unus-nauta-2407

[unus-nauta-2407]

8, 9, 14, 19, 20, 30 :D

:O

8: What fic meant the most for you to write?

It was definitely Flatline. It was my first actual multichap, and to this day I think it's my favorite fic of my own. I think it holds up as a relationship study, too.

9: What fic made you feel the happiest to work on?

THIS one was. Probably Untitled Works A and B. I mean they came together really nicely and without much grief... despite the, uh, subject matter. And for my first Crosshair fic I think I did him justice. So :)

14: What were your go-to writing songs?

So fun fact. I actually can't listen to music when I write because the way that I write involves a lot of me like, seeing things in my head (and also a lot of my dialogue I have to speak out first to get it to sound organic, which involves me watching the scene in my mind), and when there's music on top of that all my thoughts get jumbled and I can't write at all. However. You know how in my fic summaries there's a few verses of a song? Well, I write kind of like reverse songfics- after the story's already written, I go looking for verses from songs that remind me of what I just wrote. So while I don't necessarily listen to music while I write, I do have a playlist full of the songs I used in my summaries. I may share it with you someday.

19: Share your favorite piece of dialogue

This one. Bet you'd forgotten about it, huh.

"We're never going to be the way we were before the war, are we?" "…No. I don't… I don't think we are." Sigh. "Sorry about that." "Hey." He reaches over, puts a hand on his brother's shoulder. "It's not your fault. Not really. We've both changed." A pause. "Maybe it's for the best." Crosshair snorts, but it's softer than usual. Less biting. Like he's not entirely closed off to the possibility. "Maybe." "So… yeah. I don't think things will ever be the way they were before. I don't think we'll ever be the way we were before. But I do think there's a chance we could be something better." "Force, I hate you. You sound like one of Wrecker's overly-emotional holodramas." But there's a smile, or the ghost of it, on his lips, and he's only just able to keep the laughter from his voice. (Real laughter, for once. For the first time in a long time.) "Yeah, well. You know what I mean." A couple of heartbeats pass between them, and then Crosshair says, "If it means anything. I agree with the idea, if not the sentiment." The sun continues to rise, and they stay under the tree.

20: Share your funniest line

It's dialogue but to me at least this is the FUNNIEST thing I've ever written. (Hush hush I know I don't write much funny stuff okay)

"You know what? Fine." "Fine what?" "Don't you DARE 'fine what?' me, you've been grinning and innocently batting your kriffing eyes at me for the past three minutes.'" "Oh no, please, dear brother of mine, enlighten me. Fine what?" "I really do hate you, you know. Fine, I'll admit that now that it's had some time to grow in… Oh, Force. I can't believe I'm actually about to say this." "No no, DO go on, Echo. I'm on the edge of my seat." "Would you stop being such a shebs for, like, two seconds? Kark. Kriffing Force. It pains me to say it, but now that it's had some time to grow in, your beard is- Ugh. It's fine. I guess." "I'm sorry? What was that? Did MY brother, ARC Corporal Echo, just tell me that my beard is, and I quote, 'fine I guess'?" "You're insufferable." "This is- this is unheard of! This calls for a celebration! A parade of some kind! Get the Daruvvian champagne! Call the Chancellor's office, make it a Galactic Holiday! ECHO admitted he was WRONG!" "I did NO such thing. And besides, you're getting ahead of yourself. I stand by my previous statements on your tattoo. Your beard is not the victory you think it is." "I'm sorry, I can't hear you over the sound of my own vindication." "You're the worst." "I love you too, Echs'ika."

30: What would you like to write next year?

I'd love to do more exploring of HFSW. And get some actual content out for WDAP, haha. I'd also like to try writing a longer fic, cause I mostly write oneshots, and while that's fun, I think it would be a good test of my writerly abilities to write a long-form work.

[unus-nauta-2407]

ohohoho *rubs hands together* this is gonna be good

"You cannot save me."

“That was unfair of you.” “All is fair in love and war, brother.” “Well, which one is it this time?” “I’ll let you decide.”

"Don't fall asleep again."

“Who the kark do you think I’m doing all this for?!”

“Kriff,” he hisses, “Kriff.”

"Wolffe, get your shebs here this instant."

For an onslaught of reasons, his heart screams within him.

“You’ll tell me what I want to know, clone.”

At last, he finds peace.

“I will not stand by and watch our brothers fall this way.”

“Just try and kriffing finish that sentence. You’ll lose that entire jaw for good.”

“You can take off your helmet, you know.”

“Do you really think leaving is going to solve anything?”

eesh all angsty

anyways, have fun and you're always welcome to mix and mash 'em up or tear 'em apartor whatever <3

Did you know. That I spent literally all day writing this

I think this wins the award for the longest and most involved fic I've ever written. Also probably the darkest. Also probably the most graphic (I mean it's not bad but like. I mostly write character studies you know? This is one of my first fics with an actual, uh. Plot)

The other deal is that this is HFSW but I didn't have it in me to do everything I just mentioned and also write it in the more archaic style that I write most of HFSW in, but since you're probably the only person who's gonna end up reading this (besides maybe Evie. oh and also @majorproblems77 cause Major I know you wanted to know what I was doing) I don't think it matters for now, and if I ever do publish this as an actual work I'll go in and edit it when I have more spoons

Happy New Year!

His back aches. So much.

He... doesn't remember much of the past few hours. Everything was hot and loud and painful and... red? But that's as much as he can gather. The only reason he's awake at all is because someone's calloused hands were trying to be gentle while massaging something creamy and cool into whatever's making his back scream.

"Nngh." (His voice is slow and slurred from sleep and the fact that he can barely raise his head from its pillow.)

"Oh, kriff. Sorry, vod, did I wake you?"

He doesn't open his eyes, but judging from the gravel and melancholy folded into the syllables, the voice and hands belong to his Captain. 

"'S fine. Hurts. Where'm I?"

Rex is too quiet for two seconds too long.

"Cap'n. W'happened. Wha'sup with m'back."

"Do you not... remember?"

"Not really. 'Sa blur. Red? Hot. Loud." He pauses, considers. Furrows his brow confusedly. "M'arms hurt too? 'S bruising? Where's Kix?"

