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tarisilmarwen · 10 months

Text

Title: Little Wooden Lightsaber Boy

Fandom: Star Wars Rebels

Rating: K+

Pairing/Relationships: Ezra/Sabine

Character(s): Sabine Wren, Tristan Wren, Alrich Wren, Ursa Wren, Tiber Saxon, Darth Maul, Ezra Bridger, Kanan Jarrus, Hera Syndulla

Genre: Romance/Drama

Summary: Life Day at the Wren stronghold is always a big affair, and this year Sabine gets a very special present--a little wooden figure of a handsome Jedi general. Nutcracker AU.

AO3, FFNet

@sabezra-life-day-celebration

It's late, because surprise surprise I had a plot bunny bite my ankle and get Ambitious, but here is my fic for Sabezra Life Day Celebration. Hope you all enjoy!

---

Sabine loved the winter holidays.

It was one of the only times in the year the Wren Stronghold came alight with color and music, the normally dour gray halls festooned with green garlands and red ribbons, bright glowing glass orbs nestled in the branches of the enormous evergreen tree she and her extended family went out and cut down each year, hauling into the great hall with laughter and a unity of purpose. The fires stayed burning almost all night and her father piped festive songs and carols from giant speakers in his artist studio, the notes carrying down the halls and making the frozen palace alive and breathing with warmth.

She sat at one of the long tables now, a piece specially set out for the occasion, crowded between a half-dozen like it and covered with a soft, immaculately white tablecloth the color of the falling snow. Her fingers itched to draw, as she took in the twinkling splendor of the Life Day tree, glimmering yellow and violet and green and orange-gold in the corner.

It was technically a Wookie holiday, Life Day, but since the end of the Clone Wars and the victory of Coruscant, the winter celebration had spread throughout the galaxy, each planet in the Republic popping up with their own traditions and customs. Sabine had only been a toddler, but all her life she'd heard the stories—about how the Jedi Order bravely uncovered a horrible Sith plot, overthrew the Chancellor and installed a new era of peace and prosperity.

A prosperity they were heartily enjoying now, she thought, eyeing the platter of roast nerf ribs being passed down the table.

She grabbed a chunk from the platter and bit into it eagerly, the warm seasoned juices filling her mouth.

"Sabine!" her mother chided, from her spot at the head of the table, a place of prominence befitting the Countess. "Manners!"

Sabine grabbed up her napkin and wiped her chin, grinning cheekily at Ursa as the festivities carried on. Her favorite part of the night was coming up—the traditional Mandalorian dances and gift exchange. They had to entertain a few other clans this year—the stronghold was quite crowded—so she and Tristan had promised to be each other's dance partners all night, to stave off any untoward attempts to seduce either of them, any political proposals that might have been sprung on them unexpectedly.

Her brother was already reaching for her hand, urging her out onto the dance floor in the center of the Great Hall. Sabine took one last bite of succulent rib roast, then put her hand and her trust in Tristan, who led her to the center of the floor and kept close to her as the music grew louder.

"So far so good," he quipped to her, as the music played on, loud and raucous as only a Mandalorian celebration could be, bodies breaking off from the dining tables and joining them on the dance floor. "I don't think I've seen a clan head look your way yet," he continued, teasing.

Sabine rolled her eyes with long-suffering affection. "Let's try to keep it that way," she said.

She stayed close to her brother as the night and the party drew on. Her father eventually emerged from his studio, beaming brightly as he presented Tristan and Sabine and the other young clan heirs with their gifts. Sabine accepted the brightly-wrapped package eagerly.

She tore the paper, the gilded green and gold coming off the box easily under her hands. She carefully lifted the lid of the white box and set it aside, gasping as she saw the contents.

A beautifully carved and painted wooden figure lay in the tissue paper. Sabine marveled at her father's craftmanship. The figure was immaculately designed, styled to look like an armored Jedi Knight from the Clone Wars, with a smart-looking blue hauberk and tabbards, orange piping along the sides of its tunic and leggings. It had a handsome tan face and bold black dots for eyes, and the hair was a blue-lined black painted on the back of its head. It had a prominent hinged jaw, a wood piece that connected to a lever in its back. Sabine carefully lifted the figure out of its packaging and worked the lever, seeing how the device fit together.

It was a nutcracker. A decorative kitchen tool, meant to crush the hard shells of koja and areca and a bevy of other species.

Sabine breathlessly thanked her father, one arm squeezing around him while the other clung to her prize.

"He's beautiful!" she told him, gazing once again with admiration at the little carved figure.

Alrich beamed with pride, launching into a prepared explanation of his artistic process, pointing at various parts of the nutcracker and explaining them.

Sabine listened with rapt attention, the artist in her appreciative and impressed. The gift exchange done, she dismissed herself from her father's presence, sitting back down at her place at the table and just watching the party continue on, late, late into the night as the fires popped and the drinks flowed freely.

