#and that he has been wounded in a failed imperial war

[unrinconmas]

Skyrim's intro is perhaps the most misunderstood and confusing intro to any video game. Ten years later, a lot of players are still trying to figure out why the game starts with you heading north from Cyrodiil into Skyrim with a prisoner that should have been heading south out of Skyrim. Well, here are the facts and hopefully this will make things clearer! Ulfric was ambushed in Darkwater Crossing which is near Windhelm. He was then transported to Cyrodiil, likely for a trial in the Imperial City, the road south of Helgen is the only border crossing to Cyrodiil. A couple of letters during the Civil War questline reveal that the Pale Pass is closed and inaccessible due to an avalanche, this is also the excuse Bethesda uses to explain why the Stormcloaks are able to hold off the Empire, the Empire can't get reinforcements as the letters state. So Tullius makes the decision to return to Helgen which is an imperial outpost, he knows the Stormcloaks are coming for Ulfric so the safest solution is to kill him while they can to end the war swiftly. The Dragonborn gets caught sneaking past a closed border into a war zone, the decision to execute the Dragonborn isn't very surprising, you can hear the imperial captain trying to act quickly. Alduin appears in Helgen because of the time wound on top of High Hrothgar which is very close by, he is not summoned by the Dragonborn or by Lokir's stupid prayer, he is actually summoned because Ulfric fulfilled the prophecy of the Dragonborn when he murdered the king. Bethesda tried to make this clear by giving you the Book of the Dragonborn in the torture chamber in Helgen so that should be the very first book you find and hopefully read. "When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn." This prophecy is brilliant as it ties together the previous Elder Scrolls games. Misrule: imperial battle mage Jagar Tharn used illusion magic to disguise himself as the imprisoned Uriel Septim VII. Several wars followed due to this. Brass tower: represents Numidium and the genocide of Altmer as the Aldmeri Dominion was brought down in the second era. Thrice blessed: was the tribunal, Almalexia, Sotha Sil and Vivec, Red Tower of course is the Red Mountain, the giant volcano you see from Solstheim. Dragonborn Ruler: the end of the Septim bloodline (play Oblivion), White tower represents the White Gold Tower in the imperial city Snow Tower: represents the throat of the world where the time wound is, but also the center of Skyrim which now lies “sundered, kingless, bleeding” why? Because of Ulfric, why did Ulfric kill the high king and fulfill the prophecy? Because of the Talos ban, and why did that happen? Look back to the Brass Tower. All the pieces fall into place! World eater of course is Alduin, the Wheel is Aurbis and the Last Dragonborn is some cat that leads a bunch of thieves and is married to a lizard, or whatever you make of your Dragonborn. Finally, the reason the Seal of Akatosh (or as some people call it, Empire logo or even Skyrim logo) has a missing piece of the wing, is to illustrate that it is an old book. Yes, Skyrim's main cover is the Book of the Dragonborn, you really should have read it your first time around. I hope this clarifies things.

The Drunken Orc

[rebelsofshield]

Star Wars: The Bad Batch: "Confined," "Paths Unknown," & "Shadows of Tantiss" - Review

The Bad Batch begins its third and final season with a stellar three part premiere that prioritizes character, atmosphere, and mystery.

(Review contains episode spoilers)

Captured by the Empire, Omega settles into the oppressing tedium of her new life as Nala Se's assistant in the mysterious Imperial laboratory built beneath Mount Tantiss. While she tries her best to seek solace in fellow Bad Batch captive Crosshair and the clone scientist Emerie Karr, it's hard to keep up hope in a space that's almost designed to strip it away. Little does she know that Nala Se is working desperately to cover up a monumental secret about Omega's origins and time might be running out. Meanwhile, Hunter and Wrecker hunt desperately for clues as to where their little sister has been taken.

The conclusion to The Bad Batch's second season was already an emotional roller coaster before its nail-biting cliffhanger of an ending. The team had lost Tech in a mission gone awry and were grieving when Cid pulled the rug out beneath them. The Empire arrived with the intent of collecting the clones that had defied them for so long and, in a moment of selfless sacrifice, Omega gave herself up to protect the lives of her older brothers. We left last spring with a Bad Batch that was broken and scattered to the wind. It did the thing you need a middle chapter to do. Shake up the status quo and leave the viewer at a low that must be climbed out of.

The Bad Batch's three part premiere takes its time in exploring the emotional fallout of these events. Written by showrunner Jennifer Corbett and directed by Steward Lee, "Confined," the first of the three, is one of the most methodical, atmospheric, and character heavy installments the series has ever produced. We follow Omega's routine across multiple remarkably similar and methodical days. We see her wake-up alone, pass dozens of emotionally broken clones while she shuffles off to work with a mysterious Kaminoan scientist, have her blood drawn for some unknown test, care for the bases lurca hound tracking dogs, visit a depressed Crosshair in his cell, fix up a straw toy replica of her favorite toy, and then go to sleep. Then she does it again. And then the show skips forward several hundred days. And the tedium remains unchanged. It's rare that any Star Wars series allows itself to capture banal evil and perseverance in the way The Bad Batch does here. It's a necessary storytelling move for a variety of reasons both in regards to character and the show's overarching narrative about the Empire's new secret cloning program, but a lesser series wouldn't have dedicated this amount of time to generating an emotional atmosphere this well realized. And "Confined" pulls it off in spades.

Part of what makes this first half hour so successful (and in turn what makes the payoff in "Shadows of Tantiss" as satisfying as it is) is how Omega's resolve is portrayed. Between Lee's direction and Michelle Ang's stellar voice work, we are able to see how Omega adjusts to the inhumane routine she has been subjected to, but that she still finds ways for her remarkably empathetic and determined spirit to shine through. The horrific sights of Tantiss may no longer shock her, but she still takes time out of her day to care for a wounded hound she names "Batcher" and maintains her daily visits to Crosshair.

Speaking of Crosshair, the series' most interesting clone remains a scene stealer here. Now fully disillusioned with the Empire and lacking in hope for the future, the Crosshair we meet here is lacking the steely demeanor that has always defined his character. It's hard not to see Crosshair viewing his own imprisonment and experimentation at the hands of the Empire as a sort of penance he must undertake for his own actions. His own body has even begun to fail him. His steady hands, one of the skills that he was literally bred for, have begun to twitch and shake. Even still, in his own way, we see Crosshair looking for hope in Omega. He tells her to prioritize her own survival and to avoid risks that will get herself harmed. He may not understand his sister's bountiful good-will and kindness, but he does see hope in her survival. Even if the two have never really been close, Omega is the closest thing Crosshair has to a family and that's what he must cling to. When the two do eventually escape together in "Shadows of Tantiss," the result is not only thrilling but surprisingly touching as we see both siblings rely on one another in ways they've never really had to before.

The wildcards in all of this are Omega's two caretakers, Emery Karr and Nala Se. Karr is an enigma. The only female clone we've met in the series besides Omega, she operates in a scientific and administrative position that seems separated from her dozens of siblings locked away on Tantiss. Her purpose in the Empire's overall plan is hard to place and it's not even clear that Karr knows for herself. Even still, both "Confined" and "Shadows of Tantiss" seed that she still maintains some degree of affection and loyalty to her fellow clones, Omega in particular. I'm curious to see where her story takes us. (Also, are we going to learn why exactly she and Omega are female? Is that just something the Kaminoans figured they'd try out once or twice?)

Nala Se meanwhile operates in even murkier territory. From the series' start it's been clear that the Kaminoan scientist's interest in Omega has always stretched beyond simple affection. Something about Omega is particularly vital to her and we begin to see our first hints here. It's slowly teased out over the course of two episodes that part of Tantiss's goal is to replicate a clone body that is able to carry over or increase its midichlorian count through the cloning process. And apparently, Omega is a clone with an abnormally high amount of midichlorians. It's something that seemed to be hinted at heavily in the early episodes of The Bad Batch but has been less prevalent as the series has evolved, but it's a development that has tied together many of the dangling loose threads surrounding Omega's origins. While I don't exactly expect her to be Force Sensitive (although after Ahsoka who knows that even means anymore), I do think that her potential connection to the Force is going to make her an invaluable asset to the Empire going forward. It's what makes Nala Se's subterfuge and eventual aid in Omega's escape so interesting. Is she simply interested in preserving her own research? Or is she actually interest in protecting Omega's safety? Or maybe it's both? I don't know if I'll ever forgive her for what she did to Fives back in The Clone Wars, but Nala Se is a great deal more complicated than we may have been lead to believe.

The revelations regarding Omega also tie directly into our apparent series big bad Dr. Royce Hemlock. Jimmi Simpson's cold and quiet demeanor made the villain an easy scene stealer when he first appeared last season and that absolutely continues here. With the entirety of Tantis under his oversight, Hemlock's particular style of sadism and violence begins to creep into sight. Even if he's far from being a physical threat, he doesn't need to be. It's part of what makes his humbling at the hands of The Emperor feels so satisfying and terrifying. I will rejoice anytime Ian McDiarmid graces us with his portrayal of Darth Sidious and his presence here is a great reminder of the larger mythological stakes that The Bad Batch is playing with. It's gratifying to begin to receive answers about Tantiss's main mission, which as many suspected seems tied into efforts to maintain Palptine's life after death via Project Necromancer (previously name dropped in The Mandalorian). Hemlock's work is of the utmost importance to the Emperor which makes his need to succeed even more essential and desperate. We have clear stakes for both heroes and villains and a overarching plots that has a dramatic influence on the larger Star Wars narrative.

You may notice that I've written relatively little about "Paths Unknown." Simply put, it's the most forgettable of the three premiere episodes. Sandwiched between a stellar premiere and its satisfying payoff, Hunter and Wrecker's story just doesn't feel as dramatically engaging.

That's not to say that there isn't value in seeing it. We absolutely had to check in on how the two of them are coping, which isn't well! It's undeniably heartbreaking to see these two brothers live out of a ship that used to be so loud and full of life. Their squad feels empty and the absence of Omega, Echo, and especially Tech could not be more pronounced.

It is emotionally engaging to watch the two of them team up with a batch of adolescent clones who are feeling similarly lost and abandoned. It's a tight and well executed standalone story arc, but it's hard not to wish your attention was elsewhere. And yes, the vine creatures were cool, but I'm rather checked out of episodes involving the Batch blasting away at alien monsters.

Also we got to see Roland again? Yay?

Even if "Paths Unknown" feels largely forgettable in comparison to the rest of the premiere, The Bad Batch's third season is off to a phenomenal start. The emotional and narrative stakes are established. The conflicts are set. And the production and creative teams are churning out some of their most sophisticated and well realized work ever. I'm so ready for what's to come.

Confined: A Paths Unknown: B Shadows of Tantiss: A-

[avenger09]

Code Eikon: FFXVI/Code Geass Crossover

Many things have decided the course of history, Ambition, Will, Love. But none more so then the that the Dominates, individuals gifted godlike power and able to transform into avatars.

Through their coveted power, nations have risen and fallen, as have those who wielded them.

Once many, now only eight are publicly known:

Pheonix, Dominate of Fire

Garuda, Dominate of Wind

Titan, Dominate of Earth

Ramuh, Dominate of Lightning

Shiva, Dominate of Ice

Leviathen, Dominate of Water

Bahamut, Dominate of Light

Odin, Dominate of Darkness

All others are remembered only in the annals of history, with Leviathen being the most recent to number among these lost eikon's, its dominate vanishing in a fierce battle with Shiva over the Bering Strait a century past. Yet hope remains by those who belive that these lost simple lay await for one's worthy of their blessings.

But as these giants quaked the earth with their presence, another power, known to only a few has coexisted in the shadows, veiled by its subtle graces, the power of Geass.

Tied to influencing the minds of men, save for those of the Dominates, it's proven eqully a blessing and a curse. Should one ever hold the power of both, there is to telling what upheaval will be unleashed. Could such a person save the world, or usher its ruin?

----

Nations

Britannia - Eikon: Bahamut (Formerly: Knights of the Round)

An ever expanding nation, ruled by the Britannia royal family. Once able to call upon the spirit of the orignal Knights of the Round Table to fight in battle as host to the spirit of King Arthur himself by becoming a holy Paladin, however this power vanished from the Britannia bloodline when Charles Vi Britannia ascended the throne and began is imperialistic conquests.

It is clear to all, including Empeor himself, that those whom Britannia claim heritage to do not condone Britnania's self appointed reign over the world, but none dare speak this aloud for fear of losing face. Undeterred, Britannia instead makes use of the House Lesage, cousins to the royals, and dominates of Bahamut, the current being the beloved and courageous Prince Dion whose wings and flight of loyal dragoons, are a joyous sight to behold by Britannia forces, and dreaded by her enemies.

European Republic - Eikon: Titan

A conglomerate of nations and corporations bounded together by the promise of mutual gain and resistance against Britannia, the most powerful being DhalmekiCorp owned and headed by the Dominate of Titan, Hugo Kupka.

Though shrewd minded enough to leverage his influence as an invaluable asset, Hugo's infamous temper and the tremendous strength of Titan he wields is the true reason his word is often considered law among the European Council.

Rosaria (Annexed) - Eikon: Pheonix 

For years Rosaria stood as the sole nation able to resist Britannia on its own soil, by the grace of the Pheonix and the guile of the Rosfield line, they acted as a buffer between the bulk of the Imperial War machine and resource rich lands of its northern neighbor, fostering a strong fraternal alliance between the country's.

All this came to end sadly, when during a pilgrimage to the sacred site of Pheonix Gate the Duke and his loyal retinue came under attack by turncoats and Britannian black ops, in a traitorous plot engineered by the Duke''s own wife, Annabella, to gain favor with Britannia by returning them lands seceded.

During the fighting the Duke's two son's, Clive and the young Joshua, went missing, with the Duke Elwin found dead from gunshot wounds in his car a short distance from Pheonix Gate, the prevailing theory being that Joshua had primed for the first time during a failed getaway attempt with his father, only for his sickly body to become consumed by the power of the firebird, leaving no trace. However, despite the efforts of Britannia information suppression following Rosaria's annexation, survivor's of that terrible ordeal have been able to circulate that a second Eikon's flames may have burned that night, and that its dominant, along with the Rosfield's loyal canine Torgal, were seen being carried to parts unknown by a man in purple garb.

Silverplaine (Annexed) - Eikon: Shiva 

A land rich in natural splendour and resources. Long an ally to its neighbour Rosaria, the commonwealth and the duchy have held each other in high regard, safeguarding the other from the covetous eye of Britannia.

Japan (Annexed) - Eikon: Leviathen (Lost) 

A nation with a storied history, Japan's past is rife with various conflicts as warring factionsz sought to guide it's destiny, however upon the openingg of its borders Japan united as never before when it beheld the various powers which threatened to swallow the island whole.

Modernising at a rapid rate, Japan sought to secure it's position on the world stage as a force to be reckoned with by seeking dominion over the Pacific, it's impressive navy and air force, flaked by the dominate of water, Leviathen, seemingly invincible as it expanded across the waves. However these aspirations were literally forzen in their tracks when Japan's military excursions into the northern territories protected by the Silverplaine Commonwealth brought the attention of the Frost Maiden, Shiva herself, who sealed the Lord of the Depths beneath the very waves they commanded.

Without Leviathen, Japan retreated back into a period of isolationism, but as superpowers such as the Chinese Federation, and the European Republic began to arise, the nation switched tactics once more, hoping to secure it's independence by foster of stronger diplomatic ties with foreign powers such as Britannia,  which seemed promising initially, with the Emperor giving two of his own children, the Prince and Princess Leuloch and Nannaly, as ward's of the Japanese prime minister. Tragically this proved but a ploy, with Britannia invading and annexing the island with its new knightmare frames in a swift and brutal war which seemingly claimed the lives of the young Prince and Princess as victims in the crossfire.

Now Japan is a nation occupied, its people denied even the dignity of a name, save the designation of Area 11, as various factions arising to resist their conquerors even seven years since their  official surrender, from remnants of the army, to youths continuing the fight their elders began, with little success against the substantially more advanced occupying forces. But a unifying factor may yet deliver salvation from this tyranny, even from an unexpected source, while others yet cling to the hope of Leviathen's resurgence to enact vengeance in Japan's name, needless of the danger that such hatred filled tides may drown them along with their foes.

Waloed - Eikon: Odin and Garuda 

A rising superpower orignating from Scandinavia, for the last fifty years Waloed has steadily grown into a nation to be reckoned with under the rule of Barnabus Tharmr, who seized control of his homeland when his powers as the dominant of Odin manifested. Renown throughout the world as the "Last King" for being the only remaining monarch still recognized outside of Britannia, Barnabus has successfully beaten back every foe he's faced, with not even the most advanced knightmare frame being a match for the Warden of Darkness on the field.

While their initial expansion made them an opponent of the European Republic, Tharm was able to form a tentative peace with them when the Chinese Federation siezed the opportunity to take control of the E.R's Eureasan territory when Barnabus' campaign began, in exchange for acting as a buffer between the two powers.

Though its clear to all the Republic now regrets this bargian, having underestimated the amount of territory that Waloed had the abiltiy to hold once the Federal forces were evicted. Now they must tread carefully less Odin's eye again turns to their borders. But Odin alone is not their only advantage, for the last few decades Barnabus has sought out Dominates seemingly for the purpose of bringing them under his command and securing his kingdoms position, rather then eliminate rivals as others have done in the past, and while this objective has had a setback when the dominant of Ramuh split from Waloed, the dominant of Garuda, Benedikta Harman remains steadfast as the head of the Waloed Intelligence Bureau, who rumour had it continues to hunt for her former mentor across the globe. While Britannia had in the past been content in ignoring Waloed as a potential rival, that soon changed when Britannia sought to contest their  ownership of Iceland, marking the first official engagement between the two powers.

However Britannia is reluctant to escalate the conflict beyond skirmishe with the majority of their forces still engaged with the European Republic, all the same it led to a spectacular event for the opposing armies when word of Prince Dion joining the fight prompted a appearance from Barnabus himself, the Eikons of Light and Darkness clashing in the skies above Iceland soon after, the island yet remains in dispute.

What many subject is truly given Britannia pause is the existence of two massive submersible vessels capable of launching powerful burst missiles, as well as drone support, which guard the nation, preventing any large scale air or sea assaults, the only means that Britannia would have of reaching Waloed territory. Indeed so long as the Skinfaxi and Hrímfaxi remain operational, any hope of challenging Waloed directly will remain out of reach. 

