#jedhans: threads

[jedhans]

@forcenexus | “People don’t talk that way anymore.”

Seryn blinked once, twice, thrice, taken aback by the comment brought forth by her companion. It was not wholly incorrect, given that the bad, blood-bathed war had stripped away oh so many of the Galactic Republic’s rights, leaving its once outspoken citizens silent, quiet as field mice out of fear of being scorned, of being spurred and branded as Separatists. She was not one to hold her tongue, though, turning a blind eye to inquities and injustices. No, quite the opposite, because ever since she had been young, nothing more than a child, she had worked and worked, doing everything in her power to better the galaxy.

“At one point or another, we as a galaxy have lost our way, I think,” she breathed, for while she had fought tooth and nail to ensure the Republic remained, she was not blind to its faults. How could she be, when she had seen the rot that had slowly but surely began to settle in, threatening to envelop them, to swallow them whole and leave nothing — not even a small, seemingly insignificant trace — behind? “The Republic had issues of significant magnitude long before the Confederacy was formed, yet still, even after so many star systems have seceded, we’ve made such little strides in their remediation.”

A beat, then, “We won’t truly be able to make any until this force-forsaken war comes to an end.”

[jessicas-pi]

PLEASE tell me about Match Making, Mad Science, and Accidental Child Acquisition

I WOULD BE ABSOLUTELY DELIGHTED TO.

I, uh, JUST replanned the whole thing, chapter-by-chapter, which means I don't have much of anything exactly written (but i have about 18 different scenes i'll be frankensteining into the fic later), so instead, how about I ramble aimlessly about it to you! Like a lot! (Ohhhh boy yeah this got long, i'm so sorry, i've just wanted to talk about this for such a long time and you gave me the chance i needed!)

There's four main plot threads, for the four main characters: Ahsoka, Barriss, Caleb, and Cal. But Ahsoka and Barriss's plots tie in to each other a little. (They also have separate stories but those are Spoilers for later in the fic.)

They're the Matchmaking part of the title! Barriss is 23, which in the medieval-ish setting, is kinda getting close to "old maid" territory. Ahsoka decides she needs to find this girl a handsome gentleman to sweep her off her feet. (Barriss is just fine without one, thank you very much!) And Ahsoka, with a little help from her brother Anakin, settles on objectively the WORST choice possible for a bf for barriss. Hijinks ensue.

(Ahsoka is also having fun breaking social etiquette and causing headaches for her bodyguard Rex, but i've talked about that before.)

Then there's Mad Science! That plot thread starts at the first grand ball of the year at Jedha Palace, when three unlikely friends meet. The first is Cal Kestis, a young Jedhan noble who loves botany. The second is Lady Merrin. She's a chemist, but her people are reclusive and the volcanic island of Dathomir is super creepy so there's plenty of rumors that she's a witch. And the third is Omega, Madame Se's ward, and a student of biology. They start a science club.

(I still haven't decided if I'm gonna ship cal and merrin in this, or if i'm not. like on the one hand i love a strong platonic friendship but on the other hand, if i DID ship them, then i could have a moment late in the fic where someone calls her a witch and he's just like HEY, SHE'S NOT A WITCH SHE'S MY WIFE, so. platonic friendship vs. princess bride reference. it's a tough call. I'm leaning towards the princess bride reference but i might change my mind.)

And FINALLY the part i know you're gonna love: the Accidental Child Acquisition!

So a year or two before the war ends—oh and by the way, i'm ignoring canon timelines and ages so some stuff is shuffled around—Hera and her brother are sent to jedha to be safe. there she meets Prince Dume and they go on a trip through the city, either pre-fic or in their first chapter together, and find Ezra, an orphan.

After the war ends, Hera leaves Jedha, only to come back, along with many guests from across the continent, for a post-war peace celebration. Ezra is DELIGHTED to see her again. he's also convinced that she's going to marry caleb and they're gonna adopt him (caleb's like haha i have no idea why he would think that it's not like he overheard me daydreaming or anything) and ezra is SO annoyed when he realizes they are not DOING THAT yet. So he decides he needs to help them speed things up a bit. He also befriends a mini mandalorian and then caleb and hera find that they have TWO children crashing their not-exactly-date-nights and falling into ponds and stealing pastries and dumping paint on people and wait when did they become PARENTS??

Oh, and Zeb is there! I promise I did not forget about Zeb! (He's the one getting paint dumped on him.)

(and ALL of that is just in the first 20% of the story. So much more happens!!! I won't spoil it, but there's murder mysteries and secret tunnels and that thing jane austen loved to do where a beloved character gets deathly ill and nearly dies and there's PALPATINE and there's a chapter named 'I have about twenty bazillion favorite tropes and Moment Killer is thirty-two of them' and there's—)

Ahem. So, yeah! That's Matchmaking, Mad Science, and Accidental Child Acquisition. I am so sorry i cannot shut up but THANK YOU FOR ASKING because I've wanted to ramble about it for SO LONG!!!

(Oh! Also! I have gone COMPLETELY wild with ALL the chapter titles and it was 100% inspired by you.)

[lj-writes]

Why Rose could still be Jedhan

Yes, I know, she’s from Hays Minor in the Otomak system, but Hays Minor was a poor mining colony, a frozen wasteland only settled for its mineral resources. Even before the First Order took it over and systematically destroyed it Hays Minor was a harsh place, with no indigenous animal species and temperatures so lethal people couldn’t go outside without special protective suits. It’s not the kind of place where people dream of raising their families, but someplace people go because they have to make a living--and, if they have young children, because they have nowhere else to go.

And what was Jedha known for? Force religion, sure, but also for mining kyber crystals. It would have been home not only to believers and clerics, but also to skilled miners experienced at extracting these invaluable resources. And also to violent partisans, of course, a backlash to the Empire’s anti-religious repression and ruthless exploitation of the area’s resources, but for now let’s look at more ordinary citizens just trying to go about their lives.

Imagine you are a miner on Jedha.

You were fortunate enough to survive the blast of the Death Star. Maybe you escaped into space like the Rogue One crew did, or maybe you didn’t live in the Holy City--maybe you were working on a mine elsewhere. Even if you were not in the City or its outskirts, though, you have to get out eventually because the blast is breaking the whole moon apart, kiling your world. You’ve lived on Jedha for generations and have no ties anywhere else. Where do you go?

The galaxy is wide, but the reach of the Empire is long. The stigma of being from Jedha clings to you and comes back in the form of refusals to let you settle, even violence from the authorities or from neighbors. Maybe one of the excuses is that you’re a terrorist, because your origins are associated with the memory of the partisan zealots who held out against the Empire in a mountain fortress until their violent ends.

Maybe you settled on other, more hospitable planets only to be driven out, losing everything you built and barely escaping with your life. Others were not so lucky. Maybe you learned to change your dress and customs so you would not stand out, learned never to talk about Jedha so you would not draw unwanted attention. Even your spouse might not know, if you met them after Jedha. (All things in your life are divided into before and after Jedha.) Maybe your spouse is from Jedha, too. Maybe you met them in the diaspora, which is bittersweet because you never would have met and fallen in love on Jedha. The two of you agree that it is best to stay silent about the home whose name still echoes in your hearts. Survival comes first.

You never talk to your children about Jedha. You don’t tell them what the ceremonies you hold from time to time mean, religious ceremonies from home that you carry on in secret, mourning what can never be again.

Maybe you even fought in the Rebellion yourself, finally free to shout and scream and sob the name of Jedha when you run into battle, a cry for justice. It hurts every time to say it but you do it anyway, letting the name tear your throat and your soul, Jedha, Jedha, Jedha, so you will not forget, so the world will not forget.

Maybe, despite using the name as a rallying cry, the other Rebellion fighters did not always look kindly on you and the other Jedhan fighters. The whispers of “extremist” and “fanatic” still cling to you, and the same people who say “May the Force be with you” to each other may find your ways in the Force strange. There are a thousand glances and words that cut and every time you have to wonder, is this because I’m Jedhan? You try not to be so sensitive. You pick at the meanings behind meanings, trying to disentangle the threads that trip you up. You hope for a better galaxy anyway, and that’s what you’re all here for no matter where you’re from, right?

When the Empire collapses you rejoice and weep, and say a prayer of thanks. There can be justice at last, and better days for the Jedhan refugees. The New Republic promises to do right by you and the Alderaanians, to all the people who lost everything to the Empire.

