#through you? what's UP with this. but then i remembered ghosts. and the oppressive nature of a roman family tree

[ghoul-haunted]

reading texts focused on crassus really is like, wow! these authors sure are fighting it out! and it doesn't stop

[haet-sal]

Avenging Angel Dystopia // monster!seonghwa x reader x yunho (you cheat on yunho with non-human seonghwa)

In a barren, dictatorship-controlled nation, you lead a simple life with your boyfriend Yunho, a pianist, too oppressed to rebel. As stories of the people in high society being murdered run through the news, you come to find out who—or what—is behind these killings.

Tags: JUST SKIP TO THE SMUT IF YOU WANT you monsterfucker, yunho x reader (established, no smut), seonghwa x reader smut, cunnilingus + P in v, unprotected but hes not human

Warnings: politics tw, murder tw, seonghwa is literal man-eating monster tw, religion tw (but no prophets and jesus/god are mentioned, just seonghwa is an angel. There are scenes of praying)

w.c.: 7k

Excerpt: He knew every single thing you were feeling, and if it were something that could be shrouded, you’d cover yourself… you feel your mind was naked in front of him, every dirty thought.

Seonghwa grew agitated by your own thoughts of nakedness, dirtiness, your corrupted mind—to distract the both of your from all those thoughts, he rushes to you, catching you in a devouring kiss, so red and hot that it could light up and heat up the dark, gelid apartment.

You taste iron on his tongue, like bars in jail cells, like rusted knives, like blood. As soon as you remember the taste of blood, you pull away. Remembering he isn’t human. Remembering what he does, what he has done. His nature.

“I understand if it’s too much for you,” he says. “I understand if you find it hard to be with me this way.”

“You read my mind, you know that’s not true, you know I want you.”

A smile ghosted his lips. “Good thing I live in the in-between. Not quite angel, not quite demon, not quite human.”

~

You’re making sandwiches for Yunho so he can take them to his tutoring job, when your boyfriend bursts through the room, hurriedly, clutching journal paper in his hands. “Yunho,” you sighed, more afraid than anything, “those are contraband.”

“I just had to buy this month’s issue,” Yunho says as he paged through the detached pages, made with no sense of expertise. “There’s good news in them, I just had to read about it.”

“Yunho…” you sighed. “If they catch us with contraband newspapers, they’ll take everything from us. They’ll take you from me—”

“It’s alright!” He laughs. “They’re not about to storm our apartment out of the blue, don’t be silly.”

Yunho isn't you, he doesn’t know how to be afraid.

Or rather, you weren't Yunho, weren't as tall or as strong, and you had many things to be afraid of. Yunho doesn’t know what happened to you three years ago, as soldiers stormed your home, arrested your entire family, accused of being rebels—they seized every piece of property you had, every asset, froze every bank account. Yunho wasn’t there, except for your barefoot walk to his apartment, where you collapsed in tears, and he promised you that the worst was over now.

You decided to relent; he’s right, soldiers weren’t about to storm your apartment any time soon. Plus, things have… gotten better, ever since they got more control over the rebels in the city. War is freedom.

You sighed. “So… what’s the good news?”

“There’s been reports.” Yunho paged through the contraband pages hurriedly, looking for the one page that started on the whole exposè. “A couple of the general’s friends, and some family members—brutally murdered. In their own homes. They say their organs were missing. I thought the newspaper might tell us more.”

You frowned. “That’s a horrible thing to be so happy about…”

“They deserve it, though.”

It’s soon sunset, and the powerful stomps of soldiers marching filled the streets, as people rushed to close their windows, shrouding themselves from the patrol. You and Yunho included, draw the blinds in your flat and decided to have dinner.

You made the dinner, although Yunho can cook better than you—you guessed that you had to do something, just to feel like there’s still life left for you.

“I actually might play at a—” Yunho stopped midway through the conversation at the table.

You raised an eyebrow. “Play where?”

“Somewhere… grand.”

“Like a hotel ball? Wedding? Big wedding? Am I close?”

Your naive little guesses almost lightened the big man up, only the light in his eyes turned red and anxious the minute his work phone started to ring, very urgently so, almost vibrating itself off the table. 

Yunho paled, as he grabbed the phone off the dinner table. “What—” you start, but he runs out of the apartment to take it, a pair of long legs taking him outside faster than you could finish the sentence.

He doesn’t talk about it for a while. You know he’s trying to gain more exposure as a pianist, he’s amazing at playing—and he even composes. The way his fingers work across the ivory keys and the black-pebble flats and sharps—you swear you’ve never met a more proficient player, never mind that he never finished music college—you didn’t either. Yunho’s income came mostly out of teaching kids how to play and getting random gigs sporadically, at acoustic nights at restaurants and whatnot.

“I’m booked for something next Saturday,” he told you in bed a week after that day. He was spooning you, head nuzzled inside the crook of your neck. The baby hairs on your nape wavering under his words.

“That’s great…”

“It’s… a strange job. I’m going to be playing at a party… you know who Seo-chee is, right?”

“The dictator’s daughter?”

“She’s throwing a ball.”

“A ball.” Yunho started to explain the concept of balls to you, as if you hadn’t watched Cinderella in your lifetime. The audacity that high-society was having a ball—when half the nation’s population was starving to death—was just pompous, if anyone heard it they’d be livid with curses. As if the dictatorship wasn’t cursed enough already—and your boyfriend was going to aid them at the party, with his music. You can’t even imagine it happening.

“You actually took the job?” you prodded.

“I… yeah. As soon as they called—they’re paying thousands. For four hours.” You went quiet. “Baby… you know we need the money.”

You turn yourself around on the bed to look at Yunho, who is just trying to appease you. He knows he shouldn’t have, what repercussions it had—he was just trying to feed the both of you.

So you guessed you couldn’t stay mad. But for a long time, you did.

.

.

.

“Yunho, I can’t go in there, they’ll arrest me.”

“Calm down, you’re not a rebel, and we’re pretending we’re military supporters today.” His tone was quiet, calming, which he always used whenever you started having these panics. “You look beautiful.” You were wearing some ancient ball-attendee dress you’d fished out of the depths of your closet.

The mansion wasn’t just a mansion, it was a palace. There was a long walk towards the steps into the main mansion, the pathway surrounded by a forest of trees. A soldier took you on a cart, sparing you the long walk, once Yunho mentioned he was the entertainment.

The high society was ignorant to the citizens starving in the streets, the appetizers of lobster tails and caviar served on plates as they dug in, every little debutante and their dates in their tailored suits. You didn’t take any—it didn’t seen fair to eat when your own neighbors were starving.

To you, the ball was a bore, and Yunho only played classics, and he’s always amazing but there’s just… something that wouldn’t let you enjoy it, an uncomfortableness. You wandered out into the lobby, where glass separated the columns outside from the inside, through which you could view the garden perfectly.

You notice something outside of the glass, walking, as if wandering the terrain, like a hunter stalking its prey. You don’t even understand what someone would be doing outside, not enjoying the music or appetizers, but the thing… fades further into view.

It’s a man. He had platinum white hair that waved in the wind, although not lightly, as if each strand of hair had resistance to it, and he was wearing these strange… robes, that not only seemed inappropriate for the ball, seemed out of date. Like way out of date. Like two millennia out of date.

Once he notices that you had seen him, he erects his head slowly, watching you—a lop-sided stare. Eyes seeming to move every time you did.

And then, he grins. His teeth are inhuman. Sharp, dangerous, a thousand teeth like a leviathan. You scream, but to not make a scene, you cover your mouth with your own hands.

And then the man seemed to fade away from view as quickly as he had appeared.

You rationalize what you had seen, it must have been just a man. To not seem all that crazy, you wander the mansion trying to ask someone if they saw him too. You decided to ask the men eating at a table outside the ballroom.

“Um…” you tap someone on the back, the train of your dress dragging behind you. Unfortunately once the man turns around, so does the rest of the circle at the table, and you realize this is a soldiers’ circle—they were all armed, perhaps in a way that you could say lightly, with handguns strapped to their belts.

It makes you lose your courage, the fact that they could simply… shoot you right then and there.

“What is it?” the soldier whose shoulder you tapped asks.

“Um… I just… I wanted to ask, does anyone know that man, outside?” They all looked confused. “The man,” you clarify, “with the white hair, and he’s got this… cloak on, and he’s wearing robes under it.”

The soldiers look among themselves. “I’ll check it out,” the roughest-looking one of them says. “If someone’s breached the grounds it could be dangerous—you better not be lying about this, though, kid.” He glares at you, but you’re more distracted by how he so readily unholstered his gun, as he steps outside the giant glass gates.

You’re now left in the midst of the other soldiers, who are unrestful, but they didn’t seem to be taking your claims very seriously. They started to talk among them, until other partygoers approached, wanting to know what was going on.

“This lady,” says a younger soldier, “says she saw a man outside—white hair, and a cloak. Has anyone seen…?”

The people who approached—mostly young debutante-aged maidens—shake their heads. “A man?!”

“He didn’t…” you begin, and regretted having formed that sentence, or that thought, entirely. “He didn’t look human. I mean, he had human features, but something… it felt like he had some kind of power, that wasn’t human.”

The entire congregation gathered in front of you bursts out laughing. “Miss Y/N… you’ve had too much to drink.”

“Why did the pianist’s lover get invited… ugh. Commoners are weird.”

“Probably crawled out of her rebel hideout to come here…”

Sensing you weren’t welcome, you step back–you look over your shoulder, and the soldier had returned, gun finally reholstered. “There’s nothing,” he says. “No one.”

“What’s wrong?”

You gasp. That’s the dictator’s daughter. You’ve seen her in pictures in stories covering their family, right now you were just surprised she was actually talking to you—and in front of her, she had wheeled her grandmother—the dictator’s mother—a frail old lady, past 90, ancient and barely conscious but still dressed up for the party, heavy scarlet stones weighing heavily from her neck.

“This… lady, says that she saw a man outside,” answered the young soldier. “There’s nothing there, though, so—”

Everyone turns in alarm as the old grandmother’s head tilts. Her gaze lands straight at you, and it’s not indifferent like seconds before, there was fear— “You see him too,” she speaks, although her voice was weak; it just adds to all the terror of it. “The demon. He stalks us… The harbinger.”

You step backwards as the old woman starts to shake, opening your mouth to say no, I was seeing things—but she continues: “I see him too. A head of white hair… His eyes—his eyes—!”

The people around you started to murmur, while the daughter attempted to calm her down. “No one said anything about white hair.”

You turn on your heels before anyone could say anything else, basically sprinting to the ballroom. As soon as you near the gold-encrusted gates, the sounds of Yunho’s piano calms you down, and your heart starts beating normally again.

You don’t approach him, simply watching from the door. His broad shoulders erected firm in posture, the one thing he teaches foremost to his students—a small smile started forming on your lips.

It’ll be okay. You can put this night and the ugliness and the soldiers and the guns behind you once you go to bed tonight. You hate this mansion, as grand as it is. The entire place reeked of evil, of bloodshed. So many murderers under one roof.

Yunho raises his eyes to look at the crowd, and his eyes land on you, immediately lighting up. His face was mostly covered by the lid of the grand piano, but you see the crinkle in his eyes. You waved at him, but immediately walk backwards out of the ballroom, not wanting to distract him.

The party would go on for a few more hours, and although you’re afraid of the man—the thing—you saw, you’re more afraid of the soldiers and military supporters in the building, so you decided to wander the acres of garden area that the mansion has.

.

There’s swarms of mosquitos, gnats, fireflies, all over the garden. You keep walking to keep them from landing on you, but those bugs were persistent… suddenly, you see something in the garden. Something glowing.

In folklore, there was a story about a princess, so beautiful with such fair complexion that she could light up an entire palace without candles. You didn’t understand what you were seeing until then—it was just skin. Skin that reflected so much moonlight.

Although you guessed it wasn’t skin, it was a guise of skin. A higher being donning makeshift-humanity.

The monster turned around, and it was only a man, although that’s just what he wanted you to think.

You couldn’t speak, so he started.

“It makes you feel bad for your prayers, doesn’t it? Actually being close to a soldier? They murder children in cold blood, but here at the party they’re offering to top up your champagne glass. It confuses you.”

He’s… human. You push aside your initial foreboding to interact with him well, maybe he’s just an addition to the guest list people forgot. And yet… something in you wasn’t settled. You knew he couldn't be normal.

“It doesn’t make me feel bad,” he continued. “I like it when you pray, Y/N. ‘Dear God, please destroy their armies’... Not an ethical wish, but something I’m used to, back when tyrants ruled the land.”

You gasp. Was he some sort of… religious fanatic? Was he— “My name…” In realization that you never once told him anything about you, you recoil, thinking of the best way to escape him. You couldn’t go around the fountain, because he’d catch you immediately. And you didn’t have the courage to run deeper into the trees.

“It shouldn’t shock you that I know you,” the man says. “I hear every single one of your prayers. Every night. And your prayers are your deepest desires, are they not? You wish for their deaths, every single day…”

There’s just something so deeply unsettling about his eyes, and the more you look at him you get this uncanny feeling. Like he’s something playing at being human.

“You’re upset I know your name,” he says. “I’ll tell you mine so you can call me by it, then—I’m Seonghwa.”

You try to calm yourself. See, Y/N? He’s just human. He has a name. A human name. There are no such things as demons—

“You think I’m a demon?”

You frown. Did you say that out loud? How did he—

“I’m far from it,” Seonghwa promises you, with a smile that’s slowly spreading across his face. Literally. 

He grins.

His teeth…

You could scream. Those are not human teeth. They’re so perfectly hidden behind his perfect lips, but he’s got fangs. And not even just fanged canines, it’s… every single tooth. White, ivory fangs.

“Be not afraid.”

You could scream.

His voice at times seemed to come from inside you, as if he were a ventriloquist and he had his voice inside of your head. He didn’t even seem to be moving his mouth as he spoke, which proved that he was a trick of the light, a being more complex than you could understand.

Okay, maybe he does know your prayers. He does know what the military had done, everything he say is right. And those fangs… maybe that was the one lie, a trick of your own madness.

“You want to know who I am, what my business here is.” You nodded, you did want to know. “You must have heard about it. The… executions?”

You remembered. The things Yunho was so over the moon about. The high society people that seemed to keep dying. “You’re responsible?”

When he nods, you look away just so the fangs don’t nerve you any longer.

“I was…” he hums, looking up at the darkened sky. Now the entire conversation was merely moon-lit. “I was… scoping out my next victim. You’ve compromised me though—I don’t want you or your boyfriend caught in a crossfire, if I did something and they started suspecting you two—I guess I’ll just have to wait. I can be patient.”

You believed him. In his eyes, there was nothing but a calm patience, as if he could wait eternity to deal with his victims, almost like a sniper soldier.

“Miss Y/N!” It’s that young soldier from before, you’re glad it’s him, because between him and this demon and the other soldier, he’s the least intimidating. “What are you doing here alone?”

You gawked. Did he just… did he see through Seonghwa? Could he not see him, at all?

You stare at Seonghwa, silently begging him for an explanation, but he’s closed his lips entirely, hiding those monstrous fangs.

The soldier walks through Seonghwa, grabbing you harshly by the arm. “You shouldn’t be out here. I know it’s tempting at a boring party, but we have security to worry about.”

You looked over your shoulder as the soldier dragged you away, and Seonghwa’s still standing at the fountain, still smiling, eyes still bright and unhuman. “I’m sorry,” you apologize to the soldier, “I thought a quick walk was okay—umm, hey, young man…” You stop in your tracks, as does the soldier. You turn him towards the fountain, where Seonghwa’s still standing. “Do you… see that?”

He frowns. “Excuse me?”

“The man,” you clarify, “right there. Standing by the fountain. Do you see him?”

“Miss… please don’t scare me. You know military folk are superstitious.”

“You really don’t see—”

“Please! Don’t! You’re freaking me out.” The soldier turns to youth speech from his informal politeness. “Please, come back to the party—before your boyfriend gets snatched.”

.

“She’s been talking to him since before I came to get you,” says the young soldier, as he walked you back into the ballroom. “He had to put a rest to playing Clair de Lune to converse with her… oh, well, I suppose she is the most powerful woman in the nation…”

The dictator’s daughter is bent over the grand piano talking to Yunho. She’s giving him awe-inspiring heart-eyed stares, and you’re not even jealous, you’re afraid.

What if she sees you as an enemy, and somehow gets rid of you? The way her father gets rid of rebels—

But Yunho sees you from across the room, and smiles. That smile was going to get you killed.

The dictator’s daughter looks at his smile, almost mesmerized in it, believing it was for her. And then she looks behind her, to see you–the real receiver of that smile. And her gaze burned.

.

.

The nation rejoices as more of the dictator’s friends’ deaths hit the news, one by one falling like dominos. The details are always the same: attacked, ambushed, in their own homes, sometimes even in their own bedrooms. Brutally torn through with organs missing, not one trace of the attacker left behind. Maybe because he had no DNA to leave behind. You knew even the dictator, in his bomb shelter locked away from any danger, had to be afraid.

They were afraid of Seonghwa.

You don’t know if he’s real—correction, you can’t be sure if he’s real. But some part of you knew it was, that you didn’t make up this beautiful, pale angelic face—it’s beyond imagination, he has to be real.

But you just grow more afraid, knowing what you know. Knowing what was responsible. You’d discussed it with a religious older neighbor, and she’d just said—”it’s an angel. An angel is delivering comeuppance.” But you’d think Seonghwa was purely… a demon.

One night, you’re coming back from the corner store, where you’d rushed to do last-minute grocery shopping after having forgotten through your preoccupation, you dragged a heavy plastic bag of groceries back home.

Suddenly, in the alleyway right next to your flat, someone pushes you, from the dark, shoving you into the alley between two flats. You gasp, but couldn’t scream—perhaps for your own good.

“Look, we don’t—we don’t want to do this.” The masked attackers let their leader speak. “Just give us the groceries, and your money—please, some of our kids at home are starving—”

You’re shocked and didn’t know what to do, so you gape up at them until they take the bag into their own hands, only to stop in their tracks when a shadow approaches.

You don’t know what kind of thing scared them, but they dispersed quickly, screaming.

It’s a luna eclipse night. His skin still glowed, but not with the moonlight anymore.

“It’s not very nice to steal, although they were pushed to this situation—still, I’d rather you keep what you paid for.” Seonghwa’s voice rang through your senses like a breeze. So soft, so grand.

You’re more scared of what he was than you’d ever be afraid of those bandits. You scrunched your eyes shut and started to pray: “Lord have mercy. Deliver us from evil, deliverusfromevildeliverusfrom—”

“I’m not evil. If anything, those prayers would call me closer—an angel.”

Your eyes shoot open. “You’re not…”

“I am.”

You look at him, and you could believe it. He’s that handsome, almost to the point where the only reason was that he was so wonderfully made. You step further back into the alley until your back hits the wall.

“Why are you here?”

“I see most things that are happening in this country—it is my duty, after all.” Seonghwa hesitated if he should add his next words. “But I look after you especially. I am familiar with your life, your suffering.”

“That doesn’t make me feel good,” you protest. “You’ve been watching me?!”

“Everyone is watched—from birth. Let me assure you you are far from a sinner—you’re the kind of innocent soul I’d whisk away from this hell if I could.”

“Why don’t you?”

“I’m a harbinger, not a savior, or even a protector.”

Meaning all he does is kill. You shudder.

“You’re still shaking, and I can feel the rapidity of your heart from here.” He steps closer towards you, and you almost wish he’d step even closer, just because you feel safer under his light than in the dark.

“Let me calm you down,” Seonghwa says softly. Then, his hand wraps around the back of your head, and he presses a kiss to your warm lips, his smelling and tasting like fresh fruit, refreshing, like he’d come from somewhere green and pleasant, away from this barren landscape.

When you open your eyes, he’s gone, and your heart rate has never been calmer. And the air smelled sweet.

.

“You’ve been… distant,” Yunho starts with a sigh, like he didn’t want to be talking about this… “ever since I played at that military party—are you mad at me that I took the job?”

You didn’t reply, not because he was right, but because you didn’t know how to start explaining. If you told him about Seonghwa—he’d call you crazy. He’d think the loneliness and the fear had finally maddened you. “I’m right, aren’t I?” Yunho scoffed. “I know I shouldn’t be some bootlicker artist, but we needed the money, and—you know what happens to people that turn them down.”

“I’m glad you took it,” you say, insincerity apparent in how monotone you sounded. “Who knows what they could have done to us if you hadn’t?”

He sighed. “But you’re mad.”

“You’re mere entertainment to the people who took my family from me—excuse me if I’m disappointed.”

“You said it yourself—who knows what they would have done to us?!”

“Yunho,” you sighed. “I love you, and I’m disappointed. At the same time. And you know, you have a new admirer.”

“The daughter?” Yunho was aghast. “It’s… it’s not…” He couldn’t come up with a lie nor a reassurance. Everything you’d said was true.

You find out later that she had been calling his work phone, over and over again. And he always took it—who knows what she’d do?

.

Seonghwa visits the apartment, on his own will—he wasn’t some unholy beast that had to be invited in. Every border allowed him inside.

He watched you, poised from the window as you washed dishes—it didn’t matter if he fell, so you don’t utter any complaints.

“Why are you dressed like that?” you ask. “It’s like… haven’t you had a wardrobe change since 800BC?”

“No one can see me,” Seonghwa says, more of an excuse than anything. “It’s comfortable,” he finally answers.

“Stuck in your old ways from millenia… hmm, not a good look, demon.”

“Angel,” he insisted. “You know, if you keep calling me demon, I’m going to think you don’t think I'm too pretty.”

But he knew he was.

Sometimes you’d begin to think that maybe you were losing your mind, cooped up in a barren flat in a barren city with your anxious thoughts to accompany you, and Seonghwa was a manifestation of this madness. But the constant news of murder after murder confirmed that Seonghwa was indeed real, and indeed everything he said he was.

He didn’t call what he did ‘murders’. Murders took human, stealing life from another human. He wasn’t one. What he did was comeuppance, divine instruction, divine punishment. Heaven’s work was what he was doing.

Yunho isn’t tutoring anymore, but he has more money than ever. You know what it is, but didn’t have the heart to point it out—you didn’t want to lose him, and you knew the minute you shed light on it, the entire lie would blow up. You had no one to discuss this dishonesty to, because once they find out who he’s been cheating with on you, you both would be nothing but traitors.

.

Storm season is around, as the city had been built around rivers. Rising tides and cyclones kill, but the only deliverance the high society faced is Seonghwa’s doing. Military families die, and new soldiers take their positions, although they were all well-aware—they were being haunted. Still they insist it was a serial killer, nothing supernatural—you guessed they had to think that way, to believe heaven was still on their side.

Tonight, the storm hits your part of the city, and the thunder doesn’t stop. As the rainclouds block the sun totally throughout the day, there’s no solace, no light—the electricity cuts off, and Yunho hasn’t come home since the previous night.

You can pretend the blackout is just a precaution for the storm, but you know the houses on the hills—aka the high-society neighborhood—stay lit with the brightest lights. While you hunted in the dark for flashlights and candles.

“Yunho…” you cursed your boyfriend’s name, you had asked him to buy some candles for the apartment, but he never got around to it—although you guess you shouldn’t be so mad, he was always preoccupied, trying to earn money, trying to stay alive for you—

The storm wasn’t going to be that bad. You hoped. A cyclone was happening two shores over, and it carried the winds on to your city. You wished that everything was well at the shore settlements, as you went on looking for candles, and flashlights.

“Sweetheart,” comes the neighboring lady’s frail little voice, “I don’t mean to be a bother—could I have a candle, please? I know these things cost an arm and a leg these days, I just—”

“No, it’s no big deal!” you bellow so she hears you over the thunder. You bring out the little cup with its candle to her, promptly presenting it. “Here—don’t worry about it.”