Her gaze kept straying to her nutcracker, and more than once she let her fingers feather over the fine details, the meticulously painted golden fasteners and the sweeping lines that delineated armor pieces.

She was so caught up by the workmanship that she didn't notice when her distant cousin, Tiber of Clan Saxon, darkened her shoulder, not until he snatched the wooden figure from her hands and brought it up to his face to sneer at it.

"A little old to be playing with dolls aren't you, Miss Wren?" he huffed.

Sabine's mouth soured immediately, and she made a grab for her father's present. "Give that back!" she demanded. "It's mine!"

Tiber held it away from her, at arm's length with a curdled disdain. "What is this even supposed to be?" he asked snidely.

Sabine glared icily. "It's a Jedi General," she told the older man, hotly. "Give it back."

Tiber dodged the swipe she made for it with her hand, stepping away from the table. "Poor craftsmanship to fit a poorer subject matter," he dismissed. "What paltry Clan Wren trash."

Sabine watched in horror as he dropped her gift carelessly on the ground and stomped on it with his metal-lined boot.

"Hey!" she objected in distress, diving for her nutcracker.

Tiber was already stalking off, exiting the hall with a handful of his entourage, not even paying her a spare glance behind. Sabine glowered darkly as she carefully cradled her nutcracker to her chest, brushing off the scuff marks Tiber had left in the paint.

Her heart panged in dismay as she found that she couldn't erase a couple of the scratches. They dug into the wood of the figure's cheek, two ugly lines that marred her Jedi's smiling face.

Sabine tried her best to smooth out the gouges but it was no use, and she bit her lip, holding back her emotions.

As if sensing her sorrow, her father appeared at her shoulder.

"What's wrong, Sabine?" he asked, brown eyes full of concern.

Her mouth pinched and twisted as she explained, holding out the nutcracker to him. "Look what Tiber did to your work!" she complained, eyes stinging, blinking hard.

Alrich took the wooden figure gently in his hands, making a quick scan of the damage.

After a moment he smiled.

"Oh that's not so bad," he said. From his pocket he pulled out a little white helmet, styled after the clones of the 501st, Skywalker's Fist. He slid the wooden helmet into place on the nutcracker's head. "See? He's all right," he assured her, handing it back.

Sabine took the nutcracker in her hands, begrudgingly admitting to herself that the helmet suited the little wooden figure, made it look a little more authentic and complete. She cradled the wooden man to her chest, vowing not to let it out of her sight, holding it like a precious jewel against her body.

She stayed far away from the members of Clan Saxon the rest of the night.

***

The fires were low-burning embers and coals, the hall growing cold and dark, by the time the party finally wound down. Sabine bade goodnight to her family—and her nutcracker, giving it a little kiss on the helmet before stowing it safely away in one of the armor cabinets—and retired to bed.

Alone in her room, however, watching the starlight and falling snow outside, Sabine found herself too wound-up to sleep. A strange agitation kept her awake, tossing and turning long hours until she gave up and rolled out of bed.

For a while she painted, scratching her brushes on a canvas with idle consideration. Nothing really emerged from her footling, mostly just abstract ideas here and there. Biting the end of her paintbrush she decided she needed a little more inspiration.

She grabbed one of her spare sketchbooks, slid a thick brocaded robe on over her shoulders and short silken nightdress, slipped her feet into her house slippers and stole down the dark quiet hallways back to the great hall.

The room glowed with soft multicolor light from the glass orbs in the tree. There was a soothing, peaceful kind of silence to the room. Sabine liked how the glow bounced off the walls, played with the edges of the transparisteel panels of the windows.

She sat and sketched the tree for a few moments, enjoying the quiet scritch of her pencil on the paper.

Her eyes stole towards the armor cabinet in the corner. It held her mother and father's ceremonial beskar, and now it kept her nutcracker safe. Sabine felt an urge to get it out again, and didn't resist that urge. She crept to the cabinet, stepping softly even though she didn't have to, even though everyone else in the stronghold was probably asleep, grabbing the clutch and lifting it, making the hinges squeak as she opened the door.

Her father's gift was right where she left it. Sabine reached for him and sighed in awe of the craftmanship yet again, holding the wooden figure against her stomach with a tight embrace.

She walked back over to the throne on the dais at the other end of the room, sinking onto the comfortable cushion and just... letting the quiet fill her. The warm glow from the tree, the stillness, it was a better lullaby to her over-excited mind than anything else.

She found herself curling up on the long cushion, nutcracker tucked under her arm and robe draping over her feet, her breaths growing deeper...

***

She woke, groggy and confused, in the wee hours of the night, with that agitation back, along with a strange sense of unease.

Sabine blinked, squinting through the dark. The warmth of the tree wasn't reaching her anymore, and she shivered, tucking her arms inside her robe as she sat up.

