew what to tell her.” Breha says.

“Now we can just tell them the truth.”

                                                          xxx

The adults are still talking, important things and meaningless small talk, but that doesn't matter.

 In a corner in Bail Organa's office, two children sit, a girl and a boy, a princess and a farmboy, twins. They have never met each other before today, yet they have known each other their entire life.

They hold hands, and soon they will not need words to communicate anymore. At the moment, though, they still do.

“I missed you.” One of them says.

“I missed you too.” The other answers.

They are five years old, and yet, for a moment, they are more wise than any of the adults.

“We're together now.”

[starfaring-princelotor]

Priorities

Summary: The Empress explains the difference between power and respect.

Pairings: Lotor x Half-GalraF!Reader

★ Disclaimer: I do not ship Lotura and I respectfully ask that this story to not be tagged as Lotura. This is a Lotor x Reader/Self-Insert OC story which is in no way related to Allura at all. Please be respectful of my chosen pairing. ★

Warnings: Blood. Racism. If you like Allura, this really is not the fic for you.

Part One___Part Two___Part Three

Extinction (Bad Ending)___ The Giving Tree___Moonlight Path

Evolution (Good Ending)___Breaking the Ice___For My Family___Priorities

“You’re wrong.”

Both you and your son turned to the source of the voice, not at all really surprised on who spoke with such blind conviction. Allura held her pink helmet in her arm, her dual-toned eyes firmly trying to stare you down. She was a Paladin of Voltron and the last Princess of Altea. She knows her place. She knows herself, even after you lectured her in that cell.

“I have every right to hate Zarkon and distrust the Galra,” she braved a few steps towards you, her silver brows lowered in simmering anger, “What they did to my home is unforgivable. What they did to the universe...I am not the only one who is wary of them on-sight.”

“You’re right, the entire galaxy takes one look at me, one look at Atlas, and would immediately despise our very existence,” you crossed your arms, “The difference between you and everyone else? You were expected to change for better. Expected to use the title Princess to represent your subjects. Expected to put your differences aside to ensure a safer future. And you failed. Miserably.”

It took all of Allura’s willpower to still her tongue. None of the other Paladins were here. She was strictly on her own to prove she can stand up for herself. She can be the Princess, raised right by her father in a society that upholds peace and prosperity above all. 

“You can be a Princess or a Paladin. Not both. You do not have the experience to handle the responsibility of them combined.”

“And what about you?”

Now, that question got your attention. 

“What about me?” you repeated, narrowing your eyes at the accusation held in her voice. 

“You’re the Empress, you’re supposed to take the Emperor’s place in his absence,” Allura continued, “To say I am not worthy of my title when you were in hiding for three years shows you are just as unfit to rule. Your Empire is in shambles because Lotor sheltered you.”

“I suggest you stop talking and do as you were ordered, Allura.”

“No! If I have to admit that my flaws held me back, it’s only fair if your highness does, too!” another step closer and Atlas’ hand inched closer to his blade, “You preach about how not all Galra are evil, yet who are the ones out there that are still killing and enslaving innocent lives?”

“You really don’t get it, do you?” came your immediate reply, “You really think it’s within your right to hate the Galra who have power over you? Over others? It isn’t power that makes them evil, makes anyone evil. It’s what they choose to do with that strength which defines them.”

That she understood, which is why every Galra they faced was labeled as a foe in her eyes. 

“Zarkon used hate to fuel his power and justify his destruction of Altea. But what you don’t know, Allura, is that he was always cruel, even before then. He despised people like me and made sure we understood that he could crush us at any given moment,” a heavy sigh left your lips, “He was always a tyrant. Zarkon was a threat not only to Altea, but to his own kingdom as well.”

There was a reason why you were telling her this, telling her the history that you lived through long ago. The history that made Lotor hate his own father. Your husband wanted a future away from that atrocious stain on the Galra Empire. A future where no one had to live in fear of being the next one or suffering for simply existing in the universe. 

However, this message was lost upon the princess. 

“Then that is your people’s mistake for giving him that power.” 

Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. 

You shook your head in disapproval at her then turned around, indicating that this discussion is over. It was hardly a discussion anyways seeing as she refused to understand. That was her biggest problem. She could understand, but her mind was too stuck in the past. She couldn’t move on. Allura was no diplomat. 

“You are dismissed, Allura.”

Clearly peeved with you shrugging her off, she reached forward and grabbed your shoulder, “You’re a coward - “

Before any of the three guardians could rise from their seat to stop Allura, she had screeched a painful scream of agony. Her vision swirled, room spinning as the nerves in her cheek caught up with the feeling of knuckles punching her square in the jaw. Not hard, but just in the right angle to make it hurt even worse. She wasn’t able to react fast enough when a clawed hand tangled in her bun and shoved her face against the cold tile of the ship. 

Your toed boots were all she could see. The sharp edge of a knife against the back of her delicate neck was all she could feel. And that hand gripping her hair tightly? It radiated power, ancient Altean magic capable of the most impossible miracles or devastating murders. Atlas would let her decide. 

“Do not touch my mother.”

Allura’s breath stilled, knees pressed on the floor as her body was angled in a groveling position. She would’ve fought back, done anything to right herself on her feet, but that dagger was breaking into her skin and already drawing a thin line of blood. One of Atlas’ foot held down her wrist and his knee pinned the other, immobilizing her for her treachery. 

Never, ever touch the Empress, let alone a pregnant one. Let alone with ill-intent in mind. 

Your hand came up to dust off your shoulder where her hand dared make contact. Allura couldn’t see you above her, see your eyes judging her disgraceful position on the floor. And that was Atlas’ intention all along. Make her beg for forgiveness. Beg for a pass on her disrespectful behavior a second time. 

“While you are down there, take this note into mind,” you began as Ezor, Zethrid, and Acxa flanked your sides, “This is not power I hold over you. This is respect. This, right here, is earned through blood, sweat, and tears. You think I earned this from hiding?”

The only response she could possibly give was a grunt. 

“You think they are here because Lotor told them to be? You think my son protected me because he despises you? You think I am standing over you because I was coddled my entire life?”

That hand pulsed and slowly, ever so slowly, Allura felt her energy being drained.

“This is your problem, Allura. You foolishly thought you can face me alone and act as you do without consequence. Your allies need you on their team, yet you came here of your own free will to...what? Sway my opinion of you? Is that really the most important priority for you, for the universe, right now?”

“I can’t trust you!” she spoke, to which you only scoffed at her.

“Clearly. And whose fault is that?”

You nodded at Atlas, but he truly didn’t want to let her off so easily. His fingers tightened, nails prodding her scalp, then he growled and suddenly released his hold. Allura wasn’t aware of it at the time, but she was holding her breath in...fear? She wasn’t afraid of death. She welcomed it with open arms for a good cause.

But you...you could’ve killed her. You could’ve taken her choice away from her. That was the cold, realizing fear making her heart beat too quickly in her armored chest. Allura scrambled up to her feet just in time to see Atlas’ hands fading back from the magical glow. He was draining her quintessence, sapping her energy from her body.

“I need to trust you,” she said, more to herself.

“No. You really don’t. And I don’t need to trust you, either.”

Again, you turned around, heading for your chambers and leaving her to think about her selfish actions once more. And maybe, maybe this time the gravity of the universe’s fate will be more important than her pride as a Princess, as a Paladin.

“I need you to do your job. Maybe you can start by getting the other Paladins to respect you first.”

Because if they did respect her as the Princess, as a valued teammate, then why the fuck weren’t they here at her side? 

[shastlelow]

Darth Vader (2020) #2

HELLO!  YEEAAAHHHHH!

Welcome back to This Week in Comics – Star Wars Style! The second installment this week.

With the three releases this week, I will end up doing three posts. I had thought about waiting, but after reading all three, I’m more excited than I thought I would be about Bounty Hunters #1, a new ongoing series telling stories of a band of bounty hunters in the time between Empire and Jedi. I will review that one on Friday or over the weekend. One of the primary characters I know of from the 2015-2019 run of Star Wars Comics, but I bounced around those titles, so need to do a little more digging on him after reading the issue last night.

Also, if you haven’t already, check you my summary/review of the limited series The Rise of Kylo Ren, which I posted Wednesday night. Great conclusion to a good limited series.

This post, however, will focus on Darth Vader (2020) #2 by Greg Pak, illustrated by Raffaele Ienco.

SPOILER WARNING: This review/summary may contain spoilers for this issue, as well as any previously released Star Wars media (Films, TV Shows, Novels, Comics, Video Games) released to date, including #NotCanon. Also, this post may CONTAIN ADULT CONTENT!

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away….

Dark Heart of the Sith – Part II

Darth Vader revealed the truth: He is Luke Skywalker’s father. But Luke refused to join him and escaped.

Enraged, Vader has taken a squad of death troopers and the Imperial forensics droid, ZED-6-7, on a quest of revenge against everyone who hid Luke from him. Vader’s bloody journey led him from Tatooine to Padmé Amidala’s abandoned apartment on Coruscant.

And now he stands face to face with a ghost from his past. Does Padmé somehow live?

We start the issue in the great red POV aspect. Slight tangent here, and minor spoiler for the novel Thrawn: Alliances. I listened to that book, I didn’t read it. In that book, when Anakin would be using the Force in a fight, we’d get “double vision” and descriptions of what was about to happen. Something about it bugged me every time. I think it was the vocal direction. I wasn’t a fan. I get why it was needed, but it bugged me throughout the novel. Talking to others, mostly readers of the book, they didn’t have the same issue. Yet something here that is very much in the same spirit, I love. Guess it’s the difference between a visual medium and an audio one. (bleh, just thought of John Lithgow as Roger Ailes in Bombshell (a movie I enjoyed, actually). Bleh).

Back to the summary. We start in the red POV. It is the final act of Attack of the Clones. Padmé and Anakin about to be take out to the arena on Geonosis for execution. Padmé speaking, Vader responding. It seems our Dark Lord is still haunted by that kiss she never should have given him.

Vendaxa. Padmé asks, “What did you call me?” Zed scans and her and is amazed at the similarities. When she asks who he is, Zed responds, “Why, this is Darth Vader, the Emperor’s—” BLASTER FIRE!

Vader stops the bolt. He questions who she is. She says “Padmé Amidala, you said it yourself”

She continues on a four-panel page – all in red POV.

“…Queen…” – Padmé at the end of The Phantom Menace during the celebration, with R2, little Jedi Ani, Obi-wan and a handmaiden (Sabé) behind her.

“…Senator…” – Padmé in her apartment on Coruscant with Anakin and Obi-wan behind her.

“…daughter of Naboo…” – Padmé on the terrace by the lake.

“…back from the dead to haunt you to your grave.” – Padmé on Mustafar.

Back and forth over the next few panels of Anakin Force choking Padmé and Vader doing the same to “Padmé.”

They are then attacked by Vendaxan land squid and “Padmé” appears to escape.

Vader follows her. “Who are you? Tell me. Don’t be afraid.” Another parallel scene from the tunnel on Geonosis – “I’m not afraid.”

“Padmé” continues. “I’m angry”

Vader puts down his saber. “I see it now. Padmé is dead. But you wear her face. Speak with her voice. You’re the queen’s shadow. A handmaiden from Naboo.”

Zed kicks into gear, begins to point out the differences only a droid looking would notice.

It is revealed to be Sabé. She and Vader go back and forth over the events since Padmé’s death. They come to an agreement to make those that hid her pay.

Suddenly, they are surrounded by more creatures. Sabé admits that they opened the gate to let them in when she wanted Vader and Zed dead. “But now, maybe we’ve all got a reason to go on” and the fight off the brood together.

We get more red vision of events from Attack of the Clones side by side with the current events.

“You…fought well. Now come, we leave at once.”

Zed notices Sabé lingering. “When Lord Vader says we leave, we…”

“Droid, help me bury them” Zed protest, but Vader makes it clear he is to help.

When they are done, she comments that they were good soldiers who walked with her at Padmé’s funeral. “and they will be mourned. Not like you, Lord Vader. And not like me. No come, so you can serve your Emperor and I can have my vengeance.”

She informs them that after the funeral, they knew they didn’t have the whole story, so the went to Coruscant, and broke into Padmé’s quarters, and stole the security recordings. They were never able to decrypt them, so they hid them….

…on Naboo.

To Be Continued.

Master Shast LeLow’s Thoughts

Just want to state the obvious one last time. In my review of Issue #1, I said, “That final page, though! Obviously, this will turn out to be Sabé.” Not going to get too big of a head here, it was the only logical conclusion. But it feels good to be right.

This series is my early favorite of the three mail titles launched so far. I love the “behind the mask” feel of it. Zed is an all-star caliber droid. Seeing Padmé/Sabé team up with Vader was great, too. Just like old times, so to speak.

With that, it’s time the deactivate the lightsaber and clip it to my belt.

Remember, the Force will be with you, Always.

[inyri]

Equivalent Exchange (a SWTOR story): Chapter 37- The Game

Equivalent Exchange by inyri Fandom: Star Wars: The Old Republic Characters: Female Imperial Agent (Cipher Nine)/Theron Shan Rating: E (this chapter: M)

Summary: If one wishes to gain something, one must offer something of equal value. In spycraft, it’s easy. Applying it to a relationship is another matter entirely. F!Agent/Theron Shan. (Spoilers for Shadow of Revan and Knights of the Fallen Empire/Knights of the Eternal Throne.)

Comments are always appreciated! Visit me at:

Archive of Our Own

Fanfiction Dot Net

Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Game

Nine opens her eyes.

The drawback of Odessen’s relative security, the base built as it was into the solid stone of the cliffs, was the lack of natural light. Her quarters here- or is it their quarters, now? Theron’s stirring awake too, his breath warm on the back of her neck and one arm draped lazily over her waist, curling, pulling her closer out of reflex- are windowless; it reminds her too much of the endless black monotony of spaceship travel, never quite knowing if it was day or night. Say what one liked about the endless rain on Dromund Kaas, in her own apartment she still woke to the sun on her face.

(Or the ghost of sun, at least, peeking through the clouds, but never mind that: her point stands. She misses very little of Kaas City, but she really had been fond of that apartment even if it did remind her too much of-

Never mind that, either.)

“‘s that me or you?” Theron mumbles over the steady chime of a datapad alarm from somewhere in the lower part of the room.

She blinks, stifling a yawn. “Probably me. What time is it?”  

“Just turned five,” he says after a moment, lifting his hand up along her body, fingertips brushing gently at her throat in response to her still-hoarse voice. He always had the time down to the millisecond, one of the many side benefits of his implant and one of the few she truly envied. It didn’t matter when they were properly geared for missions and she was hooked into comms, but it would have been useful more than once on undercover ops. “I didn’t think I had anything before eight, but-”

“You don’t. I, on the other hand-” she pushes the blanket back reluctantly with her still-splinted wrist, just far enough that she can slip free and leave Theron covered and warm. But he doesn’t move to let her go and she doesn’t really want to get up, not when these minutes stolen one by one from their overscheduled days are all they get- “am due in the infirmary. I’ve got a hot date with a kolto tank.”