[kevinsreviewcatalogue]

Review: The Avengers (2012)

The Avengers (2012)

Rated PG-13 for intense sequences of sci-fi violence and action throughout, and a mild drug reference

<Originally posted at https://kevinsreviewcatalogue.blogspot.com/2023/04/review-avengers-2012.html>

Score: 5 out of 5

Eleven years and dozens of movies and TV shows later, The Avengers still stands as arguably the greatest achievement of the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Even more than its best standalone films like Guardians of the Galaxy and Black Panther, this was the movie that demonstrated what the "idea" of the MCU could produce and accomplish, a shared universe that brought together characters from different popular movies for a big crossover in which they all got a chance to shine as a team. Looking back, the legacy of the MCU on Hollywood as a whole has been mixed, such that it's increasingly come in for backlash in the last few years to the point where hating the series is no longer necessarily a contrarian take, the genuinely divisive reception to recent movies and shows in the franchise not helping its case. (I've been nicer to Marvel's recent output than most, and even I can't help but feel that there's a bit of malaise there.) Which makes it all the more impressive to see that, watching the original Avengers again with a group of kids who were either in diapers or not even born yet when it came out and experienced the series mostly through home video and streaming, it still absolutely holds up, and moreover, it reminded me of what Marvel's strengths were back in its 2010s imperial phase when it was firing on all cylinders. It's got an all-star cast, probably the best direction of Joss Whedon's career, and a use of continuity that enriches the experience for those who've seen the prior films in the franchise but doesn't detract from it if you haven't -- the secret sauce that, if you ask me, allowed the MCU to succeed for so long where other, similar attempts at big, modular franchises failed, and something that it's lost sight of recently. Once we're past the backlash phase and old enough to be nostalgic for the MCU (won't that be something), I think that this movie and "Phase One" more broadly will get its due once again.

The plot feels like it could've been lifted out of any number of Big Event crossovers from the comics. An alien race called the Chitauri, led by the Norse trickster god Loki (the Norse gods in this universe being aliens themselves) with a chip on his shoulder, is planning to invade Earth, and Nick Fury, director of the secret government agency S.H.I.E.L.D., has a plan to stop them: assemble a collection of exceptional individuals with unique skills to lead the fight. They include: Tony Stark, the egotistical billionaire CEO of a weapons manufacturer who built a suit of high-tech "Iron Man" powered armor to fight terrorists; Steve Rogers, the product of an American World War II scientific program to create a superior fighting man who wound up frozen in ice for decades and thawed out in the present day; Bruce Banner, a brilliant physicist who, thanks to an accident during an experiment with gamma radiation, developed a monstrous Jekyll-and-Hyde alter ego called the Hulk that comes out when he's angry or stressed; Thor, the Norse god of thunder seeking to stop his adoptive brother Loki's warpath and return him to Asgard for judgment; and Natasha Romanoff; a deadly spy codenamed "Black Widow" who defected from Russia and is now one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s top agents. Unfortunately, Loki, using his own supernatural gifts, has seduced a number of humans to his own side, most notably Erik Selvig, a physicist who was researching an alien artifact called the Tesseract that Loki needs to open a portal to bring his army to Earth, and Clint Barton, another S.H.I.E.L.D. agent codenamed "Hawkeye" who knows his employer inside and out.

The underlying theme of most of the first two acts of this movie is a reflection of what people in real life, from critics to comic book fans to much of the movie's audience, were thinking in 2012: "can this actually work?" Can you do this kind of superhero team-up in the movies the way they do it in the comics? It's here where you see why Marvel producer Kevin Feige sought out Joss Whedon to write and direct this movie, and not just because he was already a geek media legend by then. Whedon's style has unfortunately been caricatured over the years as revolving around jokey, flippant dialogue, thanks in no small part to the many filmmakers and TV show runners who've tried to imitate it, and the man's own personal controversies in the last several years have made him an easy punching bag. That said, anybody who's watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, or Firefly knows that his real strength as a writer, the thing that separated him from the countless writers making jokey, flippant Shane Black ripoffs back in the '90s, was working with large ensemble casts in which there often wasn't a singular protagonist.

Whedon tackles the question of whether this will work head-on by making the real "arc" of the movie revolve less around stopping Loki than around having Iron Man, Captain America, Thor, and the Incredible Hulk, the four marquee superheroes who each had their origin stories told in prior movies, learn to put aside their differences and work as a team. They each bring their own larger-than-life personalities to the table, and while Tony and Bruce hit it off immediately over their shared love of science, Tony's ego and gung-ho attitude clash with both Steve's Boy Scout values and military code of honor and Thor's own ego as a superbeing of ancient legend, while Bruce's volatile temper and the end result of such threatens to get them all killed if he can't control it. Loki knows all of this, and for much of the film, a good chunk of his plan, as befitting a trickster god, is to play mind games with the heroes and convince them to tear each other apart so that he can move on and conquer Earth in their absence. Black Widow and Hawkeye, the relative newcomers to the MCU (the former had been a supporting character in Iron Man 2 but wouldn't get her own movie for nearly a decade), serve as surrogates for audience members who know what superheroes are but may not have seen every (or even any) prior movie in the series, while Nick Fury, the authority figure looming over them all, is the ringmaster who introduces us to them and brings them all together.

It helps when you've got a bunch of A-list (or soon-to-be-A-list) actors at the top of their game, the kinds of people who feel born to play these sorts of figures. Robert Downey, Jr.'s great gift as Tony Stark was making him just unlikable enough that you want to see him humbled but not so much that you want to see him lose, Chris Evans always knew how to make Steve Rogers feel like a good-hearted average Joe given extraordinary abilities but never forgetting who he used to be, Chris Hemsworth was exactly the kind of chiseled, Ahnold-style hunk you'd need to play the mighty God of Thunder, and Mark Ruffalo, replacing Edward Norton after some complicated backstage politics, brought an almost Jeff Goldblum-style energy to Bruce Banner, a squirrelly nerd who's visibly hiding a shameful secret. Scarlett Johansson, meanwhile, made her scenes in this movie as Natasha a demo reel for her as both an action hero and a femme fatale, while Samuel L. Jackson brought his usual BAMF energy to a PG-13 version of such as Nick Fury, a man who most of us would happily take orders from. Last but not least, Tom Hiddleston as Loki is exactly the kind of classy-yet-subtly-off-putting British theater actor you want playing a hammy, egomaniacal villain straight out of mythology, like a young Alan Rickman, standing as one of the best villains the MCU's ever had to this day and only failing to steal the show out from under everyone else because, again, this is a Joss Whedon ensemble piece where everybody gets a moment in the sun.

(And Hawkeye seems cool, like a really nice guy. Okay, I kid, Jeremy Renner was alright in the part. He was much better in later movies, though. There's a reason why people used to make fun of him so much.)

The quality of Whedon's work here doesn't stop at his writing, either. The MCU has never been known as a visually inventive series, and a lot of people blame Whedon for that, accusing him of bringing a flat visual style straight out of network television to the biggest blockbuster franchise in Hollywood and relying on his writing as his main creative thumbprint. I'm convinced that they got Whedon mixed up with the Russo brothers who handled the later Avengers films, because Whedon actually does a lot that's interesting behind the camera. Noting that scenes in superhero movies look like they were pulled straight out of a comic book is practically a cliché at this point, but in this case, it's a perfect description, as Whedon seemed to understand exactly how to bring a comic book splash panel to life on the big screen. This movie looks and feels epic, with action that's not only well-shot and easy to follow but also downright massive in scope, often having several things going on at once in the bigger sequences like the attack on the helicarrier and the climatic third-act battle in the streets of Manhattan. The effects were top-notch and felt like they had all the love and care in the world put into them, especially in comparison to some of the rush jobs that more recent Marvel movies have been guilty of. This was the kind of movie they make movie theaters for, and even watching it at home, I was consistently enthralled by its action sequences. There's a reason why so many sci-fi blockbuster action movies in the 2010s had their villains shoot big beams of light into the sky as part of their plan, or featured armies of faceless alien monsters for the heroes to fight without feeling guilty about killing people, and that's because this movie did it so amazingly well that everybody else couldn't help but copy its notes.

The Bottom Line

The Avengers is a movie that still holds up even after countless superhero movies, including in its own franchise, that tried to top it. I don't know if I'd call it the best movie in the MCU, but it's certainly the most impactful, the one that everyone's gonna remember above all else (barring maybe Black Panther) years from now as the movie that made the whole enterprise worth it.

[elliewiltarwyn]

FFXIV Write 2023 | Prompt #27: Sole

me try writing something this month that isn't about mia and her backstory challenge (impossible)

-787 words -cws: character death, violent imagery, one "fuck"

----

It happens so fast, she doesn’t have a chance to think about it. All she knows is that one moment, Aulus had been cackling, Lyse had been gasping in pain; the next, her sword is through his chest.

It’s as if time freezes; the sounds of the battle around them fades away, and Lyse even seems to fall in slow motion. Aulus’s face, formerly a mix of gleeful madness and smug superiority, has fallen into horror and shock as he stares up at her. A drop of blood begins to trickle from the corner of his mouth; it rides all the way down and stains the collar of his Garlean engineer uniform. His hand shudders as he reaches up towards her face; his gauntlet has stopped glowing, its charge apparently dissipating along with the lifeforce of its wielder, though from the strength of the blast that had just struck Lyse, it may as well have just consumed everything it had. Sparks crackle off of it, one or two brushing her cheek. She doesn’t react. She just looks back at him, her face set firmly with resolve. She can feel her heart hardening, inuring herself to pain.

Were even a single circumstance different, this might have been something to mourn. In the abstract, it’s certainly a tragedy that it’s the sword of the man’s daughter that has been stabbed through his chest.

But Aulus mal Asina had disowned her, thrown her out of the house and damned her to a life of exile. Contributed to the Garlean war efforts on innumerable fronts, responsible for who knows how many crimes against mankind. Tortured Lily and Krile for the purposes of empowering Imperial agents with their Echoes. Worst of all, according to one of the notes they had recovered from that ghastly laboratory: killed her mother, attempting and failing to extract her essence to see if it could account for the Echo bestowed upon Mia herself.

“My… dar… ling… Maia…” Aulus gasps.

No. This man may be my father, but I feel no remorse for ending such a monster’s life.

Mia tightens her grip on her sword hilt, her teeth grinding together, as she glares Aulus in his eyes, watching the life slowly fade. “Fuck you,” she says quietly, deliberately. “My name is Mia Longhart.”

Another drop of blood trickles from Aulus’s lip as he stares at her. Finally, he throws his head back and lets out one final, harsh laugh, poisoned with irony, before he slumps and falls still.

She can vaguely sense there’s immediately a flurry of activity around her. She hears Lyse coughing as she reassures Lily and Alphinaud that she’s okay. She hears the low voices of Ellie and Raubahn, discussing something in an undertone. She hears various scraping and groaning noises from the wreckage of the hoverchair they had forced Aulus out of during their fight, as Arenvald and Yugiri appear to search it for usable salvage.

But she can barely parse any of it. She just watches the still face of her father, frozen forever in mockery, and feels the rage draining out of her. More than ever, she’s so tired.

She tightens her lips, places the sole of her boot on her father’s shoulder, and yanks her blade free, slamming and crumpling his corpse into the ground in front of her. Blood begins to pool around him and seep from the open wound in his chest. As she lifts her boot and brings it to rest on the floor once more, his head lolls limply, his face pointed away, but she still feels as if his discerning, disapproving eyes are upon her still. They clearly aren’t… but it feels that way nonetheless.

“Mia?” The tension in her face drains as well as she looks up and sees Ellie nearby, looking at her with a deeply furrowed brow of concern. “…Stupid question, I know, but are you going to be okay?”

Mia smiles ruefully and nods. “He had it coming.”

Ellie gives an exasperated chuckle and rubs her forehead. “That’s… fair enough, yeah.” She looks down upon Aulus’s corpse. “…Still, I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head and swipes her sword through the air by her side, flicking at least some of the blood off of it, before sheathing it. “Forget it. I have no regrets.” When Ellie looks back up at her, she makes sure to smile warmly. “He was no family of mine. I much prefer the one I’ve chosen.”

Ellie’s eyes widen a little, but a soft smile alights upon her lips then too. “I’m glad to hear it.” The tall roegadyn then hefts her greatsword upwards and rests it on her shoulder. “Come on, let’s kick Zenos’s arse.”

“Right behind you.”

[bardic-tales]

REFLECTIONS (SI X IA)

Novel: Fall of Darth Jadus

Pairing: m!SI (Darth Jadus / Darth Noktis) x f!IA (Cipher Nine / Cynthia Prescost)

Fandom: Star Wars

Word count: 2981

Warning: Suggestive languages and themes, Death of Main Character, Language, disturbing imagery. Minors DNI

Premise: Cipher Nine must come to terms with her Sith lover’s death, but she finds herself overwhelm by her other Sith companion.

Author’s Note: This idea has been floating around in my head since my husband and I both restarted our original characters. Some of it is taken from an RP that we were running in chat while we were questing.

It also takes place during the Heart of Terror Act for the Imperial Agent. We have decided that Adaki is using their Force bond and occasionally Force teleport to be with her physically. He is testing everyone’s loyalty, especially Cynthia’s. After all, she will be his Empress when he democratizes fear and tries to take the Emperor’s place.

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1.

The Empire had almost completed its grieving steps and Darth Jadus had been dead for several months before Cipher Nine only begun to understand the full weight of her grief.

Right after Darth Jadus’ death, she went into survival mode, not allowing herself to grieve properly. She had the Empire and its welfare to think about. Her grieving would have to wait. And wait it did.

She sat up in the darkened room and squinted against the blackness.

Nine wondered how she could feel the gap in her life that the Sith’s death left behind. She didn’t know the man long, but he left an impression upon her life that hardly anyone else had.

He just overcame the loss of his fiancée, too, she reminded herself. She didn’t openly weep when he told her the tragic tale of how his fiancée was taken from him and how he searched the entire galaxy for her. It affected Nine in a more subtle way.

While she and Jadus didn’t share a kiss or other similar intimacy, there was a warmth to their interactions. He once told her that he would not pursue a relationship with her until she was sure she understood the dangers of becoming involved with a Dark councilor. Jadus would not lose someone he cared for again.

After enough time in the darkened silence, she was able to fall back into her usual fitful sleep. There was nothing refreshing about it. That was when the dreams would come, her mind’s endless search for her one great tragedy.

The dreams were always the same. Jadus’ death would play over and over in her mind, though from a perspective she never had. She never witnessed his death, but in her dreams, he died right in front of her. The method was always different, but the result was always the same. She failed him.

Quickly, another of these nightmares overcame her. Jadus was standing before her, speaking, but she could not make out the words. Whatever it was, it seemed important, urgent, even.

Nine tried to cross the distance between them, but she couldn’t lift her feet. She took a step forward, trying to fight the resistance, and the distance between them grew. The flagship’s floor crumbled away. A tomblike silence immediately followed, as blinding, fiery stars twinkled around the sundered starship.

I’m only dreaming, she told herself, to wake up, but it didn’t work.

“You failed me, Cyn,” Jadus lamented, reaching for her in vain. “You failed me.”

“Jadus!” Nine cried out as she reached for him. She could almost touch him, almost brush his fingers with her own. This had been the end of her nightmares from the time he was lost to her. He continued to die in many ways. Each time was more gruesome than the last, but the end result was always the same. Nine couldn’t make it to him in time.

Blood seeped from a wound upon his chest and soaked his dark leather outer robe. It pooled within his gloves until it streamed off his finger tips into a widening pool upon the sundered ground.

Jadus dropped to his knees. The bottom of the lightsaber hilt attached to the belt looped around his waist clattered against steel flooring. He looked up at her. His metallic helmet glinted in the neon emergency light. The Klaxon alarm drowned out any other thoughts or sounds, except his voice repeating those terrible words once again. “You have failed me, Cynthia.”

Nine sat up in the blackened room. She blinked against the darkness and tried to get her bearings. Everything looked unfamiliar to her. Gone was the ruined starship, the gore, and her lover. The only thing that remained was the crushing weight of her failure.

Her heart raced, and it was the only sound she could hear in the night’s perpetual stillness. She was utterly alone.

The silence was suddenly broken by the cacophony of the door being caved into the room. It turned end over end until it smashed against the metallic dresser in the far corner of the room. Wires and cords dangled from the top of the metal door frame.

Adaki stood on the other side, his hand outstretched. The Zabrak had used the Force to gain entry into her room. He stood there, his carmine-colored chest glimmering in the naked golden fluorescent hallway light. Twin onyx stripes raced diagonally across his hips, and their pointed tips disappeared beneath the waistband of his loose-fitting raven trousers.

“What are you doing, Lord Adaki?” She hastily pulled the covers over her breasts, pinned the top of the blanket under her arms, and stared at the interloper.

“I heard you cry out?” he said as he stepped into the room, unable to hide the concern on his countenance for a fleeting moment. “Are you alright? What happened? Were you attacked?”

“It was a bad dream,” she said, almost laughing at the outrageousness of the situation. “Are you going to bash down my door every time I have a nightmare, my lord?”

“That sounded like no ordinary nightmare, and they are hardly harmless. Nightmares can cause great damage. A powerful Sith could attack you in your dreams.”

As she continued to press the sheet against her body, Nine turned away from him. She known he couldn’t sense her thoughts of feel her emotions. Most Sith couldn’t. Imperial Intelligence trained her well.

Not well enough, she relentlessly reminded herself. If someone hadn’t placed a block within her mind and dampened her connection to the Force, she would have been able to sense that there were two targets for the dissidents: one on Dromund Kaas and one above the planet, her lover’s star destroyer. Jadus’ words echoed in her mind. Nine failed.

“The Sith in my dreams cannot hurt me.” The skin bunched around her eyes as she stared at the wall. Wetness clung to her thick eyelashes. She blinked the tears away. “He’s only a ghost from my past.”

Adaki set down on the bed beside her. The plush mattress sunk beneath his heavy weight, and her body shifted towards him from the disturbance. His scent drifted to her, reminding her of desert trees mixed with blossoming flowers. The Zabrak’s cologne was like himself: powerful, intoxicating, and a bit sensual. It was the fragrance of desire.

“Was it Lord Jadus again?” The words were unusual spoken by him, coming from a Sith. There was almost a gentleness to his tone, but she knew how treacherous he could be. Since she had traveled with Adaki for a brief time before she met Jadus that first time, she knew he was a brutal man who discarded things like a person threw away trash.

With those doubts in her mind, it still took only a second to lower her defenses. The dream and its aftermath left her vulnerable. The knowledge she failed not only the Darth in charge of Imperial Intelligence but also the man she had come to love left raw, like a pat of butter stretched thinly across toast.

“It always is.” Nine dared not look at him. She swallowed the lump thickening in the back of her throat, but it wouldn’t go down easily. Nothing was ever easy now in the wake of Jadus’ death.

“You will discover the truth behind his assassination, Cyn. You are the best that Imperial Intelligence has to offer. You will unmask the conspirators and bring them all to justice.”

“Fuck justice,” Nine responded coldly. “I will bring them vengeance. I will make them suffer for what they have done. I will make them pay for robbing the galaxy of Jadus’ greatness.”

Adaki stared at her, apparently dumbstruck by her confession. His countenance took on a hungry expression, like he saw her with a renewed sense of passion. It was clear that she surprised him.

“You would make a wonderful Sith, my dear,” he purred. “If only you would let me train you.”

Jadus asked to do the same thing. He had told her that looking at her felt like he was staring into a font bubbling over with raw Force energy. She was a beautiful and terrifying person. That was what had attracted him to her.

Nine had never considered herself particularly unique. She was only a citizen working for the Empire and didn’t feel as if she had any connection with the Force. If she had, she surely would have felt something. And that, itself, had worried Jadus.