As she was trying to pinpoint the cause of her apprehension, there was a scurrying of shadows in the corner of her eye.

Sabine's head whipped in that direction, her eyes straining, but she couldn't see anything.

She stepped down from the dais to the floor, glancing warily around.

Pinpricks raised on her arms, her unease growing. She still couldn't see any danger but...

Wait, where was her nutcracker?

Sabine's chest jolted with a shot of panic as she realized her father's gift wasn't with her, wasn't on the throne where she'd left it. As her head whipped around in search of it, something else alarming caught her attention.

She tilted her head back, eyes squinching in confusion.

Was the tree... bigger?

No, she realized, glancing back towards the dais and mentally measuring the height of the steps. She was smaller. And not just smaller, she was shrinking.

Alarmed, Sabine gaped up at the tree now towering above her, massive. The delicate glass baubles now looked like huge boulders, the pines as large as spears. Her chest clutched and she staggered back in disbelief, gawking about her now-giant surroundings.

"No no no no, this can't be happening," she said in a small, panicked voice. She was having some kind of horrible dream. This couldn't be real.

It felt terribly real.

As Sabine clutched arms around herself, willing herself to wake up, the scurrying shadows returned, vague shapes taking form in the darkness all around her.

She backed up, and backed up, but didn't miss how the shadows coalesced into humanoid figures. A face emerged from the darkness, malicious, skin shockingly patterned in red and black, with eerie yellow-gold eyes and a head ringed with horns like some kind of twisted crown.

Sabine's breath hitched and she stiffened, recognizing the face from old historical holos.

The face came with a snide voice.

"This is the heir to Clan Wren?" The figure she could now identify as a Zabrak shook his head condescendingly. "How disappointing. Mandalore has fallen far indeed since I ruled it."

Her teeth ground stubbornly, fear disappearing behind a glare as she put a name to the ugly face. The Usurper of Sundari, the head of Crimson Dawn, a menace and a thorn in Mandalore's side for years. What was he doing in the stronghold?

"Unshrink me and then get out of my house!" she demanded.

Maul pinned her with a malicious sneer. "No," he said, chillingly. "Tonight... I will take my revenge on all the clans that betrayed and unseated me."

Sabine would have snorted and rolled her eyes, made a smart comment about how ridiculous a notion that was given that they were both apparently a foot tall, but then Maul pulled out a wicked-looking silver hilt and ignited it in a red flash.

Her throat caught, eyes widening at the crimson lightsaber blade, humming ominously. Behind the Sith came armor-clad figures from the shadows, Mandalorian warriors arrayed with the colors of their lord, Maul's underlings. She backed up again, apprehensively, heart pounding, trying to remember how to wake herself up because surely this had to be some kind of nightmare.

Maul savored her moment of terror, raising his saber and beginning to charge for her.

Sabine braced herself to fling back—

Something leapt through the air to land in-between them, a blue-clad figure that held up its own hilt and ignited it with a burst of blazing bright green.

Her eyes widened further, a thrill and sense of awe moving through her.

It was her nutcracker, no longer still and wooden and tiny, but moving, made of flesh, and her size.

Shockingly alive.

Maul seemed only mildly perturbed by the interference, frowning in displeasure before motioning his troops forward.

"Kill the Wren heir," he ordered. "The Jedi is mine."

The Mandos rushed forward past him, surging towards her in a charge. Her nutcracker intercepted them first, green blade slashing out, striking armor and limbs. Many of them surrounded him, leveling their blasters at his helmeted head. With an elegant precision she had only seen in holos he deflected red shots off his blade, air filling with the cacophony of laserfire.

For a moment Sabine was pinned in place, frozen with horrible indecision—she had no weapons and there was no way she'd fit into her parents' beskar as she was, if she could even reach the handle for the cabinet—but then she tightened her fists and steeled her resolve. She was Mandalorian. Her very body was a weapon.

The first soldier that made it past her nutcracker's guard to attack her got his knee kicked in for his trouble. Sabine drew back her elbow and slammed it across the helmeted face, snapping his head aside.

He crumpled, and she picked up his heavy sidearm, taking aim at the other warriors, shooting them with indiscriminate desperation.

One went down, two more were distracted enough by the hits she landed that they were easy pickings for her nutcracker Jedi General's emerald blade, falling with loud pained cries as the lightsaber pierced them.

Sensing movement at her right, Sabine whipped around, firing, only to feel the blaster ripped from her hands by an unseen force.

She gasped, stumbling upright, looking up at the cruel yellow eyes of Maul as he raised his glowing red blade vindictively.

It started to fall.

Sabine flinched, but a second later a green blade blocked the red one, her nutcracker moving quickly to protect her, breathing hard inside his clone trooper helmet.

Maul's face twisted in rage and he shoved the other man off, attacking viciously, blade crashing again and again in heavy overhead blows upon her nutcracker's guard.