He shifts, one foot overlapping hers; he props himself up on his elbow behind her. “I’m jealous. Guess I should get up too, eh?”

“Why? Go back to sleep. Stars know you need it.”

“But if I walk out of here later without you-” Theron pauses.

In trying to turn over to face him she only tangles herself up, her leg half-trapped beneath his so she has to roll into him instead of away. With her weight against him he tips back, settling onto the pillow again as her head rests on his chest, her body atop his. “My answer hasn’t changed since last night. Let them talk,” she says. “I don’t care.”

He exhales, goes still and quiet for long enough that she starts to wonder if he’s thought better of all of this-  but then he works his fingers through her hair, a comfortably possessive sort of gesture, and when she glances up at him he smiles.

“In any case,” she continues, “you know my access code. Just lock up when you go, and we’ll reprogram the security protocols after today’s meetings. Hylo told me last night the biometrics finally arrived.”

“You’re putting in biometrics? Don’t you think that’s overkill?”

“No such thing as too much security.” She yawns again, the steady rise and fall of his chest and the warmth of skin on skin lulling her back into sleep. With so much time spent away from the base in this last month they’ve shared a bed more often than not but not here, not on Odessen with the whole Alliance walking unaware past her quarters; she can still count those nights on one hand.

A bed is a bed is a bed. It oughtn’t make a difference. But sprawled together like this- I like this blanket, Theron mutters against the top of her head, adjusting her body atop his. Nice and warm - there’s a kind of permanence to it that makes her pulse stutter. If they could stay like this forever she would be content, she thinks, and that sets a warning voice nagging in the back of her mind in the place where all of her training lives.

Too close. Too trusting. Not safe.

Stupid voice.

She ignores it.

It might have had a point once, of course. In the years when her only loyalty was to a mission objective (mission first, Empire second, team third and everyone else got whatever scraps remained) and Void take the consequences she might have used him for what she could get out of him and then cast him aside. Or he might have done the same to her, if-  

No. She’d certainly have deserved it if he had- when it came to their shared trade turnabout was fair play, especially a trick she’d used so often as that one- but she tries to imagine it and can’t, the image of it so ridiculous that she laughs softly despite herself.  

“Something funny?” Theron’s nearly asleep again.

(And this? When it came to sharing space they’d talked about it last night, only a little and leaving out the details, but so far as they both could tell they’re equally useless at it in mostly opposite ways.

The Academy bred creativity but sharing rooms was strictly against the rules, and even in advanced studies she’d only ever gone so far as one drawer in a sort-of-girlfriend’s apartment two floors above hers in cadet housing; they’d fought a few weeks later and all her clothes ended up tossed from the complex roof in the middle of a summer storm and that had been the end of that. They’d trained her against it, too, with a hundred horror stories: look at this, her teachers said, pointing to each empty bed, each empty desk. Talked too much. Too soft. Couldn’t finish the job. Washout. Failure. Dead.

At the end of the day it was easier not to bother.

The Major hadn’t counted. She had her own quarters, for one thing, and that year was training, not-

It didn’t count. And Kaliyo certainly hadn’t counted. She’d never even unpacked before Nine had kicked her back to the crew quarters and she’d taken it in stride, settling into her role on the ship like nothing had ever happened between them.

For Theron it was different, she thinks. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to bother. Maybe he never quite knew how, not after the lessons learned from his mother and his old master and his father, now, back and back to all the countless people who’d looked at a little boy alone in space and saw a target to be taken advantage of- he didn’t talk about those years except for the occasional swoop racing story and the vaguest outline of how he ended up in the SIS, rather unsurprisingly involving something mostly illegal going very wrong and a great deal of smartassery on his part, but she knows him well enough by now to hear the things he isn’t saying; given the choice between the civilized brutality of the Academy and the chaos of Theron’s childhood she’d go back to the dormitories any day of the week. If the galaxy taught him anything it taught him that people keep you around only so long as you’re useful to them, that the easiest way to dodge being tossed aside was to always keep moving, never settling down anywhere for long enough that it hurt to leave it or that you’d be missed-)

“No,” she says gently and presses a kiss to his chest, just over his heart. “Go back to sleep. I’ll come and find you when I’m out.”

He doesn’t answer, only grumbles softly when she unwinds herself, rising, and drapes the blanket back over him; it’s a poor substitute for body warmth but she’s got to get up so it’ll have to do.  

By the time she dresses Theron’s curled up tight, eyes closed and breaths even, calm and still and peaceful. She slips out quietly into the hall, careful not to wake him again.

After all, there’s nowhere else he needs to be.

***

Doctor Lokin looks up from his caf cup as she walks into the treatment room, then unhooks the coupling connecting the intravenous line to the port in his chest.

“Excellent timing, Ciph-” he catches himself. She’s not the only one still slaved to old habits. “Commander. I was just finishing my own treatment- the first round of the day, at least.” Gesturing with one hand toward two nearly empty infusion bags clothespinned to a ceiling-mounted pole, he attaches a small syringe to the port with the other and presses down on the plunger. “We can begin whenever you’re ready.”

Nine pauses halfway across the room, focused on the hanging bags. She knew in the back of her mind he still wasn’t well- would never be well even after the cure they’d brewed on Alderaan, maybe- but the brilliant yellow liquid still beaded in the detached tubing’s a slap in the face, a reminder with every drip.

(It wasn’t like her to forget. She spent years with her crew, so many years all crowded together on the ship, and they all had their jobs to do but it was her responsibility to make sure they held together, her job to see when the machinery was starting to fray at the edges. But stars, there are so many of them now, so many faces to keep track of and so many things they need it’s like juggling a thousand knives at once, all spinning and whirling until the moment she drops one and-

That’s no excuse. She’s the Commander. She needs to act like one.)

“If you need privacy,” she says carefully, “I can come back in a few minutes.”

Eckard shakes his head and fastens up the flap on his jacket. If he hears the rasp in her voice, he doesn’t comment on it. “No, no. I’ll have plenty of time to tidy up while your cycle runs. You have my full attention.”

Reaching the back table beside the kolto tank, she sets the wrapped-up bundle with her change of clothing down and slips out of her shoes. “How are you-” (too personal, he hates to talk about himself- try again ) “How is the treatment going?”

“As well as can be expected. If the current projection holds I should have several years before the cancer kills me.”

“But I thought-”

Four syringes rest in a rack on the countertop; he reaches for the first, gesturing for her to sit. “When you found me on Alderaan,” he says, “I was counting my time in days. You’ve managed an impressive research division here, but you know perfectly well that what I have is incurable.”

“But-”

“It’s far more than I could have managed alone. I am-” Eckard pauses, glances down at the syringe still in his hand. ”Please don’t mistake me, Cipher. I am grateful. And with your permission, I will continue to serve for as long as I am able.”

She looks down at it, too, even as she starts to roll up her shirtsleeve. “Why didn’t you return to the Empire, then? There must have been someone in Research Division who would have been able to help you.”

His mouth twists, bitter and angry for a moment, before he shakes his head. “RD no longer exists, not in any meaningful sense. I might have found a position in Acina’s laboratory, but far more likely I’d have found myself one of her research subjects. Rumor had it she-”

“I remember her,” she murmurs, “from that business with those awful artifacts. I suppose that sort of mad science goes with the territory- Sphere of Technology and all that.”

“Oh, child-” (he hasn’t called her that in a very, very long time; it was a slip of the tongue back then, when they scarcely knew each other and she was shattering into a million sharp-edged little pieces under the yoke of the Castellan restraints, and as much as she’d bristled at it it was true. She was so, so young then and she thought she knew everything but Void, was she ever wrong)- “you haven’t the slightest idea.”

“I suppose I don’t.”

Eckard chuckles softly, but there’s no mirth in it. “With any luck you’ll never find out. Just keep that in mind when she comes asking for favors, hm?”

“Why would she do that?” She raises an eyebrow. “I know we’re all trying to keep a brave face, but we’re not exactly flush with resources here. What could we possibly have that the Sith Empire would find useful?”

“A spine, for one.”

“And that and a billion credits might buy us half a chance at Arcann. Why do I have the feeling you know something I don’t?”

The needle cover clicks into place with a sharp snap. “I know a great many things that you don’t, although not on that particular front. Merely… gut instinct, let’s say.”

“Your gut instinct-” finger-marks around the words- “used to need three rounds of controlled trials before you’d so much as hedge a bet. Don’t tell me you’re going soft on me, old man.”

Were his teeth always so sharp when he smiled? She can’t remember. “Hardly.” One hand around her wrist, he pushes her sleeve up past her elbow with the syringe held between two fingers. “Just a few injections today and then I’ve got the tank all ready for you.”

She looks down at the needle one more time, its tip poised just above her vein.

(Just a few injections, the technician says, before we start the procedure.

She tries to turn her head but the straps hold her tight against the chair, buckled down against her wrists and ankles, chest and hips and forehead. That never bodes well. Exhaling, she pushes the anxiety away with her breath; they mustn’t see her nervousness. Making Cipher this quickly out of training is already almost unprecedented and if Keeper- no, no, the Minister now, they’re all getting promotions these days- knows she’s afraid he might just kick her back down to grunt work, commendation or not-

One shot, then another and another. Just like any other infirmary visit. Nothing to worry about. She relaxes into the seat as it starts to recline.

Nearly finished. One more and then your sedative.

She shakes her head slightly against the restraint. I don’t need a sedative. I’m ready to begin.

I don’t think that’s allow-

The overhead speaker crackles, the Minister’s voice echoing strangely in her ears like she’s a dozen meters underwater- a side effect of the earlier shots, she supposes, whatever they were. We’ll be keeping to the protocol today, Agent. Technician Six, please continue.

Yes, Minister, she says. As you say.

She remembers the needles. She remembers them, one in each arm, as her eyelids go heavy and the light fades and then oh stars that feels like-

It feels like-

NO-)

Her temples throb and she flinches away from him before she can stop herself. With his hand still on hers she doesn’t get far, just enough to put some distance between the sharp point of the syringe and her skin. She’s sweating, too, the back of her neck prickling and her heart pounding in her ears even as she wipes at her face with her free hand.

(She oughtn’t to be able to remember that. That is a problem.)

“What are-” she swallows, starts again as Doctor Lokin looks at her and then the syringe and then back to her. “Before you do that, I want to know what’s in it.”

The needle cover snaps back down.

For a moment the room’s nearly silent save the ever-constant  low roar of machinery and muted voices in the larger laboratory beyond  the door, the soft bubbling kolto and the click-click-click of Scritchy’s nails on the duracrete floor as he brushes up against her legs; she reaches down to rub behind his ears out of reflex. Then Eckard sighs, picks up a square of clean gauze from the little metal tray beside the rack and presses it just beneath her nose.

“I suppose I deserve that,” he murmurs. “Though you were never particularly interested in the particulars before.”  

“I never thought I needed to be.”

He pinches the bridge of her nose; she can taste the blood in the back of her throat now. “Then you’re learning. I’ll transfer the component sheets for your review as soon as we’ve got this tidied up.”

***

At least she’s cleared for training now.

When she goes back to quarters to drop off her dirty clothes Theron isn’t there, long gone to his first meeting, and she’s got nothing scheduled for nearly an hour. Plenty of time for a cup of caf and a few rounds with a combat dummy.

In the post-breakfast hour the training room’s buzzing with activity, training drones and lightsabers sparking through the air at one end and the firing range nearly full to capacity at the other. She tries to ignore all the eyes on her as she lands a first few hesitant strikes, dodging and weaving around the dummy and lashing out with her fists to test both her reaction time and the strength of the nearly-healed bone. So far it seems to be holding; she lands a solid hook that would have left a real opponent doubled over and the impact reverberates up her arm with only the faintest hint of pain.

That might also have been her unwrapped knuckles, of course. She probably ought to do something about that.

She jogs across the room to the supply cabinet, tearing two lengths of tape off the wide roll- getting low again and they’ll have to order more; supplying their ever-growing crew’s an expensive proposition- and then crosses back, sits down beside the dummy and starts on her left hand.

Kaliyo peeks around the dummy, already pulling off her own padded gloves. “Hey. You want some help with that?” Her first instinct is to wave her off, but it would go faster with help- she holds up her hand and ‘liyo crouches down beside her, wrapping the tape around and around her knuckles. “How’s it holding up?”

“Well enough. I’ve had worse.”

“Not by that much, and I still remember Corellia.” Securing the end, Kaliyo taps her other hand and she holds it up obligingly. “I can’t say I was too mad I got turfed off to the shuttle. Watching Lana and your boy wear holes in the floor would probably have gotten old.”

She snorts and unfolds one leg, kicking Kaliyo’s feet out from beneath her. “And here I thought you cared.”

“Fuck you,” ‘liyo says cheerfully as she catches herself on the dummy’s support post. “I care plenty. I just don’t like having to watch-” Instead of finishing the sentence she clicks her tongue and just keeps working, quick and tidy, until her right hand’s wrapped up too. “There. Good to go. Should we test ‘em out?”

“Don’t you already have a sparring partner?” An impatient one, judging by the crossed arms and rolling eyes when she glances over.

Kaliyo waves the trooper off with a flick of her wrist and then stands, reaching out to offer her a hand up. “He hits like a bitch and he only knows ‘pub military hand-to-hand, straight out of the textbook. You know how to show a girl some variety.”

“Famous last words, Djannis. Famous last words.”

Her first strike lands almost before she can stand up fully. “No such thing. You and me?” Nine’s return jab catches her in the side and she winces, then grins . “We’re immortal.”

***

“You’re really sure about this?”

She’s spent the last hour after the logistics meeting wrangling Nightshrike’s war room into something approaching professional: carefully unrevealing datascreens behind her (all the better if Trant get distracted by what he thinks she’s giving away- the answer is nothing at all, of course, but let him waste the effort trying to figure it out), the closet doors covered over with Alliance banners, her best scrounged-together dress uniform buttoned up neatly and her hair pulled back and pinned up. The holoterminal’s set up at the end of the table, angled just so. It looks like a proper office.

Mostly. Better than anything she can put together on the base that isn’t in her own quarters or runs the risk of someone knocking on the door halfway through the call.

It’ll do.

When she doesn’t reply Theron changes tack. “You look nice,” he says, gesturing vaguely in her direction. “The uniform, I mean- it’s been a long time since I saw you in a uniform. Very… um, commanderly.”

“At least I look the part, even if I don’t feel it. When did you ever see me in Imperial uniform, though?” She looks back over her shoulder toward him quizzically. Away from Dromund Kaas she can only think of a handful of times she would have worn full dress and she’s pretty sure the Republic hadn’t been invited to any of those particular events.

“That first official group meeting on Yavin. Remember? We were all sweating our faces off and one of Marr’s honor guard almost passed out behind the war table?”