"...Kix was... forbidden from coming to see you."

This only confuses him further. "Why'd'ja do that?"

"...Fives, it wasn't me."

"But'chure th' Cap'n. Who--"

The memory that floods his senses with the force of a tsunami is enough to make him gasp. His eyes slam open and, almost of its own accord, his body launches itself off the cot and to its feet, which promptly reopens several of the scabs on his back, which in turn release a gush of blood and rip a scream from his throat as his legs turn to jelly and give out beneath him. Rex catches him before he can hit the floor and eases him back onto the medical deck cot where he was laying.

Everything is crystal clear, suddenly. 

"There's a rumor on this ship that someone, somewhere, is planning a mutiny. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you, Legionary?"

"No, Sir." He's careful to enunciate the sir with all the thinly-veiled disdain his voice can carry. "Can't say that I do."

Krell's eyes narrow, and he bends down to come face-to-face with his least-favorite soldier. "Is that so? Because my sources also claim that 'someone' may be you."

Fives tosses an eyebrow in a half-shrug. "Oh, I'm flattered, really. But, y'know, people talk. The boys get bored. Especially on long campaigns under questionable leadership.”

The force of Krell’s slap is enough to knock him dizzy to the floor. It was stupid of him to say, he knows. Rex, or maybe Kix, gives a cry of concern.

“You’ll tell me what I want to know, Clone,” Krell growls, “and you’ll speak to me with all the respect I deserve.”

His smart mouth’s gonna get him killed one day. But he can’t resist one more shot as he stumbles to his feet and wipes the shock-tears from his eyes.

“Oh, but Sir, I am. It’s not my fault that’s none.”

He thinks Krell might just execute him then and there, and honestly? He’d die with no regrets. Krell, too, looks for a moment as though that wouldn’t be such a bad plan, but then he straightens, smoothes his snarling visage, and announces, in a clipped tone:

"Your pride is getting tiring, Trooper. Thirty lashes.'

The scowl drops from Five’s face, and he pales.

Death he could handle. He faces it every day.

But not even the Kaminoans ever turned the lash on him.

"Sir, you can't-- you can't be serious."

"As death."

"But thirty lashes, that's-- it's sadistic!"

"Forty, then. You really do need to learn to curb your backtalk."

"Wait, please, Sir, General," Rex pipes up. His hands shake. "You don't-- don't do this. Please, he'll apologize, he--"

"--Needs to understand he must respect his superiors. As do you, apparently. I am acting General of the Five Hundred First Legion, I will discipline my soldiers as I see fit, and I will take no interference from defective-" and here he gestures with a sneer to Rex's close-cropped blond curls- "little Clones, no matter what rank they may possess. Perhaps you too would benefit from a few kisses of the whip, Seventy-Five Sixty-Seven."

Shock turns to fury, and thrusting an arm out almost protectively, Fives practically throws himself between his Captain and the usurper-general. 

"Don't you dare talk to the Captain like that ever again," he spits. He doesn’t care that Rex chokes out a Fives--, he doesn’t care if this earns him a hundred more lashes. That’s his bu- his Captain.

“Ah, but I’m only following your example!” Krell smiles with all the fake cheer he’s capable of. “Though, I must say, even if it is a double standard, your loyalty to your Captain is truly admirable. So, as a reward, I’ll bump the number from forty to…” And now, his grin is real, and crazed, and dangerous:

“Oh, why not. Let’s make it fifty-five.”

Everything goes silent. The mockery hangs in the air like a noose, daring him to challenge once more, to go one more step over the line, to make any additional comment that could justify cutting his tongue right out of his mouth. But Rex’s trembling hand on his pauldron begs him silently not to speak, and the next words are not his, but Kix’s.

“Please, sir,” he pleads. There’s something thick in his voice that Fives thinks may be tears. “Please, that’s-- he’ll bleed out. He’ll die of bloodloss, and you need him alive if you want him to tell you anything.”

“You make an excellent point. Tell me, what’s the most potent medicine on the Resolute’s medical deck?”

“I-- uh, well, I have a bottle of refined Kaminoan bacta--“

“Then you’ll administer it to him after the flogging. Is it oral or topical?”

“Sir, I--“

“Answer the question.”

“It-- uh, oral, sir, but--“

“Very well, I’ll even let you give it between lashes. I think after the twentieth should be reasonable. Is it, Medic?”

Kix can’t speak, just nod his head weakly. He looks almost more terrified than Fives himself. 

“Excellent!” Krell claps all four of his giant clawed hands. “You have half an hour to prepare. I want the entire legion at the mast by then.”

“Fives? Fives, are you alright?” Rex kneels by the cot to look the younger man in the eye, exhaustion and worry in his knitted brow. 

“I… ugh. Yeah. ‘M fine. Just… remembered.”

The Captain grimaces and straightens, and wrings out a cloth into a barrel of what Fives suspects (and, quite frankly, can only hope) is a bucket of precious clean freshwater, before he starts to sponge away the fresh blood from the reopened lacerations. One of his hands moves to Fives’s thick curls to gently massage his scalp.

“You did so good, you know,” he whispers. “You took it so well. I’m… really proud of you.”

Fives just sighs and screws his eyes closed.

Whatever happens, he swears to himself he’s not going to give that demagolka the luxury of hearing him scream.

Umbara’s air is cold and bitter against the bare skin of his torso and arms, but really, he didn’t expect anything less from the shadow isle. His brother’s faces in the crowd range from shocked to terrified to almost in tears to stony, tight-lipped stoicism. He just squares his shoulders, straightens his backbone, keeps his chin up, and looks straight ahead. 

He can’t, however, resist locking eyes with Rex when he passes, and the Captain’s face is grave and grieved and hopeless… and, as he gives his Legionary the tiniest of subtle nods, maybe just a little bit proud.

He says nothing as he’s tied to the mast, he says nothing as Krell makes a speech to his assembled brethren about loyalty and obedience and how ‘good soldiers follow orders’ or some rot like that, and he says nothing as Krell leans over to growl in his ear about how much he’s going to enjoy teaching him this lesson. 

The first lash hits and, though his clenched fists spasm open and his vision goes white with agony, he doesn’t make a sound.