The promises, fragile and hollow, break under strain. You, like much of the Jedhan disapora, are vocal against the truce with the Empire’s remains, warning they’ll be back. You are called warmongers and extremists. You and your fellows ask for the New Republic‘s assistance with resettlement, demand that the Empire officials’ riches from the lifeblood of your people and peoples elsewhere be returned to the Jedhan diaspora and so many others displaced by the Empire. You are called greedy and a nuisance.

You are still not welcome anywhere, and if anything seem to be an inconvenience to a universe that wishes to move on and forget. You drift, body and soul, without a home, and survival becomes increasingly more pressing as your family grows.

Then you hear about a mining colony far out in space--an inhospitable place, a deadly place actually, but they’re looking for people and they can use your skills. Maybe you even hear of it through the refugee grapevine, and other Jedhans are going so it’ll feel a little like home. Nothing will ever be home, but it’s a living and a community. You could do worse than that.

So you raise your daughters on a frozen planet, in a shelter specially shielded to keep the planet from killing you all. You watch them play in the artificial light, happy and smiling and alive, and you are content. You are luckier than many, so many that you will carry to your grave.

You don’t talk to your children about Jedha, the old fears locking your lips, not wanting them to go through what you had to as a Jedhan. When you and your spouse make them matching medallions you tell them they represent the twin planets of Hays Major and Hays Minor. In your heart of hearts you think of them as being Jedha and NaJedha, orbiting each other even in ruin. You hope your daughters’ lives will be better, not touched and tainted by destruction as yours was. Maybe that’s another reason you don’t want to tell them about Jedha, because you don’t want that shadow over their lives.

And Hays Minor has been good for your family, after all. Your daughters can do worse than think of a community of courageous, hard-working, honest people as home. This is enough. Not perfect (not Jedha, never Jedha) but enough, and maybe you’ll save up to move to a kinder planet where life isn’t quite so harsh, a place where your eldest can see and touch the animals she’s always talking about, where she and her sister can stand in the sun and breathe unfiltered air.

Your dreams and your heart shatter when a Star Destroyer blots out the sky over your home a second time. They will be back, you and your people warned the galaxy. You just didn’t think, never let yourself imagine, that they would come for your home and your family first. Not again.

[sarkastically]

Whole in His Way

(Since the cable I bought to try and connect the HDDs to the new computer don’t work because I’m an idiot and didn’t realize it was for laptop HDDs, I can’t get to those files yet so. Have a drabble in the Love Made Manifest world with Baze and Han interacting.)

Of all the people Luke brings to them--and there are many because Luke is bright and boisterous and people adore him, are drawn to him as though he is a fire on a cold night, even if he does seem sadder than he should sometimes, heavy almost, the weight of the Jedi lingering on him like a mark no matter how much he listens to their teachings, no matter how many times he or Chirrut tell Luke that is okay to want, that the Force thinks no less of someone for falling in love--the one that Baze thinks is the most interesting, the most perplexing is the pilot who will only call himself “smuggler” the word itself snapped off and spit out at them as though in an attempt to make them stop regarding him at all. 

Han Solo. They had heard of him before meeting him thanks to Cassian’s connections and Jyn’s ability to wheedle information out of thin air. Mostly, however, they had heard of him from Bodhi who keeps tabs on all the pilots in the galaxy he wants to emulate and counts this man among them. 

This man who slouches into corners to play card games, translating his companion’s Wookie for anyone who needs to know what is being said but often not talking at all, frowning at the cards in his hands, winning even when he doesn’t pay attention. It takes Baze several days to figure him out with his gruffness and his habit of turning around, walking away whenever someone who is not Chewie or Leia or Luke approaches him. He even wheels away from Chirrut once, his steps hastening him towards his ship, which is where he spends most of his time, twidling his thumbs and tinkering with things that probably do not need to be fixed, ignoring all the ones that do. 

Baze almost had words with him over that one until Chirrut laid a hand on his arm, steady, sure. “That one is in the habit of running. It won’t do any good to chase him; he has to choose to settle.”

“The Force clings to him like a cape,” Baze had said, and Chirrut only nodded.

“He won’t want to know.”

“Since when has that ever stopped you?”

Chirrut walked away, chuckling, sounding very much like a fool with a plan, sounding very much like he had every single day of his life.

The Force does cling to Han like a cape, though, and Baze cannot unsee it once he notices it. It swishes and glides and, strangest of all, it guides. Cassian and Jyn convince Han to partake in a shooting game, and Han is the best shot easily, distractedly, barely even paying attention to anything, like he doesn’t care, like he doesn’t even want to win, yet every shot finds home. Luke and Bodhi goad him into doing piloting tricks alongside them, and they are good but there’s something different about the way Han flies like you could give him nothing but scape metal never meant to be in the air, and he could escape on it.

“The Force is different for him,” Baze complains after dinner, his head in Chirrut’s lap, Chirrut’s fingers in his hair, brushing, placing intricate braids here and there, winding in bits and bobs that the children--Jyn and Bodhi and Cassian and Luke as much as the orphans--gift him. Leia does not seem to want more fathers, is polite and interested in learning but staunch and formal. And Han. Doesn’t seem to understand the concept of parents at all, looks at both of them like he expects them to kick him off Lyra at any moment. The Wookie is older than both of them combined, and Baze has to stop himself from using honorifics like grandfather in Jedhan when speaking to him. 

“It’s pure there,” Chirrut says simply as though Baze ought to know and tugs harder on a bit of hair than Baze thinks he needs to.

Baze huffs through his nose but does not move, waits.

Chirrut hums in something that only Baze would know is slight disappointment, and Baze wonders what reaction his husband was aiming to get. “He doesn’t know he’s using it. It bends them to him. Things just work out. He doesn’t believe in it, but.”

“The Force believes in him,” Baze finishes, catches Chirrut’s wrist mid-air to pull the hand down, place a kiss on the palm even though it leaves wisps of his hair undone. “We’ve not seen that before.”

“Neither the Whills nor the Jedi knew all the secrets of the Force, my love. To presume otherwise is foolish.”

“Like you?”

Chirrut clicks his tongue and lifts his face as though astounded by the suggestion. “Force, why did you burden me with such a man?”

“That’s not what you said the other night.”

When Chirrut moves his face back down, slightly off-center, Baze feels a thrill at the smirk stretched across his face. “Really? I don’t remember that at all.”

“No?”

“No. Not a bit.”

Threading his fingers into Chirrut’s robe to pull him down, Baze chuckles. “Perhaps I can remind you.”

The next morning finds Baze alone with the orphans, Chirrut having taken the others into the forest for meditation that morning at Luke’s request. For the most part, the orphans entertain themselves, and Baze is simply keeping an eye out to make sure that nothing goes awry while tinkering with several of the droids who need some slight repairs following Kay and Artoo’s modification battle. None of the Lyra droids need flamethrowers, for Force’s sake.

He’s just about done fixing the fourth and final flamethrower bedecked droid when he hears high pitched squeals of laughter coming from outside. Where none of the orphans are supposed to be at the moment but have obviously taken advantage of his distraction to sneak out. Wiping the grease off on his pant legs, Baze rises slowly and makes his way to the courtyard, but the sight that greets him makes him pause in the doorway.

In the center of the courtyard, surrounded by orphans, covered in them--one on his shoulders, one clamped around each of his legs, a toddler balanced on his hip as if it has always belonged there--is Han Solo. Han Solo, smuggler, killer, in it for the money, Force caped, loner, is covered in children, smiling. Baze knows people. He has always had a keen, quick eye for knowing people, for seeing through their layers to the heart of them. Chirrut has accused him of using the Force for this and maybe that is true, but Baze mostly thinks it’s because, unlike his husband, he is quiet, patient, looks, listens, studies.

Yet, he could not have suspected this facet of the man Luke brought to them, proclaiming him to be his best friend, proclaiming him to be a hero, and all Baze had seen was what Solo wanted to show them, scruffy, hard, alone. 

He should have known, really, he’s worn those clothes before.

Han’s interactions with the children tell a different story. This is a man who has interacted with children before, a lot, who likes them. Not like Jyn who took ages to warm to the orphans or Cassian who is gentle but seems to worry about breaking them. Or Leia who is always kind yet somewhat clinical and detached. Han is none of these things. Han knows how to tickle to make them laugh with glee, and is saying all the normal things one does in play. Of them all, Han reminds him most of Bodhi in this moment.

“Hey, hey. You guys have got me. Okay. I’m beat.” It’s not the voice of a man who can fire a gun without looking and never miss a shot.