Oh. She does remember that, but- “Weren’t you just wearing your same jacket?”

“SIS.” He grins. “They never gave us dress uniforms.”

She throws a spare length of cable at him; he catches it easily, winding it around his wrist like a bracelet. “Of course they didn’t- that would require proper organizational hierarchy. And to answer your original question, no. Not particularly.” Dragging a high-backed chair around the far side of the table, she lets its feet hit the floor with a thump. No rolling chairs for this call. It wouldn’t do to be skating around the room like an idle child. “But unless you’ve got some brilliant alternative you’ve so far failed to mention, I’m making the call as soon as I set up the projector.”

Theron shakes his head. “No, but-”

“You don’t like it.”

“More that I’m worried about potential backlash.” Leaning against the doorframe, he runs one hand through his hair. “I mean, I’m also not thrilled about the whole blackmail thing, but that’s probably down to being raised by a Jedi.”

Oh, Void. She knows perfectly well what he’s capable of; she knows so many things he’s done over the years- hells, she’s watched him kill and more- but he still manages to surprise her with his stubborn insistence on being teeth-achingly good. “You-” crossing the room to where he stands in three quick steps, she stands up on tiptoes and presses a quick kiss to the point of his chin- “are a precious and delicate flower, too good for this world. Now get out. I’ve got an SIS director to threaten.”

“I can’t even eavesdrop?”

She (very generously, as far as she’s concerned) resists the urge to bite him. “Do you absolutely promise to sit completely still and not move or open your mouth regardless of anything he or I might say?”

Theron wrinkles his nose. “Um.”

“I thought so.” It’s better if he doesn’t hear. He knows what she’s capable of, too, but-

(He thinks he does, at least. But if he flinches at a little well-deserved blackmail, she can only imagine what he’d think of that thing with the senator. Or the ‘dinner party’ on Balmorra. Or any of her old runs on Nar Shaddaa, really.

They don’t talk about those days. Not yet. Maybe not ever. That might be better, too.)

“I know,” he says, and kisses her forehead. “I know. I’m going to go tweak the flight plan for Voss. I’ll be on the bridge when you’re done, okay?”

“Okay.”

When he goes she locks the door behind him, turns on the scrambling field and settles into the chair. Even with the signal bouncing through relays it’s a risk, but it’s naive at this point to assume Trant doesn’t know where they are; she’d bet good credits the Republic has at least one agent embedded with them even now. It’s certainly what she’d have done in his shoes. The worst-case scenario is that he’s devious enough- and petty enough- to share coordinates with the Zakuulans, but that strikes her as unlikely.

Then again, she’d have thought it unlikely that he’d put a hit out on Theron except for the source. Jonas might very well have lied to her. She’d expect that, and frankly she’d deserve it.  But much as she’s tried she can’t think of a single reason why he’d lie to Theron about something like this.

Well. Only one way to find out.

Masking activated. Enter caller identification. > THERON SHAN Enter destination address. >sis.mainhq.director.mtrantoffice.main.bypass Passcode required. Enter passcode. (She glances down at her datapad, typing carefully. Fuck this up and she’ll have to deal with his secretary, meaning odds to evens she’ll get hung up on before she can get a word in edgewise.) >0z1ax74hk5

She holds her breath.

CONNECTING.

One ring. Two. (For stars’ sake, it’s half six in the evening, Coruscant Standard Time. There’s no possible way the man’s not still in his office-)

By the time the connection stabilizes and they can see each other, Marcus Trant’s already scowling. He must have been handsome when he was young, dark-skinned and dark-eyed and close-cropped hair shading to grey- that’s new since his last dossier photo, but the war’s worn all of them down- but the curl of his lip and the wrinkles across his forehead set the tone immediately. He’s not even going to pretend civility, apparently.

Good. That only makes it easier to twist the knife.

“How did you get this num- no, don’t answer that. You have ten seconds to explain yourself before I clear the line.” His hand moves subtly out of frame, no doubt activating a trace. As if she hadn’t considered that. How insulting. “Starting now, Cipher Nine.”

“Now really, Marcus. You’re hurting my feelings. What if I’d just called to say hello?” Her own hands folded on the tabletop, she settles back comfortably into her chair. “I know the Minister used to so look forward to your little chats.”

“A peacetime courtesy extended to equals. Five seconds.”

She clicks her tongue. “You have a point. I suppose I do outrank you now, don’t I- and it’s Commander, by the way. Cipher’s an Imperial rank.”

Oh, that look. Delightful.

“But enough idle chitchat. You put a death mark on Theron Shan. Why?”

Trant glances sideways at a harsh beep from one of his desktop monitors. “That’s quite an accusation. Someone’s been feeding you tall tales, I think.”

It would have been too easy for him to simply admit to it. He’s cannier than that; one doesn’t last as long as he has in their world by telling the truth at first prompting. But one also learns to prepare for all eventualities, and she’s not about to implicate Jonas, not with the risk he took. ”You lost a hunting-hound on Alderaan recently, I hear. A very stupid hound who needed to learn how to encrypt his datapad properly.” She lifts her datapad and clears her throat. “Ahem. Target sighted at Pallista Spaceport, bound northeast. Scout images attached. Please confirm white auth still active. Shall I read your reply? Or any of the other messages he saved?”

“A simple request,” he says. “Detain and interrogate, appropriate to charges.”

“Liar.” The smile doesn’t leave her face. “I know perfectly well what a white auth is- Ardun Kothe was awfully fond of them, particularly for a Jedi. More to the point, you have no authority over my people. Call it off. Now.”

He doesn’t flinch, but his knuckles blanch as one fist clenches and unclenches. “You’re harboring a deserter and a traitor to the Republic in your so-called Alliance. Give yourself all the titles you want and keep playing at rebellion, but I will deal with my own ‘people’”-his tone a mockery, fingers arcing in the air; she’s almost got him- “as I see fit. Including Theron Shan. Did he put you up to this?”

Like beads of water, the lies roll off her tongue. “He doesn’t know. I haven’t told him yet, and if we can settle this reasonably I won’t have to. He still respects you, Director-” (that’s only a little bit of a lie)- “and I’ve no quarrel with the Republic. Don’t give me a reason to change that.”

Back straight in her chair, she sits back slowly, watching his face. For the briefest moment she wonders if it really is going to be that simple, if after all the rulebreaking Theron must have gotten away with over the years there’s still some little scrap of affection left that might make the man see reason-

-and then he smiles, teeth flashing white and eyes hard. “I’ll give you credit, Cipher-” ( Commander , she says)- “you’ve got balls. You run roughshod over my whole organization for years and then, to add insult to injury, you pull my best agent from under my Void-damned nose. Middle of a war and-” he snaps. “Gone. Flipped by an Imp whore. I’d ask you how you did it, but I can probably guess. I never thought Shan was the type.”

“Honestly. Name-calling? Somehow I expected better of you.” Oh, there’s no point in arguing this. “And Theron isn’t a deserter- or a traitor. Did you hear that from Jace Malcom?”

That does make him flinch.

“Call it off. I won’t ask again.”  

“With all due respect, Commander-” why is it that whenever someone says with all due respect what they really mean is kiss my ass?- “I’ll have to decline. Now if that’s all-”

Well, then.

Fuck him.

She rests her elbows on the table. “How’s your ex-wife, Marcus? Rumor has it General Garza’s working with the SIS these days. I’m surprised you’d allow it after what she did.”

“Rumor says a lot of things, and I’m not in the mood for small talk. Disconnecting in three-” He starts to reach for the transmitter, pushing back from his desk.

“I know about Eclipse Squad.” Stay calm stay calm don’t lose your temper- “And unless you’d like every newsroom shy of Wild Space to know, too, I’d suggest you sit the fuck down and we continue this conversation.”

He stops. “Bantha shit. You’re bluffing.”

“You know,” she says, “I had a feeling you’d say that.” She presses play.

***

Author's Note: so... tired.... must... keep... writing... (This chapter brought to you by first trimester fatigue.)

[artful-aristocrat]

Aftermath

The ride home had been long, wet and wrought with uncertain whispers. The white-furred guard kept pace at Absalom’s side but following a few blunt questions she remained silent. Absalom’s composure remained guarded as anger battled with the slow grappling realisation of what Aleera had done. Drenched and furious he dismounted his horse upon return to the castle. A sharp set of orders were barked towards Mirren as he entered the stone hallways, stripping off the slick black cover of his cloak as he strode towards the depths of his home that harboured fewer individuals that might further incite his flaring temper.

Small yellow eyes peeked out from their hiding spot beside the armoury. Sensing the shift in countenance, the child froze at the king and what remained of his entourage entering the castle. Brisk steps drew to a close as Absalom met the obstruction to his path. Scathing eyes dropped to the child whom bristled under the pressure he was now placed under. Slowly Absalom extended a palm to smooth the fur upon the boy’s head. The gesture was enough to swallow up the small frame of the child staring up at him, obscuring his view for a moment as he waited for how his father would receive him in a moment that appeared to hold some great unspoken importance.

“’Sol…Be a good lad and run along to your mother, now.”

A brief moment of hesitation bewitched the boy at the strained edge in his father’s tone. Pliant and keen to not be seen in a poor light in his father’s eyes, the boy turned and set off at a trot to his mother’s chamber.

“There’s a good boy.” A low tone hissed as the child flitted out of sight.

Once wet clothes were discarded and the ritual of bathing and drying fur had been completed a knock announced a presence at the door. It was late to be disturbed, but it was the price to pay when hosting guests. Even still, the gall to attend his personal chambers at such a time was bold. Green eyes fixed Ralora as she lingered upon the threshold.

“Are you alright?”

A steady gaze met hers.

“Is that what you came up here to ask me?”

“Yes.” The answer came quick with honesty. Solomon had been swift to relay the scene he had witnessed to the comfort of his mother’s ear. Respectful and patient, Ralora held her position. It had taken very little time to witness how different a person her old fancy had become. The child she had bore him provided a valuable hook to his interest, however, something she had capitalized on quickly upon entering the castle.

“Our boy is bright. He wanted to see you upon your return. Even he could see your dismissal was unusual.”

Green eyes narrowed as though considering Ralora’s words with a great degree of thought.

“Do you mean to tell me he waited at the armoury?”

“I believe he did. He adores you, you know.”

Silence was Absalom’s only response- a powerful tool for encouraging further talk from his guest’s tongue.

“He was so excited when we set sail for you.”

“And what of you?” Absalom enquired softly, settling back into his chair in some unspoken acceptance of the conversation Ralora had come to him for.

“I held my own hopes.” Soft golden paws smoothed over one another as her eyes tested his in some effort to gauge his reception. It was more than likely that Absalom had made up his own mind on her from the moment he read her letter. It was certain he had known what he wished to have her for when inviting her and Solomon to stay as his honoured guests. He had not made his intentions clear as of yet and thus remained the queen’s unsteady perception of his undeniable interest in her.

“Is that so?” Absalom mused, smoothing his whiskers absently before gesturing with one hand to the empty seat opposite him. “Come and sit with me, Ralora. Have a drink. A night like this is best nursed with wine.”

The invitation was accepted without argument and Ralora crossed the room. The willingness to permit her entry to such a private space granted her the boldness she needed to approach Absalom rather than the space he offered to her beside the hearth.

“I want to help you.”

Green eyes fixed the queen, reading the careful lines of her expression with hidden scrutiny.

“What are you offering?” The question fell with a nonchalant air. Some interest had been stoked by the statement and it was this that Absalom sought to portray in his patient and genial response. The insult that she might see him as in need of help was discarded before the ice could even begin to leak onto the pleasant smile he wore for her.

A delicate paw found a gentle route through the thick ruff about his neck. A neutral display of tolerance met Ralora’s angle as piercing eyes awaited her offer.

“My ships…my people…my land…our son.”

At the lack of protest the queen drew closer, tracing lips across Absalom’s own and stealing the crooked, hungry smirk it garnered in response.

“As many sons as you’d like…”

Carefully, Absalom’s hand rose along her back to settle between the warm space of her shoulders. The leverage of his own hold brought her onto his lap, nose almost touching his at their proximity.

“You know I admire you, Ralora…” A warm breath mingled into the fur of her cheek as his own hold held her anchored close. A soft breath received the words and all that they might imply as golden shoulders loosened and relaxed further against the warmth of him.

“Strong, beautiful, free...And loyal? What would you say of your loyalty?” He toyed with a growing enjoyment for the balance being struck between them.

“I raised our son and brought him to you after all these years.”

“Eight years is a long time to hide a son from me.” Absalom whispered, curbing a faint smirk as he further pressed her with his game of words.  

“Not hidden. Protected. Loved. Raised to be strong for the day he could meet his father.”

“Oh yes, very quaint. I’m sure that was your only intention…” A patronizing edge crept into the king’s tone at his blatant effort to address the behaviour he had been expecting to surface eventually across Ralora’s visit. Of course she had chosen tonight. Oh, how he hated her for it.

“I never said that.” The smugness within Ralora’s tone was enough to demonstrate how little she had noted the shift in demeanour against her. In a swift move she pressed forward to steal a kiss- an action which was soon caught before its completion by the clamp of a inky hand about her throat.

“Strong, beautiful and free. Loyal? Perhaps by some way or another…” Absalom drawled with no sense of urgency as Ralora’s features contorted into pained gasps and horror in an effort to breathe.  “But sweet Ralora, you never excelled in the realm of thought now, did you?” Words lowered into a venomous, derogatory hiss as his second hand gently took a hold of her own to prevent the panicked clawing in her attempt to gain some release from his hold.

“Your ships, your people, your land, my son?” An affable smile broke from the soft chuckle incited at such a prospect.

“I don’t need your permission to take what I like from you.”  

It was laughable to think Ralora considered giving such obvious things to him as a vast diplomatic move. The Rannard Isles were small and empty of worth, anything worth giving would be easy enough taken.

Tears soon welled in the queen’s eyes as she fought to push herself out of his grip by way of standing. Sensing the rising pressure and fear in her predicament, Absalom’s grip tightened to hold her steady.

“You have given me a son. For that I am deeply grateful…” A warm, gentlemanly tone found him as he addressed her in earnest, finally releasing his grip to allow Ralora to stagger back, gasping and wide-eyed.

“I don’t need to father ten more with you to have access to what the first one brings me.”

The dismissal was clear, although the pointed disappearance of all malice left an unsettling air between them. It was transparent how the foreign queen had attempted to hook herself further into his life and the vast empire he was battling to uphold. Her efforts were little more than parasitic in how she had waited for him to become great before attempting to worm her way into his favour and his bed.

“I love your spirit.” He praised her, picking up his wine to draw a long, appreciative sip.

“But you’ll have to come back to me with something better than that if you’d like to stay any longer.”

[deepintoforestwego]

Worth whole weight in gold

A girl is born.

