#Thena is feeling t h i r s t y

[softquietsteadylove]

I fell asleep making an ask midway... It was a vow au prompt request and I think I was just editing when I suddenly time traveled to now. I digress my request was:

Thena, half-awake smells breakfast. Her dream turns into an echo of a memory with Gil. Once she awoke, she tried to look for Gil— he was not in the kitchen nor dining room. She had left her food in search for him, wanting answers and hoping he hasn't left for work. Only for her to find out that he just got out of the shower. A particular droplet traces down to his hand. The very hand holding the small towel together as it held for its dear life around his waist.

The dream and memory could be anything, likewise with Gil's reaction. Hope this wasn't a duplicate...

- 🃏

The smell of eggs and aromatics pulled her from sleep. Half in a dream and half in her mind, she thought of coming out of a room. Everything was bathed in sunlight and then there was Gil. Gil standing at the stove, cracking eggs into chili oil with miso soup and fresh fruit waiting. Gil making coffee while she slept, and then as she slinked out wearing his shirt. Gil turning around in nothing but a white t-shirt and sweatpants with his hair mussed after their first night together-

Thena jolted in bed as she woke completely. She'd been experiencing it quite often as of late; she would be hovering on the edge of sleep, stuck in a very vivid dream until she was plunged into wakefulness. It was always jarring, always so vivid she could swear it engaged her senses. And then she would wake up not knowing what was a dream and what was real.

She had vaguely expressed these notions to Gil, although admittedly lacking some of the more vivid details. He had asked if she wanted to see her doctors again, but she declined. She could figure it out on her own, for the time being. And if the dreams got any more tactile, she wasn't sure if she would ever want to go back to the hospital to complain that kissing her husband in her dreams was too realistic.

Thena turned over in her bed to look at the clock. She was growing somewhat tired of the guest bed she now called her own. It was a fine bed, but it was feeling less and less comfortable the longer she spent in it. She also hadn't mentioned that to Gil either.

The therapist at the hospital did say that some separation at first might create a healthy boundary for them.

She dragged herself out of bed, swinging her legs over the side and touching her toes down first. She kept expecting a soft, white shag carpet, but the guest room had hardwood floors and a thinner rug under the bed. Nonetheless, she stood to brave the rest of the apartment.

The smell was real--Gil was making breakfast. Or it was already made, perhaps. Thena poked her head out, surveying the area. It was still early, she didn't think he would be at work already, but he wasn't anywhere to be found either.

She slipped from the guest room, across the opening to the living room and foyer to the kitchen. Her plate was set out for her, on the counter with a steaming hot cup of coffee. Of course he even set out a proper place mat and everything.

Thena rose onto her toes to sit in the high kitchen stool. The stove was off and the coffee was being kept warm; if he wasn't already at work then he was getting ready and about to leave. Part of her was glad she could catch him before he left for the day.

It was one of those silly little things, but she really did enjoy getting to send him off before they spent the bulk of their day apart.

The man made great eggs. She happily cut into them with her fork, admiring the sheen of the red oil slipping off and around the pristine white and jiggly egg yolk. Before Gil, she hadn't bee addicted to chili oil. Now it seemed they put it on everything they ate.

The coffee was also perfect, of course. She looked around again. The solitude of eating alone was also beginning to wear on her. As much as she enjoyed eating in silence, she would take comfortably listening to Gil chewing over the sound of the fridge humming.

"Hey, you're up."

Thena looked over at him, eyes wide and eyebrows raising as high as they could go.

"Sorry hon, I was going to have breakfast with you," he mumbled as he puttered around, depositing a kiss on her cheek before moving to the fridge to retrieve his lunch. "But I remembered kind of late that we've got a big custom order coming in. I should get in a little early to get a head start on things."

Thena just watched numbly as he double checked that the stove was off while also pouring himself a cup of coffee. He really was in a rush, letting little droplets slosh onto the counter.

"Ah!" he hissed as some of it splashed on him. He wiped at it with just the corner of his towel. "I'm sorry I can't sit with you, hon, but after I'm done we can--Thena?"

She just stared.

"Sweetie, are you okay?"

Her eyes darted down and then up helpless. Her jaw was hanging open as if she were a teenager first discovering her own hormones. The splash of coffee aside, Gil wasn't even properly dried off from the shower, a few droplets escaping his hair and trailing down his skin.