Rex, after managing to staunch the bleeding, has quickly gone back to smoothing bacta over Fives’s mangled back. He finishes with a final rub of the shoulders and then reaches over to the supplies he’s gathered to grab a length of clean white bandages.

“Come on, Fives, I need you to sit up for me,” he murmurs. Fives peels his eyes open with a vague garbled murmur before he finds the Captain’s strong hands so gently helping ease him into an upwards position without disturbing any of the fragile lacerations. Rex very carefully starts wrapping the bandages around Fives’s torso.

“Gah.”

The older man pauses. “Are you alright?”

“Mmmh. Yeah. I…” Fives takes a deep breath. When he speaks again, his voice is very strained and heartbreakingly young-sounding. “It aches so much, can I lean on you, please?”

“I… yeah. Yeah, of course.”

He does. It feels so much better.

“Sorry,” he mumbles from where his face is smushed into the juncture of Rex’s neck and shoulder. “I’m not makin’ it any easier’ta bandage, ‘m I?”

“It’s okay. You’re good. Don’t… don’t worry about it, kid.”

True to his word, Krell lets Kix to the mast after the first twenty strokes. Fives can barely see through the pain-blindness and the tears that stream silently down his face, but he hears a yelp of surprise and a stumbling of feet and winces at the thought that his poor brother is slipping in the pool of his blood that seeps ever outward from the foot of the post. Yet despite the near-disaster, Kix draws up next to him and gently reaches a guiding hand to carefully tip his head back before lifting something cool and glassy to his lips.

“Drink it. Please,” the medic softly whispers. It’s so bitter that Fives nearly chokes, but he manages to take a few sips of it before Kix withdraws the bottle. In the motion, he tips their foreheads together for a brief moment and murmurs, “I’m so sorry I can’t do more. You’re doing so well.” One of his thumbs gently sweeps under his brother’s drenched lower lashes to catch any more tears from rolling off his face for now. 

“Medic! Get back here, you’re wasting time!” comes the bark from across the deck, and though Kix’s entire body tenses and there’s a jumpy glint in his eye, he takes one final second to clandestinely press a kiss to Fives’s brow before scurrying off with his half-full bottle of bacta.

“There you go.”

Fives can’t pull himself off of Rex’s shoulder. His whole body feels cast of lead; if anything, he sags more heavily into the Captain now that his bandage is tied off. 

“Thanks.”

“Any time.” Rex’s hand finds its way to stroke his young trooper’s hair. “You need any help laying back down?”

“Mmmh. Can I… stay here? For a little bit?”

“Wh-- I… of course. Of course, Fives.”

The thirtieth lash is where he finally breaks.

He doesn’t know if it’s that the torment that mounts with each fresh stroke has finally become too much to bear, or if by a fluke the flail traces itself in just the right way along his spine, but the whip leaves its thirtieth kiss and finally manages to tear something ragged and wet and raw from his throat.

It’s such a little gasp of pain. 

It chokes him.

He tries to pull himself back together.

Thirty-One. He’s silent.

Thirty-Two. New, thick tears drip down his cheekbones and run their fingers down his neck, but he’s silent.

Thirty-Three. His head snaps back when the tail grazes a rib it hasn’t touched before, but he’s silent.

Thirty-Four. His hands spasm and shake and his fingers twitch in distress, but he’s silent.

Thirty-Fi— Fi— Oh, Force help him, he can’t take it anymore.

He gasps again.

He doesn’t even register that he was falling asleep until he jolts himself awake.

“Easy!” Rex exclaims, catching him by the shoulders. “Hey, kid, if you’re dropping off we should probably lay you down, yeah?”

Fives just softly groans in response.

Fifty.

He can’t check his gasps anymore; by now, they come with every stroke, and they’re only growing more and more desperate. But, true to his promise, he still hasn’t screamed. He’s held out this long and, thank the stars above and sea below, it’s almost over.

How he’s still this lucid is beyond him. It must be Kix’s high-potency bacta, because in addition to the strange coherency of his thoughts, he can also feel his flesh trying to stitch itself back together between lashes. If he’s being honest… it makes it that much more painful, but there’s no way his poor brother could have known that. He was just trying to help. Force bless him. 

Fifty-One. He lost the ability to see at all around the twenty-third lash, but it’s still jarring to watch the black spots dancing in the white fog that’s replaced his vision.

Fifty-Two. Just three more, he tells himself. It might have been mingled with his latest strangled choke. At this point he almost doesn’t care. Almost.

Fifty-Three. He can gasp and choke and fight for his every breath, but he’s not going to scream. He’s not going to scream. He promised himself. Krell is not going to hear him scream.

Fifty-Four. Krell is NOT going to hear him scream.

Fifty-Five. 

It’s too much.

He can’t tell if the sound is a swear or someone’s name or just one long shriek of agony, but it’s horrible and loud and broken and his. It arches his spine and throws back his head and splays out his fingers and he shakes, and then his voice gives out and he slumps heavily against the mast. 

He screamed.

He failed.

He hates himself. 

He thinks he hears someone say, somewhere, Cut him down. His wrists come loose and there’s warm arms gingerly easing him to the ground, careful not to jostle his flayed-open back as they guide him to rest in their owner’s lap.

There’s distant sounds of what might be an argument. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. He wants to sleep.

The arms very gently hoist him into a fireman’s carry, and he leans- as much as he can, with his weeping back- against his supporter, but it’s no use. He blacks out after three steps.

Rex, after gently maneuvering Fives into a sleeping position on the cot, facedown and back up so as to not disturb his slowly healing back, had knelt down beside the cot to hold his limp hand.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers after an indeterminate amount of time. “You didn’t deserve this.”

“‘S not… your fault.”

“I’m the Captain. This is my ship. You’re a member of my crew. I should be able to stand up to Krell. If I had a stronger backbone, this never would have happened.”

“Cap… tain. Listen t’ me. You’re a good man. You’re a good Captain. ‘S just tha’ Krell… isn’t. He hates me. ‘S not your fault.”

Rex hums noncommittally and strokes Fives’s hair with his free hand. 

“I… promise, Cap. Not’chure fau–”

“Shhh. You should sleep. I doubt Krell’s going to give you much of a recovery leave.”