And then it stops. Because Han has seen him. Han has been caught. And his teeth are locked in a grimace that makes Baze wonder what his own face looks like to elicit such an expression.

“You were losing some of them,” he says, recovering quickly. “I just thought I’d save you from having to track them through the trees.”

“You can play with them. They like you.”

“Yeah, I just.” Han has managed to step out of the arms encircling his legs without dislodging either the child on his hip or the one on his shoulders with the ease of someone familiar with such a task. “It’s probably not the best idea. You know. I’m not.”

Baze accepts the toddler when Han hands him over, watches as Han easily sets the girl from his shoulders onto the ground.

“I’m probably not a good role model for `em anyway.” Smuggler. Killer. Greedy. Swindler. Scruffy. 

Nothing.

Baze looks at him and sees his thoughts, his worries etched across his face. Baze looks at him and sees. Orphan. Oh.

When Baze claps his hand against his thigh, the children gather around him, ready and eager and listen. “Go back inside and wait for me. I won’t be long.” The rest of the children scuttle back into the main building, leaving Baze and Han standing across from each other, the toddler still in Baze’s arms, occupied with curling his fingers into Baze’s beard.

“Is that why you’ve stayed on your ship so much, Captain Solo?”

Han acts like more of a boy than even Luke, shifting his weight from foot to foot and looking at his beloved ship more than at Baze. “I don’t go in for your hocus-pocus.” And I’m a smuggler. I’ve killed people. These last things go unsaid, do not need to be said because Baze knows them already. How Han thinks he is a bad person unfit to be around the children. How Han thinks any set of commitments could turn ugly without any notice. How he doesn’t know whether or not he should run. How he doesn’t want to.

How afraid he is of that fact.

“That’s okay,” Baze says, and he means it. The Force believes in Han. Baze has always believed even when he was angry and resentful, he knew it was there. Han has never known the Force as the Force. He has known it as always getting through by the skin of his teeth, Baze will not destroy the kind of faith he has by naming it. That’s not his place.

Han rubs a hand on the back of his neck, his eyes still on anything but Baze. “Look. I’m not. I’m not saying that Luke can’t manage to do exceptional things. I just. I don’t know how they work.” And I’m scared to know how they work.

“Captain Solo, you do not owe us an explanation of what you do or do not believe.” There is no handbook for this kind of interaction. Baze does not know quite what he is trying to assuage. With Jyn, he knows that she wants people to listen and help her understand feelings that are too big for her. Bodhi needs help finding his way out of the panic-stricken portions of his mind that can be too much sometimes. Cassian needs help admitting that he needs help. 

Han stands there, lost but whole in his own way because he has had enough years to make himself into something even if he doesn’t seem to like whatever it is he has made. This is me, he almost seems to say, and I don’t like it either but you cannot take it away from me.

No, Baze thinks, and he doesn’t really want to because whatever Han has made himself, he knows to be gentle with children.

“You’re an orphan,” Baze says.

The way Han’s shoulders snap up is the answer before even the words, which could be the opening to a duel if Baze was another person, the one before the death and the coming back. “Yeah.”

“You’re good with them. Would you like to help me until the others come back?”

Han’s mouth, once stretched thin like something ready to tear, falls open, and his eyes are wide, vulnerable. Baze can almost see him as a boy then before he closes his mouth and looks away. And nods. “I can do that. For you. I can do that.”

“Thank you, Captain Solo.” Baze turns to walk back into the building.

It takes a moment longer than he expected because Han seems to do everything in his own time, but it comes. Like he knew it would. “Han.”

[tellmevarric]

More Like You

Written for Day 5 of Bassian Week - Force Sensitive Bodhi Rook

For someone who claims to not believe in the Force, Baze is certainly very mindful of it. And when he sees something very familiar in Bodhi, he goes to the one person who he knows could actually help.

I took something of a different take on this prompt because this was what spoke to me the loudest so for all that this is about a Force-sensitive Bodhi and his relationship with Cassian, they don't technically appear in the fic itself. Though they are the topic of conversation.

This fic can also be found here on AO3.

It came as no surprise to Chirrut that Baze was the one who noticed what was going on with Bodhi first. For all that he claimed to have turned away from the Force, for all that he was indeed out of balance with the Force and for all that pained Chirrut, Baze had always had an affinity for the Force that Chirrut admired when they were still young acolytes in the Temple of the Kyber. He had always suspected that Baze could have had a better connection than even his own fleeting ability to grasp the threads of the Force if he had only just believed in himself more.

But that had never been in Baze’s nature sadly. What was in his nature was to be attuned to someone else’s sensitivity to the Force. Usually that was Chirrut and for all his grumbling he had always made room and time for Chirrut’s Force sensitivity and for all his grumblings and denials, he had never truly doubted what Chirrut could see and feel through the Force. No matter what else he might claim to be or not to be, no matter how much he might deny it, Baze Malbus was still, in his deepest heart, a Guardian of the Whills.

So when Baze came over and sat down next to him with a huffing sigh, his mood heavy and contemplative, Chirrut did nothing more than simply wait. There was no point prodding at Baze when he was in this sort of mood. Doing so would only drive him back into his shell. No, this sort of mood required patience and gentle coaxing to get to the source of it.

“Bodhi,” Baze began before falling silent again.

Chirrut waited then offered a small prompt. “Yes? A fine young man. Courageous. Good pilot. Very respectful of his elders.”

He said the latter with a broad impish smile. Since their return from Scarif… or more specifically since their recovery from the terrible wounds they had all suffered there… Bodhi had called both Chirrut and Baze – but particularly Baze – every Jedhan word for ‘respected elder’ that possibly existed. Baze grumbled about it but even without his sight, Chirrut hadn’t missed the almost paternal way Baze treated the young pilot, up to and including the heavy looks he directed at Cassian Andor, who was slowly inching his way emotionally towards Bodhi. Chirrut found that particularly amusing because Cassian was so clearly inept at it – unsurprisingly given what he had revealed about his life in his angry words to Jyn after Eadu – and Bodhi was, as far as he could tell, well aware of what was going on and was simply waiting patiently for Cassian to sort himself out. Bodhi didn’t really need Baze’s protection in the endeavour but he didn’t seem to mind it either.

Baze gave an irritated grunt and Chirrut leaned against him in a silent apology for his teasing. Baze immediately shifted to give him more support and Chirrut smiled softly. They’d almost lost each other on Scarif and in the aftermath neither felt inclined to stray far from the other, both physically and in every other way.

Baze was silent for a little longer then he said, “I think he feels the Force.”

Chirrut gave a start and his hands tightened on his staff. “Like the Skywalker boy?”

They’d met Luke Skywalker in the aftermath of the destruction of the Death Star. The young man, shining so brightly with the Force, had come to see them specially. To thank them for their courage and bravery that had allowed him to finish what Galen Erso had started. It had been interesting. Jyn had been awkward but pleased that Luke had recognised her father’s contribution. Baze had been distinctly uncomfortable around the potential Jedi and Chirrut had simply basked in the strength of Luke’s connection to the Force. Bodhi, however, had been star struck, which had left Cassian stiff and uncertain and unhappy beside him until Bodhi had clutched at his arm and babbled at him about flying… or more specifically flying Cassian on his missions. Chirrut had a suspicion Bodhi’s response had been quite deliberate.

“No,” Baze replied. “More like you.”

Chirrut contemplated that thought. He hadn’t reached for the Force since they’d woken up in the medbay on Yavin IV after Scarif. He’d meditated, yes, but he hadn’t sought that oh-so-elusive connection to the Force that so often eluded him but sometimes came at his call. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to but it wasn’t always easy and it drained him sometimes. He simply hadn’t had the energy to spare.

“Does he know?” he asked.

Baze hesitated for a moment. “I think he’s aware on some level but not completely.”

Chirrut raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“He gets twitchy when anyone talks about the grenade,” Baze said after a long pause.

Chirrut hummed his agreement. He had noted how Bodhi started to stammer and change the subject whenever that incident came up in conversation. Neither he nor Baze had seen it – metaphorically speaking in his case – but they had heard Bodhi’s initial explanation on the shuttle as they escaped Scarif. Bodhi had been jittery and anxious and thus wound up to a fever pitch, still working more on adrenaline than anything else, and what he’d said then did not entirely match what he’d later told the Rebel leaders. He hadn’t lied; he’d just left out a few things he’d told them. Like how he had known the grenade was coming before it landed and had reached out and tossed it in just the right direction to take out the stormtroopers who had been aiming at Chirrut. Like how he had known exactly where Baze and Chirrut had been when he come to rescue them in the shuttle and where Jyn and Cassian had ended up.