The thick muscles he had glistened and jiggled, soft in some places and then sharply angled in others. His free hand was holding the towel around his hips since he hadn't grabbed the full size one but a midsize towel.

Now that she thought about it, she was quite sure she was always telling him that the big towels were on the bottom in the bathroom shelves (from smallest to biggest in descending order, of course). And now he was just a man, damp and half naked in his own kitchen. She could even see the dark hair collecting under his naval. She did try not to eye the towel too perversely.

"Shit!" Gil swore, just now remembering the circumstances of their situation. He pulled the towel more around his front and used his free hand for modesty's sake, pressing against the heavy cotton. "Sorry, hon, I wasn't thinking!"

Thena looked away graciously as her husband flustered as if he had committed some heinous crime. She wasn't sure what he had to be so embarrassed about. It was his home, and they were technically married. "It's okay, Gil."

"No, I'm sorry Thena, this isn't-" he sighed, reflexively moving to run his fingers through his hair before moving the hand to shield any potential exposure again. "I shouldn't-"

"It's fine," she repeated, feeling warmth rise in her face. Somewhere in her mind, the objective, factual knowledge that she and Gil were married connected with the feelings that she still harboured for him, whether her memories came back or not.

She knew he was attractive. She was so attracted to him that she had, in fact, married him. But until now she hadn't exactly had evidence of anything quite so...visceral. Her mind replayed the water slipping down his back, over his muscles. The way he had swiped at the coffee on his side and she'd gotten a peek of...something.

The elephant in the room, so to speak.

Gil cleared his throat, flushed quite red and shuffling backwards towards their bedroom. "Sorry, you finish your breakfast. I'll get dressed. We can talk about it later, if you want."

She just blinked at him, still captivated by the flex of his bare arms and the contrast of muscle and tummy under his thick pectorals. She wasn't fully gawping at him like a fish anymore but her mouth was still open. Her hand attempted to bring her fork back to her mouth, but all it did was float blindly in front of her until Gil disappeared from sight.

Only once he was gone did she realise what she had been doing. Poor Gil, of course he felt sheepish about it. She still didn't blame him for not thinking of it--he wasn't exposing himself to a stranger. But she did have to realise that she was indeed married to that.

It wasn't as if she hadn't considered it at all, of course--what their sex life had been like. The therapists and doctors had advised against intimacy until she felt ready and left it at that. Gil, the sweetheart that he was, hadn't brought up anything of the sort. The guest room was set up for her by the time she got home, her clothes in the closet and everything.

They had just barely become accustomed to a light kiss here and there. Public displays of affection still were not her strong suit. Affection in general, perhaps. She liked it, though--greeting him with a little kiss when he picked her up or sending him off to work with one.

Now all she could think about was that towel. She knew he was muscular. It was visible no matter his state of dress. But the muscles in his back, and his shoulders, and his arms. They were substantial; she felt as if she knew what it was like to hold them in her palms just by looking at them. What would it feel like to sink her nails into his back muscles...?

The clatter of her fork falling startled her. She rushed to pick it up, feeling embarrassed as if some unseen force were there to witness her lusting after the man she had already married. It was pointless to fantasize about things within her grasp.

Grasp.

"Thena?"

She nearly dropped the fork again but rushed to stand. A smile fixed itself on her face as she looked at Gil, now properly dressed for work with his hair at least somewhat brushed. "Hey."

"Hey," he uttered quietly, his whole body shrunken in on itself like a contrite child. He shuffled over to her, "sorry, again, for...you okay?"

She smiled more genuinely, dropping her fork on the counter again. Always so sweet, her husband. "Yes, Gil, there's nothing to fret over. I didn't see anything, if that's what concerns you."

That wasn't completely a lie, although maybe not the whole truth, either.

He blushed anyway, ruffling his freshly sorted hair. "Uh, well, I mean if you didn't--I should've realised."

Thena sighed through her nose, moving closer so she could stand on her toes and give him a little peck of a kiss. "I appreciate your concern, Gil. But I do not consider it a breach of my consent for you to walk around our home in whatever state you desire. Or need, I suppose, considering you're running late?"

The suggestion that he move on from the matter and resume his hurrying didn't work, though. He put his hand on her waist and gave her another soft - but still chaste - kiss. "This is more important."