“But--“

“Shhh.”

Fives sighs and begrudgingly closes his eyes. He’d love to argue with the Captain for another hour, but the fact of the matter is he’s spent. He can barely keep himself conscious. 

Still, with as much strength as he can muster, he gently squeezes Rex’s hand in his slackening grasp. He’s met, in turn, with an infinitely soft kiss to the temple, and then he slips away into sleep.

[unus-nauta-2407]

Mweheheheheh

🫂 Share a line (or dialogue exchange) that shows the relationship between two characters:

This is how it should be, at least to Echo. He’s never been able to sleep right unless he can feel his twin’s weight and warmth a finger’s brush away.

✏️ Share the first line of any chapter:

Your name is Padme Naberrie, and you are fourteen years old, and you no longer exist.

💔 Share your most heartbreaking line:

“I need you to tell me what you want me to say to Omega when we find her and she asks why you’re not there.”

🤨 Share a line that makes no sense out of context:

The medical droid is not Kix.

❤️Share one of your favorite lines:

His eyes were large and brown, framed with thick, dark lashes and with the beginnings of laugh lines even on such a youthful countenance. They were entirely far too soft for the face of a soldier.

*eyebrow wiggles*

tossing back the ask game your way @margindoodles2407

🫂✏️💔🤨❤️

[unus-nauta-2407]

Songs of the Jesse Tree: Day 22

An honest craftsman, long ago, A carpenter by trade Who worked with strong and calloused hands As things of wood he made,

Both kind of soul and just of heart And careful with his tongue, Did find himself betrothed To a maiden fair and young.

He loved her with an honest love ('Twas holy, pure, and chaste) And the days until their marriage Seemed to pass, for him, with haste.

Yet another loved his bride-to-be And had for her a plan, That she would bear His only Son Without the aid of man.

Now, this craftsman loved the woman, And he also loved his Lord, And he felt himself unworthy To raise the Son of God.

So he made a plan of action: He would ask for separation, So she could raise the Sacred Child In a better, holier station.

But God's ways are not our ways, God's plans are not our plans, And all children need a father- So did not the Word-Made-Man?

The honest craftsman woke from sleep, His heart and soul aflame, And he took his bride into his home Free from his doubts and shame.

And nine months came and so they passed Like the hourglass's sand, 'Til the census was declared to all: "Each man to his own land,

That we may count the citizens Of th' Imperial diadem!" So the craftsman took his pregnant wife And made for Bethlehem.

[unus-nauta-2407]

It's a little bit funny. I don't know if you Like Elton John or not but every time I think Of you, that song springs to mind. You're one of the most Vivacious and wonderful and kind human beings I've Ever met. I'm so lucky to have met You that summer, to have danced with you On the concrete of the University green. It's my most favorite memory.

[unus-nauta-2407]

Songs of the Jesse Tree: Day Three

The fruit is lovely, ripe and tender, A shining red amidst green leaves- Surely such otherworldly splendor Could never render us as thieves.

And who is He, to thus forbid us? Did not He grant us blest free will? Perhaps he fears this fruit will rid us Of His dominion- why, surely 'twill!

But why should man be not as He? Are we not in His image made? Why should we not judge what we see, Judge for ourselves the light and shade?

…The juice runs down my hands like blood. My God, my God… the taste is bitter.

[unus-nauta-2407]

Songs of the Jesse Tree: Day 1

Sing, my tongue, of formless shadows, Sing of worlds still yet to be,  Sing of Love- eternal, changeless- Sing the Glorious One-in-Three.

Tell of Love’s creating power, Tell of Love’s most sovereign voice. Sing, my tongue, of Love’s dominion Under which all things rejoice.

A strong decree rings out in darkness Most clear and bright against the void, And it commands the shapeless nothing To be transfigured, bright with joy:

LET THERE BE LIGHT- and so it happens. The stars erupt in bright array, Their petals scatter all the darkness. The night has shattered into day.

[unus-nauta-2407]

ahaha. i have written a sequel to this. @seeking-elsewhither this one is also for you.

The sky above the water was dark and shot through with red, and the sea was grey and stormy and so choppy that it pitched the Marauder nearly onto her side, and Omega could tell not whether the brine that traced her cheeks was sea spray, storm salt, or her own bitter tears.

The Marauder had no sooner left Kamino's Harbor Grotto and hoisted her hypersail than Omega had run sobbing to the crow's nest to drown in her heartbreak. She was so young and such a stranger to the world above the waters that she yet knew naught of anguish and despair, but she was beginning to think that it must be awfully similar to the dark and empty whirlpool she'd discovered in place of her heart.

Because her- her- her-

Because Crosshair--

Oh, what had become of her buir?

The man who'd cradled her in her infancy with his strong, lean archer's arms- the man who'd witnessed her first steps and her first words and her first laugh- the man who'd laughed with her and cried with her and shared her fears and hopes and dreams, who'd taught her resilience and patience and how to shoot a bow- her confidant, her guardian, her friend and father-- who- nay, what- had taken his place?

When she was but a small child, Tech had told her the legends of the world above, and the ones that had always frightened her most were the tales of changelings, cruel and evil-hearted shapeshifters that would steal away and replace loved ones while their families remained none the wiser, until it was too late. Had that been the fate of her beloved buir?

It had to be. It had to be. Her father- her buir- her Crosshair- he would never- he would never--

"Aim for the girl."

Her tears streamed thick and hot and globular, and she went to bury her face in her arms when her eye caught on the glint of silver around her neck. Her ring.

Her ring.

Just like the ones her buire wore. Her ring, her own little band of distinction, stamped not with IX.IX~I or IX.IX~II or IX.IX~III or IX.IX~IV but a single, perfectly rounded Ω.

She had… a memory. A single, hazy, blurry memory, so long ago that its edges were dark and faded, but a memory all the same. She didn't remember much- dark water, glowing jellyfish, the gentle sound of snoring somewhere in the background. And Crosshair. His fond, tired face, his warm, lean arms, the rhythmic beat of his heart against her tiny body. His large, bony hand, and her tiny, chubby hands, and the iron of his ring between them. She remembered the vague feeling of this should not be here, and the vague sensation of trying to pry it off his finger.