“And this thing with Cassian,” Baze continued.

Chirrut chuckled. “You disapprove?”

“No,” Baze replied. “Bodhi knows what he’s doing. Cassian needs to get his head out of his backside.”

Chirrut patted his arm. “Be gentle with him, dear heart. You heard what he said to Jyn. That sort of life doesn’t make it easy for him.” Baze grumbled and Chirrut patted him on the arm again. “And Bodhi does have it well in hand. Though how does it support your thought he is Force sensitive?”

Baze was silent for a long time but Chirrut was happy to wait him out. “He does what you used to do,” he finally said, his voice a complicated mix of exasperation, amusement and fondness.

Chirrut was startled into laughter at the reference to their days back in the Temple. Baze rarely referenced those days since the Temple fell and even more rarely the days of their youth after Chirrut had realised what his feelings were for Baze and that Baze did in fact feel the same but was reluctant to make any move that might jeopardise their friendship.

“Oh my!” He giggled at the memory of his own antics and what it must look like for Baze, Bodhi and Cassian. “So that’s what he’s been doing! I knew he was in control of the situation but I hadn’t realised what was actually going on.”

He’d been so proud of his Force sensitivity back in those days and had used it shamelessly as he’d ever so slowly chased after Baze. Making sure he always knew what sort of mood Baze was in, where he would be and making sure he was always the one there to share any triumphs and soothe any fears and pains.

“It was familiar,” Baze said so dryly amused that Chirrut started giggling again.

“Is Cassian being as stubborn as you were?” he asked, shifting so that he could poke Baze in the side repeatedly.

Baze caught his hand with an annoyed grunt and pulled him close. “I don’t know. Did I look pole-axed every time you appeared out of nowhere?”

Chirrut felt the same sense of faint regret that came every time he thought about the days before he’d lost his sight. It was very faint these days. He’d spent far more years blind than he had sighted and very few memories of what he had once been able to see remained clear. Most of those that did were of Baze.

“No, you mostly looked annoyed,” he said with a pout.

Baze gave a soft huff of laughter. “You might need to tell Bodhi to ease up a bit then.”

Chirrut caught the unspoken words underlying that statement and he smiled softly. Baze might have rejected the Force but he was still mindful of it despite that. There was little that Chirrut could do to teach Bodhi. Force sensitivity didn’t really work like that. But he could ensure Bodhi was aware of what he was doing and was mindful of that.

“Perhaps after he’s captured his Cassian?” Chirrut suggested with a grin.

“I don’t think that’ll take too much longer,” Baze replied, his tone indicating he was satisfied that he’d brought the matter to Chirrut’s attention and was happy to leave it with him. “I saw Jyn lecturing him.”

“Who? Bodhi?”

“No, Cassian.”

Chirrut chuckled. “That should be sufficient.” He patted Baze’s leg and got to his feet. “I think we should help it along a bit, don’t you?”

Baze sighed but got to his feet nonetheless. “You can’t help meddling.”

“It’s not meddling when it’s going to make our friends happy,” Chirrut replied. “Now come.”

Baze sighed wearily. “Yes, dear.”

[jedhans]

you don’t need to play dumb with me. i like you better when you’re smart. (whoever is the strongest for you.)

A small, seemingly insignificant moment passed in which Seryn froze, unsure how to proceed, then the moment passed, prompting her to stand taller, straightening her spine ever so slightly. Why had such a shift come about within her, one may wonder? Because she had spent hours upon hours molding herself, making herself into a fabricator, a fabulist who could concoct even the most complex, compounding stories and make them seem believable.

Now, do not be mistaken. She did not enjoy concocting such stories; she had to in the name of self-preservation, because even though the galaxy had made great, near gargantuan strides since the fall of the Empire, they still had a long way to go when it came to the things they did not understand. Such was confirmed, cemented in reality by the fate that would undoubtedly befall her in the event that her true nature was revealed.

She was not a mere human. No, not in the slightest, because she had been made in the image of a woman who had died, passing from this mortal realm onto the next decades ago.

The original Seryn Cerepath was no more, but her replica . . . she was still there, donning both her face and name. Her demeanor . . . not so much, since she had figured out early on that there were many advantages to playing daft.

“What makes you think I’m playing?” she breathed, her tones soft, barely there, because none had seen through her so plainly until now.

[jedhans]

@forcenexus | “I want to liberate your truest self: the beast that prowls around your heart.”

Mayhaps a beast prowled around Seryn’s heart, pulling her strings like a master did its puppet. She had done her best to ignore the beast, pushing its existence down, down, down into the deepest, darkest depths of her chest cavity. Its dark, damned stain lingered there, ever-present, though, threatening to spread, to stray and travel the length of her form. All because her mother — the beautiful, beguiling Sera Mireya — had been born and raised as a member of the Mecrosa Order. She was supposed to live and breathe for its overlords, House Mecetti of Obulette, doing anything and everything in her power to ensure their survival.

She had . . . but only for a time. Because the Force ultimately presented her with a new path, leading her to Jedha, to Orion. The King had been broken, bleeding beyond repair due to how the Son had recently paid his beloved lady wife a visit, stealing away her strength and leaving her with no choice but to die, passing from this mortal realm onto the next. Sera seemingly breathed life back into him, and so, moons later, they had been wed, married in the eyes of gods and men.

Such did not change the fact that darkness and deception ran in their blood.

“Whyever would you want that?” she breathed, a twinge of anxiety rising beneath her skin. “It’s a horrid, hideous thing.”

[jedhans]

“i expected someone with your reputation to be a little older.” (for obi wan!)

Obi-Wan had developed quite the reputation, because few could say they had stood against the dark, damned Lords of the Sith, serving as a shield, a safeguard against their power.

He had spent hours upon hours molding himself, making himself in the perfect image of a Jedi, and as such, he had become a stellar pilot, a brutal warrior, and an arbitrator who, in all honesty, preferred to sit on his lonesome and meditate, asking the Force for guidance. A storm of trouble seemed to arrive at every turn, though, threatening to swallow him, to envelop him whole and leave nothing — not even a small, seemingly insignificant trace — behind. Such a storm had come about back when he had been young, nothing more than a pure, passionate padawan, and as such, nothing could have truly prepared him for Naboo.

His master — the man that he had grown to revere, holding a pure, palpable amount of respect for — had been slain, struck down before his very eyes, and he . . . he had not been able to do anything to save him, preserving his life force. He had simply stood there, watching helplessly as that force had disappeared, dissipating and flying away with the breeze. Something had come over him then, compelling him to reach into the deepest, darkest depths of his chest and pull on the reserves of strength there.

And so, with a newfound momentum, he had fought the son of darkness, putting up a good and true fight before finally, an opening presented itself, allowing him to deal a devastating blow upon Maul. The kind of blow that no one — not even the strongest �� could survive. (Or so he thought).

He had aged since then, growing more mellow, mature, but he was still relatively young.

“Really?” he asked, a hint of surprise flaring in his chest, for while his skin was not yet worn or weathered, he sometimes felt like it was. “How old did you expect me to be?”

[jedhans]

a starter for @tapalslegacy, 9 BBY

Elara was no stranger to the Jedi.

Her father, the late Elias Cerepath, had been a member of the Order, for while he had been born to the Noble House of Jedha, he had been a second son, a spare brought forth as the result of an affair between King Apollo and his beloved, a bright, beautiful lady by the name of Eliana. He had been wed, married in the eyes of gods and men, and while his wife had brought forth a son, a boy who may inherit the mantle, he had remained down, discontent . . . until Eliana had walked into the palace, unexpectedly breathing life back into him. Now, do not be mistaken. He had tried to be good and true, adhering to his marital vows, but those vows had been shattered, splintered into a million seemingly unmendable pieces once he and Eliana gave into temptation. A sordid, salacious affair had followed, and while great efforts had been taken to conceal said affair, they had ultimately been for naught. Because her belly had ultimately swollen, spinning tales of how she and Apollo had fallen into bed together, collapsing into one another like stars in the name of pleasure and passion.

Nine moons later, her babe had been brought forth into the world, kicking and screaming with a ferocity seen in only a select few. The babe — Elias — was all but handed over to the Order on a pretty, silvery platter, and so, he had spent years upon years molding himself, making himself into a good and true Jedi. The kind of Jedi that could move mountains, making a palpable, profound impact upon the galaxy at large.