When she murmurs her thanks and is gone, your sole light source was the flashlight in your hands.

The storm was starting, so you go to close the windows, not wanting dust and rain to get blown through the crevices, and you block the entire outside out, although the lightning flashes shined through the gaps every time they struck.

“My Y/n.”

You scream, a sound so shrill it cuts through, and you drop the flashlight, which shatters, bulb and the glass protection in the front. You’re still screaming, grabbing at nothing now that the flashlight had slipped away from you.

You recognize him by his clothes. Robes in the fashion of millennia ago. You finally calm down, remembering that Seonghwa couldn’t hurt you.

“Shush,” he says with celerity, approaching you and the flashlight on the floor, which still shined a dim, dying light.

You gasp. “Oh no, I broke it!”

Seonghwa wordlessly touched it, glass shards and all, and presents it back to your hands.

And it’s fixed. The broken bulb, the glass, everything.

You stare in curiosity, but he’s been so honest with you the whole time. It’s hard to believe a real living angel is in front of you, but when he shows his powers this way…

It’s still pretty damn hard to believe.

You just stare back at him, with wide eyes. Pointing the fixed light at his chest. Is that… a fleck of blood… on his skin?

“Turn it off, please?” Seonghwa requested. “I don’t like it to be so brightly lit.”

“O–of course.” Your hands stutter as you blindly reach for the switch on the flashlight, to turn it off. As soon as it’s off, you take a good look at Seonghwa, who you’ve only seen in moonlight, in dim alleys, always hidden in the shadows. Now you’re close enough to him that you can see every little thing you’d missed all the other times—how neat his clothes were, not torn at all; his features, too beautiful to be human; his perfect hair, which you still didn’t know why it chose to be platinum.

“I need a text from Yunho first,” you tell Seonghwa. “Before I can rest easy, like you told me to do.”

“He’s going to sit the storm out at her house. He’s completely roofed, and safe. You can embrace each other in the morning.”

You frown.

“Don’t be ashamed that I know he’s unfaithful—I couldn’t help but know.”

He knew every single thing you were feeling, and if it were something that could be shrouded, you’d cover yourself… you feel your mind was naked in front of him, every dirty thought.

Seonghwa grew agitated by your own thoughts of nakedness, dirtiness, your corrupted mind—to distract the both of your from all those thoughts, he rushes to you, catching you in a devouring kiss, so red and hot that it could light up and heat up the dark, gelid apartment.

You taste iron on his tongue, like bars in jail cells, like rusted knives, like blood. As soon as you remember the taste of blood, you pull away. Remembering he isn’t human.

Remembering what he does, what he has done. His nature.

“I understand if it’s too much for you,” he says. “I understand if you find it hard to be with me this way.”

“You read my mind, you know that’s not true, you know I want you.”

His mouth, fangs and all, sinks into the skin of your neck, although he doesn’t so cruelly bite down, so delicately feeling you with his lips, every inch of vulnerability awakening something in him. “You want me,” he concluded. “You want me, in that way.”

You nod slowly, you knew it was true. “Can you…?”

“I work very closely to human sin, remember?” the angel speaks. His voice is everywhere around you, it’s like it’s coming from your own head. “I may not… know what it’s supposed to feel like, really, but I know how enjoyable it can be, for you.” He reached out, tracing your face, when you frown, concentrating on looking at him, he tenderly caresses the creases between your eyebrows and the pout of your lips, thumb ghosting over every feature. “Every little nerve working in your body… every open mouthed moan… every pain in your core—I know you humans love it.”

And he’s so real. Like a real, warm human body. You almost forget what he really is…

“But will you feel it?” you ask. “It… it won’t be right if you don’t feel the pleasure.”

A smile ghosted his lips. “Good thing I live in the in-between. Not quite angel, not quite demon, not quite human.” He leans in close to you, it’s the closest you’ve ever had him to you, you think— “But I have a cock I can indeed derive pleasure from…”

You just stared up at him, not even remembering to swallow the saliva in your throat.

“You don’t believe me.”

“Don’t read my thoughts,” you beg.

His laugh is musical, and rings in your ears. “Aww, I was just—you’re right, that’s not fair of me. It’s just a habit, I’ll…” he puts his hands to his ears. “I’ll play deaf to all your thoughts, I promise.”

“Whatever I think, you hear it?” There’s such a sad helplessness in your words.

“Not from now on—I am at your command.” He kissed your eyes. “Every command.”

“If I do this, will you fall?” You step closer to him and kiss him, the way you kiss Yunho on fervent, feverish nights, soft lips battling with the power of corruption, although you didn’t know how much you could corrupt…

Seonghwa smiles into the kiss, and smiles even bigger when you pull away. “Fall, like from heaven?” He tuts at you with a tilted chin. “You need to try harder than that—although… it does make me farther than ever from my goal of getting wings, it’s something I can work for again.”

(The day he revealed himself to you again, and proclaimed he was an angel, you’d asked: “if you’re an angel, where are your wings?” and he answered he was working for them, just didn’t have them yet.) You knew he wanted those wings, so why would he step so many steps backwards, just for you…?

“Because you’re worth it,” he answered. Then he holds his tongue. “Oops. I’m meant to not listen in, aren’t I?”

He’s close to you again, didn’t even walk towards you—just phase-shifted to you—”I’m sorry,” he whispers, but his voice echoes in the depths of your mind again, “your thoughts are just so loud. You’re so… apparent—needy, aroused, curious... it’s almost innocent, how plain your desires are.”

You swallow air just to not breathe it out.

Seonghwa kisses you again, this time with an unyielding force, his hands go to the straps of your top and just pull them down, revealing your chest, pure skin so soft and yielding to his touch, but he doesn’t touch, only stares.

“If I coveted what was your boyfriend’s, that would make me a hypocrite, huh?” You don’t know how he’s done it, but he cuts your pants off you with a swipe of his hands, and you’re naked… for him. You reached for his robes, which came off easily with a pull of a string.

His skin is also pale, unbroken, bright, reflecting. It’s so beautiful you can’t help but be aroused, and as the slick gathers around your lips, Seonghwa carries you, only to the couch in your vicinity, big enough to lay down fully.

The fact that you’re letting a monster fuck you on the couch your boyfriend bought wasn’t lost to you. But when Seonghwa touches you again, stone-cold skin that burned you, you realize there was so much passion, that you wanted it over your own current life. Seonghwa could fix you.

You feel his tongue against your clit, so easily submitting to you, giving you pleasure, as if he weren’t a creature more than anything you ever were.

Seonghwa was aggressive, as if starved—he'd never wanted to taste anything human before, and this gave him a new kind of hunger, impossible to comprehend even in his higher brain.

His hands come up to your torso as he buries his face in your needy cunt, and you grab the hands, intertwining it in yours. He seemed to appreciate the closeness, clasping it tighter.

“Seong—Hwa—so—good!” You hadn't been brought so high, for your moans to be so pornographic, in a long time. Your toes curl up, you throw your head back.

To admit it, you and Yunho had the kind of sex where it couldn’t help either of you relax, bodies growing tenser and tenser as you considered your place in the dictator regime, your futures, how far you’d go to protect each other, when the last time you could be together was. Too many worries, too vulnerable like prey animals in the open field, to ever enjoy the sex.

With Seonghwa it was different. He opened you up. His kiss relaxes every nerve in you, lets you think clearly, lets you focus on the pleasure. You loved Yunho, but he was just a man.

Seonghwa’s long fingers roam your body, every part of it, while yours stay embedded in the skin of his shoulders and chest, just holding onto him, until he’s realer and realer with every passing second.

“Your—” you start, gesturing at his cock—so pretty, a pale, brownish beige color, pretty in every aspect. He nods. “You can feel me with it?”

You don’t see his expression anymore, as he buries his head between your head and shoulder, into the couch, as he enters you—all you hear from him is a guttural groan.

The couch drags against the flooring as he thrusts into you, standing up on the side of the couch. You praise him, telling him how good he's doing for his first time since merely watching, and his thrusts turn harder.

“you—every part of you—is amazing,” he says, maybe it was his turn to praise you.

He then wordlessly admires how you cum to your high, eyes too hazed over to even recognize him, or Yunho if he had returned.

Seonghwa’s porcelain grin flashes, lit up by the lightning around the flat, he’s looking mischievous—you reach out for him, and he’s real with his body, so close to you. “Poor baby,” he says. “You’ve never felt pleasure like this before.”

His thumb started to circle around your clit, almost too tender as if you were so precious to him, and then faster, to the point where you move away from him, just because you didn’t know how to handle that level of arousal.

Laughing, Seonghwa keeps rubbing your clit, but holds you down by the hips with his other hand. Your only option now is to moan, so loudly, you think you could start screaming. You realize you’d go unheard, through the storm, anyway, but didn’t want to risk it.

You look up at him with fluttering eyelashes, almost pleadingly. You’re exhausted already, just from everything you’ve done—Yunho, even in all his stature, had never tired you out this way before.

When you’re tightening around nothing—he wasn’t even generous enough to put his finger in so you could feel something—and spasming around his palm, Seonghwa smiles, head disappearing between your legs to lick the rest of the slick off, although he wiped his dirty hands on your bare stomach. Then he faces you again.

“I think—” Seonghwa breathed out a laugh, “I think this is depravity, you feel it too, don’t you? My corruption—”

He’s not even half exhausted, when you’re so fucked out you don’t think you can take anything anymore.

“You—bring—” You gasped, as he, with gritted teeth and tense nerves, enters you again, determined to get you both onto the same kind of high. “—me—so far… from heaven.”

You’re losing all senses, and when you arch your back, Seonghwa’s hands are there to support you, eyes rolled back and not making sense of the world anymore. Through the window, lightning flashes every two seconds, the outside world too stormy even for the soldiers to patrol.

.

Seonghwa disappears after he’d tended to your sore body, wiping the sweat of your brow and then kissing the very same place. And then he swore that he would come back. And then, he looks back at you—

“Yunho,” he says, “I’m glad he can protect you, but he can’t go that far. Right now, he’s not being honest—and you know it, too.”