Sabine looked around for another weapon, but she couldn't find one—the other Mandalorians lay dead on the ground but their blasters were missing, nowhere to be found. Her Jedi was panting audibly now even across the distance, fatigue evident in his movements, slowly giving ground to the Sith Lord's onslaught.

He blocked again and again but the attack was merciless, coming harder and faster as Maul's face screwed with fury, bearing down on him.

Sabine watched with horror as her nutcracker Jedi was forced to his knees, kicked hard in the chin and sent falling to the ground. Maul crowed in victory, raising his saber for the final blow.

"No!" she cried, rushing forward, pulling one of her house slippers off and leaping at Maul's back, beaning him hard in the neck with the leather-tipped sole. "Leave him alone!"

Maul grunted, taken aback by her assault, and the hard heel whacked solidly against his back and head as she slammed the slipper into him, beating at him desperately with all her strength.

A hand like a steel timber caught her chest and pushed her back, sent her stumbling but not falling. Sabine looked up defiantly into the red-rimmed yellow eyes that boiled with anger at her.

Those eyes turned away as the hum of the green saber vibrated from behind. Maul angled to address the threat, red saber lifted but... stiffened. The yellow Sith eyes went wide as he and Sabine realized where the emerald blade had stuck.

Dead center in the Zabrak's chest. A fatal, killing blow.

Her nutcracker pushed the blade in slightly deeper, eliciting a dying gasp from Maul, who dropped his saber and clutched at the Jedi's own, expression in disbelief and shock as the other man twisted him around, away from Sabine, his body speared on the tip of the green blade as her nutcracker crouched protectively in front of her.

The Sith slid off the blade with a dying gasp, crumpling into a heap on the ground. He stilled, and moved no more.

The green blade extinguished.

The heavily-breathing figure stayed curled in his crouch for a long time, long enough that Sabine began to worry if he was injured, but then he straightened, drawing her immediate attention.

Sabine watched, heart still rapidly thumping, as her nutcracker rose up, hands reaching softly for the edges of his clone trooper helmet.

The helmet was slipped off, gently, revealing soft blue-tinted dark hair. The boy—for it was unmistakably a boy now, young, about her age—seemed to contemplate and study his own helmet for several seconds.

Then, he tucked the helmet under his arm and turned towards her.

Sabine started, her heart and throat catching.

Oh. Oh he was cute.

Boyish, lazy half-smile, tanned skin the color of warm amber, shockingly electric blue eyes that she found absolutely mesmerizing.

Sabine swallowed, feeling at a loss for words.

Her nutcracker spoke, instead.

"Thanks," he said, dipping his head respectfully, in gratitude. "You saved my life. I couldn't have beaten him without your help."

"It was nothing," she heard herself saying in a daze, the words floating around her. "Couldn't let my favorite Life Day present get shanked by an actual demon."

His smile widened, teeth bright white against his darker skin and she almost melted. Sabine shook herself, chiding herself for being so overtaken by a pretty face, and slowly approached him.

The closing proximity still made her heart thud, painful in her chest. She willed herself to be calm as she reached him. Her hand drifted up towards his cheek, touching twin thin red scars that mirrored the scratches Tiber had inflicted upon her nutcracker, what seemed like a distant eternity ago.

"Sorry about those," she muttered. "Tiber was a jerk."

He shrugged, nonchalantly. "Happens when you're stuck in a twelve inch wooden body," he dismissed. Blue eyes sparkling, he held his hand out to her. "Hey, you wanna get away tonight?"

"Get away?" she repeated, absently, still entranced by his face and smile and shining eyes.

"Yeah," he confirmed. "Come with me. I want you to meet my folks."

Head reeling, Sabine found herself nonetheless placing her hand in his. "Moving a little fast, aren't we?" she said. Her body pulsed with electricity, with adrenaline, with a thrilling exhilaration she couldn't put a name to or define. "I don't even know your name..." she trailed.

"It's Ezra," he offered up, so very casually, as he began to lead her into a white snowy mist that had suddenly appeared around them. "Ezra Bridger."

"Sabine," she told him, blushing as she stared at their entwined hands. "My name's Sabine."

***

The white twinkling snow-covered wonderland he led her out the door into couldn't have been Krownest, she determined. The trees had never sparkled so brightly, the sun had never been so warm and yellow. There had never been such a rainbow of color glittering in the depths of the snow.

There had certainly never been any green-skinned Twi'leks with glimmering translucent wings living in the woods around the stronghold, and yet that was exactly who met them now, bare green arms reaching for Ezra's face like a fretful mother's, worried green eyes searching him.

"Are you hurt?" she asked anxiously, and for the first time he let Sabine's hand fall, reached to embrace the woman and reassure her.

"I'm all right, Hera," he said. "Sabine here protected me."