Of course, she hadn't succeeded. He still wore that ring. He'd never taken it off- it was impossible; the chains that bound it to his wrist were as secure as a shackle. But he'd always assured her, with a wry, gentle smile, that something as little as a plain iron band could never come between his hand and hers.

The very thought was unthinkable.

Yet had it not been that very hand that had drawn the bowstring in the Harbor Grotto? Had it not been that very hand that had commanded his soldiers to shoot at his brothers? At her?

Had it not been that very hand that she'd held in the brig one final time, as she assured him the hurricane in his mind wasn't his fault?

The ring had cut into her fingers more sharply than ever. And only she, out of all she loved, knew why.

She'd tried to pry it off his hand as an infant.

Oh, if only she'd succeeded.

There was a rumble of thunder that sounded exactly like the shattering of her heart. She squeezed her eyes shut to the rain and salt spray, and bowed her head, and wept.

How could something as little as a plain iron band have ever come between her buir's hand and hers?

The very thought was unthinkable.

[unus-nauta-2407]

i needed to write a thing. @seeking-elsewhither this one's for you

The sea outside Kamino Fortress was dark and vast and cold. Yet, somehow, from it had come the brightest and warmest creature that Crosshair had ever found himself blessed enough to hold in his arms.

It mattered not that she had awoken him from his precious few hours of sleep; it mattered not that, as they sat in the alcove of their quarters' singular arched window and gazed out into the darkness beyond, his sharp eyes were still half-lidded and on the verge of closing completely. What mattered was her utter fascination with the bioluminescent jellyfish whose light had first awoken her, and who she had dragged him out of his bunk to watch, and who she now fixed her amber gaze upon with bright eyes full of wonder.

Sleepily, he mused that it was the closest she'd yet come to seeing the stars.

Her tiny hand shifted in his grasp and came to rest upon his ring, and she almost started in surprise. This was not the warm, calloused hand of her buir- this was something smooth and cold and different. It should not be there. Why was it there? And she was no longer looking at the jellyfish, but at the plain grey band, and with her tiny, chubby hands, was trying to pry it off his finger.

The expression on her little round face was so serious for one so small; it puckered her lips and wrinkled her brow in such a comical way that Crosshair couldn't help but laugh softly. It hadn't occurred to her that the chains that wrapped over his hand and around his wrist kept the ring tightly tethered to his finger, and for good reason. Were it ever to be removed, surely he would die; the very fibers of his being would begin to unravel and his heart would cease to beat. (She would learn this, when she was old enough- she, too, wore a ring, but around her neck instead of her finger, and stamped with a singular Ω instead of the sequence of numbers- the IX.IX~IV- that differentiated him from all his brethren.) Though she hardly knew it, she was playing with his very life.

But he was not in the least disturbed. He was too half-asleep for that, and besides, his chains were too carefully fitted for any possibility of ring removal. Were they not such a vital part of his very existence, he might have compared their security to that of a shackle- but he was getting away from himself. Omega could play with his very life all she wanted- and, even were there not the assurance that his chains would hold… he would be perfectly at peace.

"Omega," he whispered, gently pulling his hand from her tiny grasp. She squeaked a little, and raised her chubby little arms to try to grab at the ring once more, but he tucked a stray sunshiny curl behind her ear and turned her soft round face to look at him.

"Omega," he murmured again, "'tis late, cyare, and the jellyfish have gone. Hunter surely would have a fit were he to wake and find us here at the coming of the morn. 'Tis high time we returned to bed- what say you, ad'ika?"

Omega's eyes had not left his ring. She scowled at it- still, he knew, she found it too cold and alien against his warm tanned skin. But after a moment, she heaved a sigh too big for her little body, and curled in close to his chest.

"Wif' you," she mumbled, and oh, it almost broke his heart. She knew so very little speech.

With a tired smile, he wrapped her tight in his arms and carried her back to his bunk, and indeed, it was not very long before they both had drifted deep into sleep. Crosshair's hand- the one that bore his ring- was tangled in her pale and wispy curls. She need not worry about its presence there. Certainly she would someday realize that something as little as a plain iron band could never come between her hand and his.

The very thought was unthinkable.

[unus-nauta-2407]

I was so confused to see a blog I had never happened upon before calling me Evie

but lo and behold

TIS BUT MY GOOD FRIEND’S ALTER EGO

Oh dear. I have made an egregious blunder once again by reblogging a post to the wrong blog XD

BUT YES! TIS I! Behold my writing shenanigans XD

[unus-nauta-2407]

Songs of the Jesse Tree: An Advent Meditation

Hello!

So as you may or may not know, I'm Roman Catholic. Our season of Advent- the time in preparation for the birth of Jesus at Christmas- is fast approaching.

One of the most beautiful Catholic traditions, in my opinion at least, is the Jesse Tree. Starting on December first, each day we trace salvation history from the Creation of the world to the fall of man, through the Abrahamic Covenant, the Exodus, the judges and the Kingdom of Israel, the prophets and the Babylonian exile, to Mary and Joseph and the stable in Bethlehem.

This year, the first day of Advent actually falls on December first, meaning that the secular month and the liturgical season line up perfectly. Therefore, I think it's perfect that this year I'm deciding to make an actual meditation.

Songs of the Jesse Tree will be a series of poems, from that first Sunday of Advent to the day of Christ's birth, with each poem focusing on the figure or event featured in that day of the Jesse Tree. It is my hope that these poems will lead both myself and anyone who may read them into a deeper relationship with the Lord, and also that it will help me hone my poetry skills.

I've put the list of days under the cut for anyone who's interested or can't figure out exactly who or what the day's meditation is on.

May God bless you!