Yunho doesn’t come back in the morning, and you wish on Seonghwa again. Even when he didn’t appear, you knew he was looking out for you—no matter how much he swore he wasn’t a protector, for you he was.

~~~~~~~~

THE END IDK IF I CAN WRITE A PART TWO

THE RAW IDEA IS THAT, THE DICTATOR’S DAUGHTER GETS JEALOUS AND ARRESTS YOU FOR NO REASON. SEONGHWA RESCUES YOU FROM THERE, FINALLY GETTING HIS WINGS, AND HE WHISKS YOU AWAY! Unfortunately that is too much action and yours truly

[xmo-rmon]

To ensure I was not recognized as I raided the church for books, I picked a building I had never been to before, a couple of cities away from the one I was raised in. As far as the floor plan went, I was confident that I knew my way around as soon as I stepped through the door. As I pretended to be on my phone to discourage people from talking to me, I muttered, “Yep, there’s the basketball court” as I passed the “cultural hall”, which was actually echoing with the thuds of basketballs at the time.

What I did not remember, and realistically could not have recognized before, was the oppressive atmosphere that was built into the very structure of the building.

Granted, the building was at least a few decades old, and I spent the last few years of my membership in a brand new building. But it was not far off from the one I spent most of my time in before that. Brick walls painted shiny white, blue heather carpets, black name plates with bronze text by every amber door. But the walls were so close, the ceilings so low, the lighting so sparse and sickly. Even the chapel, when I stepped in to grab a hymnal, was so strangely dark. The certainty that all the doors to the outside were unlocked was the only thing keeping it all from feeling like some horrible prison. Literally.

My wife and I like to watch ghost hunting shows, even if we don’t take them seriously. Whenever a prison is being investigated, we say, “Of course you feel bad in there, it was literally built to be unpleasant to be in. Look how low the ceilings are, look at all the tiny rooms, think about how horribly dark and quiet it must have been in those remote, solitary cells.”

Granted, things that are scary to one person can be comforting to another; places are made holy by the significance that humans give them. A prison cell could be used for nothing but tea parties and puppy cuddles and someone not acclimated to the space would still be uncomfortable. As a twitchy, feral little neurodivergent kid, I hated going to church and having to sit still, but sometimes it would be my family’s turn to clean the church, and I did not get the “liminal space” chills in the empty church the way I would today. I just liked running around in a space I had to be “reverent” in otherwise. And as a young teen, starved for affection and contact, it was comforting to huddle up with people I felt I could trust. But humans have a natural fear or discomfort for cramped, oppressive spaces, and the church could not train me out of such an innate thing. In my later years, I started having more and more panic attacks just from being in the building. But the church, of course, did train me to interpret that fear in a way that kept me subservient.

And, reflecting on that, I feel a little sick about the level of control they had.

Fear is so important. Understanding those fears, even more so. It’s our natural alarm that alerts us to danger, and while we need to manage our anxiety, we must be allowed to be afraid. But the church reaches down into our very foundations as human animals and claims it all as their own. As a mormon you’ve been gifted the wisest form of fear in the world, the holy ghost, and you’re told that wisdom will always lead you closer to the church. The fear you feel in a cell and the fear you fear in a church could be the very same, but if you recognize both as the holy ghost, then the holy ghost could not possibly make you feel bad in a church, so you must be feeling good things, actually. You must be feeling the spirit.

Doing baptisms for the dead, I was too short for the water level. Every time I went under, my feet would slip out from under me, and I’d have to struggle to resurface. Afterward, I’d sit in the seats in the dead silence, shaken down to the core. The best I would feel was relief that it was finally over, but I attributed it all to the spirit moving me. I was not a teenage girl who very very much did not want to let a strange man low key drown me, but had been manipulated to believe I’d be a sinner if I didn’t. I wasn’t a teenage girl who had been groomed to believe her consent did not matter where the church was involved. How could any of that disturb me when the holy ghost only made me disturbed about sins? When the holy ghost had a huge hand in me feeling like saying no would be a sin?

Anger is a sin, so you can never object to the way the church treats you. If you want to satisfy your innate biological desire for human intimacy, getting married in the temple is the only way. Fear is only real if it has nothing to do with the church, and if it does, you’re being given an opportunity to show how good and faithful you are for disregarding it.

There is no room. The ceilings are low, the walls are close, the lights are dim. But the doors are unlocked; you’re not trapped. You don’t even have to go and check.

The holy ghost warned you not to.

[writerswhy]

This whole week I’ve been trying to write up a post to push my “soul society is a haunted house” agenda and unfortunately, I’ve fallen down a philosophy rabbit hole (and I don’t even like philosophy like that), but it all started with this post:

Since then I’ve asked myself:

What did I mean by “…all ghosts in SS have some amount of spiritual power (+ memory), and that the one-of few-but-most-pervasive pipeline from ghost to soul is through the propagandist nature of the Seireitei. By buying into/exposure of/being taught the self-mythos of shinigami that results in the othering and subsequent neglect/oppression of ghosts.”

And what does #1 have to do with “…Rukongai ghosts [echoing] some vestigial humanness in the land of the dead.” Aren’t shinigami closer to a living soul than a Rukongai ghost? (That’s what the Seireitei says.)

This was supposed to be a pretty straightforward post where I reference the video game Anatomy, specifically this bit from the opening monologue: 

“In the psychology of the modern civilized human being, it is difficult to overstate the significance of the house. Since as early as the Neolithic era, humankind has defined itself by its buildings.”

And from The Haunting of Hill House: 

“No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality. Even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. ”

The conclusion being: Soul Society is a haunted house. 

Simple. Yet…I feel like it’s missing something. A lot of the haunting in Bleach is sociopolitical and existential given the nature of souls and the power of will that’s intrinsic to Bleach. I’ve branched off and started reading papers on architecture and the soul/heart, time and the nature of memories - basically I’ve spun out of control when all I really wanted to do was circle back to point #2.

All I really want to do is circle back to this: “No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality.”

Because like, ostensibly we know how ghosts “live” in Soul Society. But here’s the catch, Soul Society is not meant to be a home. It’s a transient plane, a nonplace (coined by Marc Augé). When a ghost arrives they are given a number and sent to live in one of its many resource poor districts. They cannot reunite with family. They do not need to eat. They don’t even need their memories.

Here, the house rejects humanity. It sounds haunting, living under this absolute reality. But was it always like this?

Perhaps the butchering of the Soul King unleashed a blood curse so catastrophic it made Soul Society the gravity well it is today (the Soul King is the haunted house; they’re living in his body).

What if the first ghosts to arrive were masses of tissue. Through sheer will and spiritual power (“Being does not see itself. Perhaps it listens to itself.”) these ghosts start shaping their body. Like a phantom pain, their memories echo an arm here or a leg there. Some remember the beating of a heart. Others a pair of eyes. The evolution varies, from faceless ghosts like in The Haunting of Bly Manor to humanoid creatures like the Pale Man from Pan’s Labyrinth.

They could even end up as a hollow, an organism gone insane under the absolute reality of living in a dead body (it’s not the house that’s haunted, some are just predisposed to hollowfication.)

In a bid to restore and maintain balance, the Seireitei was established. And the ghosts they preferred? Ghosts that continuously referenced themselves to the point of creation, recursion in a house that rejects humanity.

They are no longer ghosts. They’re different. Their souls are different. They’re shinigami. That’s what the Seireitei says.

(And now they’re the ones doing the haunting.)

————

“Did it not occur to you that as an organism existing within a greater organism, your intrusion would be felt? And still you harass. And now, like the wayward spider who witlessly settled on a sleeper's tongue, you will be swallowed. Because the truth is this. When a house is both hungry and awake, every room becomes a mouth.”

[faebaex]

Part of the Cursed with the Gift of Reincarnation series

author note: i can’t stray from Lilia for too long, he just keeps dragging me back and i’m not complaining ���‿◡ 

Please note that this is a female character.

characters:  Lilia Vanrouge x F!Fae Reader

warnings: mentions of injury, mentions of ptsd/ptsd symptoms, mentions of blood

Lilia could feel his heart warm every time he saw you. Your smile. Your laugh. The way your nose wrinkled whenever someone told a particularly bad joke. Whenever he told a particularly bad joke. 

At first, he wondered if you were a ghost. Of course he knew, better than anyone, what the gift of reincarnation was. He remembers how you would cryptically joke that it was more of a curse than a gift, that you were destined to live your life following the same path, whether you wanted it or not. And the worst part? That it was a path that would lead the two of you away from each other, prompting you to either sneak around under shadow in an attempt to grab precious shards of time together, or push each other away in an effort to make it hurt less. 

Sometimes he didn’t even realise he was staring. So of course occasionally you’d catch him with his eyes locked onto you when he couldn’t bear to tear his eyes away. You’d tease, good natured gibes fired his way that he’d fire straight back, only making your beautiful face shine more as your smile widened and cheeks glowed. 

Lilia found himself becoming greedy, covetous. Any excuse to spend time with you, he’d take. And he must admit, student life suited you well. Seeing you so carefree - excelling in some classes, struggling in others, making friends, trying things you’d never had the chance to try before... 

What he came to crave the most were the domestic moments you shared. Sometimes he’d help you study, or you’d ignore your homework altogether to listen to one of his many tales. However, his favourite was when you’d join him in the kitchen, even if he couldn’t convince you to sample his dishes...

“What I don’t understand is, when you’ve got a perfectly good potato,” you held up a potato for emphasis, “and a perfectly good seasonal vegetable,” you waved a carrot towards him, “why do you feel the need to add mandrake to the dish?” 

“Nutrition is very important for a growing fae, you’d do well to remember.” Lilia hmphed, stirring his boiling pot of who knows what.

“Perhaps you should take your own advice then? I think you still have some room to grow.” you teased, sticking you tongue out for good measure. Lilia’s grin grew and his red eyes sparkled with peculiar glint, “oh you have no idea. Regardless, look at the size of Malleus. Sebek, even! There is no greater proof.” 

You snickered. “You know,” you hummed, taking a bite out of a raw carrot as you came closer to inspect his cooking pot, “I read the other day that if you eat too much nutritious food, it can turn you orange. I thought pink was your colour?” 

“I’ve been known to change my style on a whim,” he needled back, before dipping a wooden spoon into his mystery pot, “now I do need a taste tester, if you’d be so kind...” You scooted back as he held the spoon out towards you, holding your hands out defensively. 

“No way, you lost me when you added tentacle to the mix,” you turned back to your side of the counter, returning to chopping your vegetables, “I’ll stick to my own cooking, thanks... Aaouch!” 

The spoon fell out of Lilia’s hand as soon as he saw the blood spill down your hand, an oppressive ringing beginning to sound in his ears. The glint of the knife dropping out of your hand and falling towards the floor filling his stomach with dread. 

Lifeless eyes, not staring up towards him but through him, never to sparkle again, never to light up again... Pale lips, devoid of colour, never to smile again... Cold skin, devoid of warmth, never to welcome him in it’s warm embrace again...

... lia...

Blood. Blood staining you everywhere. Your hands, your face, your chest... It marred you with it’s unsightliness...

... Lilia...

A strangled, rage-filled cry filled the space, sounding monstrous. He didn’t even realise the sound was coming from his own throat as he cradled your body to his, as if he could push some of his own life into you...

“Lilia!!”

Lilia blinked, his mind snapping back to the present. He had hold of your wrist, your hand held under the running water over the kitchen sink. You were staring directly at him, concern clearly painted on your features. 

“Lilia... You’re kinda... My wrist...” you spoke carefully, and that’s when Lilia realised how tight his grip was on your wrist, loosening it immediately but still holding firm enough to keep your injury running under the stream of water. “It’s just a small cut,” you spoke again, in an attempt to soothe, “I’ve had much worse,” you joked, only for Lilia’s lips to downturn fractionally. You had no idea how right you were. 

You both stood in silence as Lilia ensured that your injury was well flushed, and you chewed your lip in thought. Lilia’s expression was the most serious you’d ever seen it, and his eyes appeared guarded and melancholy. He shut off the water and cradled your hand in his palms, a tingling sensation spreading across your hand as the tell-tale green wisps of his magic coming forth to close the wound. 

“Lilia...” You murmured carefully, not wanting to upset him further, “do you not like blood?” 

Lilia stayed quiet for a moment, seemingly focused on ensuring that your wound healed fully, even though such an insignificant cut didn’t require such attention. Eventually, his eyes met yours again and he gave you a smile, but it didn’t meet his eyes. 

“I hate blood.” 

[thevibraniumveterans]

REBELS REWATCH

S2E3 — THE LOST COMMANDERS

Back on board Phoenix Home, Sabine and Hera stand at the centre console, on either side of a live holoprojection of Sato. This episode, Sabine sports a different look — her hair color, once indigo with orange tips, is now navy blue fading into a teal green; instead of short sleeves as she had previously worn under her armor, her jumpsuit now features longer sleeves; the pad on her left shoulder is now purple instead of orange and the one on her right shoulder now has the number 5 referencing her callsign; her wrist gauntlets, once pink, are now orange. Perhaps, due to the blaster dings she acquired last episode, she might have decided to change things up a bit, for aesthetic’s sake. As Sato speaks, Ezra and Kanan walk into the command centre; the teenager dips his head as he nears the console. As a response to Sato noting the severe limitations of going into battle with a halfway broken ship, Ezra speaks up, correcting his manners halfway through: “Maybe we don’t fight, uh, Commander Sato, Sir.” He offers an awkward salute; Sabine shakes her head slightly. (She might be reminding herself of how her background and upbringing is vastly different than that of Ezra’s; he grew up on the streets of Lothal while she had a home, a family, and a school to go to.) Ezra looks up at Sato and continues, “Uh, when things got tough for me on Lothal, I’d go find some place to hide.” Sato notes that Ezra is “never shy” with his opinions, and suggests that “establishing a base is a good idea.” Hera is faced with a dilemma: “Problem is, none of the potential bases we know of have the tactical advantage we need to protect what’s left of our fleet.” Kanan approaches, and continues, “Or aid the nearby systems suffering from Imperial oppression.” Hera tells him, “We can’t help others if we can’t help ourselves. …If only we had more allies…” During this whole exchange, Ahsoka stands by a wall behind Ezra and Sabine, both of whom turn around when Ahsoka speaks up: “I know someone who might be able to help us. A great military commander with a vast knowledge of the Outer Rim. He could assist us in finding a base. And his experienced leadership would make him a powerful ally.” Sato wonders about this mystery man, but Ahsoka notes that she “lost track of him” ages ago, with all her transmissions going “unanswered”. Ezra leans to the side, peering around Sato’s live beam-in, saying, “We can find him. Let us try.” Beside him, Sabine looks hopeful at her friend’s optimism. Ahsoka notes that “there is one option” she’s not tried yet.

Back on the Ghost, Sabine leads Ezra and Kanan back into the pilot’s bay, where Hera and Chopper already are. Sabine takes a seat behind Hera, while Ezra sits in the chair next to it that Sabine has previously preferred enough to paint. Also, it looks like Era might have added a few things to his on-person inventory — a pouch on his left, and a holster for his saber on his right, both hanging from his belt. Anyway, Ahsoka walks in with a droid’s head, which Kanan easily remembers and identifies. Ahsoka more or less confirms it, and speaks fondly of her past, saying that the droid was able to find her and Anakin (unnamed at this point, of course) when they did not want to be located. Ahsoka hands the droid’s head to Sabine, who inspects it curiously. (Which is the exact same thing that would happen many years from now within the first few episodes of the Ahsoka series.) Ezra is also curious; he leans over and asks, “How in all the galaxy is that droid gonna find your friend?” Ahsoka says her friend was last seen in “the Seelos system. You can start there”. Ezra gets up from his seat and asks, “You’re not coming with us?” Ahsoka responds, saying that she’d be busy elsewhere, attending to “questions that need answering” regarding Vader. These questions are more of a personal nature. Ezra, having experienced that unfortunate duel with Vader, wishes to accompany Ahsoka, but she says, “You have your own mission, Ezra. And, Kanan, if you find my friend, you must trust him.” Ezra looks up at Kanan, who responds with, “If he’s all the things you say, we can’t afford not to.” Ahsoka reiterates once more before the door closes: “Trust him.” Ezra raises an eyebrow: “What was that about?” Kanan hasn’t a clue.

The Ghost exits hyperspace in the Seelos system. The Spectres, minus Hera and Chopper (both of whom remain onboard the Ghost to carry out necessary repairs), descend in the Phantom to the planet Seelos. It is a desert planet, with nothing but, well, nothing for miles around. While Ezra stands by Kanan at the pilot’s chair, Sabine, still holding the droid’s head, powers it on and places it on the console in front of Kanan. The droid warbles; Sabine guesses that “it’s scanning for a signal of some kind.” (Side note; while this episode is titled “The Lost Commanders”, Ezra would by the end of S4 earn the rank of Commander and proceed to quite literally get lost in a whole other galaxy. Though this could be a reach and quite possibly nothing more than a mere coincidence, Ahsoka would not be the first time that Sabine had gone looking for a lost commander.) Ezra, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice, says, “Good luck. You could really get lost out here.” Zeb, nearby, doesn’t sound too encouraging either: “Maybe that was the idea. What if this great commander we’re looking for doesn’t want to be found?” Ezra looks uncertain, and turns back to face the droid’s head, which suddenly starts chiming a number, “7567,” which it repeats a few times. Sabine points out the obvious: “It’s homing in on something.” Zeb notices something, and points out the windshield: “There. Up ahead.” The Phantom closes in on their target; an odd and slow-moving transport contraption. It turns out to be a heavily modified All terrain Tactical Enforcer (AT-TE) vehicle. Ezra is fascinated; Sabine, on the other hand, is impressed: “Now, that is a work of art.” Kanan says that it “looks like an old Republic tank…used during the Clone Wars.”

Kanan circles the Phantom on front of the transport once to ensure they are seen, before setting down behind said transport. Kanan warns Ezra to “be on guard”. The teenager raises an eyebrow, shrugs, and follows him, Sabine, and Zeb out of the Phantom. They approach the transport, which has come to a halt; wind chimes gently dinging in the breeze. The transport clearly looks like it has seen better days; its railings are rusted, its roof replaced by shoddy sheet metal; the whole thing nothing more than an inconspicuous scrap of junk. Three Clone Wars veterans — Rex, Wolffe, and Gregor — step outside their transport to greet the Spectres; Zeb is clearly unimpressed: “It’s just a bunch of old geezers.” Sabine notes that they are “well-armed”. Rex asks what the Spectres want, and Kanan tells him, “We’re looking for someone.” Rex snarks back, “Well, that’s too bad, ‘cause there’s nobody out here.” Ezra, remembering the repeated code from earlier, asks: “Hey, uh, does the number 7567 mean anything to you?” Rex is taken aback and demands clarification. Surprised by the veterans’ reaction, Ezra repeats himself, stammering: “Uh, I-I said 7567.” Rex looks off into the distance, noting that he hasn’t “heard those digits in…” years, and reveals that he was assigned that number at creation. Ezra is confused by this; Kanan says that “they’re clones”, and ignites his lightsaber, ready to jump into combat. (Side note; Kanan is a survivor of Order 66, in which the clones who had accompanied him and his master turned on them. Kanan carries this trauma with him, hence his reaction.) Ezra reaches out and tries to prevent any rash action: “Kanan, wait. Stop!” Likewise, Wolffe is surprised, takes aim, and fires: “Jedi. They’ve come for revenge.” Kanan deflects a few blasts, prompting Zeb and Sabine to raise their own weapons at the veterans. Gregor, a bit of a wild card himself, readies his own weapon; Rex orders him and Wolffe to “stand down, trooper. Now. That’s an order, solider.” Wolffe thinks the Jedi were the betrayers, but Rex knows better. Behind Kanan, Ezra reminds: “Ahsoka said to trust them.” Rex tries to joke about the situation, effectively defusing it, and apologizes for the “weapons malfunction”, explaining Wolffe’s defensiveness and saying that he and his two friends “haven’t seen a Jedi since” a decade and half ago. Ezra reassuringly pats Kanan on the back and steps forward, introducing himself and the Spectres. Kanan retracts his saber in response. Ezra gestures first to himself: “Well, my name’s Ezra.” Behind him, the crew lower their weapons, and he gestures to them in turn: “This is Kanan. That’s Sabine and Zeb. I-it’s nice to meet you, 7567.” The veteran responds in kind, introducing himself and his friends: “Actually, my name is Rex. Captain, 501st Clone Battalion. Meet Commanders Gregor and Wolffe.” Ezra says, “We were sent by Ahsoka Tano.” Rex is surprised: “Ahsoka Tano, Hm. I fought by her side from the Battle of Christophsis to the Siege of Mandalore. And a friend of hers is a friend of mine.” Ezra is amazed at this bit of information.

The Spectres are invited onto the transport; Ezra, not even a few paces in, notices three helmets belonging to the veterans. In complete awe, he picks up Rex’s helmet to get a better look. Rex reminds him to go “easy with those”. Ezra snarks back good-naturedly: “Oh, yeah. I might move the dust.” He puts the helmet down. Sabine, on the other hand, removes her helmet upon walking in. Rex sighs and asks, “How is Commander Tano?” Looking first from Kanan and Sabine before addressing Rex again, Ezra tries the door-in-the-face technique, saying, “Uh, well, in need of help. We all are. Look, we’re trying to fight the Empire, but we’re outnumbered, overmatched and taking a beating. We could use your help.” Rex notes of his own retirement, “Well, I’m not sure I’m much help to anyone these days.” He crosses his arms, and explains, “Didn’t you hear? The Emperor said the clone army has our served its purpose and retired us. Now we spend our days just telling stories and slinging for joopas.” Kanan, disillusioned, speaks up from the back: “This was a wasted trip. You heard the clone. He’s not interested.” Ezra tries again: “Wait. You don’t like the Empire, do you?” Rex says that it “certainly isn’t the Republic” but isn’t optimistic. Ezra says, “You could fight.” Rex apologizes, saying his “days as a soldier are over.” Not wanting to give up, Ezra tries the foot-in-the-door compliance technique, saying, “Well, okay. Okay, then maybe there’s one thing you can help us with. We need a base. Ahsoka said you knew about all sorts of secret locations in the Outer Rim.” Rex glances at his buddies before replying: “Well, my memory isn’t what it once was, but, um—” He stands up. “—there are a few spots I never bothered to report to the Empire. Look, why don’t you just wait outside and I’ll put together a list of coordinates.” Ezra turns around and starts heading out, following Zeb and Sabine.

It is merely a minute or two since the Spectres stepped outside the room. Kanan stares blankly out to the horizon; Sabine leans backward by the railing, propped up by her elbows; Ezra sits on a slanted ledge just by the doorway, his expression unreadable. (Though it is unclear where Sabine is looking, it seems as if though Ezra is either looking at her or just beyond her shoulder.) Gregor steps outside, offering them a proposition: “Since we’re providing you with a list of bases, um—” This catches Ezra’s attention. “—there’s something you can do to help us.” Kanan turns down the offer, but Ezra is optimistic: “Sure. What can we do?” Gregor walks forward and replies, “Out there, deep below, roam the joopa. Elusive big game.” He chuckles as Ezra approaches, and continues, “When we’re lucky to sling one in, it’ll feed us for the whole year.” Sabine is curious: “Okay. What do you need?” Gregor grins, and points to Zeb.

The Phantom is parked backwards atop the transport, which is on the move again. Ezra finds Kanan aboard the Phantom, and remarks, “Okay. You don’t trust these clones but they haven’t done anything.” Ezra does not have the context, having been born the day the Empire was formed. Kanan, clearly recalling how he narrowly made his escape many years prior, says, “You don’t understand. They’re dangerous. They could—” Ezra interrupts: “They could what? Rex doesn’t seem bad at all. Ahsoka said to trust him. You trust her, don’t you?” Kanan shoots back, “You weren’t there, You weren’t even born.” Ezra is confused: “What are you talking about?” Kanan does not want to talk about it; slightly dejected, Ezra walks off. Kanan picks up on the teenager’s confusion, and begrudgingly admits: “It was at the end, the end of the war.” Ezra turns around. Kanan continues, “Our fellow soldiers, the clones, the ones we Jedi fought side by side with, suddenly turned and betrayed us. I watched them kill my master.” Ezra, shocked as he is at this revelation, glances downward, frowning. Kanan goes on, “She fought beside them for years and they gunned her down in a second and then came for me. Later, they said they had chips in their heads that made them do it. Said they had no choice.” Rex, having come by and overheard the conversation, offers his perspective: “I didn’t betray my Jedi. Wolffe, Gregor, and I all removed our control chips.” He points to the scar on the side of his head, before saying, “We all have a choice.” He walks off. Ezra turns back to Kanan and tells him, “Well, for what it’s worth, I believe we can trust Rex.” Ezra turns back around and walks out of the Phantom, leaving Kanan to his thoughts. The teenager descends a short ladder, and finds Sabine standing at the end of an external walkway. Careful to not bump into her on the swaying transport, Ezra makes his way over to Gregor, ducking under a cannon as he goes. The trio watch Zeb down at ground level. Sabine spots something in the distance, pointing to it: “Out there!” Rex instructs Wolffe to bring the transport to a halt, which he does. Over the next few minutes, Ezra realizes — no thanks to Gregor’s ramblings — that Zeb is “not the hunter. He’s the bait.” Gregor doesn’t see the difference; behind him, Ezra throws his hands up in frustration. Kanan disagrees, saying “it’s not” the same, and warns Zeb to “better get back here right now.” Sabine asks Zeb what it is, and Ezra chimes in with another warning, “Buddy, run! You’re the bait! Zeb, it’s gonna eat you!” The ground cracks with increasing speed toward the group as a whole. Ezra, Sabine, and Kanan yell out to Zeb to get away as soon as he can, but he gets pulled under by a mysterious appendage. Wolffe gets the modified AT-TE transport on the move again; Rex addresses Sabine, saying, “Hey, I bet you know a thing or two about mechanics.” She looks up, and confirms it with a smile: “Yeah, good bet.” She heads up the ladder. Rex advises her to “keep an eye on this regulator.” He points at the item in question, explaining that “the line can overheat and shut down. No line, no joopa, no Zeb.” Sabine says, “Got it.” At the front of the transport, Ezra turns around and wonders, “Well, what about me and him?” Gregor instructs Ezra and Kanan to charge the electro-wire a few times. The transport comes to a halt, and Ezra uses the staff to reach for the wire but is not quite able to reach it. He calls out to Sabine, who is all the way at the top of the transport by the regulator Rex pointed out earlier, working on fixing it. She gets it fixed, and Kanan kick-flips his borrowed staff up to Ezra, who uses both staves to charge the wire.

The massive creature beneath the sands rears up out of the ground; Rex fires a single shot and the animal collapses onto its side. Having done his part, Zeb tells Kanan of his triumphant success. Ezra gives Zeb a thumbs up, and turns around as Rex approaches him and says, “And you are a natural.” Kanan wants to get a receive those coordinates and get a move on; Rex suggests staying for dinner. Ezra couldn’t agree more: “Can’t say no to that. Right, Kanan?”