Seeds of doubt lingered, though, slowly but surely turning his heart against those of his brothers and sisters. He had done his best to ignore those seeds, pushing their existence down into the deepest, darkest depths of his chest cavity, but that was easier said than done. Such was confirmed, cemented in reality by his . . . less than acceptable coping mechanisms. He may have bent the Jedi Code, seeking solace in the arms of the Senator Tove Antilles of Alderaan, but he ensured that the waters between them remained clear, crystalline.

It was only after his daughter — a babe by the name of Elara was brought forth — that he had departed, leaving behind his home, the only home he had ever known. He and Tove raised her on NaJedha, where she bloomed, blossoming like the most beautiful of the galaxy’s flowers. Years of peace and plenty had allowed for such, but now, threats had been leveled against herself and her fellow members of the Convocation of the Force.

The Jedi had insisted that she remain on Coruscant, far away from where the threats had originated, but she had remained steadfast, refusing to wilt or waver in the slightest. Such was why an old friend, a Jedi Master by the name of Cal Kestis, was to accompany her on the journey home.

“Do you really think this is necessary? There have been threats similar to these in the past, and none have actually resulted in any harm.”

[jedhans]

a starter for @spokewar, 33 BBY

To most of Jedha’s citizens, Seryn Cerepath had been spat forth by the Ones to rule, to return the planet to a time of peace and prosperity. Because she, unlike her older brother, had been blessed with what they most revered: the Force. It was a gift that showed the favor of the Ones, which was why it came as a great surprise when her older half-brother, Perseus, was named the heir apparent to the Jedhan throne. There were those who had accepted Orion’s named heir, throwing their support behind him, but there were just as many who had not, throwing their support behind the one they believed was chosen by the gods, Seryn. Consequently, much tension had been birthed, casting a great, dark gloom over the planet. It had been just that, though: harmless tension . . . until Orion had fallen ill, his bones growing old, wary. He had tried to fight, to stay as long as he could on the mortal plane, but in the end, his efforts had been for naught, for the illness had sucked the life force out of him. The Son had taken him prematurely, leading him from this life into the next one, thus causing Seryn to profoundly feel his loss. It was as though a light had been extinguished. Perhaps even a star had died, burning out in a blaze of glory . . .

From that point on, many things had happened at once. A succession crisis had been born on Jedha, leaving Queen Sera with no choice but to flee, to stow away in the night with her youngest child, Siona. She had put as much distance as possible between themselves and the planet, despite the maternal instinct to stay, to wait for Seryn, because if she knew her daughter, it was that she would run toward danger, not away from it. This much was only confirmed when two members of the Jedi Order, Master Qui-Gon Jinn and Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, showed up in the senatorial offices of Senator Bail Organa, the offices in which she was currently serving as an aide. With practiced grace, the master informed her that they were to escort her back to her apartments, where she was to retrieve her necessities before they boarded a transport vessel. What they found in her apartments left much to be desired, though, for they had been ransacked, broken beyond repair. A precursory check was done to ensure whoever had carried out the nonsensical act of violence was gone, then the master reached out a kind, almost paternal hand toward her, a hand that she shied away from.

“Forgive me, Master Jinn, but I’m not a child,” she breathed, despite feeling like a small, delicate flower that could wilt at any second. “You need not treat me as such.”

With that, she continued into the apartments, beginning to shuffle whatever could be salvaged into her bag.

[sarkastically]

Abounding

(This was meant to be pure fluff, but it got a little heavy at parts. It’s also slightly nsfw but not by much.)

The cold feet on his bare back wake him up, jarring him from a dream wherein birds filled the sky, swooping, crying, singing, beats of wings, feathers, all filling the air, and all the birds had bright white wings like kyber light, pure and unmarred by the ruddy sand of the Jedhan desert. All the birds were laughing, their voices as known to him as the feet pressed against him and just as beloved. “Chirrut,” he sighs, groans, swipes an arm out without even opening his eyes, fingers brushing over well-known flesh. Cold. Chirrut is cold. Like the drafts that get in through the cracks in the temple walls and send everyone scuttling to bed as soon as possible because no one enjoys being out in the wind that blows from the sands through NiJedha. 

Except for Chirrut. Who has always enjoyed sneaking out onto the roof or the gardens or into the training halls, the classrooms, the archives to enjoy the steady stillness of night or look at the stars or watch the blossoms that only bloom in the darkness, too shy for sunlight, radiant in the moonlight like Chirrut himself. It is not uncommon for Chirrut to go walking, layered in many robes, typically his own and then a set of Baze’s over them, a sight that would be comical if it wasn’t so dear, but he normally pulls and prods until the other joins him.  Chirrut is a great many things, but solitary is typically not one of them. If either of them is bound to go shuffling off into the night alone, to go anywhere alone, it is Baze. 

The feet slip higher up his back until Baze turns away from them, rolls to face where Chirrut lies, traps his legs between his own even as he loops an arm about his waist to pull him close, press them bodily together to drive the chill away. Chirrut tucks his face against his neck and kisses, nips, sucks until the air is full of Baze’s throaty, sleepy moans, until his body feels like a string pulled taught and vibrating. His fingers splayed across Chirrut’s back move lower to cup his ass, knead into the yielding flesh, pull him closer, and Chirrut simply chuckles against his throat, that sound igniting yet more sparks that flutter through his body, gather in his groin, pull him slowly, slowly from sleep intoxication to another sort altogether, one that fills all his waking hours, the delirious joy of being in love with this chimerical man who always seems to be changing, moving, quick of mind and fleet of foot and lovely in body, illuminated and funny. It used to make Baze feel eclipsed, lost, stuck in the shadows and completely unseen because how could he ever expect the sun to find him when it was so bright, but the sun had seen him. Chirrut had seen him. Down to the quick of him and beyond, seen something lovely and wonderful, fell in love with him quietly and slowly and completely, he said, in a way that was altogether not like Chirrut himself. These days Baze does not feel overshadowed, easily ignored. He feels warm, bathed in the light of a sun that he can touch whenever he wants, kiss until Chirrut is panting and desperate against him, lovely, giggles like the bird cries in his dream.

Chirrut’s fingers, still slightly cool but warming quickly, dance down his arms, across his thigh, into his hair. Chirrut can somehow seem to touch everywhere at once, and Baze thinks, wonders, dreams sometimes that his love has many arms, many hands, all of them delightedly touching him, stroking him, caressing him in the darkness as if he is some thinly carved stone easily broken instead of rough hewn from rock, thick and sturdy, an immovable object. While Chirrut knows he will not break, knows that pressure and bites and tugs on his hair all make him hard and greedy, it always seems that Chirrut touches like feathers, as if he is touching Baze’s gentle, easily bruised heart instead of his thick, well-worn skin. Each tap of his fingers, every kiss, and cant of his hips against him wakes Baze more, drags him from succumbing to slumber to succumb to Chirrut instead, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Sleep is for later. One day it will be for always. He will enjoy Chirrut as much as he can before that comes, hopefully very far in the future, hopefully not near at all. If he could stop time, he would pause it here, in the middle of the night, when Chirrut is slightly chilled and threaded around him as though they are just yarn in a tapestry, woven together to form a picture, to tell a story of a love that is abounding and true, strong enough to withstand anything because they are together. If he could stop time, Baze would never leave the circle of these arms.

“Where did you go, love?” he asks and then curses as Chirrut’s teeth find the rise of his collarbone to worry. No part of Chirrut’s body seems cold now, but that might just be because of the fire that his ministrations have woken under Baze’s skin. He cannot tell, cannot focus very well with all the delicious sensations filling his head, making him breathe faster. He cups the back of Chirrut’s head with one hand while the other remains on his bare ass, gripping in a way that is slightly possessive, something that Chirrut long ago told him he liked, hissing, “Harder” into his ear almost demandingly when Baze had first dared try it.

There is not much moonlight that makes it into their room, but there is enough for Baze to catch a glimpse of Chirrut’s eyes as he pulls back to look at him, and Baze marks the way his eyesight diminishes the way someone else might count days in a prison cell. One day, the master healers had said, all the sights of the world would be stolen from him. Then there would probably only be a soft haze, a sense of light and darkness and all the differences existing therein. They both mourn this knowledge in their separate ways, and if Chirrut looks at him more often, fondly stares all through meals and study and prayers, Baze never mentions it, tries not to bristle at the unwavering attention. He also tries not to fret over him because Chirrut has never taken well to coddling.

“Just the moon,” is Chirrut’s answer, the words as soft as his fingertips trailing down Baze’s chest, lower, lower, likely prepared to tease until he gasps his pleasure out in hitching breaths.