Was that the nature of a relationship that an Imperial had with a Sith? One or both of them would meet death. She understood any apprentice that Jadus had would eventually try to kill him. That was the reason that she had refused Jadus’ help, his offer to train her. Any training from any Sith would make her lose her sense of identity and would eventually pit herself against the one who trained her, in this case, the man she had loved.

It doesn’t matter. Nine didn’t kill Jadus, but he was still dead. She was still responsible. She should have anticipated it, should have known that the conspirators would go for the second most powerful Sith in the galaxy. The death of such a prestigious council member would be how she would make the Empire crumble if she were a terrorist.

“I don’t understand what you mean, my Lord.” Nine folded her arms around her chest, still pressing the thin sheet to her body. She felt naked and exposed as her bare shoulder brushed his own.

Adaki leaned forward and watched her. She swore she saw that emotion in his eyes before, but how could she? They briefly traveled together when she was given her first assignment by Imperial Intelligence. That was before Hutta and before she swore fealty to Darth Jadus. There was surely no romance or interest between them, as there wasn’t enough time for it to blossom.

“As I told Lord Jadus,” she said, “I’m nothing special. Nothing that would require training from a Sith of your magnitude, my lord.”

“I have told you before to call me Adaki. Pray, I do not ask again.”

“My Lo — Adaki, are you sure that is wise? People will gossip.”

That was not the only reason she was protesting. Darth Jadus had her call him by his name, too, so much so that he insisted on it much like the Zabrak was currently doing. It made their interactions seem personal and intimate.

If she would have known then what she knew now, she would have insisted on keeping things formal with him. Her heart wouldn’t have been split in twain, otherwise. He might have survived. He might have been at her side now …

“People gossip,” Adaki said. “That is what they do. It would be simpler to stop the sun from rising than to stop the common rabble and their incessant talking. I don’t waste time worrying about what people say behind my back, only I they venture to plotting against me. That is wholly unwise, however.”

“As you say, Adaki,” she conceded.

“You are wrong, you know?” he added. She glanced at him, confused.

“What do you mean.”

“You said you are nothing special. Nothing that a Sith of my magnitude should show interest in. You are wrong. There is something there, elusive, but it is there. You have some connection to the Force, that much is clear. I can feel that much, but it is muted. It is difficult to describe, almost like a limb that has been severed, the memory remains.”

“As you say, Adaki, but I still can’t feel it.”

The truth was that she didn’t feel anything he described. Even if what he said were true, Nine was sure that if she had any connection with the Force that would require training she would have shown talent. Still, she knew there was no sense in arguing with a Sith Lord. It would be a fruitless exercise as his decision was already decided; Adaki rarely changed his mind after that.

How do I know that? Nine thought. There was something more to their relationship, the familiar sensations lighting her memories, but the more she was around him, the more her thoughts felt cloudy, as if she were peering through the memory with a thin gauze of fabric covering the past.

Adaki raised his right hand, but she didn’t shrink away. Despite the fine hair lifting up on her arms, she didn’t sense any danger. He clutched her face and covered her mouth, left nostril, and chin in a tight grasp. His fingers bite into her flesh.

Nine still wasn’t afraid. She felt as if she had finally come home after being lost, as if something from a long distant past had finally clicked into place. It was strange to her that someone like Adaki felt the way he did. She never was led by her heart, always putting the Empire before her needs, but it didn’t make sense that two Sith Lords had made her question her loyalty to her obligations. This was unlike her.

Adaki stared into her eyes, and she looked back. His hand slid down her face until he gripped her chin and jawline, exposing her neck and lips to him. His gaze dropped to her mouth. A chill traveled up her spine, overshadowing any grief she may have felt. It was replaced by an urgent need, the desire burrowing itself within her mind, eclipsing everything else.

Kiss me. If she could have thought straight, she might have considered that maybe he was clouding her mind and guiding her emotions. She may have demanded he leave and allow her to mourn her fallen lover, the other Sith Lord who died from her failure. Instead, the only thing that Nine could think about was the Sith Lord sitting next to her. Once again, she silently pleaded for him to kiss her.

“I can.” He stared into her eyes as he spoke. “You should be able to to. You reach out for the Force, grasping at nothing instead. Constantly and fruitlessly, you try to catch it. You are unaware of this? You are. It is such power. It calls to me. It is … seductive.”

His words traveled through her like the clear note of a tuning fork. The only thing she could feel was desire. Maybe, that’s what he was talking about. She had no experience to draw on nor anything to really compare it to.

All she knew was that he was the opposite of what she knew a Sith should have been. He cared — at least, when it came to her. Adaki was the first one who rushed to her after Jadus’ death, offering to travel with her and lend his aid, and who was she to refuse him.

Her mind felt dull once again, but she wouldn’t look away from him. He commanded her full attention much like her lover did. There was so many things about Adaki that reminded her of Darth Jadus, and it made it easier for her to let her guard somewhat down with him.

He was exciting to her, a breath into a dismal imperial life. She couldn’t deny the way sparks seemed to fly when he stared in her eyes nor could she deny the guilt burrowing deep within her gut. Her other lover’s death was too recent for her, to fresh in her mind.

What should I do? Nine was quickly becoming overwhelmed.

“You have power over it, even if you don’t know.” He bent his head forward and his mouth hovered before hers, the black tattoos revealing to be a dark gray with a splash of crimson flesh from his lips. “You are also reaching out to me, beckoning me, trying to overwhelm my senses. You aren’t doing that intentionally?”

“Doing what intentionally?”

“Making me want you.” The words should have served as a sobering slap to the face, but it had quite the opposite effect. She narrowed her eyes at him, sizing him up like prey. Her tongue darted across her lower lip briefly as she looked him up and down.

“You want me?”

“Absolutely.”

There was one hitch in his plan. His entrance made it so they were not alone. The door still lay against the wall. Cables still hung down from the entrance way, revealing where the door once was.

It appeared that wouldn’t deter him. Adaki leaned down and brushed her mouth with his, a soft gesture that she thought she had imagined until he deepened the caress. His fingers glided along her jawline, up to the side of her face until he lost his hands within her mass of hair. He grasped the dark strands and tilted her head back.

His lips did not leave hers throughout the entire time. He nibbled at her bottom lip, pulling the flesh between his teeth, before letting it go.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she could taste his minty toothpaste he had used previously that evening. . She closed her eyes. This wasn’t what she had planned when they had both retired to their separate rooms that evening, but if she were honest with herself, this was what she had wanted from the time they departed her ship and hailed that first taxi to the promenade.

Adaki pulled away. His mouth shimmered with her saliva before he ran the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip, still tasting her, but soon after that, he recomposed himself and she doubted that they even shared an sort of an embrace.

Nine was the first to speak. “Don’t stop.”

“There are more important matters to attend to, Cyn. Take that frustration you feel and use it to see to your revenge. Don’t let this cloud your purpose.”

[katarvitz]

Time Traveller: Moves a Chair

The Timeline:

It is the 41st Millennium. And humanity has been betrayed

For more than a hundred centuries the Once Emperor's treachery has crippled the Imperium of Man. He is the Master of Chaos, one among the five who would see the mortal galaxy burn in the name of his triumph. Master of the Eye of Terra and commanding the might of unending daemonic legions, he is the reaper to whom all damned souls owe their fealty. Fuelled by the slaughter of a thousand followers each day to stave off the wound inflicted by Blessed Mortarion.

Yet even in his unfinished state, the Once Emperor plagues the Imperium with his eternal hunger for power. Mighty battlefleets are forced to wage war against daemon-vessels sent forth the the name of his Eternal Crusade, their way guided only through the unending sacrifice of Targutai Yesugei and his kin. Vast armies battle across unaccounted worlds, fighting to stem the tide of the lost and damned spilling forth from Damned Terra. Greatest among these are the Templars Astartes, the Thunder Legionaries, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Army and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Wardens and the tech-shamans of the Cult Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants - and worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in an age without hope, without reason, and where sacrifice is not simply required but demanded. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war.

There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

TL:DR - I got bored out of my mind waiting for people. After trying and failing to think how Frankenstein might have played out with a few differences, and then trying to do a version of 2000 Leagues Under the Sea which wasn't just aping Alan Moore's work, this popped into my head.

[kkfkoe]

사랑이라 말해요 다시보기 1화~16화 (완결) 디즈

사랑이라 말해요 다시보기 1화~16화 (완결) 디즈니 링크<<

사랑이라 말해요 다시보기 1화~16화 (완결) 디즈니

사랑이라 말해요 다시보기 1화~16화 (완결) 디즈니

사랑이라 말해요 다시보기 1화~16화 (완결) 디즈니

사랑이라 말해요 다시보기 1화~16화 (완결) 디즈니

사랑이라 말해요 다시보기 1화~16화 (완결) 디즈니

During the Galactic Empire, he was an officer in the Imperial Security Service and is said to have led the Great Purge of Mandalore. After the fall of his empire, he faked his own death as having been executed during the Seganen War Criminal Trial, and rallied his remaining forces to become a morph himself. He operates a 546-class cruiser as his flagship, and when he comes down to the ground, he brings storm troopers, death troopers, and incineration troopers [2] under his command. He also has dozens of Dark Troopers on his cruiser.

He is characterized by wearing a black cloak and armor resembling Darth Vader's attire. He owns a dark saber, a rare lightsaber and the ethnic relic of the Mandalorians,[3] and also skillfully pilots a tie fighter. He is serious and charismatic enough to gather the remaining troops of the empire under his command, but he is cunning and quick to turn his head, driving the main character, Din Jarin's party, to death several times. He is also shown to be good at plotting, turning the tide of battle by spreading alien plans to his enemies.

He is also quite capable of wielding a dark saber for a normal person without the Force. He is a warrior with considerable prowess and competes with Dean Jarin, who is even wearing Beskar armor, to some extent, and even if he is tied to a wire for binding that Dean fires, he can swing his dark saber in an instant to cut it off.[4] This is quite a big deal, because in the Book of Boba Fett, Dean Jarin and Faz Vizla tried to handle it only by force, so they couldn't use the darksaber properly and complained that it was heavy. This nobleman wielded such an extraordinary weapon at will. However, given that there are descriptions that seem a little difficult to handle, it is possible that this is a setting that has been discussed before. Appears from Chapter 7. Upon confirming that Dean Jarin is where the client is, 6 death troopers are sent to purify the client and his remnant stormtroopers, and a large force of stormtroopers [5] surrounds the main character's party. And he too arrives in an Outland TIE Fighter.

Afterwards, as Griff Carr, Kara Dune, and Dean Jarin call out their names and actions, Dean realizes that he is Gideon. According to Dean, Gideon was an ISB officer during the Galactic Empire, and led and executed the Great Mandalore Purge. Kara denies his survival, claiming that he was tried and executed for war crimes with the fall of the empire, but Dean says he is certain, seeing that Gideon knows his name.

Then, suddenly, IG-11 suddenly jumps out and starts slaughtering the stormtroopers, and even Dean gets into the fight and the tide is about to turn. In response, Dean aimed the E-WEB blaster cannon at himself, and with cool and quick judgment, he shot and exploded the generator before he could pull the trigger.[6] As Kara and the others retreat into the building, dragging the mortally wounded Dean, Grif sends incineration troopers to burn them to death.

However, when the flames of the incineration troopers are useless due to the baby's use of the force to protect Dean, he later appears riding a TIE fighter and opens fire on Dean's party, who were escaping through a drainage ditch. Soon after, Dean flies up with the jetpack he received from the armorer and clings to the TIE fighter with a rope launcher. Gideon tries his best to drop Dean, but fails. Eventually, when the bomb Dean attached to the solar panel pylon exploded, Gideon fell helplessly into the lava field.

[emperor-palpaminty]

May I request this prompt for Tech, please, though solely in a more tender, gentle and caring way? Not a smutty take on it, please, that's not really for me, sorry :(

"undressing your love interest, having to tend to their wounds, trying not to gawk their chest but failing to do so" (though more gawking at the wounds and previous scars Tech has?)

I am just a softie for the Batch being taken care of!

And on terms of Tech, Imperial or normal Tech, whichever you prefer! Thank you so much! And congratulations on finishing your semester!

Ah thank you love!! <3 I love your request. I suppose I did a lot of romance/smut, didn't I? I should have been more considerate anon! Apologies! However know that my inbox is open to prompts that do not need to be romantic/sexual in any way! i hope you like angst!

Warnings: There contains nudity, but it is in no way sexual! there are mentions of wars, wounds, and scars, and a lot of crying. If this fic is not your vibe then I will see you next time, and I do not take offense!

Tech, at this point in his life, lost count of how many times he had gotten into the bacta tank. He would allow it to swallow him, drown him in it but survive. The substance was sweet, sticky, with a stench of medicinal qualities.

Overall, Tech thought as his eyes remained closed and he floated in nothingness, there was not much he could do. 

Hunter was probably two tanks over- it always went in the order of their batch-age. Then Wrecker, himself, and Crosshair. Tech felt his eyes flutter open briefly, just so he could swivel his head and check.

As always Hunter was stiff- corpse like in a vat of blue, face upwards as he soaked. Probably put under again. Wrecker was curled up, as much as he could be at least, in somewhat of a crude fetal position, shuddering on occasion as the bacta ate away at his wounds. He didn’t have to even look at Crosshair to know that his brother was resigned to the tank. He had stopped fighting it a long time ago.

Tech blinked again. The bacta didn’t hurt his eyes, but they stung briefly.

A white coat stood in front of him, arms crossed over their convexed frame as they stared up at him. The details were blurry but Tech didn’t need to see to recognize the medic. Slowly, he pressed out a hand against the glass, smooth under his palms as the shape of their hand passed over the other side. He could not move far, given the breathing mask, but that barriered touch still made him exhale, softly, the bacta burning in his chest as he sat in the cold blue and waited. 

Again.

---

He awoke on a cool bed this time. Well, more like a cot. 

He tried to sit up but a hiss escaped him as his ribs groaned. “My glasses-”

“The Kaminoians are making you new ones. The last ones cracked really bad.” The medic stated, the voice soothing. Tech laid back and tried to stare at the ceiling, attempting to make out the shapes. The steps were harrowing and soft as the medic came back over, sitting down, and he smelled the backa gel. Tech flinched, but the medic shushed him quietly. “It’s okay. I’m going to do it.”

Tech licked his lips. They tasted sticky and artificially sweet. “The medical droid-”

“Tech.” The voice was weak. Broken. Splintered. “I want to. Please.”

Please.

Tech nodded, quietly, allowing the doctorly hands to allow him to sit up. Their gaze pressed on his chest as he sat up, and he leaned forward. The weight shifted to behind him and the medic began softly rubbing the bacta-gel into his back.

The silence was stretched between them.

“So,” Tech cleared his throat. “Like what you see?” He shifted on the sheets as a hoarse chuckle emerged. 

The medic didn’t speak, but the laugh was enough for him. He relaxed as much as the numbing and biting woulds would let him, feeling the medic’s eyes rove over his body as the balm soothed his wounds’ worries, even over the old scars.

There was a soft bump on Tech’s back, and the Medic’s arms wrapped around him. “Why?” The whisper was even more shattered, and ten times louder than a war cry.

Tech sat, hunched forward as the medic leaned into him, waiting for the bacta-gel to heal him. The process, the scars, the wounds would repeat themselves the next day, and the next mission, until the war was over.

At his point, he exhaled and his chest sagged hollowly, with the squeeze of the only loving arms present, he doubted the war ever would actually end for him.

[misselko]

Got this idea from Dimitri’s conversation with Byleth before Fort Merceus battle with the Death Knight. Put some angst, fluff, and a pinch of smut spices into the dish and let it simmer down! At least, that’s what I want! But it turned out... different ;) Sorry not sorry

This one took me some days to write. I hope you enjoy it! Please feel free to give me some advice and ideas for my next fic! Your warm comments will be cherished very much 💕 Thankies!!

 

RECKLESS

Genre: Angst, Fluff

Warnings: Mention of blood, violence, smut

Words: 3316

 

POST TIMESKIP

Empire will be the only remaining enemy and to move on to the Imperial Capital, Enbarr, capturing Fort Merceus is a must. Praised as the strongest defense with its fortified military installation  in the Empire, seizing it won’t be an easy feat.

Liberating Arianrhod, calming down Holy Kingdom of Faerghus political issues, winning over the Leicester Alliance and gained their support. Getting a lead on Lady Rhea’s location. Although things were a rough go, but thinking back on it now, Blue Lions sure has really come a long way. Things have been wonderful in these past moons that it almost feels like dream too good to be true.

You don’t know why but you can’t shake your uneasy feelings and dread. War is raging and everyone knows there is a big battle on the horizon.

“We must not falter in our assault. The Death Knight is the enemy commander in Fort Merceus. He’s an unpredictable opponent. A dangerous one. Please proceed with caution, (Y/N).”

“I will, Dimitri. No need to worry.”

“I have not come this far just to lose you here. I’m serious. Do not be reckless out there.”

“Will you save me if I’m in trouble?”

“Of course, (Y/N). You were the heart of the Blue Lions, and the same holds true for the Kingdom Army.”

You smiled at his concern and hold his hands gently.

“I will do my best as well to support you, my Dimitri.” His cheeks turned into rosy blush at your words.

 

“Whoaa!! You’re getting pretty chummy, aren’t you, Your Highness? Go get a room!” Sylvain winks and got punched HARD, dragged away by Ingrid. You make mental notes on giving her a delicious roasted meat from that famous new shop in the town later as your gratitude. Serves him right!! ...But you wouldn’t trade them for anything in this world. Everything will be alright with them. Blue Lions are your precious family. It will be fine. Everything will be fine.

---

Capturing Fort Merceus is a daunting task. Endless enemies are approaching and relentless. Felix and Sylvain are working together cut through the snipers and mages. Ingrid and Ashe are doing their best to handle the pegasi knights. Dedue, Annette, Mercedes, and Flayn makes great combo on cutting through enemy reinforcements while providing healing to everyone. Slowly but sure, you and Dimitri managed to push Death Knight on the corner. But it doesn’t make things less difficult for both of you.

 

“You dare stand between me and my pleasure?”

The beginning of it was barely a bellow that grew steadily to a deafening roar, piercing the air and shaking the ground. Areadbhar crack in deafening clash against Death Knight’s Scythe of Sariel. They raised their weapons, waving them overhead.

 

“Yes. I dare stand against you, Death Knight!!”

 

Dimitri decides to face Death Knight head on as you tried your best to keep his back safe from the Imperial soldiers assaults. Keeping a close eye on him... just in case, following from a few meters back, cover his blind spots that way, look out for any potential danger. You could see them coming around, carefully and quietly trying to find their way to Dimitri.

 

Landing sharp blows, you bring the blade down on the head of another mage. Slashing your way through numerous enemies, you start to feel fatigued. Countless enemies lying dead behind. You looked around, among the sea of red and black, a swordmaster is sneaking his way behind Dimitri, ready to ambush him.

 

But you wouldn’t let it happen!

 

You were fully offensive, rapidly swinging your sword down on the swordmaster. You were able to deflect, parry, and block most of his attacks until his foot swept across your ankles, knocking you hard to the floor. The swordmaster stood above you, ready to press his sword into your chest to end your life. Fatigue made it harder for you to evade his deadly stab completely. Sound of a weapon piercing through flesh filled your ears, followed by an intense pain in your side. He pulled it back out with a triumphant smirk on his face. Despite the searing pain, you made it in time to grab your own weapon and thrust it up to his neck, your arms shaking as you tried to counter the weight of his attack. Grimace crossing your face as he fell, blood painting the earth a sick shade of red.