She smiled, running her hands down his chest naturally as she lowered back to the heels of her feet. Her mind wandered to the image of said chest completely bare again. But she forced herself to remember the task at hand. "Consider it forgotten, if you like."

He finally seemed to relax a little as she cradled his hand between both of hers. "Okay, if you say so."

"I do," she confirmed for him before giving his hand a final pat. "Now, I believe you have to get to work?"

"Right, right," he sighed, kissing her one more time before dragging himself away. He grasped for his keys blindly. "I'll pick you up after I'm done?--groceries and then boba?"

She just nodded, waving back to him as he floated out the door. Gil always left like they were still in the midst of their honeymoon phase.

Thena looked back at her plate of remaining breakfast, then back at the door. She didn't feel she could focus on eating, after that. She wasn't sure if she would succeed in focusing on anything, if she were to be entirely honest with herself.

Really, though, she was married to a man like that, and she had no memory of it? It was a miracle she was still alive.

[siempre-bucky]

here is every character that I will write for! Don't see your favorite? feel free to ask!

M C U Druig Kingo Ikaris Dane Whitman Bucky Sam Wilson Steve Rogers Dr. Stephen Strange Peter Parker (Holland, Garfield) Thor Loki Shang-Chi Marc Spector, Steven Grant Wanda Maximoff Natasha Romanoff Yelena Belova Kate Bishop Makkari Sersi Thena

B A R R Y K E O G H A N Druig Dympna Devers Pavel George Mills Joe

P A U L D A N O The Riddler | Edward Nashton Dwayne Hoover Klitz Calvin Weir-Fields

B R I D G E R T O N Anthony Bridgerton Benedict Bridgerton Colin Bridgerton Daphne Bridgerton Kate Sharma

S T R A N G E R T H I N G S Eddie Munson Steve Harrington Nancy Wheeler Robin Buckley Johnathan Byers

T O P G U N : M A V E R I C K

Robert 'Bob' Floyd Jake 'Hangman' Seresin Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw Mickey 'Fanboy' Garcia Reuben 'Payback' Fitch Javy 'Coyote' Machado Natasha 'Phoenix' Trace

O U T E R R A N G E Rhett Abbott

[feinkomo-blog]

B A S I C S :

FULL NAME: Fein Komo

NICKNAME(S): Little Dreamwalker to Dorian.  

DATE OF BIRTH / AGE: Sometime in the beginning of the year / 27

ORIENTATION: Pansexual.

OCCUPATION: Jedi Padawan / X Wing Pilot

SPECIES: Mirialan.

P H Y S I C A L :

FACE CLAIM: Toni Mahfud

HEIGHT: 6′12’

WEIGHT: 180lbs

EYES: Light amber brown.

HAIR: Black, lightening to blonde in some places from his time under the sun in the pits. He keeps it long, cutting it to shoulder length at Yavin. 

DISTINGUISHING MARKS: A variety of old and new scars along his body from his fights, and a network of tattoos in various places along his body. His tattoos are the one part of his culture Fein embraces fully. His life is made worthy by the actions he takes - the things he does and does not do - and he marks them on his skin so that when he is dead his loved ones can weight his deeds and deem him worthy or not. 

B A C K G R O U N D :

HOMETOWN: He’d say Coruscant, and the creche, before anything else. 

CURRENT RESIDENCE: Yavin IV. 

LANGUAGES: A few small working phrases he’s picked up in the more common tongues that could get him by in a pinch, but nothing too fluent.  

EDUCATION: Only what he got in the Jedi Temple.  

PARENTS: Unknown.

CRECHE MASTER: Noa Niedra

FORMER JEDI MASTER: Thena Wyn

CURRENT JEDI MASTER: Noa Niedra

SIBLING(S): none living. (Adoptive - Matthias Ilesar, Nimm Aldenar, Osira Santo)

ROMANTIC STATUS: Single.

PET(S): None, except for the Banthu herd he sometimes wtaches with Nimm.

T H E   A B S T R A C T :

FEARS: Failure - but spectacularly. He doesn’t fear failing in a ritual, or forgetting a stance in his training with a staff; he fears never getting a grip on his emotions, never being able to let go of his memories of the pits or his hatred for the Academies on Mirial. He fears never being able to become a quieted center in a storm, he fears that the storm will swallow him whole and he will be what tore down the Order all over again. He fears the Sith, and all their freedoms, and fears that he will not be strong enough to turn away. 