The Jesse Tree: People and Events

*denote days that will feature two separate poems

December First: The Creation

December Second: Adam and Eve

December Third: The Fall of Man

December Fourth: Noah

December Fifth: Abraham and Sarah

December Sixth: Melchizedek

December Seventh: Isaac

December Eighth: Jacob

December Ninth: Joseph

December Tenth: Moses

December Eleventh: Joshua and Samuel*

December Twelfth: Ruth

December Thirteenth: Jesse

December Fourteenth: David

December Fifteenth: Solomon

December Sixteenth: Micah and Elijah*

December Seventeenth: Isaiah and Jonah*

December Eighteenth: Judith

December Nineteenth: Daniel

December Twentieth: Zechariah

December Twenty-First: Elizabeth

December Twenty-Second: Joseph

December Twenty-Third: Mary

December Twenty-Fourth: John the Baptist

December Twenty-Fifth: The Birth of Christ

[unus-nauta-2407]

Sonnet for the Woman of Songs

"It is not good for man to be alone." And so a rib was taken from his heart- A bride, his very flesh and blood and bone, To cherish and to love till death would part. Yet what of lonely women, oh my Lord? What of the maids who seek but cannot find, Who run the streets but find their cries ignored By night watchmen? Shall they be left behind? I searched for him, my love, but found him not- Oh, tell me, where has my beloved gone? My heart is sick for love, my soul distraught, My only song this mournful antiphon. If 'tis not good for man to be alone, Where then my flesh of flesh, my bone of bone?

[unus-nauta-2407]

Terminal Velocity (Tumblr Version)

There was a chance we'd make it through this; It's safe to say now that we've missed it And I will never lose hope, and I haven't lost hope-- I'm just realistic I will go down punching, but I will go down, and my cornerman won't bring me back around Bleed out-- I'm gonna bleed out -The Mountain Goats, "Bleed Out"

The plan was formulated only for emergencies. This, he knew, counted as one.

He was, he reflected, not afraid to die.

Death was… an inevitability. It came for every living being: the sentient, the animal, the plant; he supposed even droids could die, in a sense. It could be postponed, it could be delayed, but no matter how hard anyone fought, every escape, every narrow dodge of a bullet, every illness beaten back-- it was only borrowed time. Death could never truly be prevented.

So why should he be afraid of it?

And, after all, there were worse ways to lose one's life, he reasoned. (The war had taught him at least that much.) The view was even pleasant, in its own strange way, and the wind that whistled through his ears was a sweeter sound than the shriek of blasterfire. It was almost musical enough to drown out the scream that still rang in his mind.

(Oh, poor Wrecker. He was just finally getting over his fear of heights. How much progress would this little stunt cost his brother?)

But- still- he was not afraid to die. Even though the tram was so far up, now. He hoped his siblings would be safe. That they'd make it out unharmed. That they'd live to fight another day.

That… that, someday, they could possibly find it in themselves to forgive him.

The glass of his goggles was suddenly cloudy. He couldn't tell if it was the quickly gathering fog around him, or if instead it had something to do with the strange, unexpected warmth pricking at his eyes.

He was not afraid to die. Even if the trees were getting closer.

He was not afraid to die. But he wondered, less detatchedly than he would have liked, if death would… if it would hurt.

He was not afraid to die.

He just… regretted. That he'd never had the chance to properly say goodbye to-- to Crosshair.

But he was not afraid to die.

He was not afraid to die.

He was NOT afraid to die.

He was not afraid to die.

He was not afraid to--

[unus-nauta-2407]

Take Me Instead (Tumblr Version)

But you, my brother-in-arms, I'd rather I lose my limbs than let you come to harm -The Decemberists, "The Soldiering Life"

If Commander Fox is a broken man- well, he's more than happy to be one if it means his brothers don't have to.

(Whumptober 2024, Day 6: Not Realizing They're Injured)

There was a moment, at the start of the war, when a young and naive and utterly terrified Marshal Commander Fox of the Coruscant Guard stood shaking against the wall of some bellowing Senator’s office and watched helpless as his dearest friend and brother, Thorn, stumbled and tripped and fell backwards onto the floor with two black eyes and blood spilling from his nose and mouth, because said Senator had decided that a ten-twenty-year-old youth was the perfect target onto which to direct the destructive force of his abject rage. That same young and naive and utterly terrified Fox had then watched as his co-commander received, as a reward for laying helpless and sprawled on the floor for two seconds too long, a hard kick to the ribs and a barked order to scrub the red stains out of the otherwise-pristine blue carpet.

If it’s not mine, I don’t want it in my office. And that’s not my blood.

That moment was all it took for Fox to swear that from then on, if anyone was to take the fall- the abuse, the screaming, the bruises and the scars and the night terrors they all caused- it would be him.

Never his brothers. Never again.

He’d gotten good at it. He could roll with the punches. He could handle screaming, cursing, threats, and that certain brand of  comment that made his skin crawl. He’d shouldered more physical violence than he cared to remember, because he could stand there and take it, if he had something to fix his eyes on. He rarely flinched, hardly made a sound, and if he kept his helmet on, no one could even see the occasional tear that slipped unbidden down his cheek.

He was even better at hiding the aftermath- from his brothers, from the senators, from anyone who so much as gave him a sideways glance. What was supposed to be a medicine cabinet in his office was really used to hold tubes of cheap drugstore concealer and even cheaper drugstore dye to mask his bruises and the silver winding its way through his hair. There wasn’t a curl out of place, not the slightest shadow of stubble on his jaw, and since hardly anyone ever bothered to look him in the eye, there was no way to notice their dull exhausted glassy glaze. He trained his spine to stand erect and his hands to never shake, he spoke in a steady, measured, patient tone and never raised his voice, and when all else failed he could just set his face and let everything wash over him in a grey blur until whoever it was this time had spewed all the vitriol they could manage to get out in one sitting.

And, of course, there were ways to… deal… with the especially bad days. Ways that usually involved the cabinet behind his desk and bottles of a dark burning liquid that tasted for all the galaxy like concentrated paint thinner. 

(So many bottles of that dark burning liquid.)

In fact, Fox was so good at what he did that sometimes he didn’t even realize that he was injured. It was something he’d learned to pride himself on, his ability to keep going even as his body screamed and ached and throbbed, even as his head spun and he lost the feeling in his hands and his knees threatened to buckle underneath him- 

(-even as the world pitched under him and the floor flew towards his face and everything went briefly black and soft and silent-)

-because as long as Fox could keep going, as long as Fox could take the batterings and the blows and the backhands that sent him reeling, his brothers wouldn’t have to.

And that was good enough for him.