She is nobody, nothing yet. Such an ordinary, simple origin, product of too common and simple origin. A young couple, three children more, the work accident, death, single mother looking on another hungry mouth and heart breaking as she realizes they can’t manage it, that baby deserves more, and leaves her in orphanage without looking back, wiping tears.

Bah. i know, I know, some of you are disappointed. Angry. Outraged. Where is blood, where is tragedy that was inevitable and so easily prevented, homes burning down to foundations? What beginning is that, so common and reasonable? But don’t worry, soon have Sudice measured and determined shape and length of her thread and it’s place in tapestry and put her on glorious path.

Three women come to her. Second is tall and thin and beautiful, face sharp, eyes sharper still, like surgeon’s scalpels. Her suit is as grey as storm-clouds and gloomy morning sky and great hurricanes, and she almost rises off ground from excitement. She is a witch, from line of cunning and peasants, helping their own with will and wisdom, and of thieves and liars, gaining their desires by money and nice clothes. A smart woman, mystery and science joined together, who knows ways of blood in all forms, as genes and bindings. But blood doesn’t matter here, only choice, as she coos over babes.

Third, by few seconds, is a wizard, short and stocky, handsome and muscled, her nose smashed to pieces, scars over brow and back, patches of too pale flesh set in tanned skin, long braid falling below hips, red and yellow and purple,  blue and pink and white flowers bursting through it, big as fists, signs only she knows meaning and purpose of hanging over her clothes, over jewelry, and few tatooed in ink (and rare few carved into flesh). She delights in baby’s cooing, in each of her breaths, in her love’s soft smile upon serious face, and throws girl in air and catches her, and they go home.

(The First we all know, and ours line best, but it isn’t time to know what she was doing, though I think you can guess).

They do everything correct.

See, first forty days are most important. Because of health too, of course, because baby is most sensitive in that time, but there are more magical reasons for why. Forty days to arrive and forty days to depart, that is what soul needs, and that is time when baby is most vulnerable to curses and demons and all unseen things creeping below surface of world.

Spells, rituals and runes, everywhere. Knives and bullets and even bombs ( it has been years, and they have changed and found more stable work prospects, but once they were warriors and hunters and they shook a world slightly, and there are sorcerers and demons too arrogant or foolhardy or fearless to ignore those trembles-or to follow trail, try to devour those who will one day be songs, not bothering to remember that each word will be written with blood and ash and carried by wind itself. That each pathetic attempt they make only produces more and more reasons to whisper when they pass- no one got pass on them for years.

Well, one did, but that is expected. they are family, after all, and bit of rough housing is expected. She even healed them afterwards).

They do everything correct, every little custom and superstition that is just minor ritual, hidden spell, imbued with love and will and power. New mothers are like that, and they took two more girls too (of them we have spoken and will speak some other times). Well, what they can- many of rituals are focused on breastfeeding and birth mother. Still, there is money given to baby, and eggshells crashed in first bath, and more then month without leaving house, and red thread around wrists.

Girl si born mundane, ordinary human. But in house like that, steeped in magic and mystery, love and power, she could do nothing but become witch.

‘‘I don’t really like fairy tales.’‘ The little girl huffs, pushing away picture books, all same and stale and stupid. Tired old stories, all same scheme that makes no sense- why would somebody who was kind to fox be good king, why would girl with strange dress be a queen.

‘’See, I told you she won’t like them. She is sensible.’’ The mama, grey witch tells her wife, for she knows magic, but in sensible, reasonable way that can be studied and taken apart, and she has never been able to find herself in them as child, never able to find girls full of need for knowledge, anything other then prince.

‘‘That’s ok, we will find you some other books. But fairy tales can be very useful.’‘ The mummy, wizard says, fiddling with metal and screws, for she was never really fond of them, but she knows beauty that is found in language and history of them, especially those spread by peasants and people that know no origin of their tales, and she has walked the path they set out, fought and run and hid following clues set upon them by folktales.

‘‘Just as long as they don’t ruin the child. If she starts mixing and forgetting tales, she won’t live long enough to come of age.’‘ Whispers the hidden, banished woman, hair tangled and hands bloody, watching the scene in puddles of mud and icemelt water, cavern above her, the saline river below, so far away that they can almost forget her.

She is reared on love. Perhaps that is the best way. Love can nurture and strengthen, give somebody strength to light a candle against night, to fight and keep all that they treasure, to fight for others too. Not every hero needs to be mired in tragedy and loss, to continue standing despite everything that is taken from them. Not all lines and fates need to be founded in their Father’s blood across stones, their Mother’s revenges (and she will know the tragedy too, friends shattered under monsters, graves desecrated by the Lady, for hero has many enemies, and blood feuds never cease until we choke out each other, but that is tale for some other time).

She learns love, and duty, and what family means. Though they are all equally old, she takes on role of eldest child, the one that looks out and cares for rules and keeps cousins and sisters safe. From her mama she learns words and spine of steel, and how to keep her face and voice blank and neutral, and from her mummy she learns how to recognize and deal with imminent fights, how to use least she has to get the most. From them she learns how to hold herself without fear, and they distill in her strength they needed to bring about a coup.

But first of all, she never learns to be anything but herself. She is enough, she is correct and perfect in all ways she is. She carves her own life as she wants, bends what life gives her in what she needs and desires, and when things come to halt she does same for others. There is strength in that, an incredible power, in knowing who and what you are and never allowing anything to shake you, bend you in shape you could never accept. And then, you just extend that strength, that certainty to others.

‘‘It is not the quest.’‘ She murmurs to herself, setting off to journey. Just a quick delegation to a hidden village of giants, to ask to borrow some  of strange herbs they managed to harvest and grow, after centuries of people attempting so. Just a normal negotiation and maybe trade deal.

Raskovnik. Razkovniche, rozryw, earthern key, rainbow root. A simple garss, barely more then moss or weed, yet with power to break any chain, open every gate, unlock each lock, shatter every ward and binding spell, to reveal buried treasures. Capricious thing, sometimes found only on Kupala night, sometimes known only to animals. And giants managed to grow crops of it. Useful thing, that they wouldn’t reveal secret of, maybe not even trade, and would surely look onto her as possible thief.

The leader of giants has fingers longer then her, three heads and beard as big as house.  A witch man himself, which isn’t very common among giants- magic is capricious and moody mistress, and just because he is giant doesn’t mean his magic is stronger then hers. Magic demands work and concentration and patience, and so it is just as hard for giant to light a candle or raise pebble when they are starting as it is for human and most don't bother- but those who do find great rewards 

"It has not been long since we had been able to use Craft again, when humans denied it from us for thousands of lifetimes. I am not sure I can trust you that you will not turn on us again." Giant speaks, and woman hides her frustration, even as she expected this. Trust is not something humanity earned from demons, even more than other way.

"Your concerns are natural and reasonable. But our scientists just want to study it. And we could never take on you in this state. You freed yourselves before and would prevent further attacks." Flattery doesn't hurt, nor does knowledge that her family was central in that fight, that her mothers fought on frontlines, that her uncles began the conflict with setting off first spark, that her aunts toppled empires.

"Still, it was barely two decades since then. Meager knowledge and power is all we have to protect us, especially since Cataclysm brought down Middleworld." There is longing in his voice, thundering through hall like beginning of storm, feral thing almost sob. She doesn't know it, but she understands-to lose a home, a world in single night and be forced to run above, to hide in human world, in hollow trees and moving islands is pain nobody should know.

" I'm aware my reassurances don't mean a lot, but would you at least be open to negotiations? My people could give you books, equipment, whatever you may need." He knows her family. Knows how they gathered power, how they crawled up as high as they could, in mundane and magical worlds both. He knows of things they gathered, of battles her mothers led, of how Middleworld shook itself to pieces and cried rain as her uncle died, knows of bargains and paths hidden below salt and ice, shadows and sea.

" Perhaps. Maybe it could be arranged, if somebody underwent some trials of our choosing." And he heard of her, of how reasonable and dutiful she is, and fair, and unwilling to leave any in trouble. Loyal, and honest, dependable and not to be tricked.

" I will do it." She says, and her voice cuts like sword, and on her he sees golden glow of hero.

It turns out, there are horses on the island. Horses of same strange origin as giants, smallest and youngest of them as big as elephants, and the biggest... They were amazing sight, seeing all that giant muscle, those long manes, how they run trampling trees before them-and she was supposed to tame them.

There were also statues all over island, of humans and giants and other creatures, all living being turned into stone, trapped motionless and hard, that she was supposed to rescue.

And finally, a riddle.

‘‘It is not a quest.’‘ She said, in prayer.

The giant, it turns out, has a daughter. A beautiful maiden, really, with milky skin, braided pale gold hair and rosebud mouth. Slender as willow, of delicate, soft features and baby blue eyes, voice soft and pliant and warm as velvet, long eyelashes and calloused fingers. Dressed in loose, white skirts she spends her days spinning on a wheel, baking bread, helping old people walk and stay asleep, rocking babies, getting rid of weeds in garden. She is beautiful and sweet as sugar and incredible.

She could also stomp down on our hero like a bug, But instead she just smiles and offers to make her chambers, and our heroine can just stare dumbstruck and widely smile as she jumps on giant girl’s hand. It is incredible.

Even as she has to sleep in dollhouse.

The young giantess is head of house, as her mother is gone. It reminds our heroine, with her cropped hair and broad shoulders and build few dresses support of something her grandparents would have loved, a patriarchal idyll. Except not really.

All women have power and influence, even ones downtrodden, mocked, trapped. Words and wish for freedom and heart, there is always power and use and skill, no matter what kind. But here, power isn’t subtle or hidden. It is something open, respected and needed and beloved. Those who tend homes are just as respected as those who hunt or trade and reason with other creatures, no matter they a man or woman.

Giantess cooks for her cousins, prepares broths and bakes bread, brings all meals of day to table, and they kiss her hands in gratitude and clean after themselves. 

She makes clothes out of hides and wool delivered by demons they trade with on tools made of entire woods, and her customers heap deers and wild goats in payment upon their doorstep. 

She cares for young and old and sick, and they bring water to their home (it is hard to find such things, for in Middleworld there were places suited for their kind, with seas of freshwater and orchards high as mountains, with cattle big enough to feed them. But in human world, devoid of such natural magics, they must struggle to feed themselves through winters). it isn’t something she could stand, but it is incredible to watch this young woman manage her home as a queen.

Besides, just because she likes churning butter doesn’t mean she can’t shatter skull of anybody who angers her.

She helps giantess in kitchen often. It takes all strength of her muscles, but she brings eggs almost as tall as her, the spoon twice her height, forks that could be used as battering rams, napkins she could use as blankets or carpets. She rides on giantess’s shoulders, crawls through her long, beautiful hair, practices sword fighting with her needles.

‘‘I am sorry we aren’t same height.’‘ Says giantess, who must take care she doesn’t speak too loud, or drop her from great heights.

‘‘Don’t be-this way I can revel in each detail of your beauty.’‘ Answers heroine, and laughs when giantess blushes.

‘‘I am sorry I can’t really appreciate your cooking.’‘ says our heroine, watching loaves of bread bigger then houses, the flour falling off it, grey as her mama’s suits, crust brown as her mummy’s braid, enough flour to make a desert.

‘‘Don’t worry. I’d like if I could properly bite apple, or smell rose, or pick mushrooms.’‘ So many small things, that she can’t properly see or smell or taste, so faraway and unknown to her.

‘‘Your altar is as big as temples at my home.’‘She laughed, kneeling before candles and figurines of Mokosh as tall as towers, holding pendant of sickle and snowflake in her hands, as they prayed and gave offerings.

‘‘Your books are incredible.’‘ Giantess gasps as heroine reads to her from tiny notebook-books are rare with giants, for they spread knowledge by word and memory and mouth, for parchment and paper are hard to make, and carving words in mountains is harsh job. She dreams of learning to paint, and sculpt clay, and of sword fighting and becoming smith.

They will always remember their first kiss, a tiny peck on side of giantess’s cheek.

‘‘You know, I don’t really remember Middleworld. I was pretty young when we had to leave it, three I think. I remember air being clearer but weirder, taller trees, the cows and sky covered by mists. And those caverns and purple streams, you know.’‘ She sighed, a huff of air from her lungs that could have blown our heroine away, but missing that nostalgic shadow of weeping that crossed faces of most demons and many sorcerers.

‘‘ I don’t really miss it. I love it here, even if it is hard-everybody I know and love is here, and there is too many good memories even if life is hard, but I think I should have known it.  Besides, that way I could have traveled. Or maybe I am just missing it by nature-they say it is ours after all.’‘ Her hair of pale gold flails around her head. Everybody knows how it works-Upperworld for humans, Middle for demons, Underworld for immortals.

‘‘I get it. My mama is still sad about her family manor and mines being passed to her brother. I saw them only few times in life and didn’t like them, but I never got chance to know them, why she loves them so much. And now they are gone.’‘ She thinks of mines, closed after stones claimed and buried their owners, now refuge for hundred undead. She thinks of  family manor, razed by fire and water, glass flying, silk turned to ash, icons of saints burning burning as Lady walked through gates that tried to deny her for last time.

Giantess gave her a comb, a tiny thing made of driftwood, several teeth missing, brimming with tension that seemed ready to explode every moment, to reach outwards, above and below and part earth and sky in half. She threw it in front of horses, and wood remembered what it meant to live, and each tooth became a forest, tall and dark, and thorny, so horses couldn’t pass.

Giantess gave her a scarf, a lovely pale blue that seemed almost translucent, that sometimes turned silver or green, and that wiggled and tried to pass between her fingers. She threw it in front of horses, and it grew long and deep and wide, became bubbling river that they could not pass, but which was more delicious then wine.

Then, heroine asked giantess’s father to prick his finger by her needle, and let it rest in tiny bowl on which she inscribed name of their city. And then she went to threshold of each house, and spoke words her mothers taught her, did steps her mama showed her, stood with strength her mummy imparted on her, and called ancestors buried beneath, and snake housekeeper, that speaks for dead and watches over home, and usually leaves only when misfortune si to befall home and wipe it off from face of earth. 

They rose from cracks in earth and stone, and she could not tell whether they were tiny or tall as trees, only that their bodies swirled and bent around her, and in their eyes she saw generations upon generation, and secrets, and love.  And she bent them to her will, for hers was House of Snakes, and from each serpent  she took a bit of spit, and mixed it with blood, then spilled in river and broke bowl into dust and threw it to wind.

Then she called back the forest unto comb, and horses bent their heads and knees to giants, and were as tame as little sheep. And so her first not-the-task was done.

‘‘They say, that spring of river that flows through our island is magical. That it draws water from beneath the land, from sea, or maybe from Middleworld,  and that it has powers of healing and curse-breaking. But rusalkas guard it, and our kind is afraid of water, and it is deep enough for them to pull us underneath. Be careful please.’‘ There are tears at corners of her eyes, and she promises, yes of course don’t worry I will take all precautions, before rain can fall from her eyelids.