 

You sat up, wincing at the searing, burning hot pain on your side. The stab wound was way too deep. Your hands trembled, desperately attempting to put pressure on the wound as heavy flow of your blood is trickling through your fingers, colors your skin and clothes. The world had turned blurry, and your body felt weak. Ignoring the excruciating pain, you rush forward to help Dimitri. He has won against the Death Knight. But in his brief reverie, the Tempest King failed to notice two opposing snipers are approaching him, expression intent to kill, aiming their arrows at his back.

 

You acted on instinct, rushing forward, sprinting to intervene. To protect him.

‘We have been through so much together and he’d been through hell and back... I want to ease his pain. Knowing he’s safe... I can be at peace.’

You thought to yourself, launching forward. You barely has energy to stand up, but you tried to muster your last remaining strength to dove in before Dimitri. The arrows managed to easily make it’s way through your armor, landing in your chest and abdomen. ‘I have no regret when it came to protecting Dimitri.’

 

Your body slammed hard on the ground, careening across the battlefield. A sharp cry pained noise escaped you; that was all it took. Dimitri stiffened at the sound. It pulled him from the high of the battlefield down to reality in an instant.

 

“(Y/N)!!!”

 

He turned; filled with horror and rage. The fires blazing around him didn’t give off any heat. The battlefield around him turned black and white. His ears were ringing as if he’d been caught in an explosion. Dimitri went after the snipers and thrust them both at their hearts. After a quick glance to make sure no more surprise attacks happen, he kneels and pulling you into his chest. You looked so small, felt so limp that it sickened him. Broken and battered with littered scars and large wound on your side. Arrows jutting out of your chest, much too close to the heart, and another one lodged deep in your abdomen.

 

Dimitri watched as the blood pooled around you. Blood... there is so much blood. Your blood.

“Goddess... what were you- MERCEDES! FLAYN!! SOMEONE...HELP!!”

 

He pulled himself up, beside you, staring at your face. You were so pale. Oh, Goddess, you were dying. Were you already dead?

“I’m sorry.” There isn’t a reason to apologize, you aren’t sorry, but it still came out like the blood that is on Dimitri’s hands now.

 

“Don’t you dare apologize to me right now,” his voice choked off in his throat feels raw with emotions, barely able to hold back the sob which demands to escape, “not when you are like this. What were you thinking, (Y/N)? You have promised me to not be reckless.” He phrased it in a question, but both know why.

 

“Y-You... haven’t seen the... swordmaster... and those snipers. Y-You...were going to die...if they attack you. I want to protect you.... and I don’t regret my decision.“

 

You opened your mouth to speak but immediately coughed, feeling globs of blood on the corners of your lips. Dimitri gripped your hand, his hold so tight that it hurt, but you wouldn’t waste your breath on telling him. You could barely see Mercedes scurried over to your side as quickly as she could, Flayn follows behind her, leaving the Death Knight behind with tears running down her cheeks.

 

“Please stay awake for me a little longer, please.”

He choked out, pulling you closer if possible as it would keep you from leaving.

 

The chaos around you went mute as your eyes grow heavy. Maybe a quick nap would suffice.

 

“No...no, no, (Y/N)!! You can’t do this to me, you can’t-! Please, (Y/N), I can’t lose you too.....”

 

You felt like you were fading, and the sounds around you faded along with your hazy consciousness. You fell asleep.

---

Every second was filled with anxiety; you’d lost so much blood. The wounds were too deep to heal completely. There was little to no possibility of survival. Not after what you’d been through.

The days turned to one week, then two...then three. The physical wounds had healed, mostly repaired and faded to scars. There was potential for things to return to normal, and you may wake up sooner rather than later.

When you opened your eyes again, you found yourself in a dimly lit room, your upper body covered in bandages. The first thing you’re aware of is a dull throb radiating throughout your entire body. You were confused, and moved your head, unintentionally shifting your body and sending a wave of pain through your chest and stomach as you tried to get up. You closed your eyes tightly in response to the return of extreme pain, much worse than you had ever felt before. With much struggle, you sat on the edge of the bed shakily trying to stand up. The door creaked open and you looked up to find Dimitri peering inside.

 

”You’re awake,” he said, a look of surprise on his face. You tried to stand up and walk to him but failed, Dimitri ran in and caught you before you fell over. “I thought I was going to lose you, (Y/N),” he said, lifting you up effortlessly, settling you gently onto the bed and pulled up a chair. 

 

As cautiously as you could, you managed to sit yourself up. You kept a careful eye on the young king, noting how dark the circles under his eyes have become and how hollow his cheeks have turned. The fact that rest had eluded him for however long you were unconscious was as plain as day.

 

“You nearly died because of me. I have no right to be... you of all people shouldn’t-!” He managed to say, his voice shaking as his fingers trembled.

His head shot up to look at you, cerulean blue eyes dampened by tears that pooled in them. Your eyes were open, though weakly, looking at him and his disturbed state. You sensed his worry, but also his relief as he hovers next to your bed, engulfing you in his embrace and squeezing you against his chest for all he was worth. He was mindful of your wound, but that wasn’t enough to keep him away. No, he needed you. He needed to be beside you, to feel you, to know you were there.

 

“I’m okay, Dimitri...” You whispered, resting a hand on his chest where his heart thundered. You closed your eyes against him, relishing the feel of his tender warmth.

 

You felt how hard and rapid his heart was beating, almost deafening. Your arms wrapped around his heaving back weakly, rubbing it soothingly. He pulled you closer in response—closer, closer, closer, until every inch of you was smothered by him. Hesitant, trembling fingers graced your tightly wound bandages and you felt something warm and wet splatter onto your exposed shoulder.

 

"I could not stand to lose you,” he spoke slowly, holding your hands so tight that it hurts.

“But I fear that I may if I tell you what is on my mind.”

 

His voice was as quiet as it could be and it made you frown your eyebrows in worry. You were happy to see him alive, that was your goal when you decided to protect him from the approaching enemies. However, seeing him so distraught and afraid twisted your insides uncomfortably. The way he held your hand so desperately, afraid to let go.

 

“Dimitri.” You call him quietly, which makes him look at you with those gorgeous eyes of him.

 

You move your hand to his cheeks, caressing his soft skin, trying to bring him even the tiniest amount of comfort. Leaning to give him a soft chaste kiss on his lips. He reciprocated by open-mouthed kiss you with such fervor. There’s an undercurrent of desperation in the way Dimitri kisses you, as if this is the last moment he’ll ever feel it. It’s almost as if it pains him to be this close to you. You were alive, yet he couldn’t help but doubt it. Perhaps it was once again due to the vicious noises he still heard, though faintly. However, he was glad that they allowed him this moment of happiness.

 

“I won’t leave you, Dimitri.” You promised between ragged breath, your chest heaving.

 

“We are so close to ending this. Please, promise me you’ll stay safe. Rest, for now, my beloved.” Leaning down, he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, holding your hand to his chest. “I promise, I will never let you be hurt for my sake again.” Covering you with a  blanket  and tucking you into bed to retire for the evening.

---

After your awakening, the Blue Lions and Professor began incorporating regular infirmary visits into their schedule. They showered you with kind, encouraging words and occasionally bore small gifts (flowers and snacks), always encourage you to get better soon. But your most frequent visitor of all was your beloved gentle king.

It was two weeks since you have gotten better. Mercedes promised to take care after your bandages this evening.

“Are you ready, (Y/N)?”

You met Mercedes’ warm gaze with your own. With a firm nod, you replied, “Ready as I’ll ever be, Mercedes.”

 

The healer moved closer to you, her skilled hands undoing the set of bandages for the last time. Dimitri averted his frantic eyes to the wall when the dressing loosened just enough for your breasts to peak through. A cold, unforgiving breeze whipped the newly exposed skin, jolting a shiver down your spine. Mercedes sighed, slowly traced the scars your chest and stomach.

“I’m sorry but we will never be able to remove the scars. The wounds all healed, but... the scars will never go away completely. I’m sorry (Y/N).”

 

Your eyes immediately flashed over to Dimitri’s stiffening frame.

“It’s okay. I will never regret such a thing.” You smiled, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear.

“Do you need anything else, (Y/N)?”

“No, I’m all good, Mercedes! Thank you for your help.”

“All right, then. Annette said that she needs my help with her baking this evening. We have to finish it before midnight! Should you need anything, please feel free to call me.” Mercedes gave you last smile before excusing herself politely from your quarter.

 

“Dimitri.”

His jaw clenched tautly; his eyes crunched into a pain-stricken wince. Refusing to look at your scar, a harsh reminder of his failure.

“Look at me.”

He stilled and won’t budge to look at you.

 

“I will never regret nor blame you for this. It was my decision and if it means saving you, I’ll gladly do it again in a heartbeat. Or... perhaps.... I can understand if you find that my... scars are disgusting, appalling, even....” you whisper softly, almost inaudible. Your surroundings whizzed right past you before you were unceremoniously slammed into your bed.

“DON’T SAY SUCH THINGS ABOUT YOURSELF!!” He growled “I will not allow you to throw your life away for me. If.. If something ever happen to you.. I’ll live a life worse than death itself, (Y/N).”

 

Not a moment later did you feel something warm and soft press against your lips. His mouth moved awkwardly yet full of affection. Hands planted  on either side of your body, ridding any hope of escape from his ravishing kisses. Dimitri pressed his lips further into yours, swallowing your moans. His lips left yours to trail down around your neck, breasts, and stomach lovingly. “This wounds... I cannot lose you again, my beloved.” His body quivered.  The King kissing the scars on your cleavage and abdomen, worshiping them reverently with tender touches, almost like touching a porcelain doll. Afraid to break you with his almost inhuman power. Biting and sucking wherever his heart desired until you were covered in nothing but love bites, leaving you a panting mess.

 

Dimitri held you in his arms, stroking your hair and mumbling whispers of ‘I’m sorry’. Bittersweet smile formed on his lips. He gazed at you, eyes lidded with desires and need, mixed with guilt and love. “(Y/N)... My beloved...” You pulled away slightly to look up at him and smiled.

“Dimitri...” You cupped his cheek in your hand, in which he immediately melted into.

“I love you, Dimitri.”

 

He blushed at your words, then it dawned on his realization. Suddenly becoming very aware of the... intimate position you were in. “Um, w-well...” As he came to his full senses he released his hands from you, as though from fire and stuttered, quickly pulling away from your panting form. He wasn’t making eye contact anymore, and you followed his gaze downwards on your body. Oh. Without the dreamlike stupor a d hazy feeling to distract you, you realized just how naked you are. Nightgown pooled beneath your waist. Feeling an onset of bashfulness, you also brought an arm up to cover as much of your chest as you could; despite what you had just done with him, the reality of the situation was catching up to you.

 

He flinched, breaking eye contact and rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Ah—Urghh!!! I’m sorry, (Y/N)!! I don’t know what came over me but.. but... P-Perhaps we should... stop... before it escalates any further...” The King unclasped his furred cloak hurriedly and put it over your naked body unceremoniously, hiding his flushed crimson face in his hands again, absolutely brutalized with shame. 

 

“Er.. Be certain to rest for now. We may have undone some of your healing.” Then he said hurriedly, almost inaudibly. “When your strength returns to its fullest, we can pick up where we left off. I promise.”

 

“Fine...” You giggled, finding his attempt at being serious too adorable. The heat and passion was still very visible in his eyes, and it was obvious that anymore teasing on your end would send him over the edge.

“Thank you for this lovely evening, Dimitri.”

You pulled his hand to your lips and give each of his fingers soft kisses, gazing at him lovingly. Dimitri’s jaw and pants tightened, the poor king desperately clinging onto the last thread of sanity and reason which threatened to snap at any moment.

 

“Good night, my beloved (Y/N).” Casting one last glance at you and bashfully looking down when he caught your eye, the Blue Lions Leader left with a haste that was probably unbecoming of a gentleman, his long legs taking the steps to the second floor dormitory two at a time. He somehow,  somehow  managed to reach his room without incident or interruption, locking his door behind him, leaning back against it and covering his burning red face with his hands. His body felt like it was on fire; nerve endings alight with sensations he had long believed were dead.

 

The pit of his stomach tangled in knots when he thought of (Y/N). All he could think about was your pure unadultered love, beautiful (E/C) that is gazing at him affectionately. Goddess, he was such a sinner. It made him want to put his hands on you. All over you. Repeatedly. Savoring the taste of your lips as you moan into his mouth. Feeling your warmth and love. Unclothed. His mind is running wild. This frantic sensation in his blood, while half-forgotten, was not new. It will be another sleepless night for the poor king. And it’s all because of you.

[allronix]

Carth and Force Sensitivity (crossposted from Reddit r/kotor)

This is for @k-she-rambles:

Okay, so while we're shooting the bantha crap over on KOTOR fan theories, u/134340Goat mentioned my all time favorite "Have you been chewing spice?!" fan theory when it comes to KOTOR: Is Carth Force Sensitive?

So this one starts with a story. I mentioned my brother in law, who is pretty much Keeper of the Jedi Archives. Seriously, he's an English teacher and my sister is a librarian. They met at a sci fi convention and their first date was Phantom Menace. We're taking not just geeks, but geeks who can throw the damn bookshelf at you. Brother in law bought KOTOR on the day it launched and turned it into a week long binge watch at his house. And because brother in law is that kind of geek, he's translating the characters into the West End D6 system. I'm watching him do a playthrough, and he's got Canderous and Zaalbar at Ajunta Pal's tomb.

Allronix: Huh. That's odd. Why aren't commenting on anything when Ajunta is speaking?

Bro in law: Oh. They can't even see Ajunta. You have to be Force Sensitive to see a Force Ghost The stronger your Sensitivity, the better you can see it.

Allronix: Really? Then how come Carth can see it?

Bro in law (gets the "holy shit, I gotta confirm this" look): Really?! He just sees something out the corner of his eye or something?

Allronix: No, he sees Ajunta just fine. Understands what the dude's saying too.

Bro in law instantly rolls back to his last save, swaps Zaalbar for Carth, and sees the bit in question.

Bro in law: Oh. Dear. (Goes over to make some quick scribbles on Carth's character sheet)

Okay, so maybe that was a lore fail. I didn't really think about it too much until I hit that False Level Up glitch and ran around with Carth and Mission as Sentinels. Now, while I couldn't really see Mission as a Sensitive, that little bit with my bro in law nagged at me. And became a "once you see it you can't unsee it." Apologies to TV Tropes, where some of these were my additions to the Wild Mass Guess entry on this topic.

Any one of these on its own is pretty easy to blow off. After all, man is career military, and knows All this Shit is Weird. I also like to think of Sensitivity as a spectrum and not a switch. If all life is connected by the Force, then all life would be Sensitive to some degree or another. It’s just a matter of to what degree. It’s only as the list gets longer and longer does the case start looking damning...

What are the odds of surviving that attack on the Endar Spire, getting to the escape pods, sharing the last escape pod with the mindwiped Sith Lord, piloting through the chaos, landing in what passes for the "good" part of town, remaining uninjured, pulling the badly injured mindwiped Sith Lord from the wreck, evading Sith detection while all this is going on, and just happening to find a dump of an apartment where the landlord's not asking questions? That is one amazing string of coincidences and good luck. Get that many in Star Wars, and it's definitely The Force sticking its nose in things.

Piloting the escape pod to land in the Upper City, piloting the Hawk through the Sith Blockade of Taris, the random Sith patrols, the escape from the Leviathan, and the fleet around Lehon along with the crash landing that left the ship easily repairable. Now, compare to Atton who we know to be an excellent pilot and drawing on The Force who still manages to crash the ship at least three times.

He's a scary good judge of character if you're interacting with other NPCs. If you watch him with other NPC characters, he's got a pretty good compass as to which characters are being helpful and which ones are full of shit. The only one he calls incorrectly is Rukil, who is probably also an untrained Sensitive (the age, the "marked" comments) and half senile, which is probably throwing him.

Related to that, his distrust and wariness about something not adding up with the PC, the Jedi Council feeding the party a line of bull, that things just aren't adding up. And on all of it? Dead on. He's 100% right about the Player Character, he just expected something a little less crazy than "that's Darth freaking Revan."

If you play Female Revan, then Carth's the one who gets fried in the torture cages on the Leviathan. Saul comments how strange it is that Carth takes so much punishment and still remains conscious. Now, this is a low level thing, but in lore, Force Sensitives have drawn on it to keep them alive or conscious under duress. Explicitly, the first sign we got that Leia was a Sensitive when she withstood the Imperial torture droid.

Another of his scary ass judge of character feats? In the comics, Zayne (who is on the run from the Jedi, who framed him for the murder of his classmates) has a vision that Mandalorians are coming for Serroco. Saul? Laughs it off, throws Zayne in the brig. Zayne's own friends don't even believe him. Carth gets one of those creepy hunches and starts calling in "duck and cover" sirens as far as he can broadcast, which sends seventeen cities and millions of people heading for shelter. It saves their lives and Carth is called a hero for it. Armed with another hunch, he disobeys Saul (remember this is before Saul nukes Telos) and lets Zayne "escape" from custody. Mind you, not even the Jedi or his party members believed Zayne. Carth did.

Carth makes a lot of creepy weird offhand predictions about the future. He says he knows on some level he'll be there when Saul dies. That certainly pans out. He makes an offhand prediction that the Jedi have set the party up to take a fall. Right again. He tells a female PC that she'll have to make a choice soon, one she can't walk away from. And then we get the temple top. He even blurts out that "I sensed you would have to make a choice soon, and that was it*, I can feel it!"* If you specify a LS Female Revan, his recording for T3-M4 says he's had a hunch Revan would leave without warning. Again, spot on.

Specify a LS male Revan, and Carth will remark to Bastila that seeing the Exile reminds him "there are worse things to lose." The only other people who can see just how screwed up the Exile is are the Jedi Masters, Chodo Habat, and the Force Sensitive party members.

Specify a LS female Revan, and Carth will insist that he would know if Revan were dead (again, scary ass intuition) and that there's an "emptiness" where she used to be. Now, remember one of the things about a broken Force Bond? It would simply be "empty, a wound."

You know how your party members in KOTOR 2 feel upset or even horrified as they realize they feel compelled to protect Exile and can't being themselves to leave, even when said actions are kicking puppies? And how they swing wildly from being crazy, almost stalker level possessive of them to being scared out of their wits and clamming up when you try to pry anything out of them? And the more potent (and untapped) their Force Sensitivity, the more they get hammered with the effect? (Mira and Atton in particular) Yeah. Now, Carth's "I don't wanna talk" looks a bit different, doesn't it? It could also account for that romance arc, especially if you roll a DSF Revan and go for that "everyone dies" ending.

Again, Ajunta Pal. Seeing a Force Ghost? Yeah. Some degree of Sensitivity needed. Understanding what he's saying? Yeah. Takes a bit more than that. And Carth makes a weirdly insightful comment about the Dark Side on top of it.