Sunset. Or what passes for a sunset on Seelos anyway. On the transport, both Sabine and Ezra stand outside the transport’s door, each somewhat leaning on the railing, lost in their own thoughts. Both turn around when Rex steps outside and informs them he’s “assembled a list of potential bases and clearance codes and a few protocols the Imperials still use. Should be of some use.” Ezra thanks him. Rex notes, “They’re on our main computer. You’re gonna need—” Sabine already knows the required items are “Data tapes? I’ve got this.” She briskly brushes past Rex and through the door. Rex chooses to not comment on that, and instead, approaches Ezra and commends him: “You were brave today, kid. You jumped right in there to help.” They turn around and lean on the railing. Rex continues, “A great Jedi once told me that the best leaders lead by example. You do that well.” Ezra humbly accepts the praise, saying, “Thanks. I’ve learned from a great Jedi, too. Kanan.” Ezra turns to the man in question, who chooses to stare out into the horizon. Rex agrees, but notes, “You know, I don’t think he likes me. Or ever will.” Ezra frowns and turns to Rex, who continues, “Can’t say I blame him. The war left its scars on all of us.” Curious, the teenager asks, “Won’t you reconsider joining us?” Rex is pensive: “You know, I’ve outserved my purpose for that kind of fighting, I’m afraid. After the war, I questioned the point of the whole thing. All those men died, and for what?” (In real life, there are veterans who question why they even fought for wars they could never have won, they question why so many of their friends and comrades die. To have Rex so blatantly state his distaste for war is a reflection and almost certainly a callback to George Lucas’ own thoughts on the Vietnam War and how he based Star Wars around that, where grassroots rebels with budget weapons go up against a more established imperial power with armies and militaries at their behest.) Ezra isn’t so sure either: “I guess what they thought was right.” (From a certain point of view, this statement is true, but none of them could really have known their true purpose.)

During this conversation, Sabine has stepped inside. She pushes a few buttons and waits for the expected response, but frowns in suspicion. She steps back outside, announcing, “The clones gave us up. They warned the Empire we’re here.” Ezra is in disbelief, given his conversation with Rex: “Wait, what?” Rex says, “You’re mistaken. We would never do that.” Sabine shows him the datapad: “Oh, I found the binary transmission to the Empire. And there are messages Ahsoka sent to Rex and he never answered her!” Rex is astounded and taken aback: “What? I never got any messages from Commander Tano.” Kanan overhears and thinks the clones can’t be trusted, but Ezra wants to know the full story before anything drastic happens. He turns to Rex and asks, “Is this true?” Rex, for his part, turns to Wolffe: “What did you do?” Wolffe admits to contacting the Empire, reasoning, “If they found out that we were helping Jedi, they’d wipe us out.” Behind them, Kanan instructs Sabine to “warn Hera. Tell her to scan for incoming ships.” Ezra watches the exchange before him in confusion. Wolffe says that he “wanted to protect you guys, protect our squad.” Rex reminds him, “The war is over. We are free men. We can’t live under the fear of the Empire for the rest of our lives, Wolffe. That’s not freedom.” Ezra remains standing there. Wolffe begrudgingly agrees and apologizes: “They’re not our enemy. I’m sorry.” Sabine reaches the Phantom and discovers “A probe?” She narrowly dodges a laser shot and calls for Kanan, who heads down with his blaster. Ezra, on the other hand, fetches a long range rifle and tosses it up to Rex, telling him, “You gotta make this right.” Rex shoulders the rifle and takes aim; Ezra, on the other hand, steps onto a rung of the ladder behind him and watches. Rex fires, and the probe shorts out before exploding. Ezra is all smiles. From a nearby ledge, Sabine grins and congratulates the veteran: “Nice shot.” Ezra looks on as Rex exchanges a single look with Kanan, who walks off; the teenager watches Rex walk away.

Later that evening, Ezra, Kanan, Zeb, and Rex stand around the smoking heap that is the probe droid from earlier. Sabine approaches the group. Ezra wonders, “How long as this thin green watching us?” Kanan responds, “Long enough.” He turns to Sabine: “How’s the Phantom?” Sabine reports: “Well, engine took a direct hit. We’re not going anywhere until I can fix it.” Zeb realizes this means they’re all stranded until further notice; Rex solemnly agrees, and notes, “and the Empire’s on its way.” Unsettled, Ezra looks to the skies above them, and the others do the same.

[melancholymirth]

@astarablaze // you know what we talked about...

Perhaps there was want in him: want greater than need, yearning greater than logical thought; his sense of self-preservation, pale beneath years of seclusion, smothering his heart, snuffing out all hope for change. As such, it was not hope that had him cast this circle of salt and sit well within it, but a desperation felt even in the marrow of his bones. He feared not the consequence of a rite gone wrong or his mind long gone, and so he threw almost all caution to the four winds in his sad pursuit of a simple human right. But the candles were lit, the oils applied, his athame to his right to carve a sealing sigil—or stab whatever ne'er-do-well that may have thought to come through after hearing his entreaty. Indeed, the room was blustering intangibly—no gusts nor sounds to speak of—with magic that was hot and violet at his fingertips.

There was want in him, roaring louder than any demon that had protestations for being summoned hither. To be a warlock who dabbled in the diabolical was a lifestyle fraught with peril and promised eternal damnation, but V supposed that to be damned in the hereafter would never compare to the damnation he served against himself in life. And maybe it had been too late, too little, too late, to try to escape this monotony, this prison he'd built slowly over the years. It was his heart more so than his body that was caged, and he wished it free: to fly and to sing like a bird in flight, and to bleed from the cherub's arrow.

Rather an infantile thought, but he could not blame the poets who molded his heart after theirs. Besides, it is against human nature to keep from one's own kind. Man seeks the company of his neighbor, thrives in it and benefits the other in so doing. For V, however, that may not ever be. Man was as wicked as he was nurturing, and often did this little black sheep feel the lash of abandonment, the fangs of villainy. Thus, he turned to the darkness and the devils therein, and sometimes there were ghosts in the fog he chose to entertain. Be that as it may, his apartment was good enough for tonight. On his tongue was a wish that was simple, uttered into the darkness surrounding from a hollow hunger, not the hope, for fulfillment. He wished simply for companionship, protection, love—basic human wants that were denied him for one reason or another.

It came down to the strength of will and the sorcery that sent it through the cosmos. And when he least expected a response, he felt it forming through a tear in the fabric before him. Strong and alive, hotter than the air round his fingers, but oppressive in a manner that alarmed the warlock into prying open his eyes. He did not count on an answer tonight, nor had he prepared himself to see a full, material form spill from the spatial tear onto his living room floor. It took his breath and snapped his concentration, but it seemed that he'd done all he had to. The magic began breaking up, the air around him cooled, and before his staring eyes was a thing disoriented, much after man in shape and visage, but growling, and...

His heart was drumming; he knew he'd done wrong, he remembered where his athame rested. He'd cast no summoning circle for a demon, and yet one had come! Had he really been at fault here, then, or had forces beyond his reckoning brought this upon him by their own designs? In any case, it fell to none other than V to deal with the door he'd opened, and to deal swiftly. He rose from the floor, ritual blade in his right hand while his left was a fist, and frowned at the uninvited. "Demon. I called not upon thee." Truly, the hardness of his voice belied the apprehension swirling within his bosom. He knew little, if nothing, of that with which he engaged. But he had defenses, if the need should arise for them, and the salt on the floor encircling him had to have been good for something.

[sophygurl]

Blessed Solstice and Happy start of Yule to all who celebrate either one. 

Most of this post hinges on my living in the northern hemisphere, so for you southern hemisphere folks - uh, save it and read it in six months?? Time and space are weird.

Anyway, I love how so many cultures, countries, religions, and practices there are at this year with similar themes and rituals. It's such a human thing for us all to need certain stories and narratives and ways of relating to one another and just all independently coming up similar stuff but with different specific meanings and mythologies attached. 

As a mystic agnostic who was raised a liberal Christian and has adopted various earth-centered traditions into my mishmash of spirituality, I acknowledge and celebrate a few different traditions this time of year. I won't speak to the holidays and festivals that don't relate to me, except to occasionally and briefly note some of the thematic and ritual similarities.

But when it comes to advent/Christmas (including both the spiritual and more commercial aspects of Christmas), and solstice/Yule, and even a bit of New Year's, there is so much common ground along themes of:

* waiting: waiting for something magical, waiting for a miracle (I hear you Mirabel), waiting for new life, waiting for the thing that will spark hope during a hopeless time, waiting for the right time to overcome oppression, waiting for the light to return, waiting for the sun to return, waiting for the warmth to return, waiting for the opportunity to make things better, for a fresh start, waiting in watching wonderment as the earth (or the sun) seems to stand still and knowing and hoping and praying that it will continue the journey, kids waiting for Santa, advent calendars, advent wreathe candles, counting down the days until the holiday, counting down the hours and minutes and seconds until the new year

* sharing: sharing what light we have with one another, sharing our warmth, sharing with our loved ones and our communities, sharing with the stranger - the traveler from out of town or the neighbor who needs our help, sharing our love and our gifts (whether you're rich enough to share sacred oils or talented enough to share your music or kind enough to share a smile - it all counts), sharing food to keep us healthy and warmed, sharing shelter as we gather with loved ones or house the refugees in our midst, sharing greetings via ritualized words in passing or cards in the mail, sharing our magic and our hope and our love

* the possible: the magic, the miracle, the wonder - all of the things that seem impossible suddenly feeling possible, whether it's a jolly elf who brings toys to the world's children or the child of a divine being coming to live amongst us to teach us how to love one another better or the fact of communities gathering to chant back the sun together or noticing how nature always provides even during the loneliest times by showing us how to rest in dormancy or fallowness or hibernation or just by sharing resources or tucking away extra nourishment to get us through, maybe it's the oil in the lamp lasting longer than expected or the miracle of humans remembering to share their light with others, maybe it's three men following a star to greet the baby they know will create great change on the earth or maybe it's three ghosts coming to scare a miserly capitalist into sharing his wealth, whatever it is - it feels more possible this time of year

* light, light light light, the light of the world, the light of life, the yule log, the advent candles, the menorah, the returning of the sun, the Diwali lights, the new year's fireworks, the burning of the Galve goat, fireplaces, candles, Christmas lights, candlelight Christmas Eve services, sharing our light, bringing back the light, resting - just for now - in the dark

These are by no means all of the associations between these different holidays and holy days at this time of year, but it's enough to give me food for thought.

I love the sense of magic that comes this time of year, the sense that anything and everything can change for the better, that pregnant sense of waiting and wondering what will come, the cozy feeling involved in sharing what we have with others so that all may feel warm when it's cold and all may have light when it's dark and all may have nourishment when the harvest is over and less food is available for the taking. 

Winter is hard for me. It's hard on my chronic pain, it's hard on my depression and trauma, it's just a slog to get through - especially up here in Wisconsin. I don't like the cold. I don't like the sun spending less time with us. I don't like the extra isolation that these bring. And I don't like settling down with the peace of my own mind and facing the difficulties in my own spirit and in the world at large.

I often overly focus to the point of obsession on the aspects about bringing back the light and sharing with others. It makes me feel less lonely, it makes the cold feel a little cozier and the quiet less oppressive.

But I've been trying, this year, to focus more on the other side of things, too. On finding quiet moments to appreciate the dormancy of spirit that comes naturally at this time of year. 

On remembering that many good things come from the waiting, as much as from the arrival; from the resting, as much as from the activity; from the solitude as much as from the company of others. From the balance of all things, even access to the sun - that majestic giver of life. 

To be more like the evergreen tree that is hardy enough to thrive in the snow, and whose greenery we intentionally bring inside at this time of year to remind us that we, too, can survive the long lonely nights of winter. 

Blessed Solstice, and happy all-the-holidays, friends and family.

[christianfamilymatters]

An Invitation

You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you. —Isaiah 26:3 ESV

Wind whips through Peter’s salty, sea-soaked hair as he squints out into the dark, stormy night. Clinging to the edge of the boat for balance as another murky wave comes crashing over the side, he ignores the whispers of “Ghost!” from his friends on the ship with him and calls out to the figure standing on the waves: “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water” (Matthew 14:28 ESV). As Peter strains to hear a response over the boat’s creaking protests, the raging wind carries back an invitation: “Come” (v. 29).

Imagine that moment of decision—the exact moment when Peter chooses to let go of what he knew about reality and step into a new one. Years of experience as a fisherman had solidified in his mind the scientific truth that man cannot walk on water, and yet here was evidence to the contrary. In this moment, I imagine Peter closing his eyes to the rain and wind. As he considers all the things he’s seen the Master do, a strange sense of peace comes over his mind. Firm and immovable as an anchor, this peace holds strong as Peter opens his eyes and steps over the side of the boat into the unknown.

It’s important for us to remember that Peter wasn’t aware at the time that every child in Sunday school would be taught this story while eating cheesy Goldfish crackers for millennia to come. He didn’t know he was living “Matthew 14:22–33” or have the benefit of the caption “Jesus Walks on the Water” glowing in neon lights over the black surging sea. All he knew as the waves beat against the ship was that they were trying their best to drag him into the depths below. Peter had to make his decision not based on evidence in the natural but on an invitation by the Spirit.

We know the story. Peter steps out onto the water and, defying the understood laws of the natural world, walks on the surface of the waves toward Jesus. For those brief, miraculous moments, faith was the only substance beneath his feet.

Today, you and I face our own dark nights—times when following the Lord in obedience leads us into a storm. It’s easy to misinterpret dark, stormy seasons of our lives as punishment or rebuke, but just before Peter walked on the water, the Bible says Jesus “made the disciples get into the boat and go before him to the other side” (v. 22). Maybe the storms we walk through are less about limitation and more an invitation—an open door into a new, greater reality with Jesus. As we consider this invitation, it should be noted it is accompanied by a peace that is only known “beyond understanding.” The end of our ability to comprehend is not the end of God’s ability to carry on in power. When we find ourselves facing situations we’ve never walked through and trials like oceans in our way, peace is both the guide and the guard for our hearts and minds.

Merriam-Webster defines peace as “freedom from disquieting or oppressive thoughts or emotions.” [1] According to Philippians 4:7, God’s peace acts like a shield. It stands in the way of the attacks of the enemy when he tries to assault our minds with anxiety and worry for the future. Against all the natural evidence we might muster up as we look at the storm in front of us, peace comes like a heavenly shield through the clarity and calmness of trust.

You see, peace is intimately interwoven with trust. How can we face a difficult time in our lives, like the uncertainty and pain of losing a loved one or the difficulty of changing seasons, and still have any sense of peace at all? Peace comes because we trust in God’s power, presence, and proficiency in working it all out for good. He’s currently working on whatever is burdening you, and He doesn’t need any help finishing the job.

Just as Peter stood on the precipice of one reality, hearing an invitation into another, you and I stand today at the edge of whatever issue is facing us with the invitation to trust God and take Him at His word. As we trust Him, we’ll experience that miraculous feeling of walking on the waves of faith and trust as we journey on toward the prize of Jesus.

Prayer

God, we honor Your great power over all things. We have witnessed Your authority to speak to the wind and waves of our lives and have seen them obey Your command to be still. Today, until You speak those words and bring whatever is facing us to stillness, teach us to trust You and Your process. You are worthy to be praised and worthy to be trusted. We put all our hope in You alone. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

[loop-hole-319]

R/Users of Reddit who was the weird kid at your school and what made them the weird kid?

 Boy, do I have a story for you

For a little bit of context, I live in Amity Park, yes, the most haunted place in world. Yes, ghosts are real if you want to fight me on that do it somewhere else this is not the page to do so.

The kid is the son of the town weirdos, God I could go on and on about that family’s antics, But I will save it for a later post. The two parents are ghost hunters and have two kids one older daughter and one younger son. The eldest daughter is a certified genius, she plans to study in psychology and beat the school record academic intelligence or something, she even saved my ass from having to retake algebra. She is going places; she'll end up in one of those great women magazines.

Her younger brother on the other hand... is an interesting fella.

He was pale as a a sheet of paper and had black hair and bluest eyes that I had ever seen, I do not know even how to begin to describe the shade of blue that his eyes were. They were such an intense blue that there was no way for them to be natural, although sometimes they would shine green if the light hit them just right.

I think he also had Tapetum lucidum. I found this out the hard way when there was a power outage. I had just gotten out of the bathroom when the lights flipped off and was rushing to my classroom for safety, (ghost attacks often mean power outages) I had turned the corner and saw him opening a closet door and made the mistake of making eye contact with him. Those were the most intense 30 seconds of my entire life, and that's saying something living in a town where there are supernatural creatures attacking almost daily

But his eyes, I will never get them out of my head. Although it was dark in the hallway I could see his irises clearly, they were almost glowing. I will never forget the way I felt, it is what I imagine to be facing down a lion or Panther, there was an oppressive feeling on my chest and the air grew cold, I swear to myself I could see my breath. I was literally frozen in fear, then he slipped behind the door and the feeling instantly cut off. I ran the rest of the way to my classroom and never told any of my classmates about my encounter.

We started our freshman year together and he was a normal kid until halfway through the first quarter. Apparently, he got into some kind of lab accident, no details were released although it took out the power grid for about half the city. It must have Fucked him up or something because when he got back to school all of his shit went downhill. He must have had some kind of nerve damage because for the first month and a half after the accident he would constantly tripped over nothing and just collapse in the middle of the hallway. Oh he was also short he never grew an inch past freshman year I think it has to do with the accident he was in, maybe damaged part of his skeleton or something.

 He also would drop stuff all the time including his pants, I remember he dropped so many beakers in the science room that he was banned from holding anything fragile and they actually had to order an entire new set to replace the ones he broke.

But then the ghost started showing up and he took it to whole new level. He carried around this soup thermos thing 24/7, he never left it anywhere always stayed by his side even to the bathroom.

The kid would go to the bathroom all the time and then just disappear and not come back sometimes for the whole school day. it got to the point where teachers would deny him access to the restroom but he would get up and leave anyways. But yeah when he did come back to class, he always looked like he had gotten run over by a bus multiple time.

I remember one time my friends and I we're headed to the bathroom to vape and saw him running down the hall and enter the restrooms ahead of us, when we got there, we the entirety of the boys room and he was just gone, vanished like fucking Houdini.

When he was in class, he was always either sleeping or just nervously sitting there like someone was about to attack him. He always looked so tired and whatever the teacher called on him he always shut up like a damn rocket.

I remember one time in class we were doing silent reading, this was one of the few times that he was actually in class and awake. When something crashed through the window, I think it was one of his parent's inventions and it focused in on him like a heatsinking missile and cracked him right in the back of the head knocking him out right there and then. His parents had to pay for the window damage.

or he also would constantly be targeted by the anti ecto devices that were installed in the school, he claimed to have ecto-contamination. but this just raised concerns about his home life and lead multiple people to speculate that his parents were experimenting on him. He profusely denied these claims.

Another time he came into class with a glowing arrow sticking through his leg when asked about it he just waved it off and said it would be fine.  

He threw up in the middle of the hallway, his vomit was glowing, and it eat about an inch into the floor. On multiple occasions he would enter the classroom bleeding profusely, deny that he was bleeding and then sew himself up in the back of the classroom.

 He also got bullied a lot by one of the football players at the school, they would always stuff him into the lockers, but he would always manage to somehow magically teleport to his next class sometimes even before I got there.

One time he punched a ghost, and another he cursed my friend out in some language that nobody was able to identify later on. I do not think it was a human language.

He would also carry around ectoplasm in a separate thermos and drink it for lunch. One of the jock bullies stole it from him and chugged the whole thing before realizing what was in the container, he was sent to the emergency room to have his stomach pumped and had severe chemical burns down the back of his throat and entirety of his stomach. Apparently the ectoplasm had been “weak” so it had less of an effect, what if it was “stronger” he might have had to have his stomach removed or been placed on a feeding tube. No charges were successfully pressed.

He had also been banned from bringing lunch from home as it came to life and attacked students and staff on multiple occasions.

The bitch was cold as ice to, I'm not talking about cold as in personality. No his skin was freezing to the touch. His friends literally used him as their own personal air conditioner during a heat wave last summer.

But aside from his eyes the biggest thing that made him weird was actually something pretty useful.

His Bladder. It was more accurate at predicting ghost attacks then the highly advanced technology specifically designed for doing so, it came with a 99% accuracy. The 1% is the times he actually had to go to the bathroom.

He also had his own stalker who accused him of being Phantom, the town superhero who was a ghost. although everybody thinks that he is just gay for the guy. But honestly, I think he's on to something not necessarily him being a half ghost superhero who lives with ghost hunters which is stupid but that guy is definitely not 100% human.

He still is super gay for him though.

[theseshipsshallsail]

Chapter 1

The revelry from the bookstore leaves a heady buzz of la libertà flowing through their veins, and as the crescent moon climbs higher in a pin-pricked sky, Rome’s labyrinthine streets bear witness to the loss of their remaining inhibitions. Drunken kisses give way to drunken dancing - and unfortunate drunken vomiting - but the ancient cobbles are their compass on this ferragosto evening, steering them back to the complicit safety of their hotel. 

The stale scent of sex still lingers in the room, yet tempted as they are to add to it, the prospect of their imminent separation is a sobering force. Elio’s body is heavy with exhaustion. The oppressive tightness in his chest magnified by all that he’s trying to ignore. Their time is borrowed. Soon, all of this will be naught but memory. The man beside him nothing but a ghost. Haunting his every step with visions of a life denied. A future obfuscated by what-ifs and maybes.   

He refuses to sleep, however. Refuses to sacrifice a single minute to unconsciousness in spite of the grappa’s siren call. Absurd though it is, a part of him dreads waking up alone. That Oliver will disappear like a thief in the night - taking what’s left of his shattered heart with him. His guards are down - all his pretences stripped away - but here they are, stretched out on a too-small bed, solemn fingers caressing familiar skin. Worshipping each other by words, if not by the flesh. 

And it isn’t easy. Of course it isn’t. Elio’s an individuo reservato. A trait he’s uncomfortably aware of. But he can’t let that stop him from spilling his innermost thoughts. From divulging the things he wishes he’d done differently. Or not at all. In some aspects, he’s sure he’s repeating himself, but there’s just so much he needs Oliver to hear. Things he never dared tell him previously - never deemed vital - when the end of their summer idyll was a nebulous concept.  

Like how he’d leave the adjoining door open at night, hoping beyond hope that Oliver would walk through it. Or that afternoon at the tennis courts, when he’d recoiled from his massage for fear of leaning into the frisson of excitement. Needs him to understand his visceral reaction the morning after they first slept together. The crippling anxiety that twisted his intentions, necessitating a hasty - if short-lived - retreat. Wants to beg him not to forget. To remember everything. So that when next he tastes the salt-tang of the ocean upon his lips, the sweetness of apricot juice beneath a cloudless yonder, a piece of Elio - nevermind how fleeting - will slip into that parallel life, too.

All his secrets. 

All his worries. 

All he’s put off for later. 

A futile notion, admittedly, now that there is no later. 

No more chance for postponement. 

Thankfully, he isn’t the only one speaking, and Oliver lays his own regrets out like a hand of cards whenever he stumbles into a tongue-tied silence. His forearm is slung around his waist, their legs tangled at the knees, and Elio drowns in his eyes as he recalls the steely glares that once pierced him to the core, but which he now appreciates were a means of self-defence. An attempt to stave off the unavoidable.

“Did you mean it?” he whispers, twisting Oliver’s Star of David between his fingertips as he burrows into the sticky warmth of his neck. “When you said you’d been happy here?”

“How can you even ask me that?” 

“How can I not?” Elio replies, failing to control the tremor in his voice. “You tried to keep your distance when you arrived. It was me who sought you out. If I hadn’t pushed so hard -”

“I’d have probably spent ten more days kicking myself for my cowardice,” Oliver tells him, dropping kisses to his knuckles as though they’re something to be cherished. “Wearing holes in my espadrilles… trying to hide a semi each time you passed by in those swim trunks...”

Elio snorts. “The feeling’s mutual, mon ami.”

“So we’re both idiots, then?”

“Well… one of us was being purposefully difficult...”

“Goose,” Oliver growls, and Elio giggles despite himself when he’s tickled without mercy. “I’ll show you purposefully difficult.”

It soon devolves into a childish wrestling match, Elio’s wrists pinned above him as Oliver scrabbles along his sides, leaving him bow-taut and winded. “Tutto apposto! Enough!”

“You give?”