GENERAL LIKES: Mornings so cold he can see his breath, the way ice sparkles against the ground and cracks when he walks across it, and the silence that echoes for miles around him when he’s sitting in the cockpit of his fighter. The feeling when he opens his eyes after a long meditation and the world is calm and his body is loose and tingling for him to move. Blood in the sands of the pits and warm across the skin of his shoulders and back, and the way his very soul feels spent after sending nightmares coursing across the arena. The weight of a wrench in his hand, the way Noa says his name, a satisfying cup of hot spiced tea, and watching the sun set over the jungles of Yavin IV.   

GENERAL DISLIKES: The sour taste in his mouth after using his Force gift, and the feeling of defeat when he realizes he used it again without even knowing. Sunrise meditations, bland food, and blankets. The sticky humid feeling on his skin from the weather on the rebel base’s planet, and not understanding something. 

USUAL MOOD / EXPRESSION: He’ll greet you with a smile, and then keep on moving. Constant motion is his comfort, unless he’s meditating - which hardly anyone sees since he waits until the world is quieted and all are asleep. He keeps most of the world at arms length but the first word that comes to mind when someone mentions Fein Komo is ‘nice.’ He’s a nice guy - average in every way, but a gifted pilot. And that is the way he likes to keep it. 

TRAITS: Innovative / Adaptable. Courageous / Impulsive. Determined / Single-minded. Self-Conscious / Unsure. Charismatic / Volatile. 

HABITS: He tends to drum his fingers against whatever surface is available - tables, walls, doors, his leg, his arm - and if he’s sitting his leg is most certainly bouncing. He loves to move, loves to be in motion - when he’s doing something, he isn’t thinking. 

HOBBIES: He meditates every night/early morning - before he gets his short few hours of sleep and when he wakes up. It centers him and allows him to focus his day. It also helps him tamp down his force energy. When he’s not training, Fein is always in the hangar bay fiddling with his fighter or another ship. He’s a grease monkey - and the inner workings of the ships all make sense to him, where his inner workings are often too chaotic for him to work through.  

MORNING ROUTINE: After sleeping maybe three or four hours, Fein wakes up and meditates for a short period of time - his morning meditations range from 20minutes to a half hour, simply because he finds it hard to concentrate with people bustling around and the sun rising. Depending on his training schedule for the day, he’ll either set out to find Noa, or he’ll head straight to the ariship hangers to begin working on some project again. 

NIGHTLY ROUTINE: He works late into the night, and then, usually long after the moons risen and the stars are deep and bright and the last night owl like him has tucked in for bed, he’ll find a spot in the temple above to sit under the stars and drop into a deep meditation. His nighttime meditations can be anywhere from an hour to two or three. Afterwards he will retire to his bed, waking up in a few hours to begin again.

DEADLY SIN: Wrath

ZODIAC: Capricorn

MORAL ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Neutral, wanting desperately to be Chaotic Good. 

HOGWARTS HOUSE: Gryffindor.

CLASS & SPECIALIZATION: Dual Wield Reaver.

H I S T O R Y :

“After time adrift among open stars, along tides of light and through shoals of dust, I will return to where I began. ”

“Mirial.”

It was snowing the morning they came to take him from his mother.

Fein can remember the way it caked on his mother’s eyelashes as she kissed him goodbye. He can remember tears heavy and raw in her throat as she begged them to let her son stay one more year (“he’s so young, too young please he doesn’t understand”). He can remember watching over the shoulder of the Teacher who carried him away, as her figure stood small and alone, wrapped in a blanket, in front of their little hut, watching him leave.

He doesn’t remember her name, or her face, or the name she gave him; but he can never forget the snow, and the tears, and the blanket. They haunt him now, as they did when he was young - specters of the last time he was loved, a remnant of a life seeped in nightmares. 

“The Youth Academy.”

When he arrived at the temple, deep in the ice-covered mountains of the Mirialan Youth Academy, he cried for his mother throughout the night. “You will forget in time,” the teachers told him, soothing him through the deep gasping breaths, “In time this will be home.” But it never was. As his tearful nights stretched into tearful weeks, the Teachers grew impatient, “Your actions reflect on all of us,” they would hiss, pulling his head back by the hair to wipe the tears from his eyes with vicious hands, “What do you bring to our culture, to our people, with your tears and whining for a life that meant nothing?”