Water is trouble for most demons. They have magic knit in between their flesh and bones, and it is way of water to rue spells and magic, especially moving one, to brings chaos and twist spells in something else, bend them like paper. 

( For some reason water reacts violatily with magic. Old wives’s tales say it doesn’t like magic, mama scoffs, for all people have fairy tales and all are equally foolish.

There are theories that all things have some inherent magical properties, and water has strong property of changing and twisting other workings, mummy tells her later, repeating words of old friends, gone in many strange ways.)

Rusalkas, brought from edge of death, know that well, and use it to their advantage. Water nourishes and defends them. People think they have nothing but charm and seduction, but water keeps them safe, and people think them dumb, pretty bimbos good for nothing, but all lakes and rivers are connected, and they know many secrets.

She follows clear, bubbling, cold river, not so long ago only one at island, to it’s source. A cave at shores of island, where one can almost glimpse illusions shielding island, almost brush against wards keeping it hidden from ships and satellites. Sand is fine and grounded, white with golden sheen, and dust dances in air as sunlight reflects on walls of cave as smooth as glass, and she can see shallow pool, blue tinted green, each fish and grain of sand and blade of seaweed visible, crystal foam softly kissing the shore, while near it water springs forth in small trickle, turning slowly in lazy river. She can almost feel magic brush against her, like bite on ear and grip on forearms, like brush of hair on cheek and hot humid breath at neck.

‘‘ Hello honey.’‘ Her auntie smiles long and thin, pale, wrinkled lips purple as in drowned, water brushing her legs yet leaving her dry as she sits in spring, and heroine takes step back, but slowly, not to offend her. her family are things thought to be stories of peasants and horror and children, and she and her kin edge on border of something resembling fairy tales, but Lady Widow has left it all behind so long ago to walk through trenches and abysses of glory, to become legend and myth and miracle. Often she remembers herself, and holds her mind tight and true, wraps and chains herself with reason and laws and customs and pins and buns and  short, harsh, pricked words ‘‘ maybe you shouldn’t curse whole family with eternal hunger  because somebody pushed you out of way’‘, but sometimes...

Sometimes, her voice sounds like faraway song, a wail of tides, and her hair falls like waterfall of ink and silver down her back, unbound and wild like waves themselves.

‘‘Greetings to you too, Auntie. And no, this isn’t quest.’‘ She says, and her Auntie laughs, as she gazes into surface of water, for she knows the way Story bends and shapes world, and knows road it’s actors must walk on, and she knows how long ago she set her family on that path.

‘‘Of course it is. It always is so with our family. Used to be all heroes, false and true, and poor single me, but now it’s all right with you kids. A hero and villain and mysterious donor to seek help from. 

You, wielding reason and sword, came here for three tasks and to win heart of your donor, antagonist’s child- a giant’s daughter, classic! Good choice, you can forget her and have her fight evil witch for you. Would put you ahead of  your cousin in terms of fun plot- did you know he is cheating on his girlfriend with her husband! And none of three knows!’‘ Our heroine gasped slightly at that. Their Auntie never meddled in whom they loved, or how, as long as it was healthy and loving- and insisted on being regularly fed plots of soap operas and tragic folk lyrical  poems  as tributes. She always had soft spot for making fantasies real, which is why big part of their teen years and puberty was spent watching Spanish telenovelas and Turkish melodramas she enjoyed to know what to avoid.

‘‘That is interesting information. Though I must say I don’t think either of us is villain or donor...’‘  She said, calculating in her head how to change topic of conversation and to figure out which cousin was in such predicament, when Auntie shook her head, yet veil from her eyes didn’t move a bit.

‘‘Oh? What of your sisters-one who keeps out of all conflicts and gives advice and secrets to all who bribe her, and one who would do anything and forgive everything for sake of our family and her strzyga lovers?’’ Sister who would be left alone with memories and bitterness beneath earth and forests, giving information and aid to monsters and champions both who pass her trials, and sister who would fill lakes with blood of innocents to prolong lives of three of them through centuries, until one day hero would come to Lady Widow who would give them sword and secret and send them off to deliver her girls to  Winter Mother. But that was far away.

‘‘ And here are you, on second of your tasks. To retrieve a magical water of life to turn stone into flesh, and pass dangers while you are on it. Don’t worry, there are no rusalkas here anymore. I did nothing to them, they just run away.’‘ All lakes and rivers are bound, and all rusalkas remember Jagoda’s screams. And they fear Lady Widow, for they cannot stand her, and know not half of what she does, and she has all of theirs knowledge.

Rusalkas are children of lakes and rivers, fresh and always moving, never stopping. But all of it flows to the ocean,and Lady Widow was reared on hard ice and fishing boats, and in her blood is memory of chilly stagnation and sea salt.

‘‘So, would you then help me? As favor for family?’‘ She asks, hoping to focus her. Sometimes, Lady Widow, so tangled in legends and mysteries, born with foresight, would lose track of time and space and anything not cryptid enough to be understood without decades of research. And our heroine needed no prophecy.

‘‘Ah, but here family means nothing. You are heroine, with sword and reason and love, here to fulfill your second task and free stone unto life. I am maker of dark bargains and granter of wishes, sea witch and fairy godmother. I am thing you find on crossroads, that foolish men dream and desire and can never have, that soldiers sing about around fire before greatest battle, one whose secrets make kings and slay dragons. Are you sure you want to tangle with that?’‘ She asked, and rose to dance in water, her elder body moving graciously, in perfect ballet movements.

‘‘There are no more kings and no more dragons. World changed.’‘ At least in some ways. They all feared it, but Auntie would never part veil so much, would never reveal demons and sorcerers to world. they hoped so at least.

‘‘Yes, but it can change again, to times of glory and carnage. Middleworld was lost in a day, you know- it’s towers ground unto dust, it’s armies bowed and buried, it’s people banished to humanity by wood and water. It is just question of right moment when everything becomes ash and then Forest and then ice.. And then... then..‘‘ She spun around, sighing and singing, mumbling words in language her mama hated, that Lady Widow learnt first, before Englishand French and all other so called dignified, cultured words.

‘‘Auntie... Auntie, can you help me. Please.’‘ she asked, not pleading, but not showing irritation.

‘‘Hmmm. You sure I don’t want to tell you how your mama will die?’‘ Lady widow asked, twirling, but her tiny black hat never fell off.

‘‘I know you will kill her, and it will be bloody and petty and glorious, throne of bones and screams of children and all that. Please.’‘ She rambled off.

‘‘Perhaps, but not for now. And it might be  illness, or drunk driver, or mines that claimed so many of her family, on both sides,  or betrayal by best beloved ones who will take swords upon my words, and maybe Sun will war on the Moon with sage and eight sticks of fire with her, and darling girl of mine, should you go on quest once for me, I will give you way to change stone into living and clue for riddle.’‘ She stopped her dancing, and our heroine almost said finally, but she was too wise for that, and just nodded.

From somewhere, Lady Widow took a green plastic bottle, one they put carbonated water into, and ruby to close it. In she put water from spring, and strange powder, and then she bent down and touched neck of bottle with her lips.In but a second, world faded away, and only SHE was real, and everything was cold and brilliant, and our heroine felt fear turn her blood into ice, and that was good for otherwise her hands would try to tear out her heart as offering, and she bent under weight that tasted of salt and darkness.

‘‘ Rest is just a show, you know. It is all in the kiss- sprinkle it over statues, and they will feel it and think more is to come, and stone will turn to blood and bone, hoping I will grant them a half of touch more. Which is pity, because they will rot so fast, but their lives are theirs to use as they see fit. As for riddle- it will be one of classic twists, you know, tricks and hidden meanings and metaphors, requiring to think by heart.’‘ The she handed her niece bottle, and jumped in shallow spring and dived deeper then there was depth, in cold and dark that wasn’t there moments ago, and potion worked as she promised.

‘‘So girl, your final task-tell me what you think is greatest treasure of this island?’‘ Three heads ask at once, before gathered inhabitants, shortest of which are for three heads taller then her.

‘‘That is easy, sir. Greatest treasure on this island is without doubt your daughter.’‘ The answer is correct, and they don’t have time to congratulate her because they must keep young giantess from fainting.

There are adventures after, too. There are messages through magical stones and visits and spells that can make giantess as short as basketball player and human as tall as house. our heroine learns to climb on mountains in few steps and sew, and giantess learnt to paint and wield ax (sword didn’t work well enough, it turns out, but she tried). And finally, there is wedding.

Both families and all friends, gathered around statue of Mokosh, our heroine in her ceremonial armor, silver and lined with gold, her bride in white dress woven with wildflowers, demons of all shapes and forms laughing and dancing while dark haired witch with snakes around her officiates in name of Old Ones. Two processions are held, one as humans, other as giants, and there is lots of fight, but almost good natured about which goes first. It is eventually decided giant’s will be first since giantess will take up her wife’s surname, which makes her mama cry with happiness. ( No mention of  dowry and bride price of course. Last time somebody joked about it Lady Widow called forth thousands of white cows from the sea to bride’s family and asked for adequate dowry).

‘‘So, my girl got herself a hero.’‘ Giant says, all three heads weeping, as Lady Widow sits on table next to him, and they all shrink from her, though her hair is bound tight.

‘‘Yes, though I’d say  she herself is one. But rather fitting, married in right family- all wise and smart and trickster, theirs line is.’‘ So is our heroine’s mama, smart and good at fulfilling tasks to get help. Her mummy and uncle are strong and fearless and can take what they need, however they want it. Her other aunt is pretty and sly, charming thing, manipulating and binding people to her will. Their children are all like that- whether hero, monster or donor, they are strong and smart and charming and beloved, and even little kind (none of them like her hero, the fourth brother, the dead one, who wasn’t beautiful or respected or adored, but who would wade in darkness and deep woods for sake of lost strangers and what is right, who would feed animals and beggars, who would venture in deep water, beneath ice and salt and make bargain for which only he would bleed).

‘‘I heard of you, you know. Lady Widow. About feud and plans you have for this family. If it happens to involve my daughter somehow...’‘ Whispers like that reach whole world, of manipulations and poisons, of court feuds and blood spilled over asphalt, of curses and destroyed graves. They are children of their parents, by love and that is worse then blood, and price must be paid if they go on with their legacy, until only wizard with her flowers and braids is left spared, for friendship once treasured.

(This is what they all forget, heroes and monsters equally. Their parents are people, and they have their stories. They have sins and victories and memories and secrets, and legacy they wear has price).

‘‘She is my niece-in-law. I will love and protect her, see her wishes made true as much as possible, keep her safe and happy as much as I can, and bring damnation in all that dare harm her. And i will treat her same as all if she comes to beg and bargain, and should she harm my sweet niece or anybody else of our kin or invoke my enmity I will color my waters with her blood and make myself a bread out of her bones.’‘ She loves her nieces and nephews, almost as much as her own descendants. She is proud of fame that awaits them, fame that she gave to them as gift.

She fed them her milk, after all.

‘‘You can try. It would not take my daughter a lot to squish you down as a bug, or hack off that plotting little head of yours. She could gut you like fish before you would blink.’‘ Lady Widow smiles, and her teeth glint wide and sharp like icicles, like jaws of something from ocean’s depths, where sunlight never reaches.

‘‘You can try all of you together now if you want. I always said wedding is no good without some massacre, and it has been some time since I had such big targets to rend into dust.’‘ There they are like him, all so concerned about lives of others and laws and blood on carpet, but they don’t even know how to get rid of evidence properly. Truly, this family would be lost without her guidance.

She jumps down from table onto floor, glinting graciously as if on stag, her fingers barely touching cobblestones. Still she is proud of those children, and sets to job of making gifts, long life and status of idol and rows upon rows of failed enemies.

There is no need to bless them with long-lasting, eternally kept and simmering love. Seeds of it are already there, in their kiss, in hug that seems to be eternal, as if they are melding in one.

‘‘Lovely girls.’‘ Says the officiator, sipping her wine coated with pomegranate and roses, snakes whirling around her like necklace, hair as black as coal.

‘‘Yes, they are. Even if they are incredibly oblivious.’‘ At officiator’s amused, curious gaze, she hands her another glass and points at winking blonde rusalka gazing in her direction, and watches girl blush and stammer.

‘‘That was lovely story, Hans.’‘ The old woman says to man next to her, smelling of thunder and summer grass, her short hair white and brittle, her hands calloused from swords, while her wife stands beside her with her braid of pale gold.

‘‘I’m glad you love it so Aunts. I think they all figured out who we are talking about, with all snuggling and whispering you did.’‘ He smiles, sharp and white as icicles, as thing from depths, as his grandmother, and two of them giggle and go to woods, to their hidden cottage and their cats and friends, cottage that shifts it’s inner size in order to  comply to them and their whims.

Cavern above her, the saline river below, so far away that they can almost forget her, Lady smiles scrying scene in icemelt puddle, and counts it as one of her wins.

A happy ending, ever after and forever.

[primrose-path-of-dalliance]

Lotor’s end (?) in s6

toc 1: i shake out some salt and talk about the altean colony | 2: i question why people keep insisting lotor was "evil all along" | 3: i talk about my favorite parts of lotor’s breakdown

lotor, altea, and king alfor

when lotor chooses to lash out and start destroying everything, he says: "what about your father? he may have been a master engineer, but alfor was too weak to defend his homeworld. i'm the one who had to step up and save our entire race. who are you to question my tactics in bringing peace and prosperity to the universe?"

the knee-jerk reaction is to be furious at lotor for this statement, and what he says is unfair. it's not as if alfor simply gave up, lay down, and offered his people to the pyre. perhaps he made a mistake in sending voltron away (as his ai freely admits to allura), but although we don't get a lot of information on what happened after zarkon's resurrection, we know that he tried to defend his people. that he ultimately lost isn't a fact that's fair to reflect onto his moral character. additionally, lotor is singing his own praises even after we've discovered that he's far from hot shit, and naturally it's unappealing.

but as a character, lotor possesses an extremely unique perspective. he is the only major sympathetic character in the show to have lived through all of the 10,000 years of post-resurrection zarkon's reign. and he is among the small group of characters who have been aligned against the empire for a significant amount of time since before allura and coran reawoke; potentially, he has spent the longest actively on the galra empire's shit list.

i said that allura's viewpoint in the show is limited for a very good reason. even the person who is our primary protagonist, who is extraordinarily sympathetic and compassionate, whose heart breaks regularly for the people who suffer under the oppression of this empire and who has suffered tremendously herself while determined to devote the rest of her life to this cause, can be a bit clueless when she's a teenager and only woke up about a year ago into a universe entirely different from the one she once knew.

most of allura's life was spent in a stable and loving home on an idyllic planet as crown royalty, with all the resources and wealth that lifestyle offered to her. she was raised for both diplomacy and warfare but had little time to become familiar with them, particularly the latter, when compared to the work of centuries or millennia under the rule of an extremely powerful and oppressive empire. and the perspective from which she learned her trades was as the heir of a powerful kingdom and expansive legacy, not as a freedom fighter. most significantly, she had astounding resources even after waking up into an empire that wanted her dead—the castle of lions, an extremely mobile self-powered warship with apparently no concern to be had for things like food supplies or relative comfort; and voltron, quite literally the most powerful weapon in the universe with limits unknown and a sentient being in its own right. additionally, the return of the black lion distracted zarkon. he was obsessed with reclaiming it above all else, to the point where haggar criticized his illogical behavior right to his face. voltron's return weakened zarkon's ability to strategize intelligently. in terms of practical position against the galra empire, allura, coran, and the paladins possessed the strongest one from the very beginning. and they have only gotten stronger.

this doesn't place allura in an easy position to empathize with the other forces who have fought against the empire, and considering the usual level of empathy or thoughtfulness one can already expect from a teenager, it shouldn't be a shock that allura's perspective may not be the most understanding.

when she condemns lotor for his treatment of the altean colony, as rightfully as she may be doing so, she does so without any understanding of where lotor is coming from. she literally cannot comprehend the type of situation someone like lotor must have been in to drive him to do something so horrific, nor that someone who's not Evil could still commit such crimes. this is tied into one of the biggest reasons lotor loses his temper and says what he does.

what i'm saying isn't without precedence in this show. @howtofightwrite has talked about the usual experience of a resistance (link). (please feel encouraged to read the whole post, especially for context. they do a great job being a resource for writers about a wide variety of topics, and if you're not already acquainted, i totally recommend following them.)

since it's a very long post, i'll quote the most relevant parts:

"When you’re writing a story about a resistance, never forget that they are in a hostile environment where everything is a danger to them, and you should approach every engagement violent or not as a cost comparison. ....