More and more often it is the moon that Chirrut seeks as the months tick down to the final slamming of the cell door. Baze does not understand this much. The stars, the flowers, the quiet in the rooms, the glow of the kyber, all of this he would understand more than the moon, who seems silent and hovering, distant and cold, wavering sometimes in devotion, lost to the night. A million little flaws. There are better things to see in the world. Like the sun. Like Chirrut. He presses a kiss to Chirrut’s forehead, and the man looks up at him with his smile full and bright, gums showing. 

“Why the moon so often?” Baze has asked this before and only got a hum as an answer because sometimes Chirrut enjoys being the silent one, likes to tease instead of answer, wants Baze to cajole information out of him, which Baze is not always willing to do.

Tonight, though, is different. Tonight when the slight edging in Chirrut’s eyes seems bigger than before, makes his gaze flit a little to the side until it settles, he seems more inclined to talk. “I’ll tell you but first a question.”

Baze arches an eyebrow but nods, running a finger over Chirrut’s lips, untangling their legs a little in anticipation but staying close because he can never be anywhere but next to him when given the chance. If he had his way, Baze would never let go of him, would cling to a hand or a shoulder or an elbow or lock their lips together always, breathe him in like the scent of cardamom in the kitchens, infuse him into his lungs and heart and blood the way that he has sunk into his soul.

“What did it feel like for you, falling in love with me?”

Baze has answered this before, but he never tires of talking about it because it is as close as he can come to poetry. “It was all at once. A burning. Like falling into the sun, like touching kyber, like swallowing fire.”

Chirrut smiles, and Baze wants to kiss him, kiss that serene spark of joy and wonder and awe until it dances on his tongue, but he holds back because he would like to see where this is going. Kissing Chirrut can change his mind, rocket him onto one course when he had been keen on another. “And I fell in love with you slowly, patiently, in turns.” 

Baze nods because he knows this part, too, though it is still a wonder to him that Chirrut fell in love with him at all.

Chirrut’s mouth is right there, pressed so close to his own that their lips brush and send shockwaves through his body when he speaks. “Like the moon.”

When he chuckles, soft, low, a rumble, Chirrut steals it, steals his breath, slides his tongue into his mouth even as his hands grip and clench and pull them even closer together. And then Baze can think of nothing at all except the gasping and the kissing and chasing pleasure through the darkness. 

He does not think about the meaning of Chirrut’s words until later. How Chirrut is drinking in the moon, savoring it, trapping it in his mind, because it reminds him of Baze. Much the same way that he drinks in the sight of him during the day. The night next when Chirrut slips from their bed, Baze follows him, and they sit on the roof together, wrapped in blankets, watching the moon, and if Chirrut looks at him more than the moon, he never comments on it.

[sarkastically]

I’m currently still jumping through working on random IP fics because I cannot get my mind to settle, and I honestly keep questioning the entire point of continuing to write any of them, which I hate but there you go.

Anyway. The current one I have been working on is Baze and archery (it’s not that much about archery because I know very little about it and mostly about like Baze’s self-doubts and Chirrut not having it).

Anyway snippet because I somehow always feel a little better sharing:

A hand catches at his wrist and locks because it is full of strength in so many ways that even Baze, who knows words upon words, almost all the words in the archives, cannot list them all. “Baze, no. Just. Try a little longer. Maybe stop,” there is a hesitation, a worry about whether what is said next will be too much, but then he goes for it, “trying so hard. You try so hard I think you’ll break yourself from the inside.”

Baze has words that spin and writhe on the tip of his finger. Baze has words that wind around his wrists and his legs and into his heart like some strange woven thread. Baze has words in four different languages, though he stumbles when trying to speak in anything but Jedhan because his family language is painful to remember and Basic is strange and the fourth. Oh, the fourth is one that he took to learning for Chirrut but has no courage to voice it because what would it mean to admit to that. How sad would it seem? Here is this language I have learned, here are these words I can butcher, for you. What would it mean? Baze has all these words and yet he has none when it matters, and he doesn’t have enough to discern what Chirrut means when he says things like that. Not in any of the languages.

[sarkastically]

Rumors

Spiritassassin Week 2017, Prompt 4: Bodyswap/role reversal

Chirrut is, quite possibly, the best assassin anyone has seen, and it is not just because he is fast, not just because his strikes are always sure--he never misses, the other mercenaries whisper when they think that he cannot hear them, which is ridiculous because he hears everything, knows everything--but because he can move from one thing to another quickly, can smile and laugh fast like lightning right after pulling the trigger of his lightbow, right after striking with the strange staff he carries with the retractable dagger in its tip. Nothing ever seems to make him linger, nothing ever seems to make him stick, pulling him into the mud and the mire and the muck of their work. It always seems to just roll right off him. If it makes a mark, if it presses something like regret onto the lovely set of his shoulders, he never shows it, hides it carefully away under his quips and the never-ending prattling, in his talk about the Force.

The other mercenaries find it strange for religion to have a home in the heart of a man who kills for credits, but they don’t ask questions. They have learned the hard way that if you start asking Chirrut questions about the Force, he will keep you sequestered in the mess all day, talking, practically lecturing, pacing the floor and making ridiculously large hand gestures to prove his point, wasting rations by opening them to paint a better, literal picture of certain concepts.

It does not take long for the rumors to start. Rumors are not uncommon on mercenary ships, almost seem to serve as just another fuel source as well as a way to pass the time, to ease the tedium between one mission and the next. It surprises no one that Chirrut quickly becomes a topic of stories, tales so absurd that they surely cannot be true, are just strange flights of fancy to take up space even with the lectures on the Force, even with the meditation that they have all caught him in, muttering to himself under his breath in some ancient form of Jedhan that the other speakers on the ship either cannot or will not translate.

His husband is a Jedi.

He is a Jedi.

The dagger is his staff is made of kyber and that's why it always strikes true.

He never misses because he uses the Force.

He's hiding out from the Empire.

He's a spy for the Empire.

He kills because he likes it.

His husband is blind.

He's a monk; that's why he prays.

He's a fool.

There seems to be a new rumor every day during the newest mission, which is a long running one that involves members of their party infiltrating and gaining the trust of someone who works in an engineering lab on a Core world. It is the kind of mission that involves finesse and diplomacy and restraint until the final blow so only a small percentage of their number are involved in it directly, leaving the rest of them milling about on the ship finding new ways to pass the time. There are only so many games that can be played, only so many times equipment can be cleaned or training can be done. And while cooking up monstrously large and complex multi-course meals can eat up a lot of the time, it only works for the handful of crew members competent enough to know what they’re doing in the kitchen. The rest of them, the majority of them, are left with nothing but time on their hands. Time is good for rumors. It allows them to grow.

The crew eventually makes a game of it, puts the top twenty most plausible rumors up on the mission board in the conference room and then start taking bets on which ones are true. They don’t bother really deciding how they will know which ones are true; they haven’t gotten that far. This seems like a game that will be played for the long term, and they have to make an intricate set of rules that allows them to add rumors or exchange them and determines how people will be paid out if they discover one rumor is true at one point but then another is proven to be true afterward.

It never crosses their minds that they have become somewhat obsessed with the streak of smiling lightning that lives in their ship but rarely interacts with them outside of their objectives. It never crosses their mind that they could just ask, and the man himself might tell them the truth.

Chirrut is from Jedha.

This rumor is not allowed because it is thought to be too obvious, considering that Chirrut speaks several forms of Jedhan.

He is a fool is also discarded for many different reasons. For one most of the mercenaries say that he is just that. It has almost become a nickname, a joke around the ship that they each call him “fool” in their home language, and he just grins that grin at them, that big, gleaming flash of teeth, all of them, with his gums showing. They argue about what it means, this smile, because it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which is not that uncommon in and of itself. Most of the mercenaries don’t smile much, don’t smile true, what have they got to smile about, after all? This life is not easy, and their pasts, the reasons they are here, are typically harder still.

So they disagree about why it is that Chirrut will smile at them like that, why he will laugh when they call him “fool” as though he is amused by the comment, as though it could not be seen as a condemnation rather than praise, rather than an award. This man is strange, and they cannot understand him. He answers things in riddles, he answers things in quotes from scripture that only a few of them know and none of them, save him, believe. So they can’t parse any of it, they are left adrift with their rumors and their board and their disagreements and the strange gravity of him drawing them ever in.

He smiles like that to disarm us. He smiles like that to bare his teeth and express dominance, to show them that he can and will destroy them all if they give him a reason to do so.