As they grew increasingly more frustrated, Fein grew afraid of their cruel worlds and harsh hands and, as any child does, learned to hide his tears and his nightmares. When he couldn’t hold them back he would run, hiding himself around corners and through doors, until he’d found a way to the very heights of the Academy.

But the soaring towers didn’t scare him, they exhilarated him. He’d found a place to love in this new world of anger and pain, and soon, he would find any excuse to escape to his refuge. When the deep hours of the night would fall, and the halls of the Academy would grow silent - alone, he would climb to the rafters and let himself feel, let himself cry. Alone he would sit, with none as his witness but the stars.

His nighttime wandering did not come without a price, of course, and it was in that first year that he earned his new name. Fein, the teachers called him after they caught him sleeping through the noon meditations for the third time, For the way you feign the rituals. They thought him lazy, thought him insincere, but the more he tried to explain that he preferred the light of the moon to the light of day for his meditations, the more they scoffed, and the more they punished.

Too young to know the differences, they said, Too young to choose. So, he stopped protesting, stop arguing, and Fein he became.

Angry and bitter, he learned to sleep only a few hours a night. Learned to regulate his breathing until the Night Ward finally drifted to sleep herself, and he could find himself once more at the roof of the Academy. He learned the stars by heart, mapping them in little doodles on his homework throughout the day, and dotting them in the sands of the practice yards with the staves he was supposed to be balancing. It was among those stars that he first saw the distant lights of the strangers’ ship – he watched it land in the early hours of the morning, when the sun had only just begun to edge the purples of the night light pink, and it was in those deepening shadows that Fein saw the Jedi emerge.

His mother had told him of the Jedi, of course. Every child on Mirial knew of the Force – their species was blessed with a deeper connection (more primitive the Masters would tell him later, but he far preferred the Mirialan view) than any other – and Fein had been creating stories in his head of these shining Knights for longer than he could speak.

Fein was the only child they took from the Academies that trip. The Teachers made sure of it. They shoved Fein into the Jedi’s lines - Different, they called him, Wrong. Surely one of yours.

The Jedi waved a tool in front of Fein’s face and nodded, before scooping him up. Ours, the Master murmured into Fein’s hair, and Fein let his hands scrunch just a little harder on his hard canvas traveling cloak.

Ours, the Master’s companion whispered, reaching out a hand to smooth his hair at the back of his neck, as he locked eyes with her’s and refused to blink.

Theirs, Fein let the word burn into his mind, etched in the only stars he’d ever known, as they carried him onto a ship.

“Coruscant.”

His life improved dramatically at the Jedi Temple.

His creche mother noticed his sleep patterns and let him nap during the day, sitting with him during the nights and teaching him how to regulate his breath and let his mind sink into meditative patterns. As he grew, she taught him to harness his anger at his treatment at the hands of the Teachers of Mirial, and reminded him that no matter how much he wanted to blame her, his mother had no choice but to let him leave her.

On Coruscant, Fein distinguished himself as a strong fighter – agile and intuitive, he excelled in the physical side of youngling training. His affinity for clambering up to heights that gave most pause gained him a reputation for recklessness that he hardly sought to dissuade.

His force abilities; however, failed to develop. Where the rest of his Youngling clan was learning to harness minor skills like levitation and control, Fein could barely make a pebble wobble in the dust. “A late bloomer,” his creche mother would soothe in her words made of syrup and honey, “Not all are Masters at first try.” But Fein was impatient, and tired of being the failure.

When his clan were given the title of padawan, Fein begged – pleaded – to be given the same. There must be someone, he argued, anyone who would take a Padawan like him. Finally, a knight stepped forward, took pity on his pleas, and as she reached out to smooth the hairs at the back of his neck in her cool touch he felt the words once more – ours.

Hers, He met her eyes, and knew she would never let him down.

Hers. She kept his hands steady when, months later, the force still would not come.

Hers. He fought back tears as she tied another braid into his hair, another year spent learning, watching, waiting, for the talent that would not come.

Hers. She never wavered, never questioned – always patient in her faith in his abilities.

Hers. Side by side they fought in Wars he did not understand.

Hers. Back to back they circled in the temple’s broken doors when the Order came down.

Hers. She shoved him back, against a drape, and caught the red red red against her own body, and in that moment the Force screamed from him in a vortex of roiling spider colonies, all consuming flames, and deep shadows of coursing blue lightening. The red faded away as the Troopers ran, and his Master’s blood fell heavy on his hands.