When you’re working with a resistance fighter, the resistance part is more important than the fighter part. These are not people with a very large margin for error, and who need to be incredibly good at threat assessment in regard to their greater goals. The greater goal is what’s most important to them, their priority, their mission, they have limited resources and that means they have to make compromises. For the resistance fighter, violence itself draws attention. Attention is bad.

Think about this, if he does manage to fight these two and kill them then whatever kills he makes will be taken out on the civilian population. If he doesn’t kill them, and they remember his face then he’s done as a resistance fighter. Again, attention is bad. Attention brings notoriety. In a hostile state, the consequences are many and they hit the innocent population hardest.

My point is this: your character is not making decisions on what he can do or can’t do, not in what’s morally right or wrong, if he wants to survive in a resistance then he’s making decisions based on risk. ....

Resistance fighters are the ones who run when their friends get captured, the ones who stand by and do nothing if they’re not at risk of being outed. They wait. They strike later, though usually not to recover their friends. Well, the smart ones do. The stupid ones try. They either get gunned down or captured because hot blood and hot heads get murdered in the streets by the gestapo. There are always more of them than there are you in a resistance, and violence attracts attention. The wrong kind of attention in the wrong place means death or capture, prison, interrogation, torture, and then the firing squad. The consequences for failure are high, not just for the single resistance fighter but for everyone they know, everyone they love, and for the very movement they’re fighting for. ....

For every piece your character and his friends take, the enemy will take five of theirs. He is in a rigged game where his own lack of resources will crush him unless the resistance can convince the populace at large to rise up. That is how a resistance actually wins in the real world, you know. If they can’t get the citizens behind them or receive aid from an outside power or train up an army on foreign soil, they’re doomed."

when the blade of marmora are first introduced, they fill precisely this type of role in the show. they are the resistance, the small guy fighting against an empire that has conquered and controls most of the known universe, who has decided to focus on spywork as the primary goal they can accomplish. and allura dislikes them instantly—not only because they're galra, but because she considers them disappointments for having not already taken down the empire themselves. she criticizes what she sees as passivity, as fear to engage with the enemy. she fails to realize that the blade of marmora lacked the firepower of voltron or the resources to commit to a war with the empire.

as the blade of marmora emphasized in their introduction, they survived through their secrecy. if things went wrong, if they took too many risks in trying to liberate other people, their existence would be discovered. and then the empire, a force with effectively infinite resources and no small amount of cruelty, would have their guard up. all of their spies would suddenly be in great danger. any future operations would become exponentially more difficult. depending on the risk that fell through, it wouldn't be difficult at all for the empire to decimate their numbers, or worse, decimate whatever civilian populations they might have been trying to protect or train for war. the blade of marmora simply wouldn't have the ability to fight back.

allura deserves no guilt for condemning lotor, of course. he abused the very people he was supposed to be protecting. he may have found some comfort for himself by treating it as a conservation issue, but he nevertheless ruined the lives of thousands of already oppressed people. regardless of motive, that is never going to be something that sits well with the type of good our protagonists are, and rightfully so. it's the reason we love them so much.

but it's frustrating to see people reduce antagonists like lotor to "Pure Bad Evil all along" because it's completely dismissive of the work the show writers have put into him as a character with a story entirely different from either zarkon's cardboard cutout villainy or allura's honest but youthful idealism. and to what purpose? making sure we all know genocide is bad? surely we don't have to perform hatred or oversimplification of a fictional character just to make sure everyone knows our disdain for mass exploitation. and surely we're capable of understanding that exploring the reasons why someone would do such a thing doesn't mean we agree with them or are excusing their actions.

i stated that the ultimate incompatibility of allura's perspective with lotor's is tied into lotor's break. not the sole cause. that's because it, when expressed in such a raw attack on lotor's character, was only the trigger for the release of a massive amount of resentment that lotor has been harboring inside him. when lotor breaks, it isn't because he can't tolerate the idea of a woman rejecting him. it's because he's been bitter toward everything for a very, very long time, and his break is that moment when he decides to stop holding it in or rationalizing it away.

for 10,000 years, he has endured abuse from the people who ought to have loved him the most. he's been disconnected from each side of his heritage: the galra, because he's half-altean and a disgustingly moral half-breed exile; and the alteans, because he's half-galra and they, at the hands of the empire and to an extent lotor himself, have experienced genocide and abuse until they were scattered and isolated, a mere shadow of what they once were. his friends are few and far between, because trust is difficult when his father will murder everyone around him just because he hears from someone nearby that lotor's having a decent time being deviant, and when the woman at his father's right hand (who he now knows is his mother, one of the sole figures in his life he imagined to be good because he thought she was already dead) will send spies his way through any avenue possible, including benevolent ones (he's not even a little shocked to accept narti's supposed betrayal, or to find himself taken to haggar's feet at galra central command after kuron's mind-control switch is flipped). sendak, the man implied to have been more raised as a son by zarkon than zarkon's own actual son, threatens to make lotor his personal slave, and lotor barely bats an eye because this inherent violence toward his existence is something completely normal to him. his style of fighting and strategy is entirely angled as someone who's used to being the small guy—he's agile, and clever, and quick, and prefers to either manipulate his way out or outfox his enemy because he rarely has the strength to challenge or threaten people head-on; even sincline's strength is in outmaneuvering its opponent. as an infant, we see lotor in the darkness crying alone in his crib with no one to tend to him.

consistently, lotor has been characterized as a target of abuse, with all the baggage that it comes with.

the resentment here is in knowing how easily it could have been better. how happy he might have been. if he had known king alfor as a parental figure instead ("i envy you, growing up with king alfor"). if he had grown up in altea with honerva instead of in the galra empire with zarkon. if king alfor had not failed in his duty to his people, to the universe 10,000 years ago, and simply killed zarkon when he had the chance.

allura, as much as he respects her as an individual, is also a representation of what he wishes he could have had: a loving family, a happy life, proper training as an altean alchemist, security in a group of close friends she can trust and interact with comfortably. she trusts the universe in a way he can't even comprehend of doing. moreover, allura got to sleep relatively peacefully for those 10,000 years of zarkon's tyrannical rule, undisturbed and undiscovered on arus.

she never had to live those millennia under zarkon's oppressive rule. she never had the burden of a horrific legacy. she never had to figure out who she was all by herself, uninternalize every ounce of racism and abuse and discover what it meant to be a person of value by chasing after crumbling ruins. instead, he had to save the last alteans left after zarkon's genocide. he had to figure out a way to topple the empire. he had to find himself trapped in every corner with the choice to either die or sacrifice whatever morality he had to live another day, to take a single step closer to killing his own father.

and now allura has the gall to condemn him, when he didn’t have a superweapon like voltron. he didn’t have a massive castleship, a wormhole generator, or the gifts of a sacred altean. he was working with the best he had. does she think he wanted to use the alteans as a quintessence farm? does she think he wanted to be zarkon's son? all he wanted was peace. maybe if her father had just won, none of them would've had to be there. none of this would have happened. but instead she has the gall to hate him for trying to clean up her father's 10,000 year old mistake.

well, fine. he'll just do a better job restoring the alteans to power and bringing peace to the universe than any of them ever could.

in lotor's relationship with allura and king alfor, there is as much jealousy and resentment as there is love and admiration. and he understood how much of it was unfair, or else we would have seen it leak into his behavior before now no matter how good of an actor he was, if only so we the audience might characterize him properly as a dick. (hopefully i don't have to clarify that it didn't.)

but at this point, everything has been going wrong, allura is on the other side of the battlefield, and quintessence exposure is insidiously wreaking havoc on his ability to process what's happening in a healthy manner. all he can think about is how bitter and tired he is of this. and so he breaks.

of course it was wrong. he was literally attempting to kill the team by the end. none of this excuses the choices he made or the things he said, and he has to be held accountable for all of it. but more than anything, lotor is an example of how a person as human (for lack of a better word) as anyone else can be incredibly hurtful, how his end of self-destruction is brought about by the very authentic experience of wanting the happiness that has been continually taken away from him, and how this self-destruction is implicitly tied into his isolation.

the importance of a support system

this is probably one of the defining themes of vld. although it sometimes doesn't deliver on the paladins as a family unit, we get numerous arcs throughout the show about one character helping to emotionally support another through something difficult, and it's emphasized several times that every person in the team is deeply concerned with the individual wellbeing of their other team members/friends. as a show about a bunch of somewhat-strangers having to come together and form a giant robot mech in order to literally save the universe through the power of teamwork and cooperation, this isn't really surprising.

so let's look at lotor. he's incapable of having a positive connection with either side of his heritage as a whole—the galra have abused him and most of the known universe, the alteans either never recognize him as one of their own unless he tells them or end up victims of his own vampiric needs. the only person from his history he can draw strength and purpose from is honerva, his long-dead mother—and then he discovers that she survived quite well to become one of his greatest demons. his relationship with his generals is fairly good, but their dynamic is always more professional than casual—and then he kills narti and later claims he will kill any and all galra that stand against him. he and the paladins tentatively befriend each other, he and allura fall in love with each other—and then it's revealed that he hid very dirtied hands from them in the process. all of them abandon or turn against him. and by the end, he pilots sincline alone, in sharp contrast to the recently-reunited team of five in voltron.

repeatedly, we see lotor as a desperate seeker for connection who inevitably sabotages himself through his own actions, driving away every one of his friends and associates. this final collapse of his already-fragile support system is what leads directly to his self-destruction.

officially, lotor's been described as a secret azula the writers were trying to trick us into believing was a zuko. it's a fair description, but not in the sense that he was an evil villain, and that misconception ought to be cleared away. anyone who's watched avatar: the last airbender understands that azula, as dramatic and stunning a villain as she was, was far less someone to hate for her deeds than she was someone to pity—she was a tragedy who never got to grow away from the abuse of her father the way zuko did, and who brought about her own self-destruction through her toxicity and subsequent isolation.

the parallels are very obvious, and i suspect the reduction in similar reception when it comes to lotor is because 1. it's a lot easier to sympathize with a teenage girl who already had characters in-story to sympathize with her and fill in her background of abuse, and 2. fandom culture now is different and much less forgiving to its villains.

in many ways, lotor had the chances azula never got. like zuko, lotor was exiled in disgrace and spent a significant amount of time away from home; like zuko, lotor got the chance to uninternalize his abuse; like zuko, lotor demonstrated qualities from the beginning that made him more similar to the protagonists than the villains. the one thing lotor never got, however, was an uncle iroh: someone with the maturity, energy, and willingness to stay by his side through his unhealthy behavior, support him by promoting healthy behavior, and give him the unwavering love and forgiveness and faith that he was never able to receive from anyone else.

instead, lotor more or less had to figure it out on his own, which is challenging enough without adding isolation and high amounts of stress into the mix. by the end of s6, lotor was probably unconsciously seeking out a similar kind of relationship through allura, but the problem is in how demanding that type of support is. no one is really obligated to expend that amount of effort on anyone, no matter how positive of a result it might create. uncle iroh sacrificed a lot to give zuko the encouragement he needed to find a healthier state of mind, even suffering through his multiple missteps off the path that hurt iroh and everyone else around him, and zuko understood this by the time they reunited in the campgrounds of the order of the lotus.

team voltron, on the other hand, would never have been able to give lotor that kind of support for a myriad of reasons, youth and conflicting priorities and unfamiliarity with lotor among them, much less should have. many of the circumstances were also different—much more difficult with a 10,000-year-old character whose missteps include the abuse of a colony of already oppressed people, after all.

lm and jds have also drawn a similar comparison between lotor and keith (link). they share similar backgrounds—complicated family situation, absent mother, interpersonal issues borne from a history of isolation—but unlike lotor, keith found someone to guide him away from a downward spiral: shiro. ("i will never give up on you.") this difference between the two of them is explicitly acknowledged as what saved keith from self-destruction.

lotor was not an irredeemable character by far, and for some of us who were excited by the potential we saw, the end of s6 was disappointing. but within the context of the show and the progression of the plot, lotor's self-destruction was the logical path for him to go. it probably isn't the ultimate end of lotor; he didn't die, after all. but all things considered, i feel that lotor was ultimately treated with respect, and his arc added things to the story we never would've gotten otherwise.

(if we want a happy story, well, that's what we can write fanfiction for, right?)

[senatorrorgana]

The End and The Beginning - One

summary: The First Order is defeated, the Resistance has won, and all of those left standing are hailed as the heroes of the galaxy, names to be remembered alongside the likes of Luke Skywalker, Leia Organa, and Han Solo. For many, it's the end of a battle long fought for and won, but for Poe & Rey, it is the beginning of something very unexpected...

a/n: here we are with another fic for the giveaway I did last month, this one is for the grand prize winner @namikawas , and this fic will be a couple of parts where the others have been one shots! I hope you guys like it, hopefully, it won't take too long to finish this since all of the announcements have kept me pretty inspired to keep writing, it's just finding the time to write that's been an issue, but I will be trying my best! <3

rating: t

ao3: (x)

   It was a day they had all long fought for, and admittedly, it was one that Rey almost thought she’d never see. Many people hadn’t been lucky enough to live to see this day, countless people had fought and died for the Resistance, never living to see this day, and while it pained Rey to know some of the people she cared for most couldn’t see this day, she knew she was lucky to still have Finn, Poe, and even Rose alive at the end of the day.