“I give,” he says, lungs heaving in his chest. “Dio… I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Nonsense.” Oliver rolls to the side, tipping his chin up to better meet his eyes. ”This is new to us both. It’s only natural to have doubts.”

Elio huffs. “Doubt is the father of inventions.”

“And may I ask what you’re inventing?”

An awkward shrug. “Nothing,” Elio says, afraid his misgivings will lead them down a destructive path. “And everything. You know how my brain works.”

“I do, yes.” Oliver brushes a thumb over his bottom lip. “Though for my sins, I’ve yet to find cause for complaint.”

“Déviant.” 

“Takes one to know one.”

Elio nips at the tormenting digit, not quite ready to let the subject go. “I want to hear it,” he murmurs, teeth scraping the nail. “I think I need to hear it.”

“Elio…”

“Just tell me,” he insists, and sighing, Oliver pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“It’s complicated.”

“Isn’t it always?” 

Impatience flares at the return of his evasiveness, and the remorse in Oliver’s gaze is immediate. “We never talked much about my family, did we?” he asks, and Elio shakes his head, shuffling closer as Oliver draws a shuddering breath. “My parents, they’re.... well. To describe them as traditional would be a kindness,” he continues. “Our relationship has been strained for years, but they have certain... expectations, I suppose. For my future, specifically. You know how it is.”

“Do I?” Elio asks, stiffening as I'm sure I'll pay for it somehow echoed from the not so distant past. 

The implication is clear, and maybe there are razor blades in his expression, because Oliver’s own turns instantly apologetic. “I guess not,” he says, sliding a conciliatory hand to his hip. “Do you have any idea how lucky you are?”

Elio frowns. “In what way?”

“With your folks,” Oliver explains. “My father would cart me off to a correctional facility.” A beat. “He still might.” 

“Only if he finds out,” his traitorous mouth blurts before his alleged genius can catch up, and Elio’s heart sinks. “But he won’t, will he?”

It’s less a question, more a statement, and Oliver’s jaw clenches as he stares at him in silent concession. “I wish things could be different.”

“I know,” Elio says, the words braver than the sentiment behind them. “Me too.”  

But the universe isn’t that lenient. Like Icarus, they’ve flown too near to the sun, and the consequences of such defiance will see their wings clipped once they crash back down to earth. He’d cautioned himself on the journey south to prepare for the blow. Peered out the grimy window of the direttissimo, knowing that when he next stands on the platform he’ll be alone. That he’ll hate it. Those rehearsals, it seems, have done little to dull the pain of what’s to come, and latent superstition has left him fumbling in the dark, regardless.

“E’ la vita,” Elio says, resorting to self-preservation as he dredges up a smile - the over-bright, false one he’s perfected through years of dinner drudgery. “Why risk it all for a bit of fun, right?”

“Don’t do that.” Apparently Elio’s not the only one who can see through a facade. “You mean more to me than some fling, and you know it.”

“But -” 

“No. Hear me out.” Earnest, Oliver smooths the hair from Elio’s temple. “These past six weeks… I don’t know how to describe how important they were to me. The freedom. The acceptance.” His throat bobs in the grey strokes of dawn. “You.”

“Me?” 

“Us.” Oliver fidgets with a loose thread on Elio’s shirt. “I meant it,” he mutters at last, winding an errant curl around the index finger of his other hand. “I have been happy here. I’ve been happy with you.” He hesitates. A quick flash of indecision. “I’m not sure I was ever really happy before you.” 

“Please don’t say that.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Per carità! That only makes it worse,” Elio says, whirling away to hide in Oliver’s collar. The sour musk of sweat is soaked into the material, and he inhales deeply, hoarding every piece of him while he still can. “You are the very best parts of me,” he confesses, lifting his head. “I don’t know what I’ll do when -”

“Hey…” Oliver’s grip tightens. “Didn’t we go over this? You’ll be -”

“Fine. You said.”

“Clearly it bears repeating.” 

Elio touches his face. Watches the ripples of emotion spread out like a pebble cast into the lake. “And you?” he returns, recollecting that night on the rock. His naivety in presuming Oliver’s ghost wouldn’t always be staring out at the horizon. Rodin’s Thinker clad in billowy cotton. “You’ll be okay?”

A breath. “I’ll be okay.”

Elio’s not sure which of them he’s trying to convince, so he kisses him gently in lieu of examining it further, his stomach flipping when Oliver pulls back with an air of exquisite softness. “What time do we need to be at the airport?” he asks, seeking sanctuary in distraction. “You have your passport, sì?”

“I do,” Oliver says, studying him carefully. “The plane leaves at noon. But don’t feel you have to -” He stops. Swallows. Tries again. “You don’t have to see me off. Not if you don’t want -”

“I want.”

“Elio -”

“Non essere ridicolo. I’m coming,” he tells him, fighting a shiver as the cool breeze from the window brings goosebumps to his skin. “Of course I’m coming.” 

The relentless tick of the clock rings loud in the sudden silence, and Elio raises up on his elbow, only for Oliver to cup his cheek before he can turn towards the wall. 

“Don’t look,” he whispers, sounding choked as he double checks the time on his watch. “It’s ten minutes fast at any rate.”

“Ten minutes?” Elio laughs. Slightly unhinged. “What difference does that make? Ten? Twenty? You still have to leave.”

He detests the unspoken word that hovers between them. The entire phrase a sullen admission of weakness: you still have to leave me.

“Don’t think of it like that,” Oliver murmurs, one hand stroking the base of his spine. ”We have a few hours yet.” 

Elio sniffs. “Not like they’ll matter tomorrow.”

“Maybe not. But they matter right now.” Oliver nudges their foreheads together. “Every second, Elio.” 

“Every second, Elio,” he echoes numbly, if only to call him by his name one last time.

He’s shaking, he realises, though in all honesty he doesn’t care that his vulnerabilities are on display. That Oliver can see how lost in him he really is. That the situation is gutting him, and he’s unable to stop the bleeding. His chest feels concave. The space below his ribs too small to contain the sheer need and protectiveness that washes through him. He wants to shelter Oliver from the storm that lies ahead. To house him beneath his breast where the burdens of this world cannot touch him. Encapsulate everything Oliver is within the confines of himself, meagre as those confines might be.

But what can he do? Implore him to stay? Ask him to give up his doctorate? His career? His responsibilities? And for what? A life in the shadows? Always looking over their shoulders. Always that sense of shame.

He thinks of the pink and yellow lilies that bloom in the giardino back in B. The delicate petals that unfurl for such a brief period of time. There’s something recherché, he knows, in such transitory beauty, yet Elio’s never lacked for stubbornness. Oliver may believe his story is already written - that their destiny is forged in stone - but no one’s ever survived a freefall by continuing to spiral. 

For something so tragically temporary, their bond has left a permanent mark. And Elio? He wants to beat his fists against this odious ending until they’re bloodied and raw.

[idiotic-genius]

Describing and associating color

First of all, it’s important to understand the associations people already have to colors, so here’s a quick general guide:

Yellow- Happiness, bright, sunny

Orange- Warmth, fire, jumpy

Red- Soulfull, energetic, boldness

Purple- Noble, rich, calming

Blue- Deep, mysterious, darkness / moderness, brightness, flying

Green- Nature, untouched, uncivilized / kindness, energy, daytime

Brown- Terrestrial, grounded, natural

Black- Nighttime, dark, peaceful/scary

White- Innocence, cleanness, pure

Now for the comparison of colors to things that are not a color but typically have a certain shade of one. That’s not only helping the reader to better imagine the exact color you mean, but also to subtly pushing their emotional state in a certain direction. If you e.g. compare someone’s haircolor to something pleasant, the reader will subconsciously like the character better. Contrary to that, when you compare something with unpleasant things, it makes the reader’s mind associate that thing described being unpleasant even though you didn’t specifically said it was. Here’s an exaggerated example:

“The walls were as green as those small plants you can buy at Ikea.”

vs.

“The walls were as green as that invisible algae that touches your leg when you’re swimming in a lake.”

If you read the first sentence in a room’s description, it would make you subconsciously think of it as cute and bright because you associate it to cute and bright things like small Ikea plants. However, the second comparison rather gives you an uneasy and oppressive mindset about the room described.

Many colors have overused comparisons, like green and emeralds or blue and the sky. If you want to use those, it’s of course okay and simple, but also consider using things not many authors use to compare colors to, because it gives you something special the reader will remember. It’s your choice if you want to make those comparisons funny, relatable, weirdly specific or just fancy and special. Here are a few examples of things to compare colors to for some of those categories that can e.g. use by writing “Their hair was [color] in a way that reminded me of [comparison].”

Weirdly specific/funny

Yellow- Pikachu’s forehead, the frenchiest fry McDonalds ever made for me

Orange- Trump, garbage truck that comes every tuesday

Red- Weasley hair, Elmo’s prettiest curl, Knuckles the Echidna

Purple- An evil Minion, that one tasty grape that’s better than the others

Blue- The tardis’ front door, that one pair of jeans you kinda like but never wear

Green- Kermit’s ruff, Mike Wazowsky, Shrek’s ears, Yoda but only in VI

Brown- Gumba’s shoes, Timon and Pumbaas’ supposed lovechild

Black- A cat with green eyes named Loki, Buttercup from Powerpuff Girls’ hair

White- Some paper you stare at in class because you don’t know what to write

Grey- Karen’s hair before she dyed it, my favorite werewolf’s fur at their neck

Rare/special

Yellow- A bumblebee, a daffodil, happiness

Orange- A lion’s mane, sandstone, a salamander

Red- Fire bricks, chili, imperialism

Purple- Heathers, summer rain, dusk

Blue- [random specific ocean], a swimming pool, an iceberg, space

Green- A post-apocalypse, mint ice cream, seafoam, the jungle

Brown- Ginderbread, cinnamon, walnut, espresso, syrup

Black- Leather jackets, charcoal, ravens

White- Winter frost, antique ghosts, bleached parchment

Grey- Evening shadows, summer thunderstorm clouds, sea stones

Next up is the description of the colors without comparisons. Here are some cool words to avoid cliche descriptions with by saying e.g. “They were dressed in [word] [color].”

bleached – very pale by chemicals/sunlight

bleak – gloomy

blotchy – patchy

bold – clear, strong in colour (thus easy to notice)

brash – unattracively colorful

brilliant – intense

clean – clear and fresh

cold – (a color mixed with) white, blue, or grey

cool – colours mixed with blue or green

delicate – pleasant, but not too strong

dusty – a color mixed with grey

electric – metallic (mostly blue and green)

festive – bright and colourful

fiery – very bright in colour (mostly red, orange, yellow)

fluorescent – seems to reflect light

glistening – shiny

glowing – seems to emit soft light

harsh – very bright in an unpleaseant way

jazzy – bright, colourful, and attractive

loud – ‘very bright’ as in ‘bad taste’

mellow – soft and warm

opalescent – seems to change color/hues

pastel – pale and soft

rich – strong in a good way

sepia – ‘old’, colors mixed with yellow-brown-red

soft – pale, gentle

splashy – brightly coloured

tinged/tinted – a color with another color hidden in it (e.g. reddish blond)

vibrant – bright and colourful

violent – so bright it almost hurts

vivid – strong, lively

warm – (a color mixed with) yellow, red, or orange

watery – pale

I hope this helps you guys to better describe colors and create associations for your reader through comparison :)

[gasolineghuleh]

ODC Chapter 1

I never put chapter one separately on Tumblr, oops.

Below the cut is the first chapter of my currently on going long fic, featuring my OC. The entirety is available on ao3. 

The wind whipped and whirled through my hair, billowing my skirts around my feet as I clung desperately to my umbrella, hoping against hope that the rain lashing down around me hadn’t soiled the books under my arm. I clutched my small bundle tighter and leaned into the wind, struggling up the sleet slicked hill under my feet. The cobblestones were soaked, and traction is hard to come by, especially on these older roads. One of the street lamps softly illuminating the road blinked twice before extinguishing, plunging me into a darkness that’s only permeated by the occasional flashes of lightning and the moon, shrouded in clouds.

A soft whimper left me as I attempted to tuck my hair back behind my ear, the wind having torn it loose of my already loose ponytail. I’ve seen it storm before, but never this badly… and never with this oppressive feeling behind it. Certainly, my small convent had weathered its fair amount of storms, and I didn’t feel any worry for the stone walls. The air felt thick and heavy, as though I was breathing through a soaked rag. It was suffocating and almost panic inducing. I stopped for a moment, looking down the street from whence I came. A small tickle in the back of my mind told me that something was off. Something was wrong.

The bookstore I had just left had turned its sign off, leaving that area of the street in darkness save for one single light, an uncomfortable shade of scarlet just outside of a café. I’ve never eaten there personally, but I’ve certainly heard the rumours of… unusual clientele. Images of hooded and masked figures flashed through my mind and I cringed into myself, clutching my books tighter. Almost on instinct my gaze turned to the cliff that loomed above the town as a flash of lightning illuminated the outline of a large ruined castle, stark against the blackened and angry sky. With a yelp, I scurried down the alleyway nearest to me in an attempt to dodge the worst of the rain. I may be straying from the Church of Our Lady, but I believed in consequences at heart.

Spotting an awning in the alleyway, I took a moment to duck underneath it to take a respite from the rain. I was finally able to relax somewhat now that the rain was no longer pelting me, and I took some deep breaths, leaning against the brick wall that I had found myself beside. With a furtive glance to the side, I took the time to unwrap my newly gotten books from their linen wrappings and smiled to myself when I noticed that they’ve managed to remain dry. The smell of the leather greeted me warmly as I ran my fingers over it, feeling the bumps and ridges on the cover. Whorls of shadow coursed their way up the front of the book before dipping around to the inside, causing the cover to be lifted slightly off of the first page.

I sighed deeply and placed my hand on the cover, the warm leather thrumming with barely contained life under my fingers. The moment passed, and I rewrapped my parcel and stepped back into the rain as my umbrella shielded me once more. Steeling my resolve, I made my way back up the street as the cobblestones slipped and slid under my thick soled heeled boots. My convent wasn’t too far away now, but it’s up a steep hill and I knew I would need all of my strength to climb it, especially in the now-approaching-hurricane type rains.

The wind tugged and pulled at my umbrella but I pressed on, my long skirt whipping back and forth under the gale onslaught. The sidewalk was empty save for myself, and I startled slightly when a large, white limousine car passed me by. It passed slowly, and I got the feeling along the back of my neck that something wasn’t quite right. Regardless, I could see the large gate of the convent looming in the distance and I ducked my head down, powering through the last of the steep hill.

I swung open the large, barred door to the convent and cursed inwardly. Ahead of me was one of my fellow Sisters, bounding towards me with her habit flying behind her as she practically skipped. She was beaming a smile right at me, and I felt compelled to smile back, even uneager as I was to see her. Sister Marta has always been a rightful ray of sunshine throughout the convent, and it’s hard not to return one of her sunny smiles, no matter how drenched to the bone I was.

“Sister Marta, hello,” I said, putting on some false cheeriness. Happy as she was, she was never particularly bright in the area of intellect or societal clues, something I had grown quite willing to manipulate recently.

“Sister Lunaria! Where have you been on this awful night? It’s raining fit for Revelation!” She smiled at her own joke and I groaned inwardly to myself, closing my eyes for a brief moment before responding.

“I had some errands to run. Mother Superior gave me the day, once I finished with my translations. Some pocket change later, and I’ve got a nice new book. I thought it sounded nice, on a night like tonight.” I looked out the window just as a flash of lightning sparked across the sky in a low, concerning arc. A brief thought of the trees in the orange grove being struck crossed my mind before I saw the face in the window and I gasped, all thought of the trees gone.

“Sister?” Marta moved to me and took my umbrella gently, leaning it against the stone wall to the side of me with a tenderness I’d come to expect from her. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost!”

“Must um.. Must just be a chill, from the rain. I think I should retire, Marta.” I went to move towards the dormitory but stopped when she put her hand up, ticking one finger from side to side.

“Not quite yet! I need to see what book you got! Maybe I’ll want to borrow it when you’re done, silly.” A small spark of fear shot through me at the thought of her touching my new book-- my precious book that I spent six months of my earnings on, and that made my finger tips warm when I brushed against it, even through gloves. Even simply seeing it in that book store was enough for me to become beholden to it.

“Of course,” I said, gritting my teeth into a widened smile. Carefully I managed to unwrap the books, sliding the larger one forward so that it covered My book completely, showing her the cover. “It’s Anne of The Green Gables. I remember the matron at the orphanage reading it to me.” I managed, with some difficulty, to contort my face into something resembling nostalgic loss as I caressed the cover of it, keeping a tight grip on the other book underneath.

“Oh, Lunaria, that’s wonderful! What a grand idea!” Marta clapped her hands together in joy, gifting me with yet another beaming and sunny smile. “You should get that habit and wimple off, you’re probably bone cold!” It’s only now that she frets, shooing me towards the dorms. I supposed she’s on hallway duty tonight.

“Yes. Good night, Marta.” I started to leave before remembering to toss behind my shoulder a final farewell, “Go with God, Sister.”

Her own voice is muffled as she turns to leave, but I was sure that she gave the same farewell. She’s as to-the-letter as Novitiates can get within the Clergy. Finally alone I moved quickly to your private dorm, a gift now that I’m finally among the senior Sister’s in the convent. The door shut quietly behind me and once more, I ached desperately for a lock. Hedging my bets on solitude I moved towards my window, opening it and placing my hand below the pane. When I felt no water on my hand, I sat down in front of it and carefully unwrapped my parcel.

The book tumbled out of the linen wrapping and I grabbed it greedily, holding it to my chest like a lost child for a moment before settling it on my crossed legs. I brushed a hand over the cover again, snatching my hand back when it practically burnt me. Determination reignited, I brought both hands to my wimple and snatched it off of my head, my long lilac and white streaked hair falling around my face as you leaned back over the book.

This time when I touched it the cover was cooler. I opened the book delicately, running a finger down the first page as the black text seemed to leap out at me. In delicate, malicious lettering it spelled:

Malleus Lexicana

A chill ran up the base of my spine to tickle at my neck as I brushed my finger over the words. They were slightly raised, as if inked over and over again. When I turned the page, a single name was inscribed there in jagged, neat handwriting. Emeritus. I frowned to myself, recalling my past lessons in Latin. Was I correct in assuming that the owner of this book was a deceased Pope? My hand twitched with the urge to cross myself and I quelled it easily. The desire to step away from my faith has gotten only stronger since I first brushed against the book all those months ago, and even my nightly prayers have gone unsaid for weeks now. Taking a deep breath, I spoke the words aloud.

“Malleus lexicana,” I breathed. The words felt both foreign and natural on my tongue as they rolled past my lips and my breath caught in your chest as the book seemed to warm again in my grasp. I turned the page once more and stopped at a beautiful illustration of a cross. Fingers fumbling for my own crucifix at your neck, I studied the detailed drawing before realizing that it's shaped incorrectly.

A new child… Birthed into sin.

“My Lord?!” I gasped, dropping the book as I rose up onto my knees, gripping my crucifix tightly in the palm of my hand. A cold finger trailed up my spine once more, twirling some of the hair at the nape of my neck and leaving me shivering in fear and frigidity.

Of sorts… But not your Lord, little Sister.

“Who are you? Where are you?” I asked, whirling around onto one foot and knee to look behind me into the darkest depths of my small room. It was empty, although the pitch blackness seemed to writhe and curl inward on itself-- it felt sentient and ominous, watching me. Another deep breath to steel myself once more and I picked up the book again, settling back down in front of the window as a small gust of air moved my hair from my pale face. I squinted slightly, the vision in my white eye better for text than my other.

Turning the page revealed more words, again in some bastardization of Latin. It wasn’t the high form of Latin that I’d been taught, although some of the words are recognisable to me at first glance. It seemed to be a prayer of some sort, I thought to myself as my finger glided down the thick page. It ended on the word “nemA” and my felt my heart catch in my chest before beating rapidly. The sacrilegious undertones of the text were quickly becoming apparent and I found myself excited by the prospect.

Come to me, Sister. Renounce this coven.

“It’s not a coven, it’s a convent,” I mumbled out loud, no longer questioning the odd dialogue that I had going with the disembodied voice. Perhaps it was the book speaking to me, and perhaps it was my God questioning the strength of my waning faith. I deserved to have it questioned, did I not? So many nights spent in quiet contemplation of my life and the years I have left to live… likely stuck in the same black habit and small convent that I served already, at nineteen years.

Are they not the same thing, when serving a Lord that one cannot see, nor touch, nor feel? Do you feel His presence inside of you, Sister?

I paused, my finger still on the ending of the prayer as I contemplated the voice’s words to me. Thinking back over the past months, I realized as my heart dropped into my stomach that I hadn’t felt the presence of anything that I would consider myself particularly beholden to. Every waking moment had been spent doing my chores for a meager amount of money so that I could purchase the book. My book.

Ahh, there we are Sister. Come to me.

“I don’t even know where you are!” I closed the book, setting it gently to the side before standing and looking out the window as if to see where the voice is coming from. The darkness yielded no answers to me, and I felt childish for seeking them there. The storm beat down harsher than ever and the genuine fear of a flood breezed past my thoughts. A flash of lightning arced across the skies once more, lighting up the vineyard bright as day. A small part of me hoped to see someone or something in the distance, but the light revealed nothing out of the ordinary.

I am not out there, Sister. Your naivety is showing. I cannot wait to urge it out of you.

“Well if you’re not out there, then where are you?” I whirled around to face my room again, the shadows in the farthest reaches of the room seemingly darker. Impenetrable. Answerless, cold, and quiet. I would find no answers there, either.

I can see what you see not, Sister. Your vision milky, then eyes rot…

I squinted slightly as I looked deeper into the shadows, leaning towards them in an attempt to pierce the darkness. Something was moving in the darkness, wriggling and pulsating as I stared at it. At a sudden movement towards me, I took a half step back in shock, gasping as I collided with my wall. Tendrils of shadow writhed at the corners of my vision and I gripped onto the side of my bed as a wave of dizziness overtook me.

Now you can see what cannot be… Shadows move where the light should be. Out of darkness, and out of mind.

“What are you doing to me?” I whispered, my voice tearing with fear as my eyes refused to leave the spot that the shadows danced. A gust of wind through my open window disturbed the smoky shadow and it scattered quickly, only to reform in the basic shape of a man. I briefly recognized it at the silhouette of the hunched man who worked in the book store.

Pressing myself farther against the wall, my hand flew on instinct to the crucifix around my neck. My heart beat pounded in my ears as the sharp corner of the cross pressed painfully into my palm. The shadow figure staggered closer to me, one arm raised slightly as it approached. It was all I could do to remain silent in my fear as it made its way shambling towards me. Its jaw dropped open as it spoke in old Latin, and it took me a moment to realize that the thing’s mouth wasn’t moving as it spoke.

Its hand came to my forehead, and I felt the touch of old and weathered skin against mine as it pressed gently against me. More Latin fell from its desiccated lips as I watched in horror. My body felt unbearably cold, and then blisteringly hot. I broke into a feverish sweat as the thing finished speaking, pressing harder on my head before pulling back altogether.

I felt my vision beginning to swim as my eyes rolled back into my head from dizziness and managed to get my back against my bed as I fell. I blinked twice, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

“Sister?” I awoke to a pounding on my door, and my head pounding with it. Struggling to sit upright, I looked over at my clock on the wall. 9 am, and I was due for chores. I called something unintelligible out to the person in the hallway as I swung my legs over the side of my bed and attempted to stand. Almost instantly a wave of nausea and dizziness overtook me and I shot out a hand to brace myself on the wall. Bile rose in my throat and I swallowed hard before calling to the person again.

“Enter, please. I need assistance.” My stomach roiled as I sat, closing my eyes to attempt to ebb the waves of nausea coursing through me. I heard the door creak as it opened, and cracked open one eye to see Sister Marta entering. Of course. “Sister Marta, good morning.”

“You don’t look well, Sister…” Marta came to stand before me as she rested the back of her hand gently against my forehead. As much as I hated to admit it to myself, her hand was cool against my skin and the gesture was welcomed. She brushed back a strand of my hair as she cupped my face, lifting my head slightly to look at me. “I’ll tell the Mother Superior that you’re ill. Perhaps you should lie down.” Almost as an afterthought she added, “I’m sorry to see you without your headdress, Sister, but your hair is beautiful. As striking as your eyes.” I cracked open my left eye and regarded her lightly before drifting it closed again.

“Thank you. Would you help me lie down before you leave?” I’d never felt this weak before, and I was becoming concerned for my own health. Sister Marta put her hand gently around my upper arm and lifted my woolen blankets with the other as she assisted me under them. My heart warmed for a moment as I felt her tuck me in and adjust my pillow.

“Would you like me to bring you some broth in a while?” she asked, moving towards my window and drawing the curtains. I heard her pause, and I tensed in apprehension. Had she seen the book? “No wonder you’re feeling ill, Sister Lunaria! You let your window open all night.” She tutted to herself and slid the glass pane shut, locking it into place and securing the curtains tightly so that the morning sun was dimmed.

“Oh, how silly of me. Of course. I must just have some type of flu,” I said, pulling the covers over my head as I hunkered down into my pillow. In truth, my head was pounding fit to burst and I felt dangerously close to vomiting. I heard Sister Marta make her way back to my door and pull it open.

“I’ll let the rest know that you’re unwell today, and tell them to give you some space while you recover. Would you like the broth for lunch?” she queried. I snaked an arm out from under my comforter and gave her a thumbs up, which seemed to satisfy her. A moment later and the door clicked shut once more, leaving me in silence.

I fell into an uneasy seep, tinged with dreams of reaching darkness and a single white eye to match my own.

When I awoke, my room was lit by the afternoon sun and the curtains had been drawn back from my window. A mug rested on my nightstand with a covering on top, and I placed my hand hesitantly against the ceramic. Still warm. Sister Marta must have kept to her word and brought me some broth for lunch. I struggled to sit up in my bed and drew the mug close to myself, inhaling the steam before taking a sip.

The broth was welcome as I sat and rested, taking deep and steadying breaths. The nausea had abated almost entirely, though I was still dizzy. I drained the mug and placed it back onto my nightstamp, wiping the back of my mouth on my bicep as I stood and moved towards the window. I swore quietly to myself when I kicked something heavy, and looked down to see the book.