Notice that this a wall o text argument already, and I'm now just getting to the "Yeah, his kid is able to throw around mid-level Dark Side powers and packing a red lightsaber." Given the jawline and the muleheaded attitude, no way Morgana was fooling around with the pizza delivery boy. That's definitely Carth's kid, and that's definitely Force Sensitivity. Now, while it can skip a generation (see Theron Shan), it tends to run pretty heavy in families.

Lastly? Gee. He comes from a planet settled by and heavily populated by descendants of Force Sensitives who failed their training. I'm also willing to bet some bastard children of Jedi get passed off as "foundlings" and "orphans" and dumped there, too. Jedi are forbidden attachments, but not sworn to celibacy, so...yeah, bastard kids are gonna happen. There's probably a Jedi or two in that family tree. It's circumstantial evidence at best, but it still supports the case.

Now, any arguments I missed? Counterarguments?

And the million credit question: If there's a character who gets to break this news to poor Flyboy, who do you think would actually take that on? How do you think Carth would take that kind of news? And what, if anything, would come of it?

I kinda figure Jolee might be the only one nuts enough to poke that with a stick...I also kinda figure "Sentinel" would fit best. Consular? Hell no. He hired Mical for that. Guardian works with the feats, but the whole "ferreting out deceit and injustice?" Yeah. That's Carth.

[too-lit-for-fanfic]

A Traitor In Our Midst

PART III OF III

PART I

PART II

PART III

And it’s done! What a wait! And for that we are very sorry. For a long time we just couldn’t finish this closing chapter in a way that felt right or akin to the characters and their little story so it has undergone several re-writes. This final part isn’t as long as those previous, or as technical, but we hope you enjoy! There’s fluff, so hopefully that makes up for it! Thank you everyone who has supported this little series! As always, constructive criticism is appreciated!

Summary: Cal Kestis x ex-Galactic Empire!OC, but can be treated like an x reader, ugly secrets from her past are resurfaced. In light of the truth Cal and crew no longer feel as if they can trust the newest member to the trio. Tempers flare, sacrifices are made, and the truth finally comes out.

Warnings: Torture is featured/referenced in this chapter so be warned. Angst, Blood, Violence, Swearing, Torture, Interrogation tactics, Emotional Manipulation, PTSD, Trauma

“...just to protect those who would never do the same for you?”

It had been two weeks since Aylin and BD had been trapped on the Star Destroyer, Cal and crew in the middle of negotiating with Saw Gerrera to organise a rescue mission, the stubborn man finally agreeing once it had been revealed BD had failed to return, the ship the duo had commandeered having been seized by the Empire. Cal, Cere and Greez huddled around the small monitor in the centre of the hull, deathly quiet as they listened to the conversation taking place between Second Sister and their former crewmate. On their rounds of the ship, BD had managed to return just in time to spot Trilla entering the prison cell, and now they waited anxiously, hidden under a series of shelves in the outward corridor. All three members of the crew looked positively sick, Cal in particular turning a ghastly pale as he held his breath, dreading the events to unfold.

“Oh isn't that just sweet.” Trilla’s shrill voice mocked lowly, eerily echoing down the corridor. “You really did care about them didn't you? Isn’t it a pity how they’ve left you here to die?”

“Fuck you.” Cal had to strain to hear Aylin’s response. She sounded weak, worryingly so, the venom in her words sounding as if it pained her to push it past her lips.

“You’re not denying it.” 

The silence that followed was deafening.

“That pretty red-head might have come to save you once, even I can tell you were very important to him-”

Cal involuntarily lurched at his mention, his muscles twitching so as to distance himself from the screen, an icy grip encasing his heart.

“Not anymore.” 

Cal physically felt his heart whither in his chest, his knuckles turning white.

“Not anymore.” The sick woman almost sounded joyful. “All because you were born on the wrong side of the war. How ironic, an unforgiving Jedi.”

‘oh force...’ Cal withdrew, his heart plummeting to his stomach as the words echoed around his skull. Greez’s clawed hand landed on his elbow in comfort but the redhead payed him no mind. ‘please say something’ he silently begged, desperate to know that Aylin didn’t really think the same of him.

She never responded.

“I can’t watch this.” The red-head made an effort to move away from the screen, fully intent on hiding in the shadows of the cockpit. The entire conversation felt like a knife to his heart, and it only became worse when he realised anything could have been happening behind those closed doors, and he was powerless.

“And Cere, she wouldn’t even come to save me.” - A muffled ugly gasp - “Why are you protecting those who would sell you to the order for far less?”

Silence followed, and the trio held their breaths. A strangled cry abruptly cut-off, Cal very nearly almost throwing up as a strangled chocking gasp broke the silence, the sounds of boots scraping and struggling against a metallic surface drowning out the conversation.

A sickening thud.

Murmurs.

Screams.

Another bang.

“No- PLEASE!” Shrill blood-curdling screams assaulted their senses, Cal flinching away from the screen. The trio waited a moment, Cal’s hands covering his mouth, agape with horror - the begging screams didn’t stop.

“We have to do something!” Cal burst, a red hue overtaking his sickly complexion, flinching again at a particularly desperate yell.

“What do you suppose?” Cere bit back harshly, the stress and helplessness of the situation fraying all of their nerves.

“Something! - Anything!” Cal racked his brain for a solution, the echoing screams resonating from the monitor throwing his thoughts into a frenzy. “We need to get Trilla out of the room. We need to get her away from her!”

“And how are we-”

“BD!” Cal lurches towards the screen, shaking hands frantically typing a message to the small BD-unit. “If we can just get her into the main hull of the ship, it would be perfectly reasonable for the trooper who requested her presence to have moved to a different location in the ship.”

“Cal, think about this-”

His hand hovers over the ‘enter’ button on the holopad. His wide bloodshot eyes searing a hole directly into Cere’s skull.

“What is there to think about?” As if on queue, another scream wafted through the monitor. That solidified his resolve, hitting the key before Cere or Greez could even blink, BD immediately setting into motion. 

The cell doors opened with a resounding hiss as BD finished inputting the code, the little droid rolling to the side to enter the cell. The sight that greeted the crew was worse than they could have possibly imagined. The young woman strapped to the table in the centre of the room resembled a corpse more so than the confident and head-strong blonde that had departed from their ship only two weeks prior. Her imperial jacket barely hung to her beaten and bloodied frame, the torn and tattered fabric had been roughly tugged from her torso, wound into a crumpled heap around her waist and elbows, bony shoulders jutting up through the ruins of a once white tank top, now stained crimson. With every breath her ribcage shuddered, ribs pressing against her beaten and sullied skin, protruding almost painfully with every twist and struggle, skin taught. Any part of her not covered in crimson was mottled in varying shades of black and purple, the angry discolouration winding around her ribs and disappearing behind the remnants of her undershirt.

Cal felt positively sick. Anger bloomed in his chest as despair gnawed at his stomach, bloodshot eyes transfixed on the image before him, the sound of blood rushing through his ears, and Aylin’s screams echoing through his mind drowning out the conversation taking place. A muscle in his jaw twitched and his knuckles turned white as he gripped the table ledge with all the might his exhausted muscles would allow, his breath clogging his throat and chest as he forgets himself, his one and only concern the one person in the entire galaxy who he couldn't reach.

Trilla hovers over her diminished frame, elbow harshly dug into the blonde’s exposed ribs, gloved hand wrapped languidly around a blade buried to its hilt, fresh crimson pooling along Aylin’s collarbone, spilling onto the table and then onto the cement floor, glistening sickeningly in the overhead lighting. Noteful of BD’s presence, his frantic panicked beeps finally reaching her ears amongst the screams, Trilla leans back, still leant heavily on Aylin as her cold amber gaze lands on the small BB unit, anger and frustration etched across her face. A sickening thud echoes around the metallic room as the blonde’s head falls back pathetically, unaware of the cause of the interruption. She looked barely conscious, beginning to dance across the line of life to death, who’s arms were already open and willing to hold her in their cold embrace.

With all the languidity of a senator, Trilla leisurely pulls the blade from Aylin’s exposed shoulder, leisurely wiping the blood covered blade on her tattered jacket, a cruel smile adorning her features all the while. Aylin barely moves, eyes half lidded and body slack, the only indication of life the erratic yet shallow rise and fall of her chest.

Her head tilts to expose more of her hollowed features, Cal’s horrified gaze locking onto her own, the breath he had been holding escaping his lungs and his shoulders falling with the guilt that clawed its way up from his stomach, a tangible trepidation reverberating throughout the force. What little fat she had possessed had surely withered away, her cheekbones appearing almost sharp underneath her taught and sunken complexion, ivory skin now pale and shining a ghastly yellow under the blaring overhead lights, a stark contrast to the maroon-dried blood coating her temple and jaw. Her bloodshot and sunken eyes blearily gaze towards the ceiling, no sign of the life that had once illuminated their honeyed depths, the life that had spilled from her being in abundance no longer to be found.

Cal’s focus finally turns back to the conversation at hand, breaths shallow, BD beckoned from the room with an indignant “Droid.”, the tall figure of the second sister glowering at them from the entrance of the cell, evidently annoyed at the intrusion. With one final glance BD reluctantly turns to leave the room, following the second sister dutifully in their search for the non-existent trooper in the main hanger.

Cal collapses onto a sofa across the room from the monitor, the horrific image of Aylin strapped to a metal table, looking closer to death than life, and drenched in her own blood, permanently burnt into his retinas. A sight to haunt him for a lifetime.

“Fuck Saw, we’re getting them both, tomorrow.”

----------

With little convincing Greez had quickly succumbed to Cal’s persuasion, the two men - after much deliberation and heated debate - had also successfully convinced Cere of their plan. Truthfully, Cal had been conjuring ways to coordination a rescue ever since Aylin and BD had been captured on the Star Dreadnaught, and as he prepared for the events of the day, no doubt entered his mind that their two companions would be with the crew by the end of the day. Companion - Cal almost scoffed to himself - the two were far more than that: BD, in many ways, had become a best friend to Cal in the past few years, the companionable little droid with a taste for adventure never failing to offer a sense of comfort and joy, even in some of Cal’s darkest times, in many ways resembling a younger sibling Cal had never before had the pleasure of having. Aylin, on the other hand, in the time the pair had known one another, had somehow wormed her way into the isolated Jedi’s heart, always offering her support in his times of need, encouraging him with his training through her self-proclaimed ‘tough-love’, becoming a source of confident resolve and rationality - a sense of stability in the ever changing galaxy. 

Cal remembered their many nights spent on some unknown planet, the pair sat beneath the many stars and moons of the galaxy, sharing tales long into the night. Cal had never had a relationship with anyone like the relationship he had formed with the stubborn blonde: heatedly sparring before patching one another’s wounds from the scuffle; longing glances spared with every tranquil moment, hidden behind excuses of exhaustion or a poorly constructed insult; grins and soft smiles shared over meal time or upon their own hidden adventures exploring new planets; a hand reaching out for the others in a busied market or times of comfort; an eye searching for the other in a crowded room; simply basking in one another's presence in the quiet hours of the morning, relishing every moment where they could just be. Cal knew he was a fool, a disgrace to the Jedi code he had spent his entire youth obeying like a holy script, he knew he was a fool the first time the enigmatic blonde had saved his life in her third month of joining the crew, standing over his tired and weary frame with a cocky smirk and a calloused hand outstretched, making some smart-arsed comment as she hauled him to his feet.

Attachments were forbidden, Jedi were trained from birth to let go of everything they were afraid to lose. And Cal? He was terrified to lose her - he had already broken his sacred vows, he had become attached, and he would be damned before he sacrificed one of the only things he was afraid to lose. He would never be a Jedi, yet perhaps that was okay, perhaps there was something more to this world that he had only realised upon stumbling across the Mantis and her crew. 

He had never been that dutiful of a Padawan anyway. 

The point seemed ever more poignant as his cerulean eyes stared conflictingly at the reflection in his mirror. No longer did he adorn the trusty combat trousers, baggy shirt, chest brace, not even his trusting poncho that seemed to make up his daily attire. Instead, a version of himself he had spent endless nights battling against stared back at him, the ironed and pressed midnight coloured uniform clinging to his lean frame. After a pit stop or two he had successfully acquired a knock-off Imperial General’s uniform, a notable fake with the lack of an aura emitting from the otherwise haunting apparel. Tugging harshly at the collar that bit into the skin of his neck, a habit he had seen Aylin recount numerous times in her preparation for the mission, his tired eyes trail over his figure, hoping to all of the stars and force wielders in the galaxy that his Master couldn’t see him now. 

He clears his throat to relieve some of the tightness that had gathered in his chest before he leaves his sleeping quarters, rolling his stiff shoulders as he makes his way into the main hull, lightsaber already hidden beneath his newly acquired jacket.

“So,” The red-head steps before Greez and Cere - already equipped in her own better-fitting storm trooper armour - who had been typing away to BD on the small holopad in the main hull. “How do I look?”

The pair glance up at the young man, Greez’s beady little eyes widening considerably, a good natured grin enveloping his face. 

“Kid-” Humour laced his tone, his dark eyes taking in the sight before him. “Let’s just hope you won’t be on that ship for too long.” In comparison to how Aylin’s uniform had fit her frame, Cal’s uniform may have well as swamped him, the thick fabric creasing at his waist, his belt fastened at the smallest capacity and yet somehow still too big, sitting notably lower on his waist than it should have, polished and barely scuffed boots a size too large, the one thing that actually fit being the pair of leather gloves over his shaking hands.

Everything just seemed slightly wrong, just a little bit askew, just a little bit... fake.

By all respects, Cal had certainly gone to the effort of impersonating an Imperial soldier, skin scrubbed clean of the dirt and grime of the galaxy, hair slicked back under a hat slightly too large for his head, he had even cracked into Aylin’s limited makeup supply and attempted to conceal the many scars he had gained through his years, as well as the stress-induced darkening bags under his eyes. The Empire wasn't him, and it was painfully obvious to all who spared him a second glance. 

“Say all you want, old man.” Cal jibes light heatedly, beginning to head towards the cockpit. “Have you forgotten your own disguise?” The redhead sends a pointed look in the direction of the shell of a modified astromech droid, the humour in Greez’s eyes quickly dying as his gaze lands on his ingenious costume.

“If I have to come and rescue you all in that thing.” Greez stares uneasily at his heavy, small costume. “You owe me a spa day.”

----------

After commandeering a small transport shuttle from a neighbouring planet with a rather small Imperial presence, Cal and Cere bid farewell to Greez, who was to remain with the Mantis and communicate with them through BD and the data pad.

“Be careful.” Cere warns, arms wrapped around herself as she watches Greez fiddle with some mechanisms on the inside of the ship with dull eyes. “We won’t be able to come and rescue you if you get caught.”

He waves her concern off with dismissal.

Cal appears next to her, materialising from the bowls of the Mantis, smoothing his jacket out once again. The older woman turns to the young man, barely out of adolescence, and feels the corners of her mouth tug down. This could go wrong, this could go horribly, horrendously, atrociously wrong, and with Cal’s loosening grip on his emotions, his anxiety rolling from him in waves through the force, chances of failure were ever high. Cal was only young, having grown up during some of the darkest known times of the galaxy, his future destroyed by a war begun before his birth, and now he was to be thrust into the heart of the conflict, into the home of those responsible for all of his suffering. Cal was a victim, just like all those who had lived during the raising of the Empire, his body and mind more marred and scarred than most, but he was a survivor, scorning and mocking the Empire with every day lived. Cere hoped he continued to be a survivor, one of the few specks of light in an ever darkening galaxy, yet this rescue mission threatened to snuff his light out for good.

Her mind wondered at the cause of the young man’s anxiety as she watched his hands tremble as he straightened his leather belt, surveying the pasty sheen of his skin and the poorly-concealed bags under his flitting eyes. As harsh as she had been on Aylin when her past had been revealed, it was undeniable that the two women had held a close bond, and secretly, even if she wouldn’t admit it to herself, Cere had missed the girl terribly, her own guilty conscious gnawing away at the edges of her conscious whenever she tried to rest. Last night had been particularly bad after the events that she had witnessed unfold on the small data pad yesterday afternoon, the image of her companion, beaten and bloody, a mere fragment of how she remembered the blonde girl on her departure. The image haunted her whenever her eyes had finally agreed to close - as obviously was the case with the redhead stood next to her, exhaustion palpable on his features underneath the mounting anxiety and adrenaline - the added guilt, knowing similar treatment would have faced Trilla due to her own selfishness, depriving her mind of rest, gnawing at her innards and haunting every fibre of her being. 

She hoped desperately for her crew to return, all of them safe, once again, in their home, the Mantis.

“Cal,” She turns to the tall red-head, hands gripping her arms more firmly, “I know what your goal is, I know how badly you want to bring her home.” The red-head watches her with steady eyes, shoulders raising in defence. “I want them home too, but- but please remember yourself. I can’t loose all of you.”

The sounds of the local wildlife and fauna fill the steady silence as Cal mulled over her words, hand running over the saber tucked into his side.

“Don’t worry Cere,” Cal begins heading down the ramp, taking long purposeful strides towards the Imperial ship, Cere’s more tentative steps following in his wake. “I’m going to make it back, and I’m bringing everyone with me.”

Cal didn’t know where the certainty had come from, his voice didn’t waver and his steps didn’t falter. He would do this. He would bring his two best friends back home, and one day he would make the Empire pay.

----------

“We’re here.” Cere slips out of the pilot seat, allowing for Cal to take her place, grasping her blaster in a vice-like grip as she sits stiffly towards the back of the shuttle. She watches as Cal heads to the front of the ship, manning the controls for their landing, frown deepening behind her helmet as the star destroyer encroaches, fear clawing at her throat with every memory resurfaced from the devastation following Order 66.

“We head out the Western exit of the docking bay when we land.” Cal rattles off, flipping some switches as their small vessel is pulled towards the star destroyer. “BD should meet us somewhere in one of the closest corridors and we follow them to the cell, remember to stay behind me, if you don’t they’ll know something’s wrong straight away.”

Cere watches as Cal’s grip tightens around the steering controls, leather gloves straining taught over his knuckles, a muscle in his jaw twitching as his eyes stare unblinking towards the star destroyer.

“Are you ready?” Her voice is stern -  shocking her with how it echoes back to her within the suffocating helmet - echoing around the small hull, yet Cal nearly doesn’t hear her, distracted with the storm brewing in his mind, consumed by a rising tidal wave of anxiety, determination and fear.

His eyes finally dart away from the destroyer, turning to glance at his companion over his shoulder, his blue irises red-rimmed and owlish in the overhead lights. The uncanny figure of a storm-trooper greats him, black visor reflecting his own distorted expression back to him from an impenetrable mask of white.

He nods lightly, determination sparking in his weary eyes, the collar of his jacket rubbing uncomfortably against his nape. There was no going back now, he couldn't go back.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

----------

Cal squints as he exist the transport shuttle, the overbearing overhead lights bearing down on his frigid frame, the jelled hair peaking form underneath his hat shining with every tilt of his head. The first foot fall on the metal floor seems to resonate throughout the entire hanger, vibrations wracking the bones in his leg, tremors coursing throughout his body and echoing in his ears as several troopers’ heads turn towards the new arrival. His breath catches in his throat and the courage in his stomach withers as he takes another feigned purposeful stride away from the comfort and security of the shuttle, and in towards those waging a war on the galaxy. With every feigned purposeful step shockwaves scatter throughout his tense body, the tension in the air threatening to suffocate him, his heart hammering restlessly against his ribcage and lungs struggling for breath as if he had just ran through the last twelve parsecs. His cerulean eyes lock on his exit from the hanger, offering him a brief solace from the white masks that consumed every corner of his vision, Cere’s steady footsteps behind him offering a further sense of comfort.