The woman—fairy?—turned to Sabine, who pushed her bangs out of her face self-consciously, feeling awkward.

A warm smile lit the woman's expression.

"Thank you," she said. "We owe you a debt of gratitude."

Sabine shrugged, making a noncommittal sound. There were other beings starting to crowd around her, aliens of every kind, all sporting the same kind of shimmering frost-covered wings the Twi'lek woman had. She was clearly their leader, and she clapped her hands to call for attention.

"Everyone, everyone!" she addressed. "Let's not overwhelm her." The warm smile turned on Sabine again, as Hera extended a hand and placed it on her shoulder. "Would you like to join us for the Life Day feast?" she asked. "It's the least we can do to thank you."

Sabine's mind was still reeling, still convinced she was half-dreaming, but she nodded mutely, gawping, trying to take everything in. There was a man hovering by Hera's shoulder, teal-eyed and broad-shouldered, and he nodded at her in acknowledgement and respect as Ezra led her past him.

Her nutcracker brought her to a brightly-lit clearing, where dozens of beings milled about, dancing, singing. It didn't seem like they were on Krownest anymore, at least not from the gray-green moss-covered walls of stone, rising up all around her.

What followed next was the most wonderful dream. A festive party was conducted before her eyes, full of more color and life than she'd ever seen. Hera and her partner—a man she learned was called Kanan—asked her a million questions she couldn't keep up with, made Ezra recount the story of how she had bravely saved him a dozen times. Spectators to the story ooh-ed and aah-ed appreciatively at the the appropriate dramatic places. Ezra himself stayed by her side the whole time, hand clutched tight around hers.

Sabine's heart stuttered and stammered. She traced the edges of Ezra's face with her eyes, watched every small movement of his face as he rambled amiably with the others, greeted each party guest with a smile and a joke to set them at ease. A longing tugged at her chest, painful in how much she wanted this, wanted to stay with him in this wonderful, magical, inexplicable moment of surreal joy and light.

He seemed to sense her troubled heart, looking over at her in concern.

"Hey, are you okay?" he asked.

Sabine felt a shudder run through her whole body, felt herself gripping tighter to his hand.

"I just..." she said, trailing off with a dry throat, suddenly fearful. "I don't want this to end."

His reassuring smile lit up the depths of her heart, filled her with a giddy rush. "I'm not going anywhere, Sabine," he promised. "I'll stay right here."

Her chest clenched, eyes stung as she held back tears.

The celebration wound down, the brightly diverse figures slowly ceding space to Hera and Kanan, who danced intimately in the center of the floor, entwined in a way that made Sabine jealous. When the music ended, there was a certain finality to it, and Sabine felt herself already missing the music and light of the party, so different from how her family had conducted it, but beautiful and wonderful all the same.

Ezra pulled her up from their seats and guided her onto the back of a leathery-hided creature, helping her into a gilded seat strapped upon it. The creature bellowed, low and mellow, filling Sabine with a giddy high of adrenaline.

"I don't want this to end," she said again, thrilling as Ezra came to sit beside her on the purrgil.

His smile was thinner now, bittersweet. "You have to wake up, Sabine," he told her. "You can't stay here."

"Will I see you again?" she asked anxiously, clinging to him like he would slip away if she let go.

A small nod, so slight and imperceptible she almost missed it. "Trust in the Force," he whispered, and then the purrgil was lifting off, the snow-covered ground was falling away below them and her eyes were filled with twinkling blue stars in a winter sky.

Giddy, she felt a rush of speed press against her front, blue glowing hyperspace filling her eyes, hurtling her forward into the cosmos, into a warm ether that felt like home.

***

Sabine stirred stiffly, blinking her eyes open at the white morning light that was falling into her face.

Confused, she took in the quiet great hall. The tree in the corner was normal-sized, the tables were all still there, cleared off and pushed to the sides like they had been when she'd stolen down there.

Her nutcracker was by her side, underneath her arm.

Feeling a great sinking disappointment, Sabine sat up, a groaning sigh escaping her.

"Oh don't tell me it was all just a dream..." she moaned, holding up her nutcracker. His black dot eyes stared back at her, painted smile still and friendly.

Sabine pressed her lips tight, heart and mood drooping, trying to remember every second of her time with Ezra. His warm easy nature, bright smile, handsome face, eyes blue as hyperspace, how quickly he laughed and how wonderful it sounded when he did.

Great. He'd ruined her for other men and he wasn't even real.

Dismally, Sabine gathered herself up, picking up her sketchbook and starting to head for her bedroom.

Voices from the entrance hall caught her attention, as she was moving through the passage. Her mother and father, talking in a low voice to someone standing just inside the door.

"Last night, you said?" Ursa was saying, sounding concerned.

"Yes Countess, we believe he used Dathomirian Nightsister magick to conduct his attack," replied the visitor.