“Shit,” I mumbled as I picked it up. Sister Marta must have seen it, as it was laying in plain sight. Almost instantly the warm from the book invaded my senses again and I felt myself growing stronger, throwing off the cold that seemed to have gripped me when I woke up. My crucifix hung heavy and cold against my chest, and I eyed it for a moment before looking at the book once more. “Tell me how to reach you,” I said, hoping that the book would respond… That I wasn’t insane.

Your mind will guide the way. Come to me, Sister.

“If I come to you… I won’t be a Sister anymore, will I?” It was a stupid question, but the answer surprised me.

Si, of a different sort. Come. Come.

The voice grew impossible to resist, and before I knew it, I found myself at the small closet in my bedroom. I pulled open the door and found a small bag I had stashed away in the back, and hastily folded my habits into it. I tossed in the rest of my underwear and tights, as well as an extra pair of shoes as well. Finally, I took the book into my hands and stared deeply into the cover for a moment, making the final decision in my mind.

“I’m coming. What do I call you?” The embarrassment of speaking to an inanimate object flares inside of me again as I shake my head and move towards my window, unlocking it and hurling it open. As I stick one leg out the window, the answer comes.

You call me Papa.

“Alright, Papa…” I start, grunting with effort as I duck through the small window and make the short drop to the ground below. The heels of my shoes dig into the softened Earth and I reel slightly, leaning back heavily against the wall of my convent for balance as I yank them free. “Looks like I’m coming.” Without stopping to think or renege on my decision I started off, my feet instinctively moving towards the cliff that bordered my town. The castle loomed high above me, and I swallowed hard as I steeled myself.

The path that led to the base of the cliff was easy enough to find and navigate. The sign posts throughout the town that had bore the name of the castle had all been scoured or burned away, which left me with a convenient trail to follow as I made my way towards it. At the base of the path that wound up the steep, rocky cliff, I found myself stopped by a wrought iron gate. It had the same odd cross design that I had found in the book carved into the metal, as chains held the gate shut. It stretched the expanse of the road and I huffed a sigh.

Let me get that for you, sorella.

I stepped back with a shocked gasp as the chains fell to the old and weathered cobblestones, the gate swinging open towards me on silent hinges. Though the iron was mottled with rust, it made no sounds as it opened, yawning open like a mouth waiting for me to enter. I took another deep breath and moved forward, hardly jumping when it clanged shut behind me, and chains wound back around it like live snakes.

The thick woods welcomed me into the all consuming darkness with a silence that settled on my ears like a blanket. It was dark and still, but I felt no fear. In the distance, a wolf howled alone and I felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle at the sound. Besides the wolf, however, there were no sounds within the thicket of trees. The path itself lay clear of any forest debris that I had expected to find after the storm last night, and seemed to be very well maintained.

Before long, I was panting as the slope of the path grew steeper. My legs burned and ached, and my feet protested any movement inside of my heeled shoes. I stopped to consider the drawbacks of removing them for a moment, before deciding that it was a necessity. I unhooked the buckle on either shoe before stepping out of them and carrying them in one hand, continuing up the path slightly slower, as I attempted to dodge the still standing puddles of water in my stocking-clad feet.

Finally, after what felt like hours I arrived at the base of the castle. As I expected from the view down below, it was in ruins. A large bell sat embedded into the cobbles in front of the entrance, a large crack running along the surface of it. It was golden, and embossed with the same sigil I had seen down below on the gates. Weeds grew between the stones unchecked, and pieces of stone lay scattered around the ground in front of me. I bent down and picked one up, weighing it in my hand before tossing it aside.

“Ah, you’ve arrived.” I started, looking up towards the entryway. A tall and poised woman was standing there, leaning slightly against the bell and regarding me with piercing blue eyes. She was dressed in a similar fashion to me, I noted with some surprise. A smart black dress hugged her frame, which she accessorized with a black blazer and a large silver necklace… that same sigil again. On her feet, nearly the same shoes that I had removed not long ago.

“Who are you?” I asked, picking my way carefully across the debris towards her. She held out a hand towards me with a smile, and I took it without thinking. Her hand was warm as she clasped mine, patting the top of my hand fondly with her other. Her smile reached her eyes easily, and I felt instantly calm.

“You may call me the Sister Imperator. I’m glad to see you’ve made it home safely.” My heart squeezed at her words. Home. I’d never had a proper one, being raised as an orphan, and the thought of having a true home was enough to bring tears prickling to my eyes.

“The book said… Papa was the one who called to me. Am I to meet with him?”

“Soon, child. Let’s get you inside and warmed up. We’ll get some food into that belly and a nice warm drink, I think. Then we can go through all of the introductions and explanations that I’m sure you want.” Her eyes left mine and traveled down my body to rest on my crucifix. “You are of the faith? Catholic?”

My own eyes dropped to the necklace hanging between my breasts as my hand came up to grip it. A million thoughts whorled through my mind before it landed on one that I was sure of: this place already felt more like home than anywhere else I’d ever been. I squeezed the cross tightly in my fist before tugging it, snapping the chain from around my neck. The silver chain dangled from my palm for a moment before I tossed it to the ground.

“No longer.”

[astrolopop]

❤️ PICK A GROUP OR A NUMBER (1-3) ❤️

🌚 WHAT IS MY SHADOW AND LIGHT?? 🌝

💥 Group 1 💥

Your shadow message comes from the Dress of Alchemy, release your power!

You have a lot to give stored in the metephorical bank. You can take information and practices and put them together. You could practice magick litterally or this could be a kind of creative alchemy in a different sense. You may deal with anger, outrage or feeling as if all the power you hold is unable to release itself fully at this time. You hold all this knowledge and yet may be dealing with blockages which could be frustrating af. Some of you are astrologers and maybe that helps you to understand yourself more and practice self acceptance. Dealing with your roots could be difficult for you. You're like a flower that's bloomed and blooming regardless of the fertiliser or lack there of. You could be struggling to find your path and feel like you are amongst endless possibilities. You may be holding your tounge and bottling stuff up and/or don't feel you can settle down at all. There's a kind of restlessness. You are very observant and don't miss a trick.

Your light is faceless ghosts and the haunted girl, ghost people.

Know that regardless of what drains you or holds you back you will rise above, persevere and maintain your sense of identity and self. You may understand or come to understand others shadows. While you don't have to forgive them it may help you heal and keep your focus where it needs too be. For those of you overexerting this cycle may have come to a point where you don't have to fight anymore as you enter into a period of rest. You have an enormous amount of inner strength and when your ready to take the stage again, that spotlight will be all yours. Some of you may make excellent writers, actors, artists, carers, astrologers or activists. Trust the divine timing and in yourself.

💋 Group 2 💋

Your shadow message comes from the Pink Lotus Fairy, a time for spirit.

The current state of the world may have you feeling as if life has gone into slow motion. It's not fun but you can utilise this time to get mindful, heal, learn and strengthen. You may be dealing with a lot of internal mental and/or spiritual work or struggle. Maybe you are focusing on shadow work, going through ego death, a dark night of the soul or healing which is worth it but painful at times. Or maybe you are very new to spirituality and are in the beginning phases of understanding yourself as a spiritual being. You could also be taking that to the next level if you are more experinced. In any case, You could be having to adapt to new circumstances that may put you out of your confort zone. The experince will likely be quite educational, enlightening and an adventure. There could be struggle between you and a mentor figure, a concern around education or authority figure. You may also struggle with self love and acceptance and find it hard to see the beauty in yourself. If you are already very spiritual and at one with yourself. With ownership over your beauty and sexuality, maybe others have not been kind. Know that that's their problem! You are doing you and it's stunning. If it's all going well I reckon your shadow self is showing up as feminine moon energy that's just gorgeous and nothing to concern over. The internal work you've done glows radiantly. Something could have reflected back to you through someone else and now you are viewing yourself differently. Potentially dealing with soul serching or an identity crisis. Overall, this is a very positive card to get for a shadow card and affirms that you are beginning to self accept and bring all sides of sides of yourself into balance. However, If you are dealing with serious struggles and/or oppression then please reach out to safe, relevant people and professionals if you can. We send you love and our thoughts! Remember you are you, this is a great time to learn about your identity. None of us is wholly good nor bad we are just ourselves and change all the time. Yoga, meditation and learning are all ever present and encouraged for helping you deal with any shadowy times you may come across.

Your light message comes from sewer mermaid, your sensuality is beautiful.

This medmaid comes when we have been made to feel badly about ourselves or have mentally been our worst enemy. Your light side is here to tell you how georgous you are inside and out. It will help you to pour the work into reprogramming yourself so you can overcome negitive thought patterns! It's the part of yourself that will allow you to just be who you are without judgement. Flop for a while on the sofa, it's okay. After a long hard day (even just dealing with internal struggles) do something nice for you because you care for yourself. Take a bath or shower if you feel icky. Exercise to feel energised and massage yourself bc your body deserves the love. You are fierce, sexy, gentle, beautiful and most of all human. It's okay to work what you've got! You don't need anyones permission.

🧙‍♀️ Group 3 🧙‍♂️

Your shadow message comes from Voodo in Blue, back off!

So you may need time alone. Whether people respect that is another thing. You are allowed to set boundaries! Keep yourself away from people who aren't good for you. No need to be vengeful, vodoo doesn't stick her doll with pins but she will be stern and lay her boundaries to protect herself from jelousy and mistreatment. Even if none of that is happening we all need time to ourselves every now and again. It's more healthy to take time for yourself than to build up resentfulness or neglect our own needs until we get really angry or completely drained. It's not evil, it's not bad, it's natural. It's okay to be grumpy for no reason too, we all get that way. Give yourself time to ride that wave and come into a better mood. It will pass!

Your light message comes from Nautilus Princess, powerful personal growth!

You have high moral standards and can trust that you are and will continue to develop into the person you want to be. You needn't mind what others will think. You have it within you to step up into leadership positions or whatever you are aiming for! This could be a relationship as well. You're blossoming and stepping into your power with good ethics behind you. Overcoming any fear you may have!

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[frogsmulder]

Maybe There’s Hope: chpt 1 Stop and Breathe

Starting from the final events of 09x20 The Truth, Mulder and Scully tackle their new reality as fugitives. When they finally settle into things, Scully finds out she is pregnant again. A canon divergent AU where I thought, what if Scully got pregnant whilst on the run instead of at the end of season 11?

4k words; rated t; tagging @today-in-fic; read on ao3

The long desert roads seemed to stretch light-years ahead, no scenery, no landmarks, just flat, arid land in all directions. The baked earth was cool in the grey hue of the early morning. Far out, somewhere along the horizon, the sun started to reach up its first fingers to claw at the dawn sky. Chasing those pale blues and purples, the day would soon bleed bright oranges and yellows and colour the earth below. Daybreak felt like an answer to a prayer; the dawn light lifted the oppressive, starless night sky and had cloaked them. Daybreak filled Mulder with a sense of liberty and overwhelming hope for a second chance as invigorating as the breeze outside. It was a miracle that they had made it this far. Mulder was beginning to think he had been executed after all and was caught in limbo, forever driving towards the end of the cold, dark sky. A lost soul wandering aimlessly as punishment for his crimes.

In his mind, he kept hearing the explosions ring through his hears and the flashes of flame in the rear-view mirror. Always in his peripheral, snapshots of the ruins hurtling his way took him by surprise. He glanced at them but as soon as he chased their sight, the apparitions disappeared.

His father was dead. The smoking son-of-a-bitch should have died a long time ago. Mulder tightened his grip on the staring wheel. Now He haunted his peripheral vision as well, the ghost of his smoke sickly uncurling in the back seats of the stolen car. His fathers, his sister, his mother, Emily, the Gunmen: all dead. How many did he have left to lose?

He swallowed thickly and looked over at Scully in the passenger seat, her head lolled to one side and her lips parted to utter the tiniest of snores. A tiny damp patch on her shoulder marked where she had drooled throughout the night– something she most adamantly didn't do. Caught in the first glowing rays of the sun, Mulder had never seen her so beautiful, frizzy hair and all. He placed a hand upon her knee, a poor substitute for all the embraces he wished to share with her.

Scully stirred from her light sleep, groaning and stretching like old wood as she straightened herself. Her blinks were laboriously heavy, weighed down by the stress of the last twenty-four hours. Mulder hadn't meant to wake her but didn't miss the opportunity to share the day with her. "Hey, Scully, look at the sunrise," he whispered.

She groggily hummed, appreciating the myriad of colours. Voice still thick with sleep, she asked, "Where are we?"

"Not sure," he answered, tapping the dial for the gas to see if the needle was lying.

Scully curled up as much as she could in the seat and turned to gaze out of the window, watching the little rocks and pebbles flew past in a blur along the roadside. "Where are we going?"

He glanced at her, then back towards the horizon racing as quickly away from them as they chased after it. "Don't know. But if we don't know, at least nobody else knows either." It was meant to make her smile, but all she did was frown. With no one and nothing around them, the faux safety of the nowhere between lands scared Scully. As if somehow it was a trap they were being lulled into; a false sense of security. She knew they needed to be wary at all hours, every ticking second of the day and every tock of the clock at night. She reminded herself there was no safe place to hide and no time to catch their breath. But it was all so exhausting.

"How long have you been driving?" She craned her neck to see the bags under his eyes. Mulder had pulled all-nighters before, and it wasn't like he was never subject to bouts of insomnia, but the restless worry was the worst thing. She could see it was eating him up from the inside, not fear for himself but for her, that she had chosen this life with him again. And now he could barely offer her an existence. She wanted to tell him that it didn't matter– she'd make the same decision twice, a thousand times, but that wouldn't allay the worry. Reality had punched him in the face and marked him with two shiners.

"Ten hours or so," he said as if it was still the first half an hour.

Scully sat up in her seat. "You should take a rest. Let me drive."

"No." Mulder shook his head with pursed lips and then chuckled. "You should sleep while you can. We both know me resting is pointless."

She smiled sorrowfully, looking at her hands rested in her lap. She sighed. "None of this feels real does it?"

Squeezing her knee, Mulder spoke honestly, as soft and as mellow as the sunlight on the horizon. "You are real to me right here and now. That's all I need to get through this."

But Scully didn't ask what this was and when it would be over. She only knew she was already counting down the days. But the end was intangible and far out of sight, and counting was hopeless when it felt like starting at infinity. The one thing Scully knew for certain was that an irrevocable change had already occurred and she blinked and she missed it. She had been fighting for them, pleading for them. Just her and Mulder: that was all she wanted. And then this shift they had taken on in the last couple of days– such a short time– and she was not sure she wanted it anymore. She was beginning to get that tangy taste in her mouth like she was mourning the past and who they used to be.

Scully took a deep breath. Willing the sting away from her eyes, she expelled the air caught in her lungs, imagining the ache in her body fused to the carbon dioxide molecules and expelled also. Focusing on the sunrise, she found beauty in its nature, reminding herself of the beauty of them; all the times he had made her giggle, made her cry, made her roll her eyes.

Mulder could see Scully thinking, the lost look in her eye more familiar to him than the back of his own hand. Her silence spoke louder than any response; it whispered to him exactly what was on her mind. He knew it because he felt it too. He gently took one of the hands from her lap and held it.

The touch made Scully gasp softly, breaking her from the melody of her thoughts. It was as if he had somehow heard them. Of course, he had; they might have changed but somethings always stayed the same. Scully realised she needed him close now more than ever if she was to stand a chance of surviving. Squeezing his hand, she let him in. She missed this telepathy of theirs; messages like electricity passed through their neurons and chemically encoded between the synapse of their touch. They operated on the same electromagnetic wavelength. She smiled and squeezed his hand again.

Mulder glanced back to the gas needle, edging steadily lower. "How much money did Walter manage to get for us?"

"I haven't counted, but it won't last long anyway."

Fortunately, Scully had had the sensibility to keep the cash on her person. It was all they had left aside the clothes on their backs. Their coats and the change of clothes that were hastily packed were still in the car that Monica and Doggett had driven away and they all knew it was too dangerous now to risk meeting up.

"The next motel we come across, we'll book in–"

She looked at him cautiously.

"– Just for the night. We won't stay long, just so we can sleep on a proper bed."

"So we can stop and catch our breath," she concluded, though doubtful, running her thumb over every hill and valley of his knuckles.

"So we can catch our breath," he agreed.

The hum of the tires picking up dust and the voice of the engine marked their silence. Their long, drawn-out breaths were comforting, yet the quiet was ominous, allowing thoughts to grow like tumours, hanging uneasily between them. They had each other but what if they weren't strong enough? Mulder would have said something– anything to break the tension, but all his thoughts were made of what-ifs, and voicing them, he feared, would make them real.

Scully curled up again, protecting herself against the miasma of the silence. Concentrating on the tide of Mulder's breathing, she found a calming rhythm, watching his chest rise and fall. Knowing he was there, she managed to find peace enough to steal an hour or so more sleep.

Over the horizon came a small, dark dot, growing in size and detail. Mulder leaned forward, squinting through the dust on the windscreen. As it came approached, he thanked Scully's God for gifting an oasis. The gas station looked beaten and worn down but promised life and provisions. He made the quick decision to stop and top up on gas, water, and something for breakfast. Looking at Scully one last time, he saw her sleeping; the quiver of her eyelashes somehow anxious even during sleep. He killed the engine and got out to check the store.

It was still: quieter than Scully remembered it being. Blinking tiredly, she picked the sleepy dust from her eyes and groaned. She gasped sharply, the sight of the empty seat next to her sending her heart aflutter. She grappled at her belt for the gun she no longer had. Cursing, she ran out of the car. The beat of her feet on the ground rivaled the pound of the war drum on her chest. "Mulder?" she called but was met with no reply. "Mulder!"

Mulder came quickly through the door, a finger pressed to his lips and a brown bag in his hand. "Shh, Scully," he whispered. "It's alright. I was just getting some gas."

It was then that Scully noticed the row of pumps they were parked next to. She looked away and licked the corner of her mouth, embarrassed that she had failed to correctly assess the situation before leaping to conclusions. It was so unlike her. She was frustrated she had let fatigue and worry manipulate her so easily. It had been less than two days.

"I could have got us caught," she breathed, shaking her head in disbelief. "How could I have been so stupid?"

"Hey, none of that now." Mulder rubbed her shoulder reassuringly. He guided her back towards the car, his palm at the small of her back like a steady rudder. "We're in the middle of nowhere, nobody is going to find us out here," he calmed her, even though his heart was still racing; the fright in her shouts had shot ice through his spine.

Scully slumped into her seat, the faux safety of no-man's-land nagging at her still. "Mulder, you know better than anybody they have eyes and ears everywhere."

"Let me do the worrying for once, Scully. This one's on me."

She shook her head– she wouldn't let him bare this on his own; they were in this together. It made a small smile creep across Mulder's lips and in return Scully's brow furrowed in confusion.

"How can either of us win when we are both so stubborn?" he laughed, and Scully chuckled too. "I spoke to the owner and he said that if we head southwest, sorta back along the trail, we will end up in Rosswell by nightfall. They'll have a motel–"

"And we can breathe," she nodded, then smirked. "You just wanted to see the UFO sight, didn't you?"

"Maybe," he sheepishly replied. "I got you some of that fat-free yogurt you like for breakfast. And some bagels. You should eat something; we didn't eat all day yesterday."

Scully hadn't noticed. The gnawing of worry in her stomach had sated any appetite she might have had. She still wasn't hungry now, but the doctor in her knew she had to eat something, however hard it was going to be.

Much of the day was spent watching the sun rise overhead and munching on bagels. Scully scolded Mulder when he dipped one of his into the yogurt she had barely touched and Mulder lectured Scully about eating enough. By the time the sun began to set, they had arrived in Roswell and found a motel to stay the night. Clouds were rolling in, covering the skies from the farthest corners, and the threat of rain could be smelt on the air.

Unlocking the door, they both stepped inside a minimal, but pleasant room. Scully clenched her hands around phantom luggage itching her palms. She had the urge to unpack everything into the dresser like she always did, like on their very first case together. She peered around the door to the ensuite, seeing rows of tiny bottles and an inviting robe hung elegantly, yet groaned.

"Mulder, we are going to have to go back out for toothbrushes."

"Oh, hang on..." He rummaged through the paper bag, producing two brushes and a tube of paste. "I picked some up earlier. Sorry, they might have some bagel crumbs on."

She took them with a grin, standing on her tiptoes to press a grateful kiss to his cheek. "You're a lifesaver."

Mulder watched her disappear into the bathroom, giving her some privacy and himself some time to think. He sat on the floor, watching the rain begin to fall and the wind pick up, whipping the trees outside. Gazing out of the window, he imagined the brewing storm an omen, but one of hope. All the good things that had happened to him had been christened by torrents of rain and swirls of wind and wisps of Scully stealing small pieces of his heart: their first assignment together; their first night spent together. The weather brought the ships to port and Scully to him. Beyond the clouds he pictured his sister in the starlight twinkling brightly. He hoped his mother was up there too, keeping a watch over them both.

Suddenly, he smelt the smoke, saw it plume from the chair in the corner. He gritted his teeth. Of all the people that could appear to him...

 She's been up there for a long time, you know. I thought you would have figured it out sooner.

Mulder dug his fingernails into his palms, sure the pain would snap him awake.

 She saw the world for what it truly was: there's no justice... there's no cruelty either. There's simply survival. In the end, she chose not to survive. She had a choice, Mulder, what do you get?

Maybe it was all in his head. If he tried hard enough, he could make the nightmare disappear.

What did your crusade reap you? The Truth? he chuckled. Was it the truth you wanted; expected? He leaned forward out of the shadow, his dead eyes gleaming in the light. Truth is not power, in fact, it's quite the opposite: truth makes you powerless. It's been quite the burden on me; perhaps that's why I smoke so many. He slyly smiled around a wreath of white cloud. You should try it.

In the end, we all lose. That's the beauty of survival: it's only ever a temporary thing. The date is set, son. Nothing, not even you, can change that.

Fury burning through him, Mulder lept up like a lit match to a gas lamp. "And what would you know?! What did you ever try to do about it?!"

He lunged for the man, desperate to squeeze the last, dying breaths from his corpse once and for all. But as he was about to lay his hands on his sickly throat, the son-of-a-bitch dissipated as thin as the smoke he breathed, elusive in death as he had been in life. It seemed fitting. Curling his fingers through nothing but cool air, Mulder slumped back in defeat. Biting his fingernail, he thought about the truth about who he was. It occurred to him that he was lost without purpose. Although he didn't feel it yet, he recognised the impending dawn of realisation and feared it. He threw his hand out in frustration.

The truth was he had failed.

He hadn't exposed the conspiracy or brought down its organisations. He hadn't found Samantha. He hadn't been a father to William. And he hadn't been there for Scully.

The trees shook their disapproval, condemning the guilty man.

Mulder rested his head back on the mattress like he was treading dangerous waters, but his arms were limp over his knees, merely reticent about his fate. Looking back across the room, he saw Scully walk in smelling sweetly of lavender soap and looking angelic in the pale, dilapidated light. She sat on the edge of the bed, gently running her fingers through his hair and watching the storm in unison. He moved into her touch, shifting to rest his cheek against her thigh. They sat like for a while in companionable silence, reassuring one another through their touches.

When Scully crawled up the bed to lie down, she expected him to follow. When he didn't she asked, "what are you thinking? Mulder?"

"I'm thinking... I'm a guilty man. I've failed in every respect. I deserve the harshest punishment for my crimes."

Hearing the echo, Scully was thrown back to the concrete cell when he first said those words. She could tell, then, there had been a hollow complacency to his tone. Now, she only heard a conviction in his voice. It terrified her. Scully had only just broken him free of where he was being tortured, she couldn't let it live on inside of him. So, she did what she always did: countered Mulder with any sane argument she could think of.

"You don't believe that."

He was sure that he had failed as he was sure of anything. If he told Scully that it was her he had failed, she would refuse to believe him and refuse to let him believe it too. But it was true. And he dared not mention all the ways he had failed their child. Mulder sighed. "I believe that I sat in a motel room like this with you when we first met, and I tried to convince you of the truth. And in that respect, I succeeded, but... in every other way..." He thought of William swaddled in his arms when he held him for the first time– only time. He swallowed the burgeoning lump in his throat. "I've failed."

"You don't believe that either."

"Mm," he disagreed. His jaw was set. Thoughts pounded in his chest but every time he chose something to say it died a whisper caught in his throat. He finally settled for something unimportant, yet still a truth neither of them could refute. "I've been chasing after monsters with a butterfly net." He took a breath and tried again "You heard the man– the date's set. I can't change that." I can't save us. I can't make the world a better place for our son, he didn't say.

Scully wanted to shout at him that this wasn't who he was, he didn't quit so easily, he always found something worth fighting for, but she knew if she did that she would lose him forever. Taking a steadying breath, she composed herself. Keeping her voice measured, she told him what she wanted to be true. "You wouldn't tell me. Not because you were afraid or broken... but because you didn't want to accept defeat."