Yet this does not seem true, either, because he has never injured any of them, never even really fought with them. He offers to train them, to teach them to become whirling clouds of shifting garments and legs and arms that can strike out with a speed greater than something a body can normally achieve. He offers to school them in the use of a staff instead of a blaster--he will never take a blaster, just the lightbow, just the staff--but the idea of twirling a wooden or even a metal rod through the air, of being that close to a target worries them. Most of them are decent shots but not great fighters. There is a reason why they have guns, blasters, repeater cannons, all the heavy artillery they can carry. There is a reason they do not fight hand to hand, do not come close enough for someone to touch them, and this is because of fear and lack of training and the security that comes from standing in the shadows to get the job done. Chirrut does none of these things unless he is gravely outnumbered, which seems to mean ten or more because he manages to fell whole groups on his own, prefers to be in the thick of it, a tornado lashing out at whatever he can reach while they stand back, gaping.

He is a father.

No one knows who starts this one. It circles the ship in hushed whispers for the better part of a week and never changes, which is rare. The rumors are normally a game of additions, people adding and subtracting what they like until it turns into something so ridiculous that no one will believe it like the time it turned into, “Chirrut is a loth-cat hidden in human form by a Force curse.” Although sometimes when he stands, sometimes when he smiles, something when he strikes, they wonder whether that idea was actually so ridiculous after all because he doesn’t really seem made for human skin, does he? He seems like he should be able to push out of it, push past it, become something more, something else.

He is a father who has lost all his children.

When this rumor grows, it becomes bitter and painful because here is one they can all relate to, here is a story that is not far from any of them. They have all lost someone. Everyone has lost someone these days whether it is to death or to the Empire or to another mercenary ship. No one has a family that is whole anymore. What is whole anyway except hole with a w stolen from a we that no longer exists? A hole. Family becomes a hole that you lose yourself in if you look at it too long.

No one wants to bet on either of these rumors. No one wants to even put them on the board. They just exist in the back of everyone’s minds, a low rumbling, a way that makes them look at him just a little bit differently when he swings his staff around in the mess hall, deftly avoiding striking anything as he shows off for the fifteenth time that day. Doesn’t he look like a man who would stand in front of children and teach them things? Doesn’t he joke like a father and hover over the youngest members of their group to make sure that they are okay? Doesn’t he care sometimes too much?

When the mission is finally over, a mission that required the skills of so few on board and took so much time, the board is full, the bets are chaotic and hard to keep track of, the rules are jumbled and convoluted such that they could almost be their own religion, but the crew is determined not to let this go. They have let go of many things over the years, more have been taken from them by force, but this is a line in the sand. Maybe they will never know. Maybe they will never be able to tick all the boxes and say yes or no to all the suggestions, but they still have it. It is theirs, and it is nice--in a world where they own so little--to have something that is theirs, something that unites them together other than death and espionage neither of which are trustworthy things, neither of which help them to get to know each other, get them to trust each other. This, then, is a common thread. This, then, is a sort of binding, a shaky kind of friendship built on the back of trying to discern what it inside one man among many. And if any of them find this strange, they do not voice it because they do not want to lose it.

Sometimes in life, even on a mercenary ship, they are small rewards, they are respites. The ship goes to Jedha. No one asks why. There is no reason to and not reason not to. Jedha is a market moon, Jedha is full of all sorts of things and means different things to different people. Jedha is home to the holy city and, once, the temple of the Whills, though they know that it has fallen to the Empire as so many things and places have across the universe. Yet they think nothing of it because NiJedha has a busy, thriving marketplace and is a good place to meet contacts, to get jobs, to buy things in back alleys when the Empire forces that occupy the moon are not looking, and they are normally not looking, too busy making sure that no one is stealing kyber to bat an eye at the darker dealings that happen.

They are given leave, told when to come back, and set loose on the streets of NiJedha. Most of the mercenaries flock to the market or the bars, glad to be free of the ship, determined to forget themselves in something, somewhere. A handful of them, however, are home, have families or friends or enemies to connect with. Chirrut seems to be one of those, disappears down the alleys, twisting and turning through them, sometimes climbing up the sides of buildings to jump from rooftop to rooftop, his lightbow and his staff both haphazardly strapped to his back but giving him no pause at all as he hurtles through the air, looking as pleased as they have ever seen him.

Below him, on the ground, frantically struggling to keep up, to keep him in her sights, is one of the other mercenaries, small, young, too inexperienced to have enough credits to even throw her hat into the betting game, but she has heard the rumors just the same as the rest of them. And she thinks, she thinks that it would be lovely, that it would prove her place if she could answer some of them, if she could bring them truth wrapped like a present with a bow, which is why she follows. And Chirrut, who misses nothing, lets her, though she is unaware of this small fact as she ducks and bobs and makes her way deeper and deeper into a city that she has never seen before, altogether surrounded by scents and words and languages that she does not know but still insistent on her goal.

Eventually he drops back to the street, approaches a small alcove that is near enough to be seen but out of the actual foot traffic of the marketplace. Inside is a man, huge across the shoulders, barrel shaped in the chest, curled, tucked almost impossibly into a lotus position that seems too small for him. His hair is intricately braided in a fashion that looks like it would take hours and many hands, and there is a scar that runs across one side of his face. The thing that catches her attention the most, however, are his eyes, which are blue, a bright blue that speaks of being sightless despite their beauty. His hands are in his lap, but they are moving, full of strands of multi-colored threads, weaving, and she has seen some of those symbols before when Chirrut draws them in the mess, using up various condiments as he scrawls them across counters and tables. Sacred symbols. Symbols of the city, symbols of the Whills, symbols of the Force.

She has no way of knowing that Chirrut knows exactly where she is, knows the game that she is up to as she scuttles closer, sticking to the walls, trying to blend into the press of people, though she stands out as much as if she had been dipped in silver to catch and reflect the sun. So she stands and watches, listens, and everything unfolds in front of her.

“Mr. Malbus,” Chirrut says as he approaches, the smile on his face bright as always but higher up, no longer just resigned to his lips; his eyes are twinkling now in a way that she has never seen.

And the man with the braids, the man with the kind face even with the scar and the sightless eyes, turns his head just so, inclines it a little and huffs out a noise that is endearment and frustration in the same breath. “Mr. Malbus,” he repeats, pausing in his words though not his work because his fingers fly as though they are not a part of him at all, “how long are you home this time?”

“Not long enough, husband.” Chirrut bends to press his face into the hair, almost disappearing into it, one hand on the other’s face, fingers brushing against the scar. And it is a tender moment, it is something that she should not be watching, but she finds that she cannot turn away. This man is a magnet, pulling everyone closer to him, making it hard to escape his pull.

His husband is blind.

The broad man, the man with the braids, the man with the quick fingers and the useless eyes, finally stops what he is doing to reach for Chirrut, to catch him and tug him so that they share a kiss in that small alcove while the city passes them by, while she watches, transfixed, and wonders how one gets a life like this? How one can be a mercenary on a ship, how one can kill and destroy and maim and then return home to softness, to love? She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t comprehend. It doesn’t seem like it should be possible for these things to exist at the same time. It doesn’t seem like something a normal person can manage.

He is a Jedi.

“Baba!” a chorus of voices ring out, young, high, gleeful, and, oh, here. This was one they didn’t want to know about, any of them. “Baba!” The children tumble, cluster, throw themselves bodily against the two men, arms twining and hands catching, and it is just a pile of people that she sees, high pitched voices and laughter. Chirrut’s laugh she is familiar with though not in this tone, and then there is the braided man’s, which is rich and warm like caf, like a hot bath, like something that cuts through darkness to soothe and comfort when everything is bad, and she wishes this was her family in that moment, wishes that she had any family at all.

“Baba, what did you bring us?”

And Chirrut, hands full, eyes gleaming, smile brimming with more light and life than normal, touches them, touches all of them, hugs them, pulls them to him, is surrounded and covered. She can’t keep track of arms or legs or other appendages because the children are all races, but she thinks there are at least four, possibly more, possibly all the children in the city call these men father and mean it.

“I brought myself,” he teases them while the braided man grumbles, tries to shift his weaving away from the limbs and the press of bodies, pulls Chirrut into his lap, which results in all the children spilling even further onto both of them. “Aren’t I the best gift of all? Aren’t you happy to see me?”

“No, Baba.” Every word is bright and full and happy.

There is more light here in this alcove than in the rest of the universe, she thinks, and turns because this is not hers. This is not hers to see, this is not hers to tell.