Wait a minute... that was Kanan's voice.

Breath hitched, Sabine crept closer to the entrance hall, now fully alert and tuned into the conversation. She peeked around the corner, spying her parents and a pair of strangers in brown robes. She only see Kanan—and yes it was him—through the gap left by her parents' backs. She couldn't see her father's face but from his troubled tone she knew he was frowning, brows wrinkled.

"Several of the clan heirs mentioned having nightmares last night," Alrich said. Sabine slipped into the room, walking up behind her father, pulse rapid, trying to peek around him. "You're saying that was actually part of a psychic assault?" he asked.

"It was," Kanan confirmed, nodding gravely. "My padawan and I did our best to minimize the damage and protect your minds."

She had a view of the other visitor now, and her eyes slid off Kanan to him as Kanan spoke.

She forgot how to breathe, her chest swelling, head tingling.

Soft dark hair, thin padawan braid tucked in behind his right ear. Mesmerizing blue eyes that met hers across the way, pinching with concern. Amber skin, marred by two twin scars across his left cheek.

Sabine reeled. She felt light, lighter than air. Her nutcracker Jedi stood there before her, real and breathtaking. Surely he felt her elation, for the corners of his mouth twitched, confirming her recognition, that he knew she knew he was the one who had come to her rescue, held her hand, taken her on a such wonderful starlit journey.

Dropping her sketchbook and Ezra's miniature wooden replica she rushed forward, flinging herself into him, crashing her lips against his and kissing hard.

He yelped in surprise, jolting, and Ursa gave a scandalized and embarrassed, "Sabine!" behind her.

---

Sabine: *meets cute Jedi boy, immediately causes political incident*

How did Alrich manage to style his nutcracker almost exactly like Ezra? IDK, weird Force stuff or something, we're coasting mostly on Vibes here don't look at me for a logical explanation lol.

Thanks for reading!

#star wars #star wars rebels #ezra bridger #sabezra #sabezralifeday2023 #prompt fics #fanfiction

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gkingoffez · 7 years

Text

Their Colour and Light

Fandom: Star Wars Rebels

Words: 2,568

Warnings: tw blindness, graphic description of a traumatic injury

AO3 | FFN.Net

Kanan Jarrus is used to darkness now. He has no choice- it is before him constantly, a heavy curtain of endless black drawn between him and the vibrant world of light and colour he’d always taken for granted. Malachor and Maul had taken a lot of things from him in a very short amount of time, but it hadn’t been the first, nor would it likely be the last time his life was turned upside-down in a moment.

In the days after returning to Atollon, all the med-droids had been able to tell Kanan was what he had already figured out for himself- that his eyes were well beyond medical repair, and biotic replacements simply stretched too far outside of the Rebellion’s current means, not that he would have wanted them anyway. He knows one man isn’t worth that much cost or effort, especially in the face of the Empire’s tyrannical rule and the galaxy’s suffering. It was better to have those resources go where they were actually needed.

The droids settled for reconstructing the bridge of his nose and his eyelids, and letting the eyeballs themselves heal the best they could with the help of time and bacta. No one seemed to want to describe to Kanan what his face looked like now, and he can’t bring himself to blame them. The smell of roasting flesh still creeps up on him at odd hours in the night, and he tries not to think too hard on how the tip of the red lightsaber had gouged its way across his face. Sometimes, however, he can’t help it, and he gags on bile, always having to force it back down his throat. It would be embarrassing to ask someone to lead him to the refresher just so he could throw up. It was embarrassing enough asking for help when he needed to go to the refresher anyway.

There had been nothing to be done for his tear ducts. It’s strange to think that he will never cry again. Then again, he had been taught as a child not to show those kind of emotions, even if they were a natural part of living.

After some months, they finally tell him that his eyes have settled down and are now a traumatised, clouded over blue, while a jagged but slowly fading red scar apparently spans the line between the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t dare touch the area for the longest time for fear of aggregating it. The memory of pain stays with him even after he no longer requires pain medication.

It isn’t too difficult for Kanan to find his peace with his new shroud of darkness- it is with him always, surrounding him no matter where the sun is in the sky or how bright the lights on the Ghost are.

It takes far longer for him to come to peace with his sudden uselessness. After all, how can a blind man be anything but a burden on friends and a growing rebellion? He’s not a Jedi anymore; if he were to ignite his lightsaber now, he wouldn’t see even a dim flicker of blue light, much less be able to protect the ones he loved with it. He hasn’t called on the Force in months, seeing no need for it.

With every passing day, all he is doing is taking more precious time, energy and resources away from the rebellion, unable to give anything back. It’s slowly killing him, but Kanan eventually finds peace with that too.

After all, his family would never willingly abandon him. They are too stubborn, too kind.