"Well... I was afraid of what knowing would do to you. I was afraid that it would crush your spirit." He looked into her eyes and saw a pained, mirrored reflection. In some ways, he was glad Cancer-man had told her because he could never bring himself to trample her hope, not when things were already so dire. It would break his heart.

Mulder's gaze held her fast and was as deep and cutting as the love she felt. He looked young and small and innocent like he was clutching those cloth hearts. Even then he was undeterred, never willing to give up hope.

"Why would I accept defeat? Why would I accept it if you won't?" Scully needed him to keep fighting. If he didn't, she would surely give in. "Mulder, you say that you've failed, but you only fail if you give up. And I know you-- you can't give up... It's what I saw in you when we first met. It's why I followed you. Why I'd do it all over again."

"And look what it's gotten you," he murmured.

"And what has it gotten you? Not your sister. Nothing that you've set out for. But you won't give up, even now." She took his hand, gently squeezing, hoping their neurons would connect and renew their telepathy. "You've always said that you want to believe. But believe in what, Mulder? If this is the truth you've been looking for, then what is there left to believe in?"

He glanced at the chair still coiled in that foul aroma, thought of his sister living on as bright starlight, or else he had become the thing he feared: delusional, proving all the whispered rumours true. He suspected it was the trauma or remnants from his brain disease that caused the visions, but that's not what he wanted to believe.

"I believe that... the dead are not lost to us. That they speak to us as part of something greater than us– greater than any alien force." He thought of Byers, Langley, Frohike, even Krycek. "And if you and I are powerless now, I want to believe that if we listen to what's speaking, it can give us the power to save ourselves."

"Then we believe the same thing."

Taking her cross between his finger and thumb, Mulder examined it twinkling in the streetlight made shadowy by rain. He never considered himself a religious man, could never find any divine meaning to all the heartache he had suffered. Then life had brought him Scully with her science and her faith and her love. Maybe he could believe. His thumb traveled to her lips, marveling in the warmth of her; how alive they were. When she pressed the smallest of kisses to his digit, his world shattered with clarity. He joined her like a moth to a flame, helplessly wrapping himself around her like a life ring. She lay under the crook of his nose and he anchored them together with his knee over her hip.

"Maybe there's hope," he breathed.

Scully brushed her nose along his, nuzzling like she was nodding in agreement. The hand that Mulder had nestled in the hollow of her waist repeated the motion, climbing up the side of her ribs and abseiling down, friction warming the embers of their affection. Trailing his fingers higher, he followed the swoop of her hair behind her ear, tucking the locks into place. The edge of her jaw now held delicately beneath his fingertips, he looked to her eyes, the clear crystal blue pulling that familiar tug on his heartstrings. If it was possible, Scully shifted closer. She tilted her head, lips locking onto his once, chastely making herself known to him again. And then again, he searched her out to reply with his own tender kiss. Settling into one another's arms, their gazes fell upon the smile in each's eyes, finding an easy lull.

Scully witnessed the universe turn around in his beautiful mind. The flick of his eyes now quieter, softening from tiredness and tranquility, belayed newfound contentment. Staving off her own sleep, she saw his heavy eyelids droop and close, his breathing even out, and his form relax. She pulled him closer, buried herself in his comforting smell, watched over him– his protector.

The relentless pellets of rain struck percussion against the thin roof above them. Outside, the wind picked up in moaning gale. Inside, Scully breathed, sinking further into the hold of her partner and into the grips of sleep.

[siennahrobek]

Warning - This is long

Chapter 11 – Saudade

Future Past

18 BBY

Luke is One year old

“Well, this is it. This is now my life,” Obi-Wan said, standing in the middle of his little hut, in the middle of the desert. There was nothing here, just sand and rock and bones. It would have been nice, a quiet place to meditate, if there wasn’t the looming threat of the empire, or the grief of losing the entirety of his people or the oppressive twin suns of the planet.

Perhaps if he left now, he could catch up with the resident herd of banthas. The nomadic life sounded fairly appealing at the moment.

“You know, when I said I wanted to just spend some time meditating in a cave, this is not what I meant,” he pointed out to the air. He wasn’t actually talking to anyone, he didn’t think anyone had even been listening. After all, he really was by himself.

“I’d say it is nicer than a cave.”

Until now, Obi-Wan’s old master didn’t really make casual conversation so his appearance, or rather, voice coming from thin air was a bit on the unexpected side. Their talks were mostly of the teaching variety.

He wondered what changed.

Perhaps it was him.

Maybe he was going crazy, and Master Jinn had to do something rather desperate so Obi-Wan wouldn’t lost his mind completely. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

“I think I need a hobby,” the new hermit said with a nod. Yes, that seemed right.

“Do you really think you are going insane?”

Obi-Wan scowled, glancing around as if the speaking person would appear. Qui-Gon didn’t really appear, at least not in a way that Obi-Wan could see. He just heard his voice, clear as day. Or rather, clear as crystal or water or clear things. He didn’t know. Sometimes it felt hard to think. “Don’t read my mind,” he grumbled.

“I am apparition of the Force,” the voice was flat and steady, nearly laced intricately with sarcasm. Of course. “I couldn’t read minds when I was alive, what makes you think I can do it dead?”

The physically living master huffed, loud and dramatic, waving his arms as if that would make his point. “I don’t know what ghosts can do!” he nearly shouted. It wasn’t like anyone else could hear him. Even the closest person was many, many miles away.

Obi-Wan could almost hear his former master roll his eyes and feel his sarcasm and mock distain rise. “I’m not reading your mind. I can’t do that. I just know you.”

“I have changed a lot in the past fifteen years,” he shot out.

“Not as much as you think,” Qui-Gon hummed, a bit vaguely amused. His voice had quieted, softened but it still, as always, seemed so confident, so sure of himself. Obi-Wan wondered if he naturally had that type of pride and ego or if he had gotten it somewhere. Obi-Wan could probably use some of that, he mused as Qui-Gon continued to speak. “At your core, you are still the same. A jedi. Stubborn, protective, determined, persistent, good, kind, selfless. Just as you were as a padawan.” By the end of the list, Qui-Gon had almost, perhaps, sounded a bit even fond. Obi-Wan wasn’t entirely sure if he was a good judge of what it was.

“You did not see me that way.” The words were coming out when his brain had not given permission. It hardly mattered. Talking with ghosts.

“Now look who thinks he can read minds,” Qui-Gon contemplated, unperturbed and not so offended. He sounded a bit amused, like this was so ironic. He could find humor in anything, apparently, a skill Obi-Wan thought he once had. “I was very proud of you. I am still, exceedingly, proud of you.”

“Now I know I’m hallucinating,” he scoffed.

“Is it so hard to believe, of my pride? In you of all people?”

Yes, Obi-Wan thought. Of course, it is. How can anyone be proud of what he had done, of what had happened, what he had let happen? “You told me to train the boy,” he said, his voice strained and uneasy. He shook his head and fought back tears that threatened to leap forth from his eyes. “And look how that turned out? I did, I tried, I loved him. And now all the jedi are dead. The Sith have won and the galaxy has been left in oppressing darkness.”

There was a brief silence, a contemplation of words. “That is not your fault, Obi-Wan. You are not the one to blame. His choices were his own.” Qui-Gon’s voice was kind and soft, and Obi-Wan could just barely remember the few times, even early in his apprenticeship where Qui-Gon hadn’t been completely upset and regretful with him where he used that tone. When Obi-wan had a vision, or a dream, as Qui-Gon liked to call him. When Obi-Wan was scared and there was no immediate danger to Qui-Gon’s other loved ones. The beginning of their relationship had been more than just a little rocky but that just meant their bond had grown strong through those trials. It had taken long, and it had taken work, but eventually, they made it. And they had been amazing.

“I loved him,” Obi-Wan groaned. “I did not see what he had become.”

“No one had,” Qui-Gon replied, his voice lowering. “You did so well, Obi-Wan. You tried so hard. Better than I. You praised him when called for and treated him as a person, not just a vessel for a prophecy of old. You are not perfect, padawan mine, no one is. But this is not your fault.”

“I do not know why he did it,” Obi-Wan confessed, shaking his head at the truth. He didn’t know and he wondered why every day. Was his love not enough? “I continue to be blind when it comes to him.”

“The dark ide obscures so much, even of which is nearest to us,” Qui-Gon continued, in that teaching voice where Obi-Wan understood and didn’t understand at all. It was an odd thing to miss, he knew, but he did, all the same. “How can one see when something so beyond your control blocks it so thoroughly?”

The younger and not so dead master buried his face in his hands. “It is all gone now.”

“You aren’t. Hope isn’t.”

“Luke is alive,” Obi-Wan agreed. “Leia is alive. They…they are…”

“Hope,” Qui-Gon finished. “Not just for the galaxy either. They are hope for you.”

11 BBY

Luke is eight/nine years old

“Ben?”

He was sleeping on the floor again, Luke thought to himself as he padded out of his room and into the main part of the ship. The boy wasn’t entirely sure why. There was plenty of room with him in the little area Ben had designated for him. For Luke. He had his own room back on Tatooine with Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru and it had been a lot bigger than this, but he didn’t mind. He found the smaller areas kind of cozy actually.

He had not slept well since Ben had come to take him away, after Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru went cold. At first, he had even tried to stay up, like Ben. But Ben must have some kind of superpower or something because no matter what he did, Luke could not stay up. He could not stay awake. Nightmares often plagued his sleeping times. And hyperspace was cold.

Ben looked up, his bleary gaze softening upon spotting Luke, and he moved himself into a seated position. “Are you alright?”

The child hugged himself, wrapping his arms around his torso in some kind of substitute for Ben’s cloak. He didn’t really want to admit to bad dreams. Surely almost being nine, was an age where he could deal with them. He shouldn’t be scared.

Ben, of course, knew anyways.

It was so wizard, the way he just knew things. Biggs was probably right; he must actuallybe a wizard.

“Nightmares?” Ben mused when Luke didn’t answer. “Dreams pass in time.”

Luke just nodded even though he didn’t really understand.

“But, I suppose, that is not so comforting in the moment, is it?” he hummed and stood up, his joints making gross cracking noises as he did. “Come, I will make you some tea. I have a blend that might help.”

Luke perked but tried to temper his excitement and interest. It had only been a week since Ben introduced him to the wonder and ability of tea. It’s warmth and ability to fight the cold of hyperspace. A week since Luke declared he wanted to try all of them.

It was a start.

The tea Ben gave him tasted different than the first one. Physically even warmer, something more soothing. It was calming and it felt like his heart and head were slowing down. It was not long until his eyes started to droop. And then, suddenly, it was like sleep felt like a good idea. He didn’t fear it as much or the nightmares.

He trusted Ben.

And if Ben said the tea would help, Luke would believe him.

Ben didn’t lie to him.

Afterwards, he led Luke back to his bunk and started to tuck him in, bringing blankets up his torso to his neck. Luke just tugged at the billowing sleeve of his robe, attempting to pull him down with him. Ben thought he was trying to get his attention. “Yes, Luke?”

“Stay with me?” he pleaded.

The older man hesitated but exhaled and nodded. “Okay, beacon. Okay.”

6 BBY

Luke is eleven years old.

“Alright Luke,” Ben smiled warmly, filling his presence with kindness and love, as much as he could imbue. The boy next to him, barely a mop of blonde hair visible, grinned and snuggled close to his side, curling even more under his large robe. He would have to get another one, Ben mused to himself. Luke was growing bigger every day and he seemed to really like hiding underneath there. Ben would have to compensate in the size of his robes as he grew.

They were on planet side and even spending a few nights there as of the moment. Stopping for supplies was often frequent and short. Usually if Ben was lucky, he could get a small job or do some things for people that would help him get resources, food or fuel. This planet, however, it had turned out, it was monsoon season and for the next few days, no one could even manage to get to or off the ground.

Ben had scrounged up enough credits to pay for a decent – but quite small – room, to wait out the worst of the storm. It was loud and the harsh semi-solid rain pounded against the roof and walls, wailing in some sort of sad and grieving song. It was a bit frightening to the youngster, but Ben was a bit amazed on the comfort Luke could find within Ben’s presence and at his side.

“We have quite some time to burn, and not a lot to do,” he offered, lightly, curling the blankets around them further and making sure the pillows were stacked up enough to support their weight on the bed. There was only one, but Luke was still rather small, and Ben wasn’t an overly large being, they could fit. Would you like to play Obnoxiously Long Explanations?”

Luke laughed, as he always did when he suggested that. The title was something that Luke himself had suggested after he asked a question and Ben had gone on a rather long tirade explanation on the subject. The boy’s attention had barely faltered, as the topic was rather of interest to him, but the next time it happened, Luke had used the term and it kind of stuck for those types of talks.

“Yes please!” he cheered, wriggling under his cloak and peering through, his blue eyes shining in excitement. He practically begged in that moment, squirming even further until Ben felt he could take no more. “Can I go first? Please? Please?”

“Alright, alright,” he chuckled, the lines around his eyes wrinkling in a true, genuine smile. Luke always wanted to go first, which Ben could understand. He was young, with many questions. Many questions, especially, since he knew what Ben was and that was a topic, he would constantly have questions for. “What would you like to know?”

“The Jedi!” Luke nearly screeched, his voice rising.

“Your father?” Ben asked, expectantly.

Vehemently, Luke shook his head. “No. Yours.”

That surprised Ben and for a moment, he wasn’t entirely sure how to respond; he did not know how. He was fairly certain that he had told Luke about the type of bonds and child rearing of the jedi. It was a bit more communal than most places, as force sensitives more often than not, faired better with their own, together in groups. “I have no father,” he decided on.

Luke was not deterred, and his tone just grew in excitement and impatience. He was trying to get his point across, surely. “Your jedi master! Tell me about your master. And hismaster! And HIS master!” As he went on, his voice got louder and happier. His enthusiasm was heartwarming and hilarious. Ben loved it and he was more than happy to oblige him. It had been some time since Luke’s encounter with Master Jinn as a Force apparition and his curiosity was overflowing.

“Why,” Ben gaped in mock surprise. “That would take all night.”

Ah, rarely did Ben get his own question in, anyways.

“YAAASSSS!” Luke nearly jumped up with his happy shout, bumping into Ben’s side and arm rather forcefully. There would certainly be a bruise there tomorrow. There was a slam as the headboard of the bed hit the wall behind them, echoing a loud noise through the room. Both of them exchanged surprised and vaguely entertained looks and suppressing giggles.

“Quite little beacon,” Ben hushed him, bringing up his hand with a smile. He couldn’t help himself; the boy was right adorable. “We must be courteous to our neighbors.”

The young boy quieted himself and shrunk in just a bit of shame, he turned towards the headboard and kneeled up from underneath the cloak, nearly bringing his forehead to the wall in some kind of quiet, solemn pledge. “My apologies, gentle beings. I vow to be better,” he whispered to the wall.

Ben could only watch in amusement. Luke looked back up at him, waiting and trying to be patient. But then he sat back down and carefully wrapped part of Ben’s cloak around himself again, curling his legs under his body. He was so eager, the want so great. Ben tried not to see Anakin in his eyes. But Anakin many times wanted to know about Qui-Gon. His hero worship for a dead man he knew for a handful of days was rather astounding.

If he only knew.

He wondered if Luke felt the same. It was interesting he thought. Perhaps all Skywalkers had an interest and love for the maverick jedi, despite both of them had barely known the man.

What did that say?

“Well,” Ben started, slowly, trying to figure out a good place to start. The training lineage itself seemed to be what Luke was after. He wondered how far it would go, how far Luke wanted it. “Master Jinn master was a man from Serenno named Count Dooku. Dooku, in turn, was trained by Master Yoda.”

Luke glanced at him as if he thought he was being tricked, his eyes narrowing in serious suspicion. Ben bit back a laugh, it was amusing to see. “Doesn’t Master Yoda train everyone?” he asked, his voice drawing out in a slow drawl.

Ben nodded. “Yes. But Dooku was Master Yoda’s padawan.”

“Padawan,” Luke tested the word on his tongue, and took care doing it, like it was something he should be respectful of. Like it was important. It should have been, Ben thought bitterly. Luke should have been a jedi, able to find a master he would connect with in a way where that relationship was beloved. Ben knew Anakin probably wouldn’t have wanted Luke to be a Jedi, but Ben couldn’t quite imagine him not. The boy, even at nine years old, had wanted it so badly. “What does that mean?”

“It is the jedi term for apprentice,” Ben started to explain, trying to keep things easy for Luke to understand. The boy was smart for his age but even he knew that Ben had a tendency to go a little overboard at times, “but… it is a little more than that. It is a personal relationship, you learn from your master, spend much time with them and go on missions together.”

Luke considered this and beamed, so bright and happy and beautiful. The thought on his mind was something he was so proud of. “Like us!”

Ben tried not to falter. How could he tell Luke that he could never take him on as a padawan? If he hadn’t completely failed Anakin, hadn’t lost everything. The word was dangerous. Even a mere mention of it was something he had to be careful of. The Empire was extremely prejudice about it, about even thinking that someone may be a jedi or a jedi Padawan. He did not answer. “So,” he continued on their original topic instead. “Count Dooku learned more closely from Master Yoda. Master Yoda has had many padawans. Count Dooku, once upon a time, was my grandmaster, which meant he trained my master, who trained me. He was from a planet called Serenno and was a royal, making him a count.”

“Count Dooku….” Luke tried, narrowing his eyes as he thought about the name and the man behind it. “What was he like?”

“I did not know him as a padawan,” Ben confessed, which was true. He wasn’t entirely sure if Dooku just had not wanted to see him, if he wasn’t living up to the Count’s standards or if Qui-Gon just had not wanted Ben to meet him. Or both, he supposed it could have been both. “I didn’t meet him until much later.”

“Is that strange?”

Ben hummed as he thought about this. “Sometimes, I suppose,” he replied. It had been quite some time before he realized what lineage lines more often than not, were. All jedi, padawans, initiates, even knights, had been trained and taught by many others, even those outside of the lineage. Ben had spent quite some time with several others when he was a young knight. Master Drallig had been one, when he had decided to change his primary form. Eventually he had gone to Master Billaba, a known and excellent practitioner of Soresu for guidance. Ben had not seen or met much of his lineage and those he had, were often evil or dead. Xanatos was not someone he wanted to be associated with, as he had gone dark. As well as Dooku’s last padawan, Vosa and then Dooku himself. His teaching lineage was rather a mess.

Perhaps it shouldn’t have been so surprising that another had fallen so far.

“Many grand masters are often around, some even help teach their padawan’s padawan,” he added, cautiously.

“But he didn’t,” Luke replied, a bit slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he should be saying it.

“No,” Ben shook his head. He wasn’t entirely sure why. He would never really know and his old master, even as a ghost, was not exactly forthcoming with answers, especially when it came to Count Dooku. “He and Qui-Gon had a bit of falling out and often did not see eye to eye.”

“Did you get to meet him?” Luke asked.

“Ah…yes,” he nodded again, although he bit his lip. That was rather complex. Ben hadn’t met him as a jedi but rather, once the older man had fallen to the dark side and had become a sith apprentice. He imagined Dooku became quite different through the transition. “He had become a different person by then and had left the jedi.”

“He became bad.”

“He did bad things, yes,” Ben agreed, careful with his words and his tone. Count Dooku was both an interesting and uneasy topic, but he still had to be cautious with how he said things to an easily impressionable child. “But he wasn’t bad for leaving the jedi. Leaving the jedi isn’t always a bad thing.”

“Why would anyone want to leave the jedi?”

Ben nearly wanted to laugh. Luke said it in such a way that it seemed ridiculous, leaving the jedi. He probably should not have told him all the times he had left or had threatened or thought about leaving. Sometimes the cause was different. “Sometimes, things change. Some people discover it is not the type of life they want to live. There is not shame in it,” he reminded, gentle and patient.

“I want to be a jedi.”

Oh, he sounded so sure. Once upon a time, Anakin had sounded sure.

“I know,” he replied, sensible and slow. He would not berate Luke for wanting this, after all, he could sense it. “But it is okay if you end up changing your mind too.”

“I won’t,” Luke affirmed with a light shrug. “Why did Count Dooku leave?”

“He did not agree with some of the jedi leaders,” Ben explained. It was a bit vague but understandable for the youngster. In all honesty, Ben himself wasn’t entirely sure of all the intricacies behind Dooku leaving and his fall. The two were connected, no doubt. But not everyone who left the jedi became like him. Became like Xanatos or Anakin. “And a man, he told Dooku things, some lies, some things true, from a point of view.”

“But he did bad things anyways,” Luke said, curious but adamant.

“Yes. He hurt people.”

“Did you fight him?”

“Yes. Many times.”

“I wish I could have seen it,” Luke said, wistfully, his eyes glimmering into something of desire. He huffed lightly at the thought. Skywalkers are their obsession with lightsaber fighting. “I bet you fight amazing.”

Ben smiled, a bit uneasily. “I was…an adequate warrior. Count Dooku was a legendary swordsman. One of the best. It took a long time before anyone defeated him.”

“Who beat him?”

“Your father, actually.”

“What?! Really?! That’s so cool! Were you there?”

Ben hummed and nodded. “Yes, Count Dooku was not so easily beaten but your father did it. Dooku, aside from his lightsaber skills was a ruler of a planet and had something of a silver tongue.”

“What is that?”

“He’s very good at talking. Very calm and collected, rarely could one say things that surprised him of caught him off guard,” he explained.

“Kinda like you?”

“Pardon?”

“You are really good at taking,” Luke said seriously, looking up at him.

“I am…alright,” Ben replied, nearly choking on the words. It had been quite some time since someone noticed that. It had been a long time since he had been considered a diplomat, an advisor, a negotiator.

“Can you teach me? To talk like you?”

“Uh…we will see,” Ben chuckled, trying to keep the unease out of his voice. He had once tried to teach Anakin the nuances of speech, especially when it came to speaking with politicians and other scum of the galaxy, but he was more intent on learning about aggressive negotiations. Or at least, that with a lightsaber. Then again, he had never really asked, never really found interest in learning that of the sort. Luke was not Anakin and Ben just had to remind himself of that. Some days were easier than others.

“How many… pada…padawans did Dooku have before he left?” Luke stumbled on the unfamiliar word.

“His first was Rael Aveross, second my master, Qui-Gon Jinn and third, Komari Vosa.”

“Tell me about Master Jinn!”

Of course. Of course. “Are you sure? We can’t go back…”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!”

“Alright, alright,” Ben laughed, keeping his tone light and a bit quiet, trying not to disturb the neighbors. It was getting rather dark and late out and no doubt some beings were, in fact, trying to sleep. He started to explain some things that he remembered about his old master, starting with the big things and swirling down to the more minute details. It was a bit fascinating how much Ben remembered, even after over twenty-five years. It was hard to imagine it had been so long. It was hard to imagine that so little time had passed. “Master Jinn was known to be a bit of a maverick. He just… kind of did what he wanted.”

Luke sighed, overly dramatic, throwing his hands up in the air.

That garnered Ben’s curiosity. “What is it?”

“Does no one follow the rules?”

Ben laughed, a bit loud and hearty. He would have never expected something like that to come from a Skywalker’s mouth. “Yes. Master Jinn wasn’t known for following rules. Sometimes this worked in his favor, other times it did not. He was quite the character.”

“He told me something about the Living Force,” Luke asked, uncertainly.

“Did he visit you?”

Luke nodded.

Ben rolled his eyes. “No regard for rules,” he muttered under his breath.

“I’ll tell him,” Luke said, seriously and Ben absolutely believed him. The boy didn’t go around making promises he did not intend to keep. It was something he rather admired about the boy, even already at his age. “If he does it again.”

“What did he try to tell you?”

“Well, he talked about the Living Force…”

Ben explained what he meant by that, as well as the difference between the living and cosmic/unifying force in a way that he hoped was easy to understand for Luke. It was a bit of a tangent, and he thought the lesson was good and Luke just rolled his eyes at the descripted antics of Ben’s old master. Ben was secretly glad he wasn’t the only one. “Master Jinn…he liked plants and animals, generally things that could and would easily kill a person,” Ben grumbled, but his tone was quite fond. Of course at the time, when Master Jinn was alive, it had been annoying, but over time, Ben had even come to appreciate other lifeforms in the way of faun and flora. “I had to take care of many of his pathetic lifeforms.”

“Pathetic lifeforms,” Luke giggled, trying to keep quiet. “That’s funny. Can we get a pathetic lifeform?”

Ben chuckled; a bit nervous. Oh no, he could not go through that again. “Uh no. I don’t think that would be wise…but maybe, perhaps, we can see about getting a plant.”

“Let me guess, one that doesn’t eat people?”

“I think that would be best, don’t you?” Ben smiled, a bit mischievous. This was progress. He can work with a plant, sure. Perhaps it would help teach Luke responsibility as well.

Luke shrugged. “Maybe. But I want a cool one though.”

Present Past

Anakin

“Angel,” Anakin smiled warmly as Padme’s visage popped up over the table. Even through the holocall, she looked as radiant as ever. Obi-Wan was asleep and Anakin just needed to talk to someone. If it wasn’t Obi-Wan, who he knew he had to speak to, he was lucky it was her. He had thought about the Chancellor, but he imagined the man was rather busy at the moment.

Padme just smiled back and shook her head, mockingly hopeless in her expression. She quicky frowned a little bit, as though she remembered something, and her eyes went worried. “Ani. I heard Obi-Wan crashed. Is he okay?”

He wilted at the change of topic, immediately.

“You won’t believe what has happened,” he sighed, running his flesh hand through his hair. He supposed he did want to talk about Obi-Wan. It was unusual affair when it came to her; as he usually didn’t want to talk about him unless he was letting off steam, but Anakin was confused, he didn’t know what was going on or how to proceed. Perhaps Padme could help. She helped with everything else, so why not this. “Obi-Wan…isn’t Obi-Wan.”

Her expression turned flat, and he could see she did not appreciate what she thought must have been a joke. “What does that mean?”

“This is going to sound crazy, he admitted. And it really was.

“Crazier than Mortis?”

He winced as he remembered that absolutely horrible mission. Where Ahoksa had died. Where he had apparently been turned to the dark side. Where his memories were fuzzy and cold and dark. He only remembered parts of that mission and honestly, he didn’t care too much of trying to regain the memories. “Just about.”

“What happened?”

“It appears….it appears, Obi-Wan has time traveled.” Oh, that coming out of his mouth sounded so weird, so wrong.