[unus-nauta-2407]

Flatline (Tumblr Edition)

@seeking-elsewhither (get ready for a long post because this has two chapters >:D )

(By the way. The divider I used is credit of @djarrex. Thank you :D)

Summary:

That's it, it's split, it won't recover Just frame the halves and call them brothers -Regina Spektor, "Call them Brothers"

It is a terrible thing indeed, that the steady pulse of a heartbeat can sound so much like the ticking of a bomb.

Chapter One

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. 

This is a rhythm that he’s more than used to. This is the rhythm he’s known every night since the first night out of his shared growth jar. This is the rhythm of safety, of security, of everything will be alright, because you’re here with me. 

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

It’s a rhythm as sure as the fingers curled in his hair, as the hand clasped in his own, as the head on his shoulder and the soft, steady breath against his neck. It’s the rhythm in his blood and in his bones and in his dreams. It’s the rhythm, he’s sure, that he needs to survive.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

It’s the rhythm that usually lulls him to sleep, that wraps around him like a blanket and keeps him in the safety of his slumber until the morning. Usually.

Not tonight.

Thud. Thud. Thud Thud.

Inhale. Exhale. InhaleExhale.

Something’s off. A dull, creeping sense of something is going to go horribly wrong. A sense of all is not well. A sense that this will be the last time in this life that he ever knows this rhythm.

Thud Thud Thud Thud

Inhale Exhale Inhale Exhale

His brother shifts. Stirs. Mumbles something. His eyelids flutter. He’s on the verge of waking up.

ThudThudThudThud

InhaleExhaleInhaleExhale

There is silence, for just a moment; the kind of silence he knows from Kamino. The kind of silence that comes just before the peal of thunder. The kind of silence in which all he can hear is the rhythm that has been thrown so out of balance.

THUDTHUDTHUDTHUD

INHALEEXHALEINHALEEXHALE-

“Attention. All men to leave for the Citadel mission, please report to hangar 13-B. Hangar 13-B. Over.”

The rhythm stops. It does not come crashing to a halt, and it does not sputter and die away like a failing engine.

It simply cuts out as his brother awakes, and sits up, and runs a hand over his face and through his curls before turning to face him with a grin.

“That’s us, Ech. You ready?”

(The rhythm is gone. It’s never coming back.)

“As I’ll ever be.”

Chapter Two

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

It’s strange, isn’t it. For him to have known this rhythm his whole life, from his earliest memories until now. It’s been the constant soundtrack to his entire existence. 

Thing is, it’s always been a duet.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

He… hasn’t slept. Not in the days since they got back. Not that he particularly wants to, though- because every time he closes his eyes he sees the conflagration, he hears the crash of the explosion and the rush of the flames and his own horrible scream of anguish and despair, and to be quite frank, he’d rather deal with the dull aching gnaw of fatigue than face the black hole of grief yawning in his chest and threatening to drown him.

(He’d rather go sleepless than face the fact that he almost wouldn’t care if it did.)

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

There’s a datapad clutched to his chest, and it might be his only life preserver.

(Personally, I like that it’s so quiet. I can catch up on the Reg Manuals.)

Thud Thud. Thud Thud.

Inhale Exhale. Inhale Exhale.

His vision swims. The Rishi moon must have been a lifetime ago- back when they were fresh off Kamino, heads full of dreams and grand aspirations of heroism. Stupid dreams, he bites out. War doesn’t make heroes. It just makes corpses. It just makes corpses out of everyone you love.

( If you want to be the best, you’ve gotta think like the best. And I’m thinking like an ARC Trooper.

ARC Troopers follow orders.

Care to repeat that, Echo? )

Thud Thud. Thud. Thud-

Inhale. Exhale Inhale. Exhale-

ARC Trooper, he snarls. That’s me. ARC 27-5555. Big fancy title and everything, for a job that just means you get to stand aside as your brothers die. You proud of me, Hevy? You proud of me for letting our little brother down --

Thud- Thud Thud Thud-

Inhale Exhale Inhale- Exhale-

“ARC Troopers follow orders,” kriff, Ech, if that’s true then why couldn’t you just get to the ship like you were supposed to–

(You left a man behind! You broke rule Number One.)

Thud- Thud Thud Thud-

Inhale Exhale Inhale Exhale

The cot is so cold. So empty and cold. Like the black hole.

Thud- Thud Thud- Thud-

Inhale Exhale In- In- In--

He drowns.

[unus-nauta-2407]

Of Hands and Heartbreak (Tumblr Version)

@seeking-elsewhither

Summary:

When we couldn't sleep for all the heat, soft talk began to harden Miss your small hands in the palm of mine, the fact they're good at making Miss you sitting up incessantly and the fact you're always waking in the night -Keaton Henson, "Small Hands"

Insomnia can make philosophers of us all, and ten-twenty year old ARC Captains are no exception.

It’s late. Or it’s early. The man in the dusty, bloodstained armor can’t tell. It’s dark, that’s what matters, and he can’t sleep. It’s too hot for that. 

Doesn’t stop his comrades, though. He’s glad; they’re all strewn about the camp, collapsing into the shoulders of their brothers or passed out where they were sitting for the feeble excuse of a meal the Grand Army affords to give them, half-eaten rations still resting in their limp grips. Good. War’s an exhausting business, and rest is a luxury few soldiers can afford, and these boys are too young to have to worry about things like that. Newest recruits are barely nine-eighteen.

(Not that he should be talking. He’s not much older.)

The General sleeps a few feet away; he fell asleep talking to the crimson-haired general of the other battalion and is currently using his shoulder as a pillow. Looks a little absurd, considering he stands a full head and shoulders above his brother-in-arms. The man smiles, a faint, fond smile. Absurd, he may be, but the plain and simple fact is his General’s a good man.

And he’s trained a good apprentice. A little girl, curled up next to the armored Captain, tucked under his arm and squishing herself into his side. All of fourteen standard years, wide-eyed, quick to flash a toothy smile and quicker to double over in bubbly, fanged giggles. For now, though, she’s sound asleep and snoring softly, which makes him chuckle, just a little bit. She’d be mortified if she knew.