By the time the pair finally exit the hanger Cal can practically feel the sweat that had broken out across his body, swiping his forehead to rid of any precipitation that had gathered. His shoulders and spine ached with the effort he had put into maintaining his posture - much in the way he had watched Aylin enter the hanger only several weeks prior - and he couldn’t quite seem to catch his breath. Although on the outside he may have appeared like ay other Imperial General, cold, unpleasant, perhaps even bored or apathetic to all events that seemed to have been happening around him, inside he had never felt so rattled, his mind a muddled mess, his blood coursing with fear and anxiety which only seemed to mount with every passing second. The panic within thinly veiled with calculated disgust.

Almost as soon as Cal and Cere enter an adjacent corridor to the main hanger, BD comes scuttling around the corner, the pair not recognising the droid in its new round body - Cere’s gloved fingers wrapping dangerously around the hilt of her blaster - until its excited little beeps reach their ears.

“Buddy!” Cal’s facade cracks, grinning down at the little droid as he fights the urge to reach down and give them a hug, worried incase someone should see. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

The little droid, on the other hand, is positively ecstatic, practically vibrating on the spot in both glee at being rescued and frustration that they couldn’t jump straight into Cal’s arms. Truth be told BD had deeply missed their old body during their time stranded on the Dreadnaught. Not waisting any time the little droid rolls behind Cal’s trouser clad legs, ramming into his calves in an attempt to nudge him in the direction of Aylin’s cell and whirring heatedly.

“I know, I know.” Cal steps forward, resolute stature returning to his pale features as he prepares to round another corner. “We’re all going home.”

----------

Within minutes that felt like an eternity the three rebels found themselves amongst the holding cells, BD finally taking the lead to guide them to Aylin’s cell, his happy chirps long silenced as the three grew nearer, all three dreading the sight to await them. Much like when they first arrived, Cal felt suffocated by the pristine atmosphere that seemed to cling to his clothes and hair, dirtying his skin and clogging his throat. It felt fake... the whites and slanted greys, the cleanliness and order, the peace and harmony. The presented image of purity and order, worked into the very steel framework itself, felt so wrong and dirty with the suffering taking place throughout the galaxy at the hands of those that inhabited the ship. Cal could feel the misery and terror that emanated from the dreadnaught itself, seeping into him through the walls and floors, mixed into a terrible concoction with the pride and honour from the officials that walked those very corridors.

It was beloathed, and yet prideful.

Uncomfortably, it reminded him of Aylin.

The red-head tugged at the collar of his jacket as BD came to an abrupt halt at a large durasteel cell door, his mind thrust back to the present. His breath catches in his throat as BD scuttles forward to open the cell door, gloved hand wrapping around the hidden saber at his hip, listening for any approaching footsteps down the corridor. Truthfully, he felt a nervous wreck, the beads of sweat forming along his brow and his greying pallor more so linked to his worry for Aylin than anything else. He could fight if they were caught, and chances are, with both himself and Cere combined, they could easily commandeer an escape shuttle, but he wasn’t certain if he could recover Aylin from the state he had seen her in on the small holopad. At the very moment he couldn’t be sure, and a part of him, a cowardly disdainful part of his conscience, feared opening the cell door to confirm his worry, feared being faced with the broken shell of a woman he couldn’t save. Another person he had failed, a person who had saved him more times than he could count.

Perhaps it was love - his worry at knowing the truth, his fear of seeing the situation first-hand. Cal was ashamed to think such a way.

The cell door hisses open, cool air caressing his feverish skin as he steps through the threshold, the overpowering scent of antiseptic hitting him full force, yet the familiar metallic stench of blood followed. His breath remains in his chest as he takes in the sight before him. Bright eyes widening as they flit about the empty room, landing uneasily on Aylin’s still figure. Cal holds his breath, silently begging her to move, for her head to tilt in his direction, for her closed eyes to open, begging her to do anything at all.

“Aylin?” The word echoes around the room, Cal’s voice shaky and cracking around the word, his mouth parched like the deserts of Tatooine. Somehow his palms become even more clammy, and he tosses his gloves to the side without a second thought, small crescents visible in the palms of his hands from how he had clenched them on their short journey. He takes a small step closer.

She doesn’t move.

Cere watches him carefully from behind her helmet as he calls Aylin’s name again and steps further into the room, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. BD, clearly unsure of what to do, hovers around Cere’s ankles, little camera flickering between Cal and Aylin, a barely audible humming even sting from the little droid. She turns to the closed cell door, blaster gripped tightly to her chest, wary of an intrusion.

Things had barely changed from the last time Cal had seen the room through BD’s holopad projection and he was thankful to note that it didn’t look as if Aylin had sustained any more injuries from the day prior, however, that was hard to determine with the crimson that coated her body, undoubtedly hiding wounds from view. Cal stops next to the metal table, peering down at her sullen features, her sunken maroon-bagged eyes closed to the world, chapped lips barely parted. The holopad had failed to pick up many of the finer details, and Cal was horrified to see the blossoms of purple and magenta that littered her face and neck, a particularly worrisome lashing of purple winding around her throat - Cal noting with disgust it’s resemblance to a handprint. Her blonde hair appeared dull and lifeless, slicked back from her face and coated in sweat and blood, a small lesion at her temple and brow trickling into her hairline, pooling in the rivets of her angular features. Blood - darker, older - had been smeared across her cheeks and jaw, cracking along the lines of her face and flaking from her skin, leaving it stained red underneath.

“What did they do to you?” Cal questions softly, not expecting an answer. Gingerly he places his hand on her shoulder, careful to avoid any hidden wounds.

His heart almost lurches from his chest when she flinches from his touch.

“Aylin!” He almost cheers, glee coating his voice as he leans closer, a smile cracking his features. Slowly, weakly, her eyes flutter open, familiar hazel eyes squinting up at him through all the blood and gore. She looked exhausted, eyes red rimmed and bloodshot, her left eye only partially open. “Aylin, oh my force, it’s me. It’s Cal.” Lost in his own elation Cal fails to spot the weariness to her features, nor the way her gaze turns to the ceiling, vacant and unseeing. He reaches for the cuff around her wrist, but her hand jerks away from his touch. He pauses, forehead creasing. “Aylin, come on, its me, and Cere, we’re getting you home.”

Her eyes flicker to his for the briefest of moments, brightened under the harsh lighting. “Trilla,” Her voice is hoarse and weak, a husky whisper of what it once was, lined with guilt and exhaustion. She tilts her head away from the red-heads confused gaze, something awful gnawing at her stomach. “leave me alone.”

Silence consumes the room, Cal’s gaze landing on Cere who simply shrugs her shoulders in response. He reaches for her again, swiping a strand of hair from her face, hand retreating just as quickly when her eyes snap open in alarm.

“Aylin, its me, come on-”

“You’re not here.” She was trying to convince herself, not daring to allow her hopes to rise. She was in pain, she was beyond exhausted, and she was dangerously close to giving up, hoping for death as some sort of escape. “You’re not real.” She glances down to his hand that rests against her exposed forearm, mind barely registering the warm pads of his fingers pressing against her pulse. “Trilla, we’ve done this before. You’re a cruel woman.”

She glances away as pity overtakes his features, staring blankly at the ceiling, body slack against the tabletop. ‘We’ve done this before.’ Had Trilla done this before? How many times had versions of himself and the crew attempted to rescue her? How guarded had she had to be, not even trusting her own dreams for fear of revealing what she had tried to keep from those who sought to harm them. He was furious - the anger that had lapped up his throat all week rising like a tidal wave - and he would make them pay, but first he had to get everyone back.

“No, no, it’s us, it’s me. I promise it’s me.” He tries, attempting to scrub the makeup from his face, scars glossy under the harsh white light. He catches BD out of the corner of his eye. “Look!- We’ve got BD, we’re all going home.”

Finally she picks her head up, wincing at the effort. Her wide eyes land on the little droid across the room, mouth agape as the air leaves her lungs and her shoulder slump. Terror and disappointment gnaw away at her conscience, the familiar feeling of helplessness returning full force. “They found BD.” She mutters to herself, defeats palpable in her voice as she allows her head to fall back against the table, eyes glossy with unshed tears.

Cal, in a stressed panic, and unsure of what to do, reaches out through the force, attempting to project his memories, something no one else could possess. But, as he pressed forward a force stops him in his tracks, Aylin’s body tensing at a presence surrounding her mind. “I can show you, just let me- let me in.”

“No! No, no, no-” Cal had never seen so much fear in her eyes, and he withdraws, hands up in surrender.

“Okay, okay, I won’t, I won’t.” He quickly retreats as her panic rises, cuffs clanking against the table as she feebly squirms, force signature returning to his own aura, yet outstretched and welcoming, more than willing for Aylin to make the first move. He wracks his tired and frantic brain for a solution, her panic feeding into his own, not expecting her to have such doubts. They needed to be quick, he knew, but there was no way they could coax her out of the room in the state she was in. “I know you. I know things about you the Empire- that Trilla would never know. Do you remember that time on Hoth when I ripped a glove and almost caught frostbite, I’ve only still got ten fingers because you managed to skin that little creature. What about that time I accidentally singed some of your hair off with my saber when I tried to use it as a torch, I had to pay for you’re haircut afterwards and you got the most expensive treatment just to prove a point. I know you have two sugars in your tea but only every other day; I know you always insist on playing with your knives no matter how many times I ask you to stop; I know that you’re favourite game to play is blackjack because you can count cards and know how to cheat, like that time you scammed me for half a brownie.” He was getting emotional now, the stress and turmoil of the past few days causing unshed tears to gather, his knuckles turning white as he wrings his hands together. “I promise you it’s me.”

They’re in you head. Her conscience echoes, the blonde fighting back tears at her own failure. They know, they know everything. Trilla’s playing, she’s already got what she wants.

“You can’t be here.” He voice cracks and wavers, throat scratchy from misuse, her mounting emotions not helping. She wished he was here, with every fibre of her being she wished Cal actually stood before her, frown on his face and eyebrows knitted together in concern. It couldn’t be true. If he was truly here she might’ve cried, and if this was all another elaborate hallucination created by Trilla then she’d probably cry even harder. She so desperately wanted to go home.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to believe me, you don’t have to do anything.” Cal reaches again for the cuffs binding her hands to the table, one hand reaching for the saber at his hip. “But please let me help you.”

She doesn’t say anything as his hand wraps around her thin wrist, saber igniting   and casting blue light across the room. Within seconds both cuffs are cut from her wrist, falling against the table with a thud. She rubs her wrists gingerly, wincing at the cuts she has sustained during her stay. Grasping her forearm in a delicate grip, other hand sliding behind her shoulder blade, Cal eases her up, wincing at every gasp that leaves her lips. A jaw in his muscle ticks with every sound from her mouth, pity and fury blooming in his chest. 

“Agh-” She grimaces at the pain enveloping her side, ribs protesting against the movement, healing wounds reopening with every twist of her muscle.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Cal urges her on, arm sliding underneath her legs and behind her back, drawing her to his chest as he rises to his full height. Aylin’s head lolls against his shoulder, scared to hope any of this was real but revelling in the familiar warm comfort seeping from the redheads chest.

With a nod shared between `Cal and Cere they depart, deadly silent as they leave the cell, not a trace of their presence left behind. Cal glances down at the woman in his arms, beyond grateful to have her back within arms reach, satisfied with the knowledge no one would be able to harm her now. He had her and he wasn’t letting go.

Cere freezes in front of him, BD rolling into the back of her legs, and Cal’s heart stops in his chest. She urges him back, but as they’re retreating two troops round the corner, halting in surprise. Both troops helmets slowly turn towards the blonde nestled in Cal’s arms, and their blasters raise, shouting commands. Cal ducks as Cere fires, shielding Aylin as well as he could, BD taking refuge behind Cere’s legs.

Within moments the corridor plunges into silence again, two dead troops lain before the four rebels. Cere glances back to Cal, charging her blaster.

“Tell me if you need me to slow down.” And she runs, sprinting in the direction of the escape shuttles - just to the left of the hanger - with BD trailing behind, Cal sprinting to keep up. Rounding another corner he almost crashes into Cere who doubles back, the pair just managing to dodge out of the way of oncoming blaster fire as they disappear around another corner, the slap of their boots against the metal floor drowned out by the shouts of troops on their tail.

“We’re not far.’ Cere calls, throwing her helmet to the side as she gaps for breath, Cal only a few paces behind her. The pair, plus BD, emerge in a small hanger, smaller, more compact escape shuttles lined on either wall, a squad of five stormtroopers ready and waiting.

Cal’s eyes widen as he watches all five troops raise their weapons, heart plummeting to his stomach. There was nothing he could do, he just hoped they granted them death instead of subjecting them to the fate Aylin had been forced to endure. Cere reaches back deftly and grasps his saber from his belt, igniting the blade mere moments before the first blaster fires. She works in a blur, deflecting shot after shot, blue light cast across her features as she steps closer to the enemy, Cal and BD close behind. It wasn’t often the redhead was able to see Cere in combat, usually taking missions with the girl in his arms, and the skill she displayed, surely a product of the wisdom she had amassed over her years, was awe-inspiring. Every movement is precise, each twist and flick of her wrist purposeful, the weight of the saber in her hand appearing little more than a feather with the ease she displays. She deflects and a troop falls, killed by their own shot. 

Slowly but surely the trio make their way towards the closest shuttle, Cal and BD baking away into the ship whilst Cere remains on the defensive, deflecting shot after shot, a bead of sweat running from her brow. Cal places Aylin down on a small cot in the corner of the cramped shuttle, instructing BD to stay behind whilst he collects Cere, running to the boarding ramp, the sounds of blaster shots once again reaching his ears.

“Cere!” He shouts, hanging out of the shuttles door, unable to do much without a weapon. “Cere!”

The older woman retreats slowly, continuing to deflect as she backs up the ramp, the red-head scuttling to the front of the shuttle and switching the engines on, awaiting the sound of the door hissing shut before doing anything drastic.

“Go!” Cere calls and he immediately sets into action, flicking a switch to his right and grasping the steering in both hands, sighing in relief as the shuttle lifts from the floor, paying no mind to the blaster shots that ricocheted off the steelwork around him. Cere appears, clambering into the co-pilots seat, saber grasped tightly in her hand as the ship lurches forward, charging full speed out of the small hanger, Cal frantically inputting the necessary codes for hyperspace, hands flitting about the dashboard in a blur.

With one final lurch the shuttle departs, the red head sighing and collapsing back into the pilots seat, chest rising and falling as he revels in the safety of hyperspace, stars dancing across his vision and illuminating his weary features, the stresses of the day lifting from his shoulders as he watches galaxies stream past. But the day was far from over, and in moments he’s clambering out of his seat, mind once again consumed by the blonde that hadn’t left his thoughts for an eternity.

Leaving Cere in control of their heading Cal retreats into the cramped hull, making a beeline for the blonde huddled atop a thin casket, BD dutifully waiting by her side, camera trained on her intensely, and rolling anxiously from side to side. Cere stares after him, wanting to offer her services, but ultimately deciding to remain in the cockpit, radioing Greez back on the Mantis, knowing that the redhead needed some time with Aylin, alone. 

“I’m back.” Cal announces, sitting on the edge of the small cot, dropping a small medkit onto his lap the he had found in a compartment. His eyes land on the blonde’s pale face, eyes softening at the worry etched across her features, eyebrows knitted together in both pain and concern. He opens his mouth to speak, protruding a set of stims from the cluttered medkit. “I’m going to patch you up and then we’re going home. You’re safe, Trilla can’t get to you anymore.”

Aylin hums, head tilting to the side as she finally makes eye contact with the red head, looking as if she was only truly seeing him for the first time. Her eyes widen and her chapped lips part, a shaking hand reaching out to rest against his own, testing her own reality. Cal smiles softly as she watches him with curious eyes, shallow breaths parting her lips.

“Cal?”

“Yes,” his voice breaks as she finally looks at him, truly looks at him, hazel eyes brightening with every second, fighting back against heavy lids. “yes it’s Cal. We’re going home.”

A small smile fights its way onto her lips, although the joyous moment is broken abruptly, the smile quickly twisting into a grimace as her body finally begins to acknowledge the trauma it had endured, old and new wounds reopened in the frenzy to escape. Her eyes flicker, hand beginning to feel slack against his own. Cal pales, hurriedly uncapping the stim in his grasp.

“You stay awake, you hear?” He jabs the stim into her bicep, preparing the other one in his grasp. He had her, he couldn’t lose her now.

“It hurts.” Her voice is strained, a pathetic replica of her true nature.

“I know, I know it does. I’m going to make it stop, I just need you to stay here, stay with me.” Her eyes flutter again, and Cal is grasping at straws, digging through the medkit for something, anything that could work. The stims hadn't worked as he hoped and now he wasn’t sure what to do. 

“Hey- hey! You keep those eyes open. Don’t you dare-” Fear grips him like a vice. His blood running cold as he leans closer, both hands grasping her shoulders, uncaring for the blood that caked them. He felt helpless, utterly, hopelessly helpless. It had been bad when he had been forced to endure being trapped behind a screen, but oh, this was so much worse. She was right here, he could touch her, talk to her, feel her weak heart beating underneath his very own fingertips, and yet he couldn't do anything. “Look at me. Look. At. Me. I want to see your eyes. Come on.”

Try as she might, her body was beginning to fail and with every passing moment the darkness that had clouded her peripheral for the past few days encroached, the lights in the hull dimming and dimming, until all she could see was Cal’s hazy face staring down at her, his hands clasping either side of her face. “Please.” She couldn’t, her walls finally falling and mind succumbing to the rest it so desperately needed.

“Cere-!”

He sounded desperate. He sounded scared. And for the briefest of moments, Aylin felt guilty.

And then the darkness consumed her.

----------

Cal drifts in and out of sleep, dozing comfortably with his head propped atop a familiar cot in a familiar ship, hand delicately grasping another's with his legs curled under the old chair he had stolen, the hazy figure of Aylin comforting him in his peripheral. It had been a few hours since himself, Cere and BD had returned to the Mantis, patching up Aylin to the best of their ability before tucking her away in her room, on course to the rebel base in order to take up Saw’s offer of medical assistance once word had reached him of their rescue mission. Although Cal had arrived back to the Mantis full of energy, spurred on by his panic and worry for the girl who had practically collapsed in his arms, the hours and hours of stress had worn him down, the young red-head finally agreeing to catch some rest, but refusing to allow Aylin to leave his sight. 