Hers. He carried her, blood on his hands, from the screaming burning temple.

Hers. She smoothed the hairs down, against the back of his neck, with cold trembling fingers.

Mine, she murmured, voice choking on blood and death, Run.

A padawan does as his master commands.

“Nowhere.”

He wasn’t on any lists. His name wasn’t shouted by the Stormtroopers as “Wanted.” He was a low ranked Padawan with no visible Force abilities - why would he be counted a threat Oh, they would kill him if they knew him, of that he had no doubt, but when Storm Troopers burst through the door of the bar on the backwater planet he had fled to, he couldn’t find a reason to run, couldn’t find a reason to fight.

“You look like one of them,” one rasped through the breather on his helmet.

“Looks more like no one,” his friend laughed, but they clapped him in shackles all the same.

For two weeks, deep in the bowels of a ship Fein never saw the name of, it was the same routine. His world shrank to three questions, and the same pain.

Where is the Jedi Order? Pain. Who are you? Pain. Why do you wear Padawan braids? Pain. Where is the Jedi Order? Pain. Who are you? Pain. Why do you wear Padawan braids? Pain. Where is the Jedi Order? Pain. Who are you? Pain. Why do you wear Padawan braids? Pain. Where is the Jedi Order? Pain. Who are you? Pain. Why do you wear Padawan braids? Pain.

Finally, they realized what all the rest had already known. Fein Komo was no one, knew nothing, and felt nothing.

Useless, broken, and mute; they cut the braids from his head and threw him to the only place on the closest planet that would pay money for him.

“The Fighting Pits.”

Fein himself would have bet on his death first round.

When they drug him to the center of the sand filled arena and his first opponent stood above him, lifting his hands to the cheers of the crowd, Fein assumed he was bound for death. As his opponent’s sword caught the noonday sun in a sharp glint, Fein closed his eyes and thought of a cool touch and soft words.

Hers.

And as soft eyes and blood pooling in the corner of her mouth, the Force ripped out of him once more. One moment his opponent stood in self assured victory, his sword plunging down to sever Fein’s head from his body – the next, the man cowered against the walls of the arena, screaming and begging Fein for mercy.

Kill, the crowd raged, quick to turn on the Champion they had bet blood money on.

Kill¸ the chant echoed in Fein’s ears as he pulled aching limbs from dust.

Kill, the roar deafened as Fein watched demons swirl and twirl and gnaw along the former Champion’s skin.

Kill, it reached a fever pitch as Fein took the sword from the man’s hand, and slid it down between his ribs in one smooth movement.

Kill.

It haunted his dreams, as he slipped from meditation to arena, and back again - once again his reality slipped into routine, and the months passed unnoticed.

By night he lost himself to memories of laughter from high walls and springing from roof top to roof top. Under the stars he let himself run, bare feet slapping against cool marble, through the halls of the temple, only to careen into the waiting arms of his creche mother. Within the cool touch of the moon’s light he lost himself to hours spent training side to side, back to back, with his Master.

By day he forgot all but the roar of the crowd. As his skin browned in the sun’s harsh rays, he took life after life, soaking the burning sands with the blood of men who deserved death no more and no less than he. By the light of the sun he hacked away limbs, severed heads from bodies, and ripped hearts from bloody chests.

He lost himself to the routine, and forgot there was ever a time when the Force didn’t rip through him, leaving the cold taste of vomit in his mouth, as it devoured his enemies. He forgot what is was to be anything but a machine – to be anything more or anything less than the Champion of the Pits, than the Nightmare that Walks.

When they arrived, and stood before his cell one late sunset, they spoke to him of rebellions. Hope, they told him, and he laughed. Broken, empty, and bitter, he asked them what they hoped for.

Peace, they answered, but they knew as little of peace as he did.

He followed, when they opened the door of his cell, but only because somewhere, a cool touch and a quiet claim urged him to run. He followed, and when they landed on Yavin IV, one of them turned, smiled, and said, Home.

Home, he let himself feel the word, as he surveyed the broken ruin of a temple. He had never had a home. Each time he’d allowed himself a moment of peace, a moment of quiet, nightmares had come to tear his home from him.

But now he was the Nightmare.

Now, he would fight for what little home there was.