Although his sight is gone, Kanan’s remaining senses cannot help but remind him that the galaxy hasn’t changed an atom around him. He sits in meditation at the edge of Chopper Base, the warmth of the sun kissing his hands, while a gentle wind rustles at his hair and ears. A spider-creature scuttles by the sensor fence, noisily kicking sand up with its long legs, and Kanan has to shuffle to pull a rock out from under his knee that had been biting into his skin. He takes a refreshing gulp from his water canteen and behind him, the distant murmur of movement and life continues as the rest of the base goes about their duties, his crew among them.

The world around him still turns and tumbles in its orbital path through space, but Kanan Jarrus cannot see it happening.

He has only memory of colour and light to work with now.

In the first few weeks after Malachor, it feels like he doesn’t get a single minute to himself. There is always a helpful (yet almost pitiful, patronising) voice in his ear, a guiding hand on his shoulder or back as he adjusts his entire being to a new, monotone reality.

A lot of the time it is Hera. He tries hard to imagine her in his mind; she is the light green of her skin, swathed in orange and brown, a nebula of light emanating from her smile, framed in the dazzling blue streak s of a hyperspace tunnel opening, the soft glow of that final sunset when he’d promised to see her again. In the black, he feels Hera’s soft arms around him, warm and comforting, her patient voice directing him, her light kisses on his skin sustaining him on nights when he lets the darkness get too close. Just as before, Hera is a beacon calling him home, and he has never been more grateful to have her in his life. But a heaviness in his heart has to remind him that Hera cannot be his guide forever; she is too important to the Rebellion and Phoenix Squadron, and so she is gone in longer and longer intervals during Kanan’s recovery.

For a while, Chopper takes it upon himself to be Kanan’s personal, if eternally-complaining cane. He remembers Chopper in orange, yellow and white, covered in dirt and glinting in the Ghost’s artificial lights, the blueish jolt of electricity leaping from his tazer extension. It must look strange from the outside, a blind man being led around base (with its haphazard array of ships and equipment from various sources bleeding different coloured whites and greys into each other, while beyond, hues of yellows, oranges and browns stretch out into the desert- at least this is what he pictures, from memory) by a cranky astromech, who shouts at everyone in binary to ‘get out of the way’ while Kanan is coming through. He finds himself memorising the steps between ships, and feeling out the well-worn pathways under his shoes for himself rather quickly, if only so he can stop apologising to the confused pilots and rebels volunteers that Chopper keeps terrorising.

Back on the Sith temple, it had been an overwhelming comfort to hear Chopper’s beeps and boops after only having Maul’s sickening voice, some of Ahsohka’s last words and the thrumming dark power of the temple powering up to keep him company. Just to put his hand on the Chopper’s worn metal head and tell him to ‘lead me to Ezra’ had calmed Kanan down immeasurably. Once he’s mapped enough of the base in his mind to get by, Kanan makes sure to thank the droid for his help. In true Chopper fashion, he tells Kanan not to mention it, and somehow makes it sound like a threat.

Out of them all, Zeb is the most notably uncomfortable around Kanan, at first. Zeb (yellow and green, the electric purple of his bo-rifle, a swift blur of colour in the middle of a fight) tries to keep the stutter from his voice, and the shaking from his hands as best as he can, but Kanan can hear his sadness and anger in the way he rustles and mutters for revenge under his breath. The Lasat had no doubt seen horrific wounds during the genocide of his people, and it pains Kanan to once again show him that they are all built of flesh and bone that is too easily scarred and torn apart. Zeb holds on to Kanan a bit tighter, and more frequently now than before, holding Kanan’s shoulders as they walk side-by-side down corridors and hovering with hands on his back as he climbs down ladders on the Ghost. ‘I got you, mate,’ Zeb says, every now and then, and Kanan doesn’t doubt it. After a while, they fall back into old habits and jokes. They are both soldiers, after all, and soldiers carry on.

Sabine, he quietly admits to himself, is the one he misses seeing most, because Sabine is the human embodiment of everything he can no longer process. Sabine he thinks of not only in bright, raging colours (orange, dark blue, turquoise, burgundy, browns and blacks, in splatters and stripes and checker patterns, the brightness of an explosion chemically designed to be a rainbow) but in the heat of her determination, the bright warmth of her courage and the glow of her kindness. He hears Sabine’s sadness as well, in her quietness around him the first time they are alone together after Malachor, and the soft sobs and angry spray painting sounds he hears coming from her room late one night. She is a calming and reassuring voice, a gentle but firm touch, an arm linked through his, a tight hug. She offers, jokingly, to let Kanan ride on her back so he won’t bump into anything , and he tries to remember her smile as he jokes his way out (‘Not this time, Sabine, but I might take you up on that offer in the future.’). He misses her orange Starbird tags.