In his half-conscious state, he fails to notice the way the blonde’s lips twitch and eyelids flutter, barely registering the way her fingers flex against his own as the darkness finally releases her, mind and body returning. Aylin stirs quietly, every muscle and joint aching, the soft fabric against her skin a welcome change from the metal table she had called home for force-knows how long. With every passing second her mind returns, cogs turning as the days events come back to her full force, the sight of Cal’s worried gaze seared into the back of her eyelids, her lips parting in a gasp and her body lurching up out of slumber. Her eyes snap open, crazed and panicked as they dart around the dimly lit room, a groan parting her lips as her ribs protest, the gaping wound at her side, now haphazardly wound in fresh bandages, protesting heavily agains the sudden movement.

Cal is startled awake, almost falling from his chair at Aylin’s abrupt movement hazy eyes fighting for clarity amongst his foggy thoughts. “Hey,” He mutters groggily, mind desperately fighting against the sleep that had consumed him only moment before, hands reaching out to grab Aylin’s shoulders. “hey, hey, hey. It’s me, Aylin it’s me.” Finally, the frantic woman’s eyes meet his own, her body relaxing into his touch as he gently guides her back down, the pads of his fingers digging into the exposed flesh of her shoulders. “It’s alright, you’re safe. I’ve got you.” She takes in a shuddering breath as Cal gently sweeps her messy bangs from her eyes, palm resting against her forehead a moment too long, simply savouring that she was here, she was back, she was safe.

Cal sits back in his chair once he makes sure she was okay and settled, fretting like a mother and readjusting her pillows and pulling the thin sheets back up to her chest, fingers smoothing out the white tank top she had been changed into. His cerulean eyes, still slightly blurry with sleep, never leave her figure.

“What happened?” Her voice was quiet, a mere murmer whisked away on the wind. She runs a hand along the bandages freshly wrapped around her shoulder, noting the wraps of gauze around each of her wrists.

“We got you. Cere and I, we went and got you. You were pretty beat up.” His voice cracks and he quickly clears his throat. Aylin pays it no mind, wide owlish eyes staring at him from underneath a pair of heavy lids. “We’ve fixed you up the best we could, Saw’s offered some rebel facilities if we need them.” The small room plunges into silence, neither of them glancing away, Cal’s thumb unknowingly rubbing circles into the back of Aylin’s hand. As an after thought he adds. “We’re at the other end of the galaxy, there’s no way they can find us here. You’re safe, you can get some rest.”

As if she had suddenly remembered, Aylin reveals her force signature, the walls that she had held around her mind - and that she had habitually rebuilt when she awakened - coming crumbling down. Cal watches her shoulders visibly relax as the final remnants of tension leave her body, allowing his own force signature to branch out, enticed yet apprehensive of the new presence.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” She mutters, eyes falling from his gaze.

“I get it.” He smiles softly, thumb continuing to run soothing circles on the back of her hand. As much as he may have been hurt that she hadn’t told him, he couldn’t deny that he understood why, the events of the last two weeks evidence enough of the consequences. “We can talk about it later, you need some rest.”

Silence envelopes the room, the pair simply content with one another's presence. Cal rests his head on the palm of his hand, eyes beginning to close once again, happy that they had a second chance. Undoubtedly the pair had much to talk about, the crew had to figure out how to move forward, but at least they had that chance. For a long time Cal had feared he would never get that chance and now that he had it, he was not going to let it go to waste. 

Things weren’t perfect, not by any stretch of the word, but the universe had given them the opportunity to try and make things right.

Suddenly, Aylin stirs again, wincing as she attempts to sit up, eyes wide and unblinking as they flit about the room. Cal’s hands shoot out again to stop her. “Where’s BD?” The urgency to her voice was hard to miss, resembling its older self. “Is he alright? Did you find him? I saw-”

“It’s okay, we’re all back. BD’ll be over the moon to know you’re awake, they’ve been peaking into your room every chance they get.” Cal coaxes her back down, more concerned with her reopening any of the wounds the crew had spent a painstaking amount of time trying to patch up than anything else. “And we managed to extract the information you both collected. It’s really going to make a difference.” He pauses, unsure of his next words, wondering how inappropriate they might be, unsure of how the blonde felt about him after her departure. “Thank you.”

Aylin smiles fondly at his worry, allowing him to secure her back in place, delighted that her earlier assumptions hadn’t been true, that Trilla wasn’t just playing some sick mind game, that BD was safe and sound, on the Mantis where they belonged. Then, the words fully register, and her forehead creases in confusion. “For what?”

Cal leans back in his chair, hands running through his disheveled hair, the bags under his eyes more visible with the guilt festering in his chest. “You didn’t have to do that. You could’ve let anyone go and collect the data, and anyone else probably wouldn’t have been in the same danger as you.” His bright eyes drift to the bandages wrapped around her shoulder, flitting across the many bruises visible just from her neck up. “But you did and I- thank you. Thank you for doing this and I know-” He was rambling now, his hands running through his hair as Aylin watches him, a small smile tugging at her chapped lips. “I know I acted like a bit of an ass before you left- and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He hesitates again, reaching forward to intertwine their hands, seeking comfort in knowing she was here, that he hadn’t failed her as he had done his master all those years ago. “I heard some of the things Trilla said to you, and I’m sorry you ever thought I wouldn’t come to get you. It was all I could think about since they caught you. Truthfully I don’t know what I’d do if I hadn’t gotten you back.”

The room plunges into silence once again, uncomfortable and stifling, Cal feeling overwhelmed at the emotions that echoed around him through the force, not daring to reach out to the blonde before him, fearful of what he might discover, fearful of heartbreak. Aylin gazes at the red head from under heavy lashes, weary eyes begging to close. The poor boy looked as exhausted as she felt, deep dark bags under his eyes, skin as pale as snow causing his scars to look red and glossy, highlighting the greyness to his pallor, his hair a dishevelled mess atop his head, tufts sticking out in every direction from the endless amount of times he had ran his fingers through his hair, tugging harshly at the roots in frustration. He had changed since she last saw him, donning a pair of cargo trousers and a comfortable sweater she had suggested he buy form a marker stall once, the navy material bunched up to his elbows, creased and crinkled from the stresses of the day. As tired as he looked and as rough as she felt, she doubted she had ever before been so ecstatic to see him, to see that he cared, even despite the truth of her history. Warmth spread from everywhere he touched, his soft touches and gentle caresses a stark contrast to anything she had felt before; it was everything she had hoped it could be. 

“I remember seeing you in that uniform.” Aylin whispers, daring to break the silence, exhausted yet hopeful eyes boring into Cal’s own. “I’m surprised they didn’t realise you weren't one of them sooner.”

He was taken aback at the abrupt shift in conversation, cerulean eyes boring into Aylin’s own hazel pair with curiosity, his mind reeling at the exhaustingly dazzling smile she sent his way.

“And why’s that?” He questions softly, thumb unknowingly continuing to rub gentle circles on the back of her hand.

“Your eyes.” Cal’s eyebrows knit together in confusion, beginning to wonder if she had been able to understand his words in her drugged state. “They’re too kind.”

A moments pause. Cal could feel the familiar bloom of heat along his cheeks spreading to his ears, he dreaded to think how flushed he must look.

“They didn’t match the uniform at all.”

“You’re obviously delirious,” he deflects jokingly, voice just as soft, warmth spreading through his cheeks and neck. “the uniform didn’t even fit-”

“The eyes are the window to the soul.” She mutters defiantly, determined even despite her dazed and exhausted state. “I’ve seen the eyes of some of the cruelest men and women in the galaxy. You’re too good for them Cal, you’re too good for us, you’re too good for me. I don’t know why you came to save me, but I can’t thank you enough. I never thought I would get to see your eyes again.”

Because I love you. He wanted to say, yet his mind wouldn’t let him, forcing partial truth from his lips.

“I was worried I’d never get to see you again.” Cal admits, leaning forward in his chair. “You have no idea how worried I was. You’ll be the death of me one day.”

His eyes study her face; the softness of her cheeks, the angularity of her jaw, the curve of her lips. His eyes flicker from her eyes to her lips and then back again, watching a small smile carve its way across her small lips. He felt like a boy again, unsure and uncertain, inexperienced and insecure. He had felt like this many times around the blonde, but this time, he wouldn’t shy away. She was a shining star in an ever darkening galaxy, and he’d be dead before he let her fall from his grasp again. Mustering all the courage in the galaxy, his lips part. “I was worried I’d never get to do this.”

Some part of him, the part that remembered his time with the Jedi before the end to it all, the end of an era, stirred fear in his heart; fear of attachments, fear of loss, fear of love. A life of solitude and harmony he had practiced like a mantra, and that in every step of the way, when it came to the blonde in front of him, he had failed, time and time again. He remembers how he had felt when she had been captured, the way his heart had seized and his world had stopped, how his life since than had been nothing but worry and hurt, nothing but pain for what could have been and what might never be, the pain of loving someone and not being able to do anything about it, not being able to protect those he cares for more than anything else in the galaxy. 

He had never been that dutiful of a Padawan anyway.

He leans closer, impossibly so, watching the grin grow on Aylin’s face as her eyes flutter shut. His lips connect with her own, melding together in an innocent affair, a hand coming up to cradle the side of her jaw, the other tightening its grip on her hand. He presses forward, heart hammering out of his chest and blood rushing through his ears as she kisses back, her free hand coming up to tentatively grasp the back of his neck, drawing him down to her; the girl he had been so close to losing, the boy she had been so close to forgetting. It was brief and uncertain, testing new waters both had been too scared to explore, but every emotion they had kept bottled for so long came bubbling to the surface; the hurt, the pain, the helplessness, the love. In moments that felt like an eternity Cal pulls back, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, wide uncertain eyes locked with her own with haggard breaths falling from his lips.

“Took you long enough.” She grins from underneath the sheets, her own heart ready to explode from her chest.

“Get some rest.” He mutters behind a laugh, pulling back to sit back in his chair, arms crossing to prop his head on the corner of the bed, one hand outstretched to hold her own in his strong grip. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

[itsagrimm]

imperial!tech has melted my brain

Can’t stop thinking about the imperial tech idea. It is implausible yet alluring. So here we gooooo. would love some feed back since I am not sure if that feel is right.

CN insults, violence, murder, discriminatory behaviour, treats, very toxic behaviour, soldier life in a fascist state, tiny bit of fluff or Manipulation depends on your perspective, blood, pain, talk of injury

Imperial!tech X they*them Y/N reader, afab but does not really matter unless I write a part 2

“Welcome on Kamino!”, the officer declared striding into the hall, “I hope you are motivated and up to the task to serve the galactic empire.”

A few laughs and murmured words from the crowd arose. The officer in front of the newly recruited soldiers waited patiently for them to quiet down.

“You-“, he pointed at them,” have been selected from the best bounty hunters, fighters and planetary defence forces in the galaxy. This-“ another pointer into the air ”- is your moment.”

The anticipation in the room was tangible.

“We are ready, sir”, someone said. Other “yeahs” and “bring it on” voiced agreement.

“We will see.”, the officer smiled, “You are here as new recruits for the imperial army elite squad. A most unusual and experimental force. And may I point out, you are not the first to attempt and fail to join this most extraordinary unit.”

Again, the silence was unpleasantly deafening. Y/N looked around but this time no one dared to speak up. Hard, human, mostly men* had come with Y/N to Kamino, the most secretive of worlds where all the now imperial clone troopers came from. Y/N knew some from their time as a bounty hunter. But looking at these tense men* now, these identical uniforms, these faces Y/N didn’t recognize any of them.

“Allow me to introduce you to your commander. Clone Commander Tech will assess your performance and decide on your -” a last pointed gesture ”-fate within the imperial forces.”

With this the door opened and a single trooper walked in. Calmly and collected, giving not a glance to the newly recruited.

“Are these new soldiers, sir?”, the trooper asked quietly.

“I am afraid so.”

The trooper puffed, turned around and took his time looking at the recruits.

“What a disappointment.”, he finally stated while fixing his googles, “Listen up! I am your commander. You on the other hand are barley sentient, oxygen consuming, shit generating bags of meat.”

He looked down, his voice now lower. It was an odd moment. The hall was full of assertive and hardened fighters. Yet this skinny, pale, four eyed clone berated them.

“You think you are smart and impressive. But trust me – you are not. All you can hope to accomplish is following my precise order. Do you think you can do that?”

Silence.

Someone started to laugh and clap.

“Woooooowww”, the recruit stated, “What a show. Is this a joke?”

Others started to snicker.

The commander turned his head like an owl and fixed his eyes on the rebellious troublemaker.

“It really was quite impressive. But listen here googles – I am not following orders from a clone. You are nothing but brainless cannon fodder. So where is the real commander, officer?”

More snickering in the hall. Y/N got cold. Something bad was about to happen. They knew it.

“Don’t-“, they tried to voice something but a glance from the clone commander silenced Y/N.

Helplessly they watched as commander Tech took off his glasses.

In a fraction of a moment the commander lunged at the troublemaker and hit the frame of his glasses on his head. It took 3 few precise and fast strikes with the doomium frame before the skull shattered.

No one spoke as the commander cleaned his glasses with the uniform of the dead troublemaker before putting them on again.

“You “, he pointed at Y/N and their back went cold. “You anticipated my attack. Well done. I consider you bearable for the elite squad. Congratulations.”

XXXXXXX

The elite squad had a variety of tasks. Whenever necessary they got deployed to guard, assassinate, or downright slaughter. Y/N felt nothing. Life in the outer rim was hard enough without a war. Killing had been a necessity for survival for too long and Kamino had numbed what was left in Y/N to care.

Y/N was given a number within the unit. ES-01. There had been another ES-01 before Y/N but nobody liked to talk about that. And since the number was impractical, their squad members had shortened it into the moniker “ONCE”.

ONCE was fine with the squad. There was little talk between them. At night ONCE heard the others cry or whisper to each other about the commander and the horrors the had to endure. But ONCE did not want to talk and pretended to sleep.

Sleep was a rarity for the elite squad due to their deployments.

And Tech – their commander – never slept. ONCE saw him twice in the bunk room to get something or give out orders. But never had they witnessed their commander asleep. He was always off somewhere, either working on the squat space craft deep into the night or in the little lab were he meticulously planned out missions. He laboured like a mad man but nobody objected.

It was early. ONCE had woken up from a nightmare. The other members of the squad were still asleep. The bunk of the commander empty of course. ONCE got up. There was no point in staying here.

The long corridors were nearly empty. A few guards and droids patrolled or performed cleaning duties. But nobody paid attention to ONCE wandering around with a cup of caf.

Commander Tech was in the hangar, working on the ship.

“Commander, you are up already.”, ONCE stated.

“Still. I wasn’t finished.”, Tech replied. His voice was raspy as if he had talked to himself for hours, “What do you want?”

“Nothing. Just wanted to check on the insomniac commander.”

“Oh.”, it sounded like a treat, “There is no need for you to assess my sleeping pattern, soldier.”

He looked up from the bottom of the ship at ONCE and got up.

“But thank you for bringing me caf.”

“I didn-“

“I said thank you, soldier.”

Before any protest Tech took ONCE hand, twisted it with surgical accuracy for them to let go of the cup of caf and took it.

That kriffin clone.

ONCE inhaled.

“Hey, with all due respect commander, if you want a caf I can get you some. No need to take some by force from me.”

Tech just calmly sipped from the cup.

“How nice of you. How considered, dear ONCE.”, he said in a sweet voice, “But no, I do not require any more caf from you. Thank you very much. Tell me, is using the caf machine a task the little head of yours can process? Sooo many buttons… Sooo complicated… You must be so proud.”

ONCE did not flinch. Living in the outer Rim, spending time among killers and criminals had teachable effects. It did not pay off to go against bigger fish, but limits had to be set.

Without a second thought ONCE licked their finger and dipped it into the caf of their commander.

Tech – the clone commander who even talked over grand moff talkin once - was speechless.

For a moment ONCE thought he might hit them, already bracing for the impact of an armoured fist. Instead, the commander put down the cup.

“I should whip you for that.”

ONCE stayed silent and starred forward, at the side of the ship.

Tech moved closer. He was taller than them and his dark armour enhanced his shoulders. A dark bird of prey with big eyes starring down on measly prey.

“I will whip you for that.”

His fingers scratched over ONCEs pauldron upwards until he reached their neck, pocking painfully into the skin.

“But not now.”

Tech moved away.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Bracca had been a disaster. The elite squad was tasked to track and eliminate some deserters. But before they could implement commander Tech’s plan, contradictory orders came in from Kamino. Good soldiers follow orders. But what does that help with in the field when one order is to kill and the other to capture.

Now the commander was injured.

Alone in the med bay.

ONCE starred at the wall.

Tech was an unpleasant commander. The respect he commanded was gained by violence and constant critique of those he considered lesser.

But he deserved not to be alone when in pain, right? And back then in the hanger he had not hit ONCE. ONCE was aware that what they considered adequate or even caring behaviour was twisted by a life spent in danger, the imperial brain washing and the maddening time with the elite squad. But they didn’t care. Tech had all the chances to punish ONCE for their discretions. Yet he didn’t. That was nearly good behaviour from a man who had killed a recruit for disrespecting him. Wasn’t it?

ONCE head spinned. The other squad members whispered in their bunks about the mission. About their commander and how he got burned by an ion engine. Apparently, the deserters were the commanders former squad members. And they had left him. Twice.

Once he had a squad.

Once he was unharmed.

Once he was many things of which they did not know about.

ONCE got up. Checking on a wounded commander should not be such a loaded and complicated question.

The med bay was as sterile and uncaring as the rest of the kaminoan architecture.

The commander was laying on a cot. The bacta had worked well on the burns on the side of his head. But he still locked weak and hurt. Without his glasses, Tech starred at the ceiling, not even a holopad to distract himself.

“hello commander, I got you some caf.”

part 2

[northernmariette]

A Biography of Marshal Ney (Part 2)

The next four parts will be about Ney’s military campaigns, as I’m strictly following the Sénat’s format. But first, this short passage, which I forgot to translate from yesterday’s post. It is significant, because it demonstrates that Ney was not an enthusiastic partisan of Bonaparte’s imperial ambitions. This ought to have appeared right after the mention of Bernadotte:

His participation in numerous battles earned him several serious wounds: in the arm at Mayence in December 1794, in the thigh at Winterthur in May 1799, where he had to prevent the Austrians and Russians from joining forces under Masséna's orders.

He was temporarily put to rest in his estate at La Malgrange, near Nancy. There he learned of Bonaparte's coup d'état on 18 Brumaire (9 November 1799), which marked the advent of the Consulate, to which he adhered with reservations: he devoted himself "to his country and not to the man it had chosen for its governance."

His valour and his cavalry exploits earned him the nickname of "the Indefatigable" by his men, the "Taker of cCities" following the capitulation of well-guarded and fortified Forsheim in August 1796, but also earned his being taken prisoner by the Austrians in April 1797.

And now for the next instalment. To keep things reasonably brief, I will omit the French text I am about to translate, but for those who would like to read the original, here is the link:

https://www.senat.fr/evenement/archives/D26/le_marechal_ney/sous_lempire.html

Campaigns in Germany, Austria and Russia (1805-1807)

The Empire was in great need of victories against the European coalitions, which led the country into endless wars.

In 1805, England, Russia and Austria formed the third coalition against France. The Grande Armée therefore had to leave the shores of the Channel for the Rhine. Appointed commander of the Sixth Corps, Ney could tolerate with great difficulty being under Murat's orders.