He is a father.

“My children have wounded me. My heart is bleeding. I will never recover. Baze, please, tell me you at least love me.” Chirrut’s voice is as big as the city itself, fills the entire alley, fills all of them, chases her out of the market and back to the ship with the knowledge of things that are and are not true.

“Never, fool,” the braided man, Baze, says, and his words are a ripple, an earthquake. Nothing can escape either of them.

She never says a word even though she can prove some of the rumors, even though she could win at the game. It would give her status, it would give her an in, but she finds she doesn’t really want it now, not after what she has seen. All she wants is a way to carve herself out something that looks like what Chirrut has, something that sounds like that, boundless joy and wanting and family, but she doesn’t know how to go about it, isn’t sure what to do.

When they take off again, bound for another system, another job, she finds him in his room, which is where he almost always is, meditating. He looks up the moment that she approaches the open door, smiling, and it is the marketplace smile, the Jedha smile, and not the normal one. Her shoulders sag a little as the tension drains, as she recognizes him. This is not Chirrut the assassin in front of her, this is the father of an endless amount of children, this is the husband of a beautiful blind man who weaves without his eyes. “The Force welcomes you,” he says, and she feels it.

Two months into their training, which is hard but she loves it, every moment of it, he confesses. “I started those rumors myself.” And she should not be surprised, but she is, and then their laughter echoes off the metal walls of the ship, throughout the ship, they buoy the ship on its journey.

[jedhans]

Seryn should have held her tongue, remaining quiet, silent as a field mouse in the name of survival and self-preservation, because if whispers of their conversation spread, straying and traveling past the seemingly safe, secure confines of the chamber, then a target was bound to be placed upon her back, branding her as a traitor, a turncloak. She knew that. She did, for while the Chancellor droned on and on about duty and decency and democracy, he had shut down any and all who dared to extend an olive branch to the Separatists, hoping to negotiate in the name of peace and prosperity. Some had been prosecuted and punished to the fullest extent of the law, some had been forced into retirement, and some had simply . . . disappeared, dissipating and flying away with the breeze.

It would have been both safer and smarter for her to bide her time, watching, waiting for the greater forces within the galaxy to intervene and bring about a swift end to the war. Such would be a disservice, though. Not only to Jedha but to the Republic.

“Please, do not mistake my intentions, General Skywalker. I believe in the Republic and its institutions with all of my heart . . . but to turn away from its issues would be to disregard my duty,’’ she breathed, running her finger along the rim of her chalice. Her duty was to better the Republic, after all, helping to dissolve its iniquities and injustices. Such grew harder and harder with each passing day, though, because the Senate had slowly but surely handed over its powers onto a pretty, silvery platter to its head, Chancellor Palpatine. Palpatine, who had taken and taken and taken with a pure, almost paternal smile. He had vowed to end the war, bringing a close to the seemingly endless cycle of battle and bloodshed, and yet, he had not.

Anakin’s words, though careful, cautious, were just as dangerous as her own. “He has shown little interest in relinquishing his powers, which grow greater with each passing day.”

HE WASN'T ABOUT TO AGREE WITH HER. Doing so would put a target on his back. "The Republic represents freedom of choice. What else is there?" Play a good little Jedi. Keep your head down and don't have Palaptine suspect your suspicions. His eyes darted to Seryn then. Hands in his robes, he stood there quickly. No one needed to know he suspected Palapatine to be something more than a politician. Not all politicians were cunning and carved power. Some of those who appeared harmless where the most harmful. Anakin knew this much and constantly reminded himself of Master Windu's instructions.

"Such ways of thinking could deem yourself as a Separatist." He warned her. He was a mere Jedi. One who was supposed uphold peace first and foremost. Skywalker had been reduced to a solider. There was a time where him and Kenobi did not lead armies. They went on missions for peace, not battlefields. The whole principle was ingrained in him. He was not meant for war. Too much death and pain. It needed to stop and he kept telling himself the time would come when him and Windu went to the council about their suspicions. "The war won't end as long as the Chancellor stays in power." It was the only thing he was going to say. Better to have her think about what was the root cause than to blame the Separatists as a whole.

[jedhans]

Seryn was scared, frightened beyond words, because the death of her father had caused the galaxy as she knew it to irrevocably change, to be thrown off its axis. Orion had been an anchor, a steadying force who could keep her afloat through anything, even the most turbulent of times. Yes, they had their differences, most of which had originated due to their varying views of Jedhan politics, but above all else, they were family, blood. Nothing could wholly sever their bond, not even when a few of his decisions had cast a dark cloud of uncertainty across their planet.

Why? He was her father. Her father. That was why his loss was profound, causing white-hot pain to be birthed within her. It started as a small, barely perceptible prick behind her eyes, then it spread, causing white-hot pain to explode across her body. She ached, wishing to retreat into herself, but she would not — could not. Seryn had to stay strong, solid as stone, because if she broke down and cried, she was not sure she would be able to stop. Then, she would be worthless, and she could not be worthless. Not if she was to return home and help put an end to the crisis.

It was to this end that Seryn continued on into her apartments, searching for any necessities that could be salvaged. The home she had made in the capital had been broken, battered beyond repair, but she did not dwell on it, did not even give a pause. She did give a pause, however, when the voice of the padawan filled the air, trickling her ears. His accent was thick, making his tones seem prim, polished but also piping.

“You paint quite the portrait of your master, Padawan Kenobi,” she breathed, collecting the items that she could not be without. Her eyes rose, meeting his blue ones, then, “He treats you that way as well, even though you are meant to be his peer?”

The last part may have caused her lip to quirk, turning upward ever so slightly, for while pain weighed upon her, threatening to push her down into the ground below, the thought of ordering a wise, wizened Jedi Master to sit in a corner and think about what he had done was amusing.

“That would be funny, no doubt, but I wouldn’t be so cruel as to ask such a thing of him.”

"Senator!" Obi-Wan would hear reprimand for it later, but he was quick to follow and made his pursuit known with a (higher pitched than expected) yelp. "Please, you are not the one who needs to be earning forgiveness. Master Jinn merely pretends to be tactile. Like a brick wall pretending to be a crash pad."

He shot a quick glace behind them, pleased to find Qui-Gon's gaze already averted, though a slight annoyance still hummed in the Force between them. Not unlike many of their assignments, Obi-Wan had sequestered himself to the background, unnoticed and able to track all of his Master's chaotic decisions and less than ideal results. Normally, it took quite a bit for him to step out of the shadows, but he had too much sympathy for the woman's position to keep quiet.

"He only treats you like a youngling because, well, he treats everyone like a petulant child." Without thought, Obi-Wan brushed his padawan braid to behind his ear. He tried not to question his continued role at his Master's side, but it was difficult not to as he watched his friends knighted and taking the next step into their lives. Half of him was sure the fault was his own—still too moody and quick to action (with a supposed taste for war which everyone accused him of)—) but his lesser half was convinced it wasn't him at all. Rather, just a teacher who couldn't see him as an equal, anything beyond the padawan he'd reluctantly taken over a decade ago.

"I would say you get used to it, but hopefully we are out of your hair before you learn to settle." Qui-Gon was an acquired taste, even his own Master had cut contact with him. And his first padawan. And his padawan-brother. Obi-Wan himself was well on the track to as well at the rate they were going.

"He's quite skilled at making you believe otherwise, but you are the one still in charge here. He'd likely go sit in the corner and think about what he's done if you asked him to."

[forcenexus]

HE WASN'T ABOUT TO AGREE WITH HER. Doing so would put a target on his back. "The Republic represents freedom of choice. What else is there?" Play a good little Jedi. Keep your head down and don't have Palaptine suspect your suspicions. His eyes darted to Seryn then. Hands in his robes, he stood there quickly. No one needed to know he suspected Palapatine to be something more than a politician. Not all politicians were cunning and carved power. Some of those who appeared harmless where the most harmful. Anakin knew this much and constantly reminded himself of Master Windu's instructions.

"Such ways of thinking could deem yourself as a Separatist." He warned her. He was a mere Jedi. One who was supposed uphold peace first and foremost. Skywalker had been reduced to a solider. There was a time where him and Kenobi did not lead armies. They went on missions for peace, not battlefields. The whole principle was ingrained in him. He was not meant for war. Too much death and pain. It needed to stop and he kept telling himself the time would come when him and Windu went to the council about their suspicions. "The war won't end as long as the Chancellor stays in power." It was the only thing he was going to say. Better to have her think about what was the root cause than to blame the Separatists as a whole.