Sabine takes one look at the plain black half-mask Kanan finds, and asks if she can paint it. She makes it a green similar to his old sweater, and paints white jaig eyes on it using a thick white paint so that Kanan can trace his fingers over them whenever he wants. He isn’t quite sure if he deserves the eyes like this, but finds he cannot refuse her wish. The familiar smell of paint calms him more than he would ever admit.

Ezra…

The last thing he remembers of Ezra is shrouded with regret and shadow. He sees Maul (red and black, like the red lightsaber arching towards his face; the blinding, red pain that fades to black; the deep red anger and dark fear that fills him at the words ‘Ezra will be mine!’) and beside him, smaller but determined, stands Ezra. Perhaps Kanan should have fought harder that day, perhaps he should have fought less, but he’s wise enough to know not to dwell too much on what could have happened if he been beside Ezra as that elevator ascended upwards, and not Maul.

In his mind, Ezra is in blues (hair in certain lights, bright wide eyes, and clever multi-purpose lightsaber), oranges (his tattered, too large jumpsuit) and whites (the glow of Lothal’s twin moons shining down on both of them). Ezra is an eclectic mix of the darkness and the light. Ezra is a small voice breaking in horrified realisation (‘Kanan, your eyes.’), a hand gripping his being pulled away with all the angry might of the Force (‘I know, I’ve got you!’) and a wetness on his shirt, while he runs his fingers through Ezra’s hair trying to ground himself amidst the pain and the then-new suffocating darkness (‘It’s over now. It’s over.’).

Ezra is also silence, and distance. They haven’t talked a lot since Malachor. In truth, Kanan hadn’t talked that much to any of them, as they were all busy with missions and useful tasks. It’s Ezra’s voice he finds he misses most- words dripping with sarcasm and laughter; a smile brighter than a supernova; a dirty child with wild hair, too small for his age, jumping on the speeder Kanan had been about to steal and driving off with a cheeky salute.

Of them all, Kanan misses Ezra most dearly, so much so that it creates a physical ache in his chest. They’d gone to Malachor for answers, and none of them had returned unscathed. Ahsohka (blues, whites, browns) hadn’t returned at all.

With the help of the Bendu, Kanan eventually learns to see himself again, but sometimes wishes for more. The Force allows him to see things in new and different ways, and suddenly he is useful again- but there is still the absence of light and colour.

He misses Sabine’s paintings every time he smells fresh paint in the air, and in quiet moments misses tracing his fingers along the markings on Hera’s lekku. Ezra cuts his hair one day, and simply doesn’t tell Kanan. One night, some of the pilots hold an impromptu circus performance in the mess hall, and while Kanan can sense the objects being juggled flying through the air, he cannot put a word into describing them. He is there when Chopper steals one of Sabine’s paint cans, and it ends up exploding neon purple all over his chasse, and there when Zeb wakes up to find one of the shuttle crabs has crawled over him in the night, leaving a sticky residue that puts his fur on end and sends everyone else into fits of laughter. He pulls Sabine aside one day, and asks her to describe her new hair colour, and while she tries her best to relay it, he can’t quite picture it in his mind, although he thinks that white and purple must look good on her. He can only listen to the sound of Hera’s fingers as they dance their way around the Ghost’s cockpit when they rush off to Reklam Station, both nervous of what they will find there.

He doesn’t see Ezra grow six inches taller. He doesn’t see the Sith Holocron until it is too late. He can’t reach for Ezra when the kid collapses in the middle of a debriefing, despite the horror clawing at his chest begging to understand the situation. He can’t see the tears in Sabine’s eyes as she screams her family’s betrayal at him, holding the Darksaber aloft. He can’t see if Sabine has her mother’s eyes, and despite feeling the cold touch of snow through his boots and listening as best he can to Ezra’s description of the landscape on Krownest, he feels heartbroken that he cannot see it for himself.

Zeb tries a new way to style the fur around his ears, and Sabine laughs so hard at it she falls out of a chair. Chopper argues with AP-5 over the way Ezra has painted his latest Imperial disguise. Hera stops wearing her shoulder pads, and he is surprised to find them missing when he reaches for her shoulder one day. The world continues spinning around him.

Most of the time, Kanan can simply accept his blindness, but there are times when he wishes he could see how his family is growing and changing before him. He isn’t sure how long he’ll be able to keep the memory of their colour and light in his mind before that too succumbs to the darkness, but he knows that it will never fade completely.

After all, Kanan Jarrus may be used to the darkness, but he knows very well that the light is still there- even if he can’t see it.

Kinda wanted to experiment with Kanan and descriptions that didn’t rely entirely on sight. I really liked the idea of focusing on colour and light, since that’s the two things Kanan can no longer experience (especially with Sabine ).

Big thanks to everyone who’s been leaving likes and comments on my last few fics. I’m not too good about replying, but rest assured I’m reading them all and squeeing to myself.

#star wars rebels #kanan jarrus #my writing #swr

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