But the chuckles subside, as they always do, and after a moment (a few seconds? an hour? but what is time to a soldier) he catches himself staring into the fire again. He isn’t a man much given to introspection; he never has been, and not many of his brothers are either. Wasn’t something their minders seemed to consider important enough to teach them.(Probably cause they weren’t meant to think for themselves, not really. Of course, that never had stopped any of them.) But he sometimes catches himself thinking about things probably more suited to Jedi philosophy than a Captain’s insomniac musings. 

Tonight, his thoughts stray to features, and what information they give away.

Hands, for instance.

His hands have seen too much war. Large, calloused, rough and chapped. Littered with scars and blisters, nails uncut and ragged and grimy, dirt in his pores and always, always , haunted with the ghostly sensation of being drenched in blood that will never wash off. Not the blood of the enemy- thank Force he fights droids, lifeless beings of wire and durasteel, and not other living beings… usually. No. The blood of the brothers he couldn’t save, of the fresh-faced boys straight out of Tipoca City, bright-eyed and full of the naive bravado of “I’m Gonna Be A Hero”- boys that might not even necessarily be dead , but who shed their blood on the battlefield nonetheless, and with it, their innocence.

He’s jolted out of his thoughts by a particularly loud snore, and it brings his mind to the hands of the little girl. Hers are the opposite of his in every way imaginable; small, soft, and gentle. The hands of a healer, not a soldier.

Jedi were not made for warfare. Their hands were made to help, not to harm; if they hold weapons at all, they fight to defend and not to kill. Hers are no different, and though they wield her twin sabers with ferocious dexterity, he’s always been of the mind that they’re far better at complicated secret handshakes with the General, at playing cards with his brothers, at helping Kix give meds to the injured. 

At holding the war-hardened hands of the dying. 

But it’s too late (or is it too early?) to think about that kind of thing. In fact, as the last embers of the fire begin to fade, his head finally starts to nod (thank Force). Not very comfortable to sleep sitting up, though, so he shifts, just a little bit, as carefully as possible so as to not wake his friend. He mostly succeeds.

But she stirs, just a little, and she mumbles something he can’t really make out, and as his eyelids finally flutter shut, her arm shifts, and her soft child’s fingers interlock with his battle-hardened ones.

And the two of them- the Captain and the little girl- drift off to sleep, hand in hand.

[unus-nauta-2407]

Oathbreaker (Tumblr Version)

@seeking-elsewhither

Summary:

All of the words I have swallowed, All of the sharp things I've kept in my mouth- I am always bleeding out -The Crane Wives, "Take Me to War"

Obi-Wan Kenobi is a man of half-truths, hyperboles, and broken promises.

You have made so many promises in your life. 

You remember the first promise you ever made, you can call it to your mind like you can call your azure blade to your hand. You are seven years old, and you promise your crechemaster that you’ll go to bed at bedtime instead of sitting awake and giggling with Bant into the wee hours of the morning.

The next promise you make, you are fourteen and you are promising in front of the whole Council that you will serve and obey the tall man who has taken you as his apprentice. You can’t tell if it’s his hands or the promise itself that weighs heavy on your shoulders.

The third promise is made to yourself at sixteen, when you swear that you won’t fall hopelessly in love with the stately blonde girl who grates on your nerves and can see right through you as if you were one of her people’s famous glassworks. The fourth is made to her, when your oath to yourself falls flat on its face.

The fifth promise you make, you are eighteen years old, and you hold the man who has been like your father in your arms as he dies. Your apprenticeship was rocky, and the two of you butted heads more than you’d care to admit, but as he grows cold and the light fades from his eyes you feel like a youngling again, alone and afraid in the vast, dark galaxy. You weep.

The sixth promise is made only a few days later, to the boy with sandy hair and sun-kissed skin and eyes that can cut right through you, see you down to your bones, the boy that your master knew would change the world. You promise him, with tear tracks still wet on your pale cheeks, that you’ll train him, you’ll protect him and help him and be his friend. His brother.

The seventh promise is to the woman who was once a girl, once a queen and now a senator, when you say you’ll track down the man endangering her life. When that promise leads you to a planet that shouldn’t exist, an army forged in the darkest chasms of space and the oceans, and a thousand men all with the same face, you wonder- not for the first time- if your promises are dangerous.

You make so many promises during the war that you lose count. You make promises to the Council, to your men, your friends and your family and even to your enemies. You swear up and down, oath after oath after oath—

And in the end, your promises all crumble like the rocks beneath your brave mount’s feet, as your once-loyal Commander orders his men to fire on you. They are cut down like your dearest Jedi family in the Temple.

They burn, like the boy you raised and befriended and bickered with and loved, the man whose hair was always grainy with the sand he despised and whose skin remained sun-kissed and tanned like a little boy’s even as it became littered with scars and wrinkled with stress, whose eyes, which had always been dark blue, could always see right through your sarcasm and your needling to your worries and your pain and always, always, knew exactly what to say to make you laugh despite yourself– and now those eyes are a sick, burning yellow, and you can’t bear to look but you can’t break eye contact, because despite it all you love him still.

You don’t make any more promises for a long time. Everyone you’ve ever made a promise to has died, in horrible, terrible ways. Your promises are dangerous. This is something you have come to know.

Then one day, a little girl tumbles into your life as her parents did so many years before, a little girl who looks just like her mother but has her father’s soul, and you almost- almost- make a promise to her. She heals you in all the ways you never knew you needed healing, and you want to. But your promises are dangerous. So instead, you give her an assurance. A perhaps, if someday she ever needs help from a tired old man.

Someday, she does.

And that someday brings another, a boy who doesn’t quite tumble into your life the way his parents and sister did, a boy with his mother’s bleeding heart and fierce determination and a boy who is so much like his father that it almost hurts. You promise nothing to the boy. Your promises are dangerous.

But- unexpectedly- he makes promises to you.

And then you die. You’re cut down by the man who was your brother, and the boy and the girl can do nothing but watch, and cry, and go on to wage a war against the man they do not know is their father.

But you are not gone. Death is nothing but the gateway to eternal life. You remain, and you continue to watch over the boy, the boy who promised to you, and for the first time since his father fell, you make a promise.

The Force will be with you. Always.