He pleased Napoleon by taking Elchingen on 14 October, placing himself at the head of his tired troops. This battle was decisive in the surrender of the fortress of Ulm on 20 October 1805. Ney was then ordered by Napoleon to occupy the Tyrol, which kept him away from the march to the Danube, and the battle of Austerlitz on 2 December 1805.

On 26 December 1805, a peace treaty was signed in Presburg, but a fourth coalition was formed in the summer of 1806. Marshal Ney then contributed to the victory of Jena on 14 October 1806, to the capitulation of the citadel of Magdeburg on 8 November, and to the difficult victory of Eylau (a veritable carnage) on 8 February 1807 against the Prussians and the Russians.

In June 1807, the Russians resumed the offensive. Marshal Ney was forced to retreat to Gutstadt. This very difficult manoeuvre then became one of his strong points: he managed to hold out against the enemy while saving a maximum number of his troops. At Friedland, on 14 June, the Russian army was annihilated. The Bulletin de la Grande Armée dscribed Ney to be the architect of this victory: "Marshal Ney, with a coolness and intrepidity that is peculiar to him, was in front of his troops, directed the smallest details himself and set an example for his corps, which has always been distinguished even among other corps of the Grande Armée." This victory was a prelude to the treaties of Tilsit (July 1807), which put an end to the fourth coalition. Soldiers then nicknamed Ney the "Bravest of the Brave", a nickname taken up by Napoleon to refer to him.

However, his difficult, intemperate and volatile character could play to his disadvantage. He was not reputed to be a fine strategist. He could even be capricious and misinterpret orders, or even fail to obey them. Napoleon spoke thus about Ney: "Easily offended, irritable, overly impressionable, extremely volatile. He was a man who only lived in the moment. As much as he was firm, laconic and resolute on the battlefield, he was weak, verbose and indecisive in political matters."

In 1808, Napoleon nevertheless made him Duke of Elchingen. After Friedland, Ney received an annual pension of twenty-six thousand francs, as well as a bonus of six hundred thousand francs, to be paid for by the defeated.

The interval from September 1807 to August 1808, about a year, was spent in Paris, in his hotel in the rue de Lille. Not truly happy in Paris, he also acquired a huge property in Eure-et-Loir, Les Coudreaux, near Châteaudun. He was then the father of three boys aged two, four and five (he had four in total).

[tennessoui]

40 or 43 if you’re still taking prompts! i love ur AUs they’re so beautiful and contain so much brilliance within a short snippet!

it's been so long, anon, you probably forgot you sent this but here is prompt 40, exes meeting after not seeing each other for a long time. in true tennessoui fashion, they don't. actually. meet and/or see each other in this snippet. also in true tennessoui fashion, all tennessoui needs to decide to continue this is one (1) validation.

the backstory here is something i have been thinking about for days after a discord convo, where during the fight on mustafar, obi-wan hits anakin hard enough in the head that he loses all of his memories. obi-wan takes him with him for a few months but the wounds of Order 66 and vaderkin's role in what happened is too fresh for obi-wan to (understandably) get over, even if this anakin doesn't remember doing it, so they separate. this is set 8 years after Mustafar.

(1.7k)

“Kenobi won’t come,” the fighter pilot says immediately upon disembarking from his craft.

One commander lets out a groan. Someone else hits the durasteel side of the closest x-wing with a closed fist.

“Do we really need him?” Anakin demands, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s been eight years since the rise of the Empire. Surely a washed-up Jedi General from the Clone Wars won’t have people jumping to join the Rebellion!”

No one meets his eye. In fact, the air room suddenly feels very, very uncomfortable.

Organa exhales heavily and turns to look at Anakin, which is rare because the man never voluntarily looks at Anakin. “There are few names from that time that still carry an untainted weight in the eyes of the galaxy. Obi-Wan Kenobi is one of them.”

“I grew up hearing about The Team!” A teenager says eagerly. “I’d join any resistance movement if I knew both of ‘em were fighting with me!”

“You’re already a part of a resistance movement,” a girl next to him pointed out waspishly.

The boy waves her off. “Skywalker and Kenobi, saving the galaxy! It’d be wizard to be a part of that, and you know it, Aasha!”

Anakin’s throat tightens at that name. Skywalker. His name. Or, his old name. He has no more connection to it now than he does to the name Kenobi or Organa. They’re just letters.

He catches Organa’s eye. The man is looking at him with a mix of curiosity and wariness. Anakin knows instinctively that this is another one of the man’s tests. Will this time be the time that whatever injury has kept his memories suppressed for eight years is undone, and his previous life comes thundering through his mind?

He’s sick of these tests. He’s never failed one, but Organa never comes closer to trusting him afterward. He can only assume that whatever Anakin Skywalker had done in his last few days alive had been so terrible that only a few people knew the truth, and those who did would never forgive any version of him for it.

Organa certainly knew, though he had never shared that information with Anakin. And.

And Kenobi did as well. That was clear. They’d only been together for five standard months, sharing a small spacecraft made smaller by the fear, agony, grief, fury, and hurt radiating off of his companion into the space around them.

It had been hard to tell at the time if one of the things Obi-Wan Kenobi had been grieving was the loss of Anakin Skywalker. Anakin isn’t sure Kenobi would have been able to answer that either.

Some part of him that usually rests dormant in the back of his mind stirs and hisses that it had to have been. That Skywalker’s loss had torn Kenobi’s soul to shreds.

This doesn’t necessarily feel like his own thought, but it’s quite hard to ignore. He wants to rub a hand against his aching head, but that surely would tip off Organa that something’s--what? That he’s having thoughts?

Perish the very idea.

One would think Anakin hadn’t joined the Rebellion of his own free will. That Anakin hadn’t spent three standard months on the planet Kenobi had left him on before catching wind of the existence of the Rebel Alliance, that he hadn’t risked life and limb (more limb, apparently, given his missing flesh hand) to find them afterwards. He hadn’t known much anything about himself, but he had known that he hadn’t liked what the Imperial troops were doing, how much destruction they were causing, how the people they were supposed to be protecting hid in fear of their white armor.

Something in Anakin had rebelled at that, had thought it wrong and twisted. Someone needs to stop them, he’d thought. So he had found the people that were trying to.

And yes, a small part of him had thought--perhaps hoped--that Obi-Wan Kenobi would be a part of the Rebel Alliance by the time Anakin made his way to their biggest base. He had thought--perhaps hoped--that he would be able to prove himself to the other man. Look, he had wanted to scream at Kenobi, I’m not like that other Anakin, I would never do what he did. You can trust me. You can look me in the eye, I won’t stab you in the back.

Because something in him had yearned, still yearns, for Kenobi’s approval. For the weight of his gaze settling warmly around his shoulders. For his small smiles, his calloused hand clasping the back of Anakin’s head to bring their foreheads together in a gentle tap hello.

These are things Anakin knows he’s never experienced. But he must have in his past life, because his whole body will ache for them like a phantom limb. It’s been seven years and a few months since he last saw Kenobi.

“I’ll go,” Anakin says, which is what he said the last time they were standing like this, huddled around a fighter pilot delivering the same message of failure.

Organa’s mouth tightens in displeasure, and Mothma places a hand on his arm in warning.

Everyone else falls silent around them, as if recognizing the fact that they’re in the middle of a brewing storm, and they’re lucky to be in its eye right now.

“I do not think--” Organa starts, but Anakin cuts him off, crossing his arms even tighter over his chest, as if to hold himself back. The force suppression collar around his neck grows warmer, but it holds. It always holds.

“You’re already sending men who look like me to him!” Anakin points out irately. “The last four men could have been related to me!” It’s something Anakin’s thought about in the past but never said out loud. He’s glad to say it now though, especially because Organa flushes a bit which means Anakin’s right. “Just send me! If it doesn’t work, nothing in the galaxy will!”

Now, Anakin isn’t sure that’s true at all. He’s taking a huge leap with this, but it’s been seven years and a few months since he saw Obi-Wan Kenobi in person, and every part of him is aching with the desire to lay eyes on the man again. Will he hate him still? Will he see all the differences Anakin’s made to his appearance? Will he like them? He fights the urge to run a hand over his shorn hair.

Will Obi-Wan even let him through the door?

The people around them are murmuring now. They don’t know what Organa knows, what Anakin has guessed at: that Skywalker died a traitor to the Republic, that he had tried to strike down Obi-Wan like the Emperor struck down the rest of the Jedi. To them, these fortunate outsiders, they’re wondering why Anakin Skywalker hasn’t already been sent to locate and bring back their errant General.

Before, Anakin’s offer had been quiet, easily ignored over someone else’s. Now he’s loud and confident. Impossible to turn away without making a public scene, without explaining why. And Organa has tried very hard not to do that. For whatever reason, Anakin doesn’t know. All he knows is that after he’d been examined by a battalion of med droids and interrogated by all three leaders of the Rebellion, Organa had given him a list of rules he had to follow in order to join the Rebel Alliance. Firstly, never remove his cuffs and collar.

It’s not a slave collar and it won’t electrocute you if you touch it or try to take it off, Organa had told him when he’d blanched away at the sight. But I have been informed by a trusted ally that the Chance--the Emperor knows your Force Signature intimately. We cannot risk being found. It would kill all hope for us.

Secondly, never confirm his identity. Never talk about who he used to be.

People will know, Organa had grudgingly admitted. Skywalker was one of the faces of the Clone Wars. But you cannot confirm it. In fact.

Thirdly, give up the name Skywalker. Pick another last name, if not first as well.

But Anakin had been attached to his first name for some reason he didn’t know how to begin to question, so even after he toyed with the idea of changing it completely, he couldn’t go through with it. Weeks later he had shown up in Organa’s makeshift office.

I had a mother, didn’t I? He had asked, causing Organa to stiffen immediately.

Do you remember? Organa had interrogated immediately, his standard greeting for Anakin. Anakin had gotten the feeling, especially in those early days, that Organa was waiting with baited breath for Anakin to remember so he could try him for war crimes or treason or whatever it was that Skywalker had done.

No, he had responded honestly. Just a feeling. If I am to take a new last name, I want her name.

A few days later, Anakin had stumbled into his bunk, tired from a day of hard training, to see a packet of documents on his pillow.

Anakin Shmison was written at the top of the first page.

The list of rules goes on and on.

But nowhere does it say that Anakin Shmison isn’t allowed to mention Obi-Wan Kenobi in public. He just never has, because even the sound of the man’s name makes him feel very nauseous, a combination of butterflies and adder snakes wrestling around inside his stomach.

Bail Organa is looking like he’s regretting that oversight right now, but Anakin has backed him quite solidly into a proverbial corner. Either finally tell everyone what happened between Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi in the last few hours of the Republic, or give Anakin Shmison leave to retrieve Kenobi.

“Fine,” Organa gets out, jaw locked and vein throbbing in his temple. Anakin has the distinct feeling he’se spent a lot of his life on the receiving end of that expression. “Have this X-Wing refueled, and leave tonight.”

“No sir,” Anakin says, enjoying the way one of the man’s eyebrows shoot up in angry incredulity.

“No?” Organa asks. “Would you like more beauty rest, perhaps, Shmison?”

“No sir, I don’t need it,” this time he doesn’t resist running a hand through his hair, messing with its part so his longer bangs fall to one side and balance out the mysterious scar that bisects his eyebrow. He grins. “But I will need a craft that sits two. For the return trip.”

[drosera-nepenthes]

A Royal Recluse: Princess Clotilde

Just at the time when, in consequence of the weakness and folly of the republican government, certain French Monarchists are looking to Prince Victor Napoleon Bonaparte as the possible savior of their country, the Prince, whose marriage to Princess Clementina of Belgium recently brought him before the public, was watching by the deathbed of his mother, Princess Clotilde of Savoy, who breathed her last on June 25. The story of this royal lady is a pathetic one and, apart from the interest that is attached to her as the mother of the imperial candidate to the French throne, her personal character was one of rare beauty.

She was the daughter of Victor Emmanuel II, first King of Italy, and of Adelaide, Archduchess of Austria, and was born at Turin on March 2, 1843. Her mother died in 1855, leaving five young children, of whom Clotilde was the eldest, the others being Humbert, the future King of Italy ; Amadeo, Duke of Aosta ; Maria Pia, the queen dowager of Portugal, and a son who died in childhood. The Queen of Sardinia (Victor Emmanuel had not at that time laid violent hands on the independent states of Italy) was an exemplary wife and mother, and her orphan daughters were carefully educated by the attendants whom she had placed about them.

Never was a princess more ruthlessly sacrificed to political interests than the eldest princess of Savoy. When a mere child of sixteen, Clotilde was chosen to cement the alliance between France and Sardinia, and was promised in marriage to Prince Napoleon Jerome, nephew of Napoleon I and first cousin Napoleon III, the reigning sovereign. Princess Clotilde was connected with the Bourbons, her very name was French and was given to her in memory of the French Princess Marie Clotilde, sister of Louis XVI, who married a King of Sardinia ; but allied as she was by close ties of blood to the Bourbons, she had nothing in common with the Bonapartes who occupied their place, and a more ill-assorted couple never existed than the middle-aged, violent, cynical and free-thinking Prince Napoleon and the daughter of the most ancient royal house in Europe, who traditions and surroundings were strictly conservative and religious. Their marriage took place at Turin on January 30, 1859. The bride was sixteen and the bridegroom thirty-seven. He had a handsome presence and was intelligent and well informed and well informed, but neither his private life nor his freely expressed opinions on public matters made him estimable or lovable. His attitude with regard to his cousin, the Emperor, was one of constant opposition, and it was reported that his anti-religious views led him to take part in the banquets organized by a group of free thinkers on Good Friday. Under the Second Empire the French Government was officially Catholic, and Prince Napoleon's hostile and aggressive attitude was pronounced ill-bred, if not worse. Throughout France he was distinctly unpopular.

The young bride, married to this unsympathetic nephew of the great Napoleon, probably had few illusions as to the sum of happiness that awaited her in her new home. There are still some old men living who remember her when she took possession of the Palais Royal, Prince Napoleon's Paris house.: a slight, pale girl, with fluffy, fair hair and bright eyes, not pretty but singularly attractive. Her high breeding stood her in good stead in the somewhat parvenu atmosphere of the Court of the Tuileries, she had a royal dignity all her own, and her simplicity of heart was combined with much quiet firmness. From the first she ordered her life according to the principles in which she had been educated. An early riser, even at the Palais Royal, she gave much time to prayer and to works of mercy, but her piety, says M. Emile Ollivier, a former minister of Napoleon II, “never made her tiresome or intolerant. She believed that the most useful sermon was the practice of the virtues that are taught by faith.” Her husband, although so widely apart from her, acknowledged her goodness. “Clotilde is a saint,” he sometimes said ; “if there were many like her, I believe I myself should end by becoming devout.”

When the disastrous war of 1870 brought terror and shame upon France, the Princess was in Paris. During that fatal month of August every day came news of a fresh defeat, and the revolution that was to break out on the 4th of September was already distinctly perceptible; the infuriated and terrified people made the imperial government responsible for the reverses that so keenly wounded their patriotic pride.

Princess Clotilde was alone at the Palais Royal ; her husband was with the army, her three children she sent to Switzerland, where Prince Napoleon had an estate; but she steadily refused to leave Paris while the Empress Eugénie remained at the Tuileries. There was not much personal sympathy between the two; it was Princess Clotilde's feeling of loyalty that chained her to the post danger as long as there was a semblance of imperial government in Paris.

In vain her husband wrote imperious messages bidding her join her children at Prangins; in vain her father sent the Marquis Spinela to Paris to escort her ; the Princess so yielding in everyday life, was unbending in her decision to remain at the palace as long as the lonely woman at the Tuileries was the nominal ruler of France ; she had shared the splendors of the Empire, and it went against her noble spirit to desert the Empress.

The letter this young woman, a stranger in a strange land, wrote to her father on August 25, 1870, has been quoted by the French papers. It is a right royal letter worthy of the daughter of kings:

“I am a French woman,” she says. “I cannot desert my country. When I married although so young, I knew what I was doing and if I did it, it was because I wished to do so. The interest of my husband, of my children and of my country require that I should remain here. The honor of my name, your honor, my dear father, and that of my country also demand it. Nothing will make me fail in what I believe to be my duty to the end... You know that the house of Savoy and fear have never gone together, and you would not wish that they should meet in my person.”

At last, when the Empress was driven from her palace by the mob, the Princess considered that she was free to follow, but how different was the departure of the two women!

The brilliant and beautiful sovereign, closely disguised, was only able to leave Paris owing to the assistance of her American dentist, Dr. Evans; her young cousin made her exit as a princess. In an open carriage, accompanied by her lady in waiting, she drove to the railway station in broad daylight. The excited people, awed by her courage and dignity, saluted her as she passed out of their sight, a truly royal and saintly figure.

Princess Clotilde lived for some years at Prangins, near Geneva, where she devoted herself to the education of her three children; then, when her husband was allowed to return to France, the difficulties of her married life were such that by mutual consent she retired to the Castle of Moncalieri, near Turin, with her young daughter. Here, in the home of her childhood, she spent nearly forty years. They were years of peace, largely marked by sorrow. Four times only did she emerge from her retreat, once in January 1878, when she heard that her father lay dangerously ill in Rome. She had suffered cruelly from the spoliation of the Holy See by the house of Savoy, and the remembrance of her father's part in the matter prompted her to fly to his bedside. On the way she heard that he was dead, and she sadly returned to Moncalieri. In 1891, she again started for Rome, this time to visit her husband, who lay dying at the Hotel de Russie. Those who saw the Princess during those solemn days can never forget her sweetness, earnestness and gentle patience. What passed between her and Prince Napoleon none can tell, but Cardinal Mermillod a frequent visitor to the sick room, professed himself satisfied, after two private interviews, that the dying man was fully conscious. The Princess, whose married life, it is well known, had been a via crucis, remained near him to the end, praying incessantly for the soul that probably owes its salvation to her intercession. Again in 1903 and in 1904, she left Moncalieri to visit her sister-in-law, Princess Mathilde Bonaparte, whose deathbed she attended.

Her life, as it neared the end became more and more that of a recluse. Her sons lived their own lives in Brussels and in Russia; her daughter, having married a Prince of Savoy, was near to her, and their visits, occasionally brought an element of joy into the silent castle. Last autumn, Prince Victor Napoleon's marriage to the Princess Clémentine of Belgium gladdened his mother's heart. It was celebrated at Moncalieri, and to those who attended the ceremony the most striking figure present was the slight, gray-haired lady, plainly dressed in black, whose eyes had the far-away look of those who are nearing the eternal shore. Even in the days of her youth Princess Clotilde's spirituality struck M. Emile Ollivier. It gave her, he says a singular insight into all questions that touch on right and wrong; she possessed the gifts of the true mystics, “who judge human affairs with a clearness and rectitude born of detachment.” Her chief link with the outer world during the long, silent years of old age was her love for the poor, to whom she gave royally, with a loving kindness that made her gifts more precious. Their grief was great when they heard of her death, and their prayers will follow her remains to the royal mausoleum of La Superga, near Turin, where the daughter of the Sardinian Kings sleeps with her ancestors.

America. United States, America Press, 1911.