   Their final battle against the Order had been won, and every single piece that had the Orders symbol on it was set to be burned, leaving not even a trace of this terrible time behind. They would hollow out the base eventually where the final battle took place, but for now, most of the living members of the Resistance settled for grabbing Stormtrooper helmets and hats that once belonged to officers who were either long gone or imprisoned now and tossing them into the flames. What she remembered the most was the bright red flags that were yanked or torn down and cast into the fire and gave the flames a bright burst of red briefly before returning to its natural color. Rey hoped she would never see those cursed symbols of the Order ever again.

   She found Finn first among the celebration, he was just as happy as anyone else that the war had been won, but there was something pained in his gaze while he stared at the Stormtrooper helmet he held in his hands, waiting to toss it into the flames.

   “You alright?” Rey asked, reaching out and resting her hand on his shoulder.

   “Hmm?” Finn asked, “Oh, I'm fine.”

   “You don't seem fine.” Rey said.

   “I guess it's just...different from what I thought it would be. I thought I'd be cheering with everyone else, and I am happy that we won, it's just that this was all I ever knew for so long...it's hard to imagine it's finally gone.” Finn said, shrugging his shoulders and hold the helmet up to look it in the eye. “I used to think I'd die wearing one of these, it's funny how things change.”

   “You got to change for the better I think. If it weren't for you, I would have never met Luke or anyone else here, I would have lived and died on Jakku, waiting for someone who was never coming.” Rey said, offering up a small smile and relieved to see him smile in return.

   “Maybe, but I think the Force would have found a way.” Finn said. “I'm glad I got to find you though, not everyone can say they're friends with a Jedi.”

   “That's true, they can't.” Rey laughed. “What are you going to do with it?” She gestured towards the helmet.

   “Burn it, eventually, I just wanted one last good look at it, it'll be too soon if I ever see one again.” Finn said.

   “With any luck, we won't have to.” Rey said.

   Finn let out a sigh, casting one final glance at the helmet before tossing it into the flames in front of him. Rey stood at his side as they watched the helmet hiss and crackle, slowly melting and deforming until it was almost unrecognizable while sparks from the internal comma began to fly. It didn't take long for it to get lost in the high heat, and Rey watched as others around her tossed more First Order items into the flames.

   “Have you seen Poe and Beebee-Ate?” Rey asked, she hadn't seen them since before the battle, though she heard the other pilots cheering his name and seeing his x-wing nearby.

   “He was with the other pilots earlier but I think he went off somewhere to call his dad, let him know this was all finally over with.” Finn said. “He's probably over by the Falcon, it's the only quiet place here right now.”

   “I'm gonna go find them, are you okay?” Rey asked.

   “I'll be fine, I'll head over by Rose, let me know if you find them.” Finn said.

   With a brief hug, Rey parted ways from Finn and made her way through the crowds to reach the quiet space over by the Falcon, not even Chewie was by the trusted ship, and it felt almost eerie to be by the ship that was usually so full of life, and now it was completely silent. She did hear a faint murmuring within the ship, and the cheerful beeps only made Rey sure the two were inside. Rey followed the noise to the cockpit where she saw Poe leaning forward, talking to a holo of an older man that looked a lot like him and who she could only guess was his father. She stayed silent and watched, not wanting to interrupt, not knowing how long it had been since the two talked.

   “I'm proud of you, son. I know your mother would be proud too, she wanted you to grow up in peace, but something tells me she wouldn't mind her son being called the best pilot in the Resistance.” The older man grinned.

   “I wish she were still here.” Poe said, a twinge of sadness to his voice that Rey wasn't to hearing.

   “I do too, and I know she does, she'd want to brag to everyone she could get ahold of about how proud she would be of you.” The older man said.

   Rey had seen a picture of Poe’s mom once, Shara Bey, while looking through some old records the Resistance had on hand. She'd been a great pilot, just like Poe, and they shared the same brown eyes that had that spark behind her that could never be replaced or duplicated. Before Rey could listen further, BB-8 rolled up to her, nudging her leg and beeping cheerfully, grabbing both Poe’s and his father's attention.

   “Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt.” Rey said, fighting off the blush from being caught.

   “It's okay,” Poe smiled, “come on over.”

   Hesitantly, Rey made her way over, sitting in the co-pilot's seat and coming into view of Poe’s father.

   “Rey, this is my dad, Kes; Dad, this is Rey.” Poe introduced them.

   “So you're the girl he keeps talking about.” Kes said, Rey blushed, Poe smiled but seemed a bit embarrassed just as she had. “The apprentice to Luke Skywalker.”

   “Apprentice and...daughter.” Rey said, in all honesty, she was still getting used to saying that.

   “My wife, Shara, she used to work with both Luke and Leia back in the war against the Empire, I met them once or twice, I worked more with Han Solo truthfully.” Kes said. “Poe’s told me stories about you though.”

   “Good ones, I hope.” Rey replied, a grin on her face.

   “Only the best ones, his favorite ones to tell me though usually involve getting to fly this ship with you.” Kes said.

   “I mean, it's just...it's fun.” Poe scrambled trying to find the words to say, only resulting in him slightly blushing and Rey trying to pretend she didn't notice. “I better go, dad, I'll call you later on.”

   “Alright, well it was lovely meeting you, Rey.” Kes said.

   “It was lovely to meet you too.” Rey replied.

   The holo vid flickered before Kes Dameron vanished from sight. Poe turned to face her and she felt as if she hadn't truly seen him still in ages. In his stillness she was able to notice the dark circles under his eyes from sleepless missions, the scars he gained through all the fights, and the scar at the base of his neck just barely poking out, reminding Rey of the time Poe nearly died at the hands of Kylo Ren (Ben, she supposed she should think of him as Ben now). But there was still that ever present spark of happiness in his eyes, by all means, he should have been tired and beaten down, but here he was, still smiling like a fool despite it all.

   “Everything alright out there?” Poe asked.

   “For once, yes,” Rey said, “They're all celebrating and having the time of their lives.”

   “Something tells me there will be a lot of kids born nine months from now.” Poe said, a smirk forming on his lips.

   It took Rey a moment to realize what he was saying, she didn't want to know who was doing what and where right now, she knew he was probably right. But it was a celebration after all, let people celebrate she supposed, as long as it wasn't on the Falcon that was.

   “I meant to ask, what are you doing in here?” Rey asked.

   “It was the only quiet place I could find, I hope you don't mind, Chewie said it was okay. I just wanted to let my dad know it was done and I was still here despite some close calls.” Poe said.

   “It's fine, I'm glad everything's okay, I'm glad you're okay.” Rey said, smiling faintly and the quiet between them interrupted by a happy beep from BB-8. “I'm glad you're alright too, Beebee-Ate.” She laughed.

   “Well, as nice as the quiet is, I suppose we should get back out there, they might think we're making celebration baby if we don’t.” Poe said, rising from his chair.

   Rey felt her cheeks turn bright red at the thought, Poe was her friend and she cared for him, but something like that? She was just getting used to being around people constantly in general and having friends, and the Resistance wasn't the time nor place to think of things other than friends.

   “I was kidding.” Poe said, interjecting upon noticing her state and offering his hand out to her.

   “I know.” Rey said, defending herself. “We’re friends, why would anyone think any different?”

   Poe shrugged in response, extending his hand out to her to help her up. “If anyone asks, you can tell them about my dad embarrassing me in front of you over the holo.”

   “Embarrassing you?” Rey asked, a smile on her face.

    “The last thing anyone wants is their parents blurting out how much you talk about someone right to their face.” Poe said.

   “So you do talk about me a lot then.” Rey replied with a smirk.

   He was silent, a slight blush barely visible on him; Poe was always the calm and cool pilot, but more than a few people had told Rey that they'd never seen him blush more than he did around her, and she had to admit she liked it.

   “It's okay, I won't tell anyone.” Rey said, her tone soft as she accepted his still outstretched hand and rose to her feet, keeping a comfortable distance between them.

   “Promise?” Poe asked, a grin slowly growing on his face now, his confidence returning.

   “I promise.” Rey said. “We should get out there though, I think Finn could use us around, he's just trying to take everything in. And since we did win, I just might let you take the Falcon out later.”

   “Only if I get to have you as my co-pilot.” Poe said.

   “I can arrange that.” Rey replied with a smile.

[xvxrlasting]

cataclysm - V

She’s a force of nature, that Sara Neadie. Of all the humans on Skaia, you’re goddamn lucky she was the one who drilled a hole into your empire.

“We’ll bring those bitches to their knees yet,” you told her, and you knew it was true, especially with her in your arms. She was the not-so-secret weapon you never knew you needed, and whatever’s left of your heart after two thousand years of dark magic and spite belongs to her entirely. And she was yours, too, she was The One you never halfway believed you’d find– you knew it in the fire in her eyes, the warmth of her lips, the elegant diamond ring on her third finger.

The hardest part of Gl’bgolyb’s blessing has always been the times, though few and far between, when you’ve allowed yourself to love. Every relationship, every child, every person you’ve cared about, feels like yet another deal with a dark god, feels like you’re agreeing to have that one piece of joy in your life, at the price of watching them die.

(You’ll get to watch them grow old, too, if you’re lucky.)

You weren’t lucky.

She was a force of nature, yes, but now her hurricane is locked away in a golden tomb deep beneath your Shuttered Palace (you know that’s what they’re calling it now, you hear them talking), and you’re alone again.

Alone somehow more than you were before, even as you sit and brush your beloved daughter’s hair. She and Elliot, the human, are the only two people you’ve held audience with since the assassination. You haven’t allowed her to leave the Palace, and especially haven’t allowed her into the gardens. It’s strict of you, you know, but you’re certain she understands. You can’t lose her too, not yet.

It’s like you didn’t know how lonely you were before Sara came along, and now that she’s gone you’re all too painfully aware of the emptiness she left behind. She was fire, she was the light and warmth of the sun in your icy arms, and now that she’s gone all you know is the cold of her absence. You shut yourself away, and you grieve.

But you know who killed her. Grief, as it always does with you, rots and twists itself into unbridled rage. The emptiness in you, the cold left behind, grows and grows until it consumes you entirely, until all the comfort you can find is the vision of the divine, wrathful vengeance you will bring down upon the surface. You will raze their shining cities to the ground, you will strip their rulers to the bone, you yourself the very infernal visage of sheer agony, until they feel some fraction of the pain you’ve known these two thousand years. You will not rest, will not retreat, will not hesitate until they grovel and sob at your feet. You will find Sara’s flame even within your ice; you will use her memory to rain hellfire upon the people responsible for her death.

Feferi and Elliot stand beside you as you wait for your moment, eyes tracing the arcane inscriptions on your trident. On the other side of the double doors in front of you, thousands upon thousands of citizens and soldiers have gathered to hear you speak, to see you appear for the first time since she was killed. You take a few deep breaths, place your hands on your whalebone corset for a couple seconds, then stride towards the doors.

The moment you step out onto the balcony, a cheer rises from below. Feferi and Elliot follow you out. The voices of your people support you, give you even more confidence than you knew you had. You stop once the train of your dark, tiered skirt is through the doorway, standing a few feet from the black marble railing, setting the tip of your trident on the floor.  From here, you survey the crowd; the crowd of citizens to one side and legions of soldiers lined up on the other; the trenches full of training gear and weapons construction in the distance. A few humans are mixed in with both groups.

They need direction, you can feel it. They don’t know where to go from here. They need you to guide them. To inspire them.

You raise your free arm, and the crowd goes silent, all eyes fixed expectantly on you.

“I built this empire from rubble,” you begin, your voice clear and firm, filling the air. “I built this Palace from the desolation left behind by the elves two thousand years ago. And for two thousand years thereafter, I have guided us forward with the constant directive that we do not forget the pain of the past, that we strive higher and higher until one day we rise above those who have done us wrong and declare justice for ourselves, in honor of those we have lost.”

You pause.

“My wife is dead.” It’s as if the entire Empire is holding its breath. Your voice is steady. “My matesprit, my beloved, was killed by an elf in my own garden. The pain of the past is no longer in the past. The elves not only bear the sins of their fathers, but the sins they have committed with their own hands. We must grieve, yes, we must mourn, but we can never lose sight of the cause for which our loved ones fought, and for which they died, or their deaths will surely be in vain.

“I have cried a thousand tears, over Sara, over my own parents and children and siblings, over each and every drow and human who has been murdered by elves. But we cannot let loss deter us. When last the drow faced the elves, they drove us underground, to spend two thousand years in darkness and hunger. They saw us as weak. And so we became strong.

“And we are strong. We, the humans and the drow, are so much stronger than the elves will ever be. I promise you, they will know fear, and they will know pain, and they will know loss, ten times for every one of us who falls.

“I promise you, we will not forget the fallen. I promise you, every warrior who falls in our battle for justice will be a martyr, inspiring a hundred more to carry their torch forward.

“I promise you, I will be guiding you. See me here before you, hear my voice and know the pain I have felt and the pain I have shared with all of you. Know that I will not waver until we topple the elven thrones and bring desolation to their prosperity. Know that we cannot, we will not fail as long as we keep in mind the battle and keep in heart the fallen. We have seen death the likes of which they have never known. Too many have died already, and many more will be lost, but they will carry us forward. Each loss will make us stronger. We will not rest, and we will not fail.

“See me here before you. hear my voice and know the pain I have felt. Know the strength I carry in every inch of my body. I, blessed by the eldest god, will bring our people to victory.

“I am your leader. I am everlasting. I am undeterrable.

“I am DEATH ITSELF, and the elven tyrants will know my wrath.”

You thrust your trident into the air. “TO VICTORY, TO GLORY, TO JUSTICE!”

The crowd roars, and your cry is repeated by the people below you. Their chant crescendos, filling the enormous cavern and bouncing off the roof of the Citadel Condescension as you see huge figures begin to shift and rise from the trenches, giant hulking beasts made of steel and obsidian, all unsettling joints and twenty-foot legs moving impossibly wrong, puffing steam and shimmering with your power. Your very own angels of death, born from the combined highest power of drow magic and human technology to wreak vengeance upon your surfacedwelling enemies.

You’ll bring those bitches to their knees yet, you and Sara.

The elven kingdom will fall at your hand. They’ll pay for what they’ve done, and a thousand times over.

[erstwhile25]

Skin of the Teeth Part 4: Picking Your Poison.

(( We’re coming up on the end folks...well not THE END, but the end of Skin of the Teeth at the very least.  I’d originally intended for this post to be the last...but some stories have a habit of getting away from you, and this is one of them.))

Mazie fought hard to keep her hands from shaking as she laced up the side of her jerkin.  There was a strange sort of haze between her whirring mind and her fingers, a fog she had to swim through to get anything done ever since word had gone round the ship.  They were going to fight.   That hadn't been the plan of course to begin with, but they way she’d heard it, this hadn't been a day for plans.  When the slight hyur girl had heard the captain call for a retreat, Mazie had been relieved.  Let the others mutter about the captain’s cowardice all they liked, the Ashen Rook was a beautiful ship to be sure, but she didn't have the guns to stand up to a Garlean warcraft.  Mazie wasn't even sure the Rook had any guns at all.   Sure they had a fully stocked armory, bristling with blades, bows, even a few pistols, but she had been over every inch of the ship and hadn't seen a single cannon aboard.  She'd been able to make out the rows of guns aboard the Garlean ship as it closed the distance steadily for the past hour.  So as it became readily apparent that running simply wasn't an option, the Captain ordered them all below decks to ready for battle.  That had been well over half an hour ago.  Somehow she still found herself fiddling with the laces of her chemically treated leather jerkin, staring at the weapons hanging on the armory wall, and wondering if she could bring herself to use them on someone

She hadn't boarded the Ashen Rook back in Lominsa keen on the idea of fighting and dying, though the way you heard the sailors shout and sing in the Drowning Maiden, you'd think that's all there was to the sea.  No she had knocked on the captain’s door looking for work, and because in some well guarded corner of her heart, she loved the Ashen Rook.  Mazie had heard somewhere that it was important to love the ship that carried you, and for her the Rook had been love at first sight.   That fated month she had been turned away from a handful of merchant sloops, and a pair of fishing junks that never even left sight of the coast. Each and every captain had gruffly told her there was no room on their deck for a mousey haired slip of a girl with no sailing experience. This to her had always seemed a criminal paradox.  Didn’t you need to have a job to get the experience for which they wanted you for?   She had nearly given up hope of working on a ship, which was the only work worth having in the city of sails.  Then as she sat with her fishing pole in hand on the docks, the chain barriers of the harbor gates lowered into the sea, and hope floated in on stretched sail.   Mazie had never seen her like before, lean, sleek, freshly tarred, and held together with pitted darksteel.  The Rook wasn’t the size of the feared Limsan four masted Destroyers, but looking at her you could tell she didn’t need to be.  She was grace given form to fly on cool sea breezes and cut through waves of salt with the speed of angels.  Her ashen sails didn’t trail down her middle as was the custom, rather they angled out and back from her sides, like the spread wings of some great beetle.  She reminded Mazie of some strange and exotic bird of prey taking roost among pigeons. Mazie found herself fixed by the steel eyes of the figure head, the imperious robed woman somehow challenged the young girl from where she hung on the bowsprit.  Who were those scruffy fish herders to deny her a life a sea?  It was with that question in mind that Mazie slung her pole to her shoulder and marched up the gangway of the Ashen Rook, wholly unaware as to how unprepared she was for the life that followed.   Mazie snapped out of her mind as she realized she wasn't alone in the armory, someone had sat down next to her on the bench without so much as a sound.  She hazarded a glance in that direction, and with the blood freezing her in veins she saw that it was the captain himself, hunched forward and staring at the wall of weapons across from them.  Her fingers panicked with the knots of her jerkin, and suddenly it was as though she’d never tied a knot in her life. “Sir...ah...I'm sorry, I'll be right…” “Twould be nice iffin they waited fer us wouldn’t it?” He muttered over his fingers, his one yellow eye fixed ahead.  Something in his tone made Mazie unsure if he was talking to her.  She blinked and looked around, everyone else it seemed was on deck, they were alone down here. “Um...iffen who waited fer us?” “The Garleans, they’ll be along our side soon enough.  Think iffin we called a timeout they’d honor it?” The absurdity of the statement struck her like a glassful of cold water, and before she had any control of her mouth a laugh belted out from deep in her guts.  She slapped a hand over her lips and felt the color in her cheeks rise.  Kail wasn't frowning though, rather there was a small curl of amusement to the corner of his mouth. “'Tis best t’laugh, right now while ye can.” The statement was small, and he hadn't even raised his voice, but it served to sober Mazie up, and her eyes were drawn back to the wall of weapons.  It was such a strange sight to her, all those razor sharp edges, all those needle points, all those barrels with the last flash you'd ever see stuffed down them.  So many ways to kill, so many ways to die.   “I’d...I'd..like t’admit something.” She found words tumbling from her lips, for the life of her she didn't know why she sounded so guilty about it. “Ye’ve never killed anyone afore.” The weight on her chest seemed to ease at the sound of it there in the open, numbly she nodded.  “How long have ye known?” He laughed, a deep and leathery chuckle that spoke of many days with smoke and drink as companions.  She knew it wasn't a laugh meant to make her feel small, but suddenly she felt as though she were standing on her tip toes, asking to drink with the adults. “Killin marks the soul t’not put too fine a spin on it, ye could no more hide that mark than ye could the nose on yer face.  We spotted ye for what ye were the moment ye set foot on deck.” Well there it was, out in the open.  Her little secret that she had held onto during her time on the Rook.  It had seemed at the moment all she could do to keep her calm around the other crew, from the deranged Syf to even the babe gentle giant Noyra, they all projected a sense of violence waiting to happen.  Looking back she felt stupid for having clung to it for so long, a ship full of killers and she thought that simply puffing out her chest and glaring could earn herself a place among them.   “Iffin..” she said “...iffin we get out of this, ye don't need t’worry about me pay..I’ll make due.” “Make due?  What are ye talkin about?” “Fer when ye throw me off the ship.” “...Fer not havin killed anyone?” She blinked, and the statement hung in the air between them dangling like an apple waiting to drop. “Well…” she said “...it sounds kinda tits up silly when ye put it like that.” “Especially looking down the barrels of a Garlean gunship.” He said soberly, which he went about fixing with a swallow from a flask that looked as dented and worn as it's owner.  He glanced towards her as though he just seemed to realize she was watching him, and offered her the flask.  Mazie took it, glancing from the flask to the captain. “So what now?” “Now...” he said as he rose to his feet.  “...ye either stay down here and look after the wounded, or head t’the deck.” “But what about..” He cut her off with a quick wave of his hand. “Ent a one oh the crew gonna call ye a coward, and ye’ll still have a place on this ship no matter what ye do.”   Moving to her back the captain seized the lacing of her jerkin and tugged it tight before quickly and concisely knotting the end.  For a moment she felt relief at her choice being made so simple, but he kept talking.

“Know this though...iffin they take this ship t’will only be the hangman’s noose fer Norah and I. They’ll sort the rest oh the crew accordin t’who they think they can break, the rest they’ll shoot on the shoreline so that the tide will carry away the bodies fer them.  Those oh ye left twill be branded and divvied up among the army dependin on yer skills.  There ye'll fight or labor till ye drop, and ye will drop.  Ye'll drop cause ye'll allus be among the last mouths they feed, the last of the wounded they tend iffin they ever see fit to, the first they force down the throat oh t'the enemy, and the first they blame when things go wrong.  Twill be slavery, short and simple.  Oh they'll give it a fancy name like "Helot" or "Serfdom", they'll even fill yer ear with shite about how leal service will earn yerself a place in the glorious empire, but 'tis jest another collar they'll be slappin around yer neck."

Mazie found her hands shaking anew, she brought up the flask to her lips, barely tasting the fiery liquid as it burned her tongue and throat on the way down, and gathered in her stomach like a leaden weight.  If he seemed to notice her distress, that didn't stop him from speaking on.   "Now a gunship is crewed by about fifty men, to our twenty.  That's fifty men who say we all aught t'be dead or in chains.  They're asking a question, and yer answer comes next.  Do ye sit down here and wait fer life t'be kind, or d'ye go grab life by the the throat and squeeze?"

Gently he took the flask from her hands, then gave her a pat on the shoulder that she barely felt.  As he disappeared deeper into the ship, Mazie chewed on what he had offered.  When she was young, she had waited for a father who never returned.  Growing up she had waited as her mother drowned herself in spirits, hoping time would see her sober.  She had waited on the docks for her time on the sea to come...and it had only happened once she'd done something about it.  Mazie let her eyes wander up to the wall of weapons once more.

     In the lower right corner there was an oddity among the weapons, not quite a weapon at all really, more of a tool.  Crouching down next to it, she hefted the crowbar in her hands.  It was a little heavier than she expected, but the weight was reassuring, solid, and it felt oddly comfortable in her hands. She let out a soft fragile breath, then shouldered the crowbar, and walked up the stairs, into the sunshine and salt air.

[evans-addicted]

McCoy’s Dilemma

Request: a story about McCoy x Reader where McCoy ends up knocking put reader because she is Pike’s daughter and he is ordered to surrender himself.

(McCoy x Reader) warnings: action, violence, some swearing, sorry no fluff or smut. Alternate/added storyline to the J.J. Abrams Star Trek movie.

Words: 1,202

Summary: You are Lieutenant Pike assigned to the bridge of the starship Enterprise. Yes, Captain Pike’s daughter. You fought long and hard to get the assignment as Starfleet was reluctant to let you serve under your father to avoid the appearance of nepotism. While at the academy last year, you had met and started dating Leonard McCoy. You graduated last year but you were taking more classes while the Enterprise had not been given a mission yet. Until today when Starfleet received a distress call from Vulcan. With the primary fleet engaged in the Laurentian system, all officers and cadets were ordered to leave right away.

***In the hangar after getting their assignments and Kirk being told he was on academic suspension, therefore, he’s grounded until the academy board rules**

“Gee Bones, I guess sleeping with the captain’s daughter has paid off for you. Getting assigned to the Enterprise and all” quipped Kirk. “Very funny Jim, that’s not what happened at all. I just happened to be top of my class and the best doctor out of this class. Having Y/N on the same ship will be a plus. And for once in my life, I think I deserve a plus” rebutted Leonard.

“Yeah. Yeah, you go, be safe” Jim sulked.

“Damn it….come with me” Leonard reluctantly decided to go against his better judgment.

 ***Cut to the ship coming out of warp to join the rest of the fleet that was being destroyed by the Romulan behemoth.***

The ship was being jostled from the shots being fired by the Romulan ship. Spock snaps to Pike “Captain, they’re locking torpedoes!”

“Full reverse, come about Starboard ninety degrees! Drop us down underneath them! Prepare to fire all weapons!” Pike orders.

Uhura interrupts “Captain, we're being hailed!”  Pike looks over and nods. Uhura turns on the viewscreen, Nero appears. “Hello” he says calmly.

Pike replies “I am Captain Christopher Pike, to whom am I speaking?”

“I am called Nero” he simply states.

“You've declared war against the Federation. Withdraw, and I'll agree to arrange a conference with Romulan leadership at a neutral loca—“.

Nero interrupts “I do not speak for the Empire. We stand apart. As does your Vulcan crew member... isn't that right? Spock?”

Everyone turns and stares at Spock, he rises and walks forward from his station. “Pardon me. But I don't believe you and I are acquainted.”

“... no, we're not. Not yet. I would like you to see something, Spock. Captain Pike… your transporter capability is disabled. You will man a shuttle and come aboard the Narada for negotiations. That is all” his transmission ended and the screen went blank. You stared at Captain Pike, your father, eyes wide.

Kirk chimed in first breaking the silence “he’ll kill you, you know that”.  Spock added “Your survival is unlikely”. Without pause “Captain, we gain nothing by diplomacy, going over to that ship is a mistake.”  “I, too, suggest you rethink this strategy” agreed.

“I DEMAND you rethink this strategy!” you spat out not caring about rank. Everyone stared at you and Captain Pike.

His gaze met yours and smiled, ”I understand Lieutenant Pike.” Then he addressed the bridge “I need officers who have been trained in advanced hand-to-hand combat”.  Sulu's hand goes up “I have training, Sir!” Pike nodded “Then come with me.. Kirk, you too, you're not supposed to be here anyway” he smiled.

“McCoy, a word please” he nodded to Leonard to join him for a private conversation to the side. They spoke in whispers for a moment then returned to the group.

Pike turned towards Checkov, “Radio the engine room, have Chief Engineer Olsen meet us at Shuttle Bay Five” then proceeded to the turbolift with Kirk, Sulu, Spock, and McCoy.

“What are you doing, you can’t do this!” You argued, then shooting an angry look at Bones. You did not like secrets, none the less, secrets with your boyfriend in the middle of whatever the hell this was that was going on.    

Of course you followed right behind the men. You’ll be damned if you’re going to let your father fly over to a hostile Romulan ship. You didn’t care if he was the captain.

Pike barked off orders for Kirk and Sulu regarding disarming the drill and then advised Spock he was the captain now. You lost it. “What the.. NO! You cannot do this PLEASE!” You grabbed his arm this time. Pike nodded to McCoy “Doc, I think it’s time” and before you could turn around you felt a hypo hit your neck and you passed out. Fade to black.

___

When you awoke you were in your bed in your quarters. “God damn it Leonard!” you surmised he had knocked you out to avoid you fighting with your father about his stupid idea. Running out of your room you hurried to the turbolift. Once inside “Computer where is Captain Pike?” “Captain Pike is no longer aboard the Enterprise, however, Captain Spock is on the bridge” the computer relayed. You felt your eyes well but the anger prevented you from shedding tears. Gritting through your teeth “And where is Dr. McCoy?” “Dr. McCoy is in turbo lift 4 on route to the bridge.” “Then the bridge it is” and the doors shut and began to move.

Reaching the bridge, the doors open. “Permission to enter Captain?” you asked. “Permission granted Lieutenant” Spock nodded. You stepped in and walked up to him demanding to know what has happened. He advised you Pike was taken by the Romulans, they had destroyed Vulcan and the Enterprise was on it’s way to the Laurentian system to rendezvous with the fleet. Just then the bridge doors open and McCoy walks in. You walked up to him as he started to raise his hands in defense you punched him in the face. “What the hell was that!” you yelled at him. Spock raised an eyebrow at you but did not speak. Leonard turning back towards you holding his jaw in his hands “I can explain darlin.” “Don’t you darlin me damn it.” He motioned for you to follow him out into the hallway.

“Please don’t be mad at me, I didn’t want to do it but I had captain’s orders” he rambled.

“Captain’s orders! My father’s orders? To knock me out?”

“Well, not exactly darlin.”

“Then what exactly did he say DARLIN” you spat back, crossing your arms.

“Before he left the bridge, when he pulled me aside, he told me that my future in Starfleet relied on the following request. Then he said that if I cared about you at all that I would make sure when the time came, I would stop you from interfering with his only choice to save the crew and ship” he told you as he looked down at the ground, not able to look you in the eyes.

Pointing your finger at him, eyes glaring “If anything happens to him Leonard McCoy I swear to god you will beg for Starfleet to save your sorry as for what I’ll do to you do you understand me!”

“Understood doll.”

“It’s Lieutenant Pike, Doctor!”

Right now he was wishing it was him on deck 6 that was crushed instead of Dr. Puri.