She laughed, hollowly, but quicky realized he was genuine and stared at him, wide eyed and surprised. “You cannot be serious.”

He nodded, feeling a bit mute. “Master Vos confirmed it. It’s so messed up.”

“Do we win the war?”

He was a little surprised that it was the first thing she thought of the first thing she asked, especially considering her previous concern about Obi-Wan specifically but then again, she was a senator. She had a stake and claim in the outcome of this war. She wanted it over. She wanted to win.

“It doesn’t sound like it,” he grumbled, still bitter. He didn’t know much about anything when it came to the future. Sure, Obi-Wan hadn’t yet much time to talk since he just woke up, but he still hadn’t said much of anything about it. He certainly didn’t talk to Anakin personally. “I don’t know much at this point. Obi-Wan is not a jedi, he’s on the run and I’m dead. You should have seen him, Padme. I don’t even know where to begin! When he saw me, he pulled a saber on me. A lightsaber! He was going to kill me but then he just…. dropped and hugged me instead! He knows who the Sith Master is but he’s acting so strange…” his ramble finally started to slow down as his mouth just kind of ran out of words to spout out.

Padme stared at him through his rant and then the holo call began to move as she sat down. Probably a good idea, he thought. This was a lot to take in. “This…this is a lot to take in,” she admitted, mirroring his thoughts. “He didn’t tell you who it was?”

He shook his head. “He said its…it’s complicated. He’s paranoid about giving information. He doesn’t trust me! I knew it!” his voice became louder and angrier as he went on, the feeling billowing in his chest.

She just sighed and shook her head, as if she was exasperated with him. He hated it when she looked and felt like that, especially with him. “Did he tell anyone else about the identity?”

“Well, no,” he grumbled.

“Then it’s not you, Ani,” she pointed out, her voice calm and patient and kind. With his mind on Obi-Wan, it seemed somehow reminiscent of how his old master used to speak with him when he was a child. A child to be calmed and pacified. He was not entirely sure how he felt about that. “He’s scared and he doesn’t seem to understand what is going on.”

“He doesn’t even think this is real.”

“What do you mean?”

“He thinks the Sith caught up with him and is manipulating his mind,” he huffed, rubbing his temples, as if that would just take everything away. He had a persistent headache. From what, he wasn’t entirely sure. “We haven’t been able to convince him otherwise yet.”

“It’s pretty clear that he has been through a lot,” Padme replied, a bit slowly and Anakin’s chest grumbled in that continued tone. He was not a child to be placated. “Paranoia probably kept him alive. Try to be patient with him. This has to be very scary and strange to him.”

Anakin groaned and nearly flopped over. She wasn’t wrong. He couldn’t even imagine how he would react in Obi-Wan’s shoes. Probably better, or worse, he grimaced. It was difficult to think about. “I knowwwww…. I just. Augh. He’s taking a nap and then he wants to meditate.”

“Maybe that will help him accept this,” she offered. “You know he always feels better after meditation, even if you don’t.”

He sighed. “I guess.”

“Do you know anything else about the future?”

“Not much. I can’t imagine it’s good, if Obi-Wan of all people is on the run.”

“And you are dead,” she pointed out worriedly. “I might be too.”

That got his attention. “What do you mean?”

“Ani…” she started, keeping her voice slow still. “He’s by himself. He’s your friend, your family. He’s my friend. I’m sure he knows we care about each other. I cannot imagine I would not help him if I had been able. Don’t you think he would try to help me if something happened?”

“Nothing is going to happen.”

“Something did,” she pointed out. She wasn’t wrong but the thought was much too horrible to even consider. He would never let anything happen to her. He didn’t think he would let anything happen to Obi-Wan either, some dark part of him realized, but something had. He had allowed that to happen by dying. “Something so horrible, Obi-Wan is all alone. No friends, no family, no jedi.”

“Not completely alone,” Anakin realized. He hadn’t thought about Luke much in the past couple of hours and the thought was actually kind of shaking his core. Perhaps Padme could shed some light on his thoughts and theories.

“Pardon?”

“Someone came back with him, someone who isn’t even born yet in this time,” he said, trying to find the right words to describe him. He probably should not be talking about this whole-time travel thing with others; Master Windu and the Council seemed to want to keep it under wraps – like so many other things, he thought cynically. But Padme could be trusted. He could trust her. After all, if he couldn’t trust his wife, who would he trust? Some tiny voice deep inside him echoed his master’s name. “His name is Luke and he’s…. crazy protective. Wouldn’t even leave Obi-Wan’s side for a while.”

Padme just smiled, knowingly. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

“That’s different,” he insisted, and it nearly stunned him how quickly he realized what she was talking about. Who, she was talking about. Him. “He’s, my master. We are a team. The best team.”

“And who is Luke?”

Anakin hesitated and glanced away. The idea had been vaguely bouncing around his head, but he hadn’t voiced it yet. “I think…. I think he might be Obi-Wan’s son.”

“No way.”

“I don’t know for sure,” he added, quickly, almost like he was trying to back track. The thought of Obi-Wan having a child at all was rather mind-boggling. Hypocritical maybe, because that meant he had an attachment, at least of some kind. “It’s just…he told Ahsoka his mother died in childbirth and his father…that it was complicated,” he wrinkled his nose in distaste.

“Why do you think he’s Obi-Wan’s son?”

“He’s force sensitive.”

“So are you and he’s not your son,” she pointed out, teasingly.

He snorted again; wasn’t that a thought. “He talks like Obi-Wan, you know, all posh and stuff. Was raised by him. And…do you remember the Duchess of Mandalore.”

“Satine Kryze?”

He nodded. Her eyes widened in understanding. If he recalled, he was pretty sure the Duchess and Padme were friends. She’d probably know, perhaps. “When we rooted out the traitor on her ship, she confessed her feelings and he told her he would have left the order if she asked.”

“Do you think she asked?”

“It seems likely, although I have a hard time imagining he would have done it before the war ended,” he admitted. “Honestly, it’s hard to imagine at all. He’s just…he’s got that perfect jedi thing going on.”

Even he knew that Padme was fighting the urge to roll her eyes. She generally didn’t always completely agree on some of the things Anakin thought about his former master. “If the war ends and Obi-Wan is on the run, as you say,” she realized, thinking about this train of thought. “He may have fled to Mandalore.”

“Then she died in childbirth,” Anakin frowned. “It would have been…really quickly, right after the war. Luke is, like, fifteen, sixteen max.”

“Does he look like Obi-Wan?”

Anakin shook his head but then hesitated. “I don’t think so, but I haven’t really looked you know? I only spent a couple of hours with him and even then, I wasn’t really looking. He’s blonde, like the Duchess, so maybe he looks more like her?”

“We will have to check it out when you get back to Coruscant. Perhaps do a DNA test or something. That would certainly confirm things. You are coming back, right?”

Anakin hesitated. “Not…yet.”

She sighed.

“The colony of Kiros was taken by slavers,” he explained with a snarl at the word, his anger growing more profound as he realized what was happening, what type of mission they were taking on. Slavers. “Captain Rex and Luke were taken by Dooku.”

Padme looked worried but it was washed away with her expression of compete determination. “Then the Republic’s greatest hero has to go and save them.”

Anakin grinned at the praise. “Not to worry, milady, it shall be done.”

“And milady has work to do,” she laughed.

“Awww. Can’t you stay on longer?”

Something in her eyes glimmered. She was up to something, he knew it. “I do believe I have to do my own part,” she said, vaguely. “And you should probably be around Obi-Wan when he wakes up. He’s going to need you. We are going to win this war this time.”

“This time,” Anakin echoed.

Cody

Quinlan Vos was not exactly the kind of person Commander Cody would have expected General Kenobi to be friends with. He has heard a little of General Kenobi’s friends and life, pre-war, but he had heard things, gleaned from snippets from both General Kenobi, General Skywalker and other still. General Vos was someone General Kenobi complained about, but he did it the same way he complained about Skywalker, which made it clear that they were close.

They were friends. Close friends. Perhaps best friends, although from what Cody could tell, several beings like to try and claim that title. He was a bit curious on General Kenobi’s own thoughts on the matter.

Cody had been trying to keep himself busy while his general slept to prepare for the conflict that was undoubtedly in front of them. Boil and his group had been replaced for clean up on the planet. The trooper had already been ready for another fight when Cody explained what had happened to like and Waxer. Waxer was his best friend and Luke…no one was entirely sure what Luke was to them at this stage, but he was something. Something their troops cared about. Their trusted little fellowship was already fond of the boy, nearly as much as they were to Luke.

Needless to say, no one was happy upon discovering Luke and Waxer’s dilemma and situation. All of them prepared for the next assignment and then milled around the overall area where their general slept. Cody didn’t stop them. They knew about the future and even beside that, there was something else. A change they could feel.

Cody was talking to Barlex and Threepwood, quietly discussing next moves involving the chips. Commander Colt and Alpha-17 were already starting research and had discovered the location of the chip in their heads. It could be found by a level five atomic scan, something few ships had access to. Although, with the right equipment, the surgery did not appear too difficult.

“We need to talk to the jedi about this,” Threepwood said quietly. “You know what Luke did. He can help the droids scan and find the chips.”

“They probably also have access to the necessary scanners and droids,” Barlex added, his voice gruff as per usual.

“We have to be very careful,” Cody warned. “This information could cause widespread panic, or worse, word getting out to the Sith and the chips could be activated early.” It was a terrible thing to think about, much less consider. Even though he technically knew it had happened, happened to his general, it was hard to wrap his head around. He could not even imagine doing such a thing.

“We need help,” Threepwood insisted.

“We do not have the resources to de-chip the entire GAR while we fight this war,” Barlex agreed, although rather grudgingly. He didn’t always seem to like agreeing with other people. “Or the equipment, the time, the excuses.”

“I know,” Cody hissed.

“If you need boys de-chipped fast, contacting jedi healers and perhaps jedi with smaller clone attachments might be a good start.”

The three of them shut up quicky and spun around, lining up in front of the jedi general in perfect formation to salute in practiced smooth movements. “Sir!” one of them near shouted. Cody didn’t know who it was. He didn’t dare look.

“We didn’t…”

General Vos raised a hand, smirking subtly and casually. Cody wanted to feel relaxed, he really did. This was General Kenobi’s friend; couldn’t they trust him? He truly hoped so. “Don’t worry, I’m no snitch. Well, actually I am, but not in this case,” he smiled at his own joke, although it was a bit weak. “I know about the chips and what happened in Obi-Wan’s future.”

That helped ease the tension a bit. General Vos gave them a rundown on his specific abilities to give them a rational explanation to his access of knowledge. And then he continued to explain his suggestion. “There are healers stationed everywhere and if there is one thing they know, aside from healing, it is digression. They have any and all excuses, especially as jedi, to see troopers.”

“The surgery is apparently pretty easy,” Barlex also noted. “Luke did several with the help of a basic med droid, quickly.”

An eyebrow rose curiously. “Then it should definitely be faster and easier with actual healers. I can contact Master Healer Che and start proceedings in that area.”

“She’s your top coordinator?” Cody asked. He nodded. “Maybe start with the other healers, away from Coruscant.”

“What are you afraid of?”

Was he that obvious?

“The danger is centered there,” Cody replied, vaguely. The others glanced at him, but he didn’t meet their gaze. The speculation was just that…speculation but even if it was confirmed, if the chips didn’t spread mass panic, the acknowledgment and identity of the man behind all of this, would.

“I wanted to talk to you,” General Vos dropped it for now. “About Obi-Wan, Luke, steps going forward to prevent that future.”

“Barlex and Threepwood know,” Cody stated firmly, as General Vos glanced between the three of them warily. Cody answered his silent question immediately. “Luke asked me to gather some of the boys and he explained what he knew. They are de-chipped. Waxer knows.”

“He’s with Luke,” General Vos realized, after a moment. General Kenobi must have told him about Waxer, Cody thought. He couldn’t really believe that General Vos knew any of them by name. Before this, he hadn’t really spent much time with the 212thbattalion and the only one he ever really interacted with to some degree was Cody himself. “I am not certain of that will end up being a good or a bad thing.”

“He will do his duty.”

“I have little doubt,” General Vos agreed, a bit readily, to their surprise. “Who else knows?”

Cody didn’t think the names or even numbers would mean anything to the jedi, but he listed them off anyways. “The Medic,” General Vos realized as Cody went over Helix’s name and gestured for them to follow. They ended up in General Kenobi’s office which Barlex pointed out as they got in, his voice just flat enough not to sound too insubordinate or disrespectful.

“It’s easier to get into his mindset here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mentioned my psychometry. It’s linked to that. I got a lot from Luke before the battle,” he said, as they settled in. Everyone was still rather uneasy. “And even more from Obi-Wan. It’s…it is really bad.”

“We are forced to kill the jedi,” Barlex noted.

“Even the little ones,” Threepwood finished, quiet and pained at the thought. No one knew exactly who had marched on the Temple in General Kenobi’s past and their possible future. For all they knew it could have been them. Maybe it had been. Maybe not. It didn’t matter so much at this point; they still felt it rather keenly, almost as though they had personally done it. It was a horrible thought.

General Vos nodded. “Obi-Wan was unconscious when I got the information from him so… so I didn’t feel that in the way he felt it. I didn’t feel his pain and grief in the full force that I would have if he had been awake; just the…remnants of it.”

“You know who did it,” Barlex voiced something they had all realized.

“Pardon?”

“You know who attacked the Temple,” Cody answered for him, quietly. “You know who killed and massacred the children, the elderly, the sick and injured. You know who led them.”

General Vos didn’t let his face show anything. Cody wondered if that was a skill all Jedi knew because General Kenobi was good at that as well. It didn’t matter what he showed on his face and what he did not. His pause spoke volumes.

“Who was it?” Barlex nearly demanded.

Threepwood just froze. He didn’t want to know.

“Was it us?”

Vos’s response was immediately. “No. No, it wasn’t you.”

No one dared to let out the large breath they were all holding. It was uncomfortable, they were uncomfortable, and they knew it, even if it was not them, it had been someone.

Cody had a theory, a feeling.

He did not like it.

He wanted it verified, a desperate plea for himself to be wrong, but he did not voice it. He could not bring himself to. General Vos caught his eye. Cody just wilted.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, instead. “As long as we move quickly and quietly, it won’t happen at all. Obi-Wan is awake, as I’m sure you are all aware. At this point in time, he does not believe this to be real. He thinks that this is a complex Sith mind trick. This will be a lot more difficult if we cannot convince Obi-Wan of otherwise.”

“He will come to the right conclusion,” Cody affirmed. “He’s practical and smart. He will figure it out.”

“I imagine time travel is pretty difficult to wrap one’s head around,” Threepwood grimaced. “We were lucky, I think, having Luke around. He’s not born yet, and he knows things he couldn’t have known unless General Kenobi had told him.”

“We are heading to Zygerria,” General Vos continued. “General Koon and the 104thare going to Kadavo to retrieve the Kiros colonists, on Obi-Wan’s intelligence. We, in the meantime, are headed to the planet to get their governor and make some noise to attract Dooku,” he explained.

“Why?”

“We are fairly certain he has Luke and the missing troopers.”

The boys bristled. “They are dead, aren’t they?”

“We don’t think so,” he disagreed.

“Why? Count Dooku does not take trooper hostages,” Barlex pointed out.

“Usually, yes,” General Vos nodded. “But he thinks Luke is Obi-Wan’s padawan and, especially due to his very…sudden…disappearance, Dooku’s interest is undoubtedly high with him and the situation surrounding him.”

“And?”

“He will probably use the troopers as leverage, hostages,” General Vos confessed with a frown. “If Count Dooku wanted those troopers dead, I imagine we would have just found their bodies in the air base on Umbara. Luke is young and he is rather fond of you, it appears. They will make decent leverage.”

“He is,” Threepwood sighed.

“But what Luke knows about the future…could it be that valuable to Dooku?” Barlex asked. “Luke was born after the war.”

“I doubt Dooku, at this point, knows about the time travel and we think Dooku’s interest is in Luke’s relation to Obi-Wan. As most of you probably know… Count Dooku…he’s a bit fond of him.”

“He shows it in very strange ways,” Threepwood muttered.

“He is Obi’s grand master.”

Threepwood and Barlex sputtered.

“Count Dooku is General Kenobi’s grandfather?”

General Vos looked vaguely uncomfortable with the phrase but shook his head lightly, like that wasn’t exactly it. It wasn’t, Cody knew the jedi didn’t have grandfathers in the way that many other cultures did but that didn’t make those relationships any less personal. “Err…. not exactly but sort of? He trained Obi-Wan’s master, Qui-Gon Jinn.”

“That is…. messed up,” Threepwood sighed.

“We want him to come to Zygerria. He’s in league with the slaver queen there, no doubt working some angle. According to Obi-Wan, he had gone to the planet last time when she didn’t quite…listen to the Count.”

“So, we are kind of doing the same thing?”

General Vos just smiled. “More like we are going to make a bit of a mess and kark some things up to get Dooku to come. Just a small team for now, lure him in and then attack with the 501st and 212th.”

“I can put together a task force, sir,” Cody said. He knew exactly who to bring.

“I would say you should probably stay on the ship, but I don’t think you will,” he cracked a sly grin.

“Barlex can cover,” Cody replied, readily, glancing at his brother. His gaze hardened in determination, and he nodded. “Besides, I think me being there, with Boil, might help.”

“How do you mean?”

“Both Boil and I were in the future, we lived…longer than most,” Cody explained but it was difficult to get through. He didn’t know much about the future and he didn’t particularly like talking about the fates of his brothers, as horrible as they were. As little as he knew, with only speculation and hypothesis to guide him through. “He’s a bit more comfortable around those people, especially Boil. He’s got a bit of a soft spot for him and he’s still alive in General Kenobi’s future.”

“He did mention him before,” General Vos noted.

“I brought him back from cleanup. He’s probably already talking with the General now,” Cody added. “General Kenobi prefers short power naps more than anything. The more comfortable he is with the squad, the more information we will get and the more likely he may be more inclined to believe.”

“And they won’t let anything happen to him,” Barlex vowed, darkly.

“Finally!” a new voice grumbled as the door was forced open. Helix burst in with a long sigh and a huff. “General, commander. I guess I should have known. I thought you would want to know. General Kenobi is awake.”

Ben

“Obi-Wan! Please!”

“It was only a dream, dear one. Dreams pass in time.”

“He will never want me.”

“You will never remind me.”

“Ben!”

“Obi-Wan!”

“I love you.”

“And you, you’ve grown sadder.”

“Trust in the Force.”

“I will not abandon you.”

“I would have chosen you over and over given the chance.”

“I foresee you becoming a greater jedi than I.”

“He was my best friend, my brother.”

“You can see that?”

“It’s just you and me, old man.”

“Is it true?”

“Yes.”

“I am so proud of you.”

“We were waiting.”

“I’m waiting.”

“You have become a far greater jedi than I could ever hope to be.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“If In die here, it’s going to be your fault.”

“If I die here, it’s going to be with you.”

“Forgive me if I still think I know you better than anyone else.”

“I know what you wanted. I’m not leaving him.”

“You do.”

“We meet again.”

“It is all your fault.”

“LIES!”

“It’s over Anakin.”

“It hate you.”

“I love you.”

Ben’s inhale back into consciousness, coming from his slumber, was quick and deep, accompanied by a dry throat and wet cheeks.

“Welcome back, general.”

It took a rather embarrassingly long moment for Ben to put a finger on the name. It had been a very long time. He racked his brain, but eventually, the short-term memories came back forward. The star destroyer. Quinlan. Umbara 2.0. What did the Sith Lord want with staging this specific campaign? Surely, he would be smart enough to know Ben wouldn’t do the same things as last time; that surely, he would try to be better, do better, save more lives. No matter how hard he tried, Ben just couldn’t quite stop being a jedi. He wondered how the casualty counts compared to the first time around.

“Helix,” Ben murmured, a bit fondly. “It has been a while.”

“So, you have said,” Helix hummed, and Ben could feel him going over him, checking for anything and everything, going through his vitals while the jedi regained himself. “Longer for you than me, as your padawan says it.”

“My padawan?” Ben mused.

“Luke,” Helix supplied.

“Is that what he calls himself?”

“No,” Helix shrugged. “But it seems kind of obvious to us. Good kid, though. Kind, generous. Protective of you…and us, it appears.”

“He has always wanted to meet the people of my past.”

“Well, if you tell him a bunch of glory stories, that does not seem too surprising.”

“They were flattering ones, I assure you.”

“Not the ones where we kill all of you, I imagine.”

The plain facts and rational tone of Helix’s voice caught Ben off guard. He turned to stare at him in surprise, a little wide eyed. Oh, the man hadn’t changed a bit. He was just like how Ben remembered him over sixteen years ago. “You…how… I don’t know what you are talking about,” he settled on.

Look at that, he could be at a loss for words.

“Luke told us,” Helix confessed. “Got the chips out and everything. Just a few of the boys to start. I think he wanted some allies. The Commander, Gearshift, Trapper, Longshot, Threepwood, Barlex, Wooley, Crys, your favorites,” he smirked at the end.

Ben sputtered. “What…I do not-.”

“Don’t worry, general,” he just chuckled. “Everyone has favorites, and we get it. Care isn’t finite or whatever; jedi-way. We all know. Can’t say we completely blame ya, those two are surprisingly good with you. However, speaking of which, Commander Cody did pull some strings, so Boil came with us instead of staying on Umbara for cleanup.”

“He can to Kiros with us last time,” Ben mused, quiet and mostly to himself. “He wanted to get his mind off of…off of Waxer.”

“Waxer died on Umbara the first time, didn’t he?”

It wasn’t much to jump to that conclusion, apparently. He wondered what Luke had told them. Ben swallowed and nodded. “Friendly fire.”

“Commander Cody told me. He said Luke put a stop to it. As far as we know, currently, they are both still alive.”

“Things have already changed,” Ben mumbled. “Luke wasn’t here last time…could it…”

“Boil is coming up,” Helix said quietly. “It may be a few minutes. Would you like to talk to him? I know he isn’t your future version but perhaps a friendly and known presence might help ground you.”

“Ground me?”

“You confessed earlier that you believed this was a Sith trick; a mental manipulation orchestrated by the Sith,” Helix began to explain, only a bit hesitant.

Ben nodded.

“Maybe he could help,” he shrugged. “It’s a little difficult to see Boil as a grounding influence but well, who knows?”

“Alright,” Ben conceded. He rather thought he would like to see the trooper again anyways. Even if he may have just been a figment of this trick, Helix was not wrong, a friendly face would always be a blessing.

“It’ll be a couple of minutes. I have some boys to look over, can you handle a bit by yourself?”

He just laughed, lightly. “Of course, Helix. Go on.”

*

Arfour was not having a good time.

Her pathetic lifeform had finally awoken but he was just all over the place. Running around like a maniac, his vitals all over the place and nothing that came out of his person that made any sense. Not real? What was not real?

He looked at her as if he had not seen her in a very long time.

It had been not even a singular day.

She let the two humanoids speak and she waited for her turn quietly. [pathetic lifeform] was tired and confused but seeing [know-it-all] appeared to make him a bit more at ease. Some residents of the ship made him more at ease than others.

She took note of that.

[pathetic lifeform] smiled kindly at her as she rolled into his room beeping indignantly. Looking down at her, there was something, an expression, on his face that her current data banks just could not quite identify. “Ah, Arfour. I think we have some work to do.”

*

Boil’s face appeared in the doorway and all Ben could think was how young he looked. Last time he had seen Boil, he had much more scruff on his face, more wrinkles, grey hair. But he carried himself the same.

Ben wasn’t sure if even the Sith could duplicate that.

His expression instinctively softened at the sight of him. “Hello, Boil.”

The trooper shifted; a bit uncomfortable. Things were not the same as they were in the future; Ben had to be careful. “General. It’s good to see you awake. We…I mean some of the boys were worried.”

Ben nodded. “My apologies. That was not my intention.”

The trooper was fighting back his reactions, probably that of a disbelieving snort. He was trying so hard, Ben mused. He wondered if Boil was a figment of his imagination, the last throws to preserve what was left of his sanity.

Losing it to a Sith Lord wasn’t exactly the way he wanted to go.

Embarrassing.

He was closer now.

“My apologies, sergeant,” he repeated.

“For what, sir?”

“When Luke…helped you off of Vader’s ship, you wanted to stay with us. He loved you. I think you may have been Luke’s only real friend at that point.”

Boil swallowed. Ben didn’t know if he understood.

“I couldn’t let you. I couldn’t let you stay with us. Sometimes I regret it but…that’s not the jedi way.”

“Why did you not want me to stay?”

“I could not give Vader another loved one to be targeted,” Ben rasped. It was too late, the Sith already knew. So much in Ben’s head…sometimes he wished he was a droid, able to just wipe it all away.

Boil just stared at him and Ben wanted to reach out in the force with his feelings and projections. It had been a long time since he had done that amongst troopers.

He didn’t dare.

“Why…” Boil hesitated and glanced away. “Why does Vader hate you so much? Who is he?”

Ben’s breath caught. He had never actually confessed it to anyone, who Vader was.

Boil seemed to sense Ben’s panic and quickly tried to backtrack. The tone of his voice sounded strange paired with Boil’s gruff voice and his usual attempt to be calm and surly and brusque. “I am so sorry, sir. You do not have to tell me. It is completely fine. It doesn’t even matter really. He’s not here and you are not there.”

“I used to,” Ben struggled to speak. “I know him. Vader he…”

Ben stopped and stiffened. Boil followed his snap quick gaze to where Skywalker was standing in the doorway.

“Sergeant, would you mind leaving us for a bit?” Ben asked, not unkindly. He would not let a Sith near the trooper if he could help it. If Vader had donned Anakin’s visage. He wasn’t sure who this was, if it was Vader or someone else playing him or even yet, Anakin himself. Quinlan and several others had tried to convince him that he was in the past. For one of the first times ever, Boil hesitated, as if he wasn’t sure he should actually do as he had been asked. But after a moment, he walked out with a touch of bristle on his shoulders.

It did not escape Anakin’s attention but he, surprisingly, did not say a word.

Instead, he walked over to Ben and carefully sat next to him.

He felt so real, Ben mused. Like he could reach out and touch him, a familiar warm body under his fingers that wouldn’t burn at the contact.

Anakin always burned in his dreams.

It was a horrible think, to wish he had made sure he had killed Anakin on Mustafar well over a decade ago. So much pain could have been avoided. All it would have cost was Ben himself, leaving all the hurt and pain and horribleness for his mind and shoulders.

He was rather good at that.

He thinks perhaps killing Anakin on Mustafar would have broken him, most times. As much sadness as he could bear, he wasn’t sure if he could survive that.

But then again, Obi-Wan Kenobi had died alongside Anakin Skywalker that day.

If Quinlan and Helix and everyone else was right, if this was real and he was somehow back in his own history, able to make choices and change anything, that meant… did that mean Anakin Skywalker lived once more?

And if he did, did that mean Obi-Wan Kenobi was revived as well?

Could it be possible?

Everything had felt so real, although Ben hadn’t dared to reach out too much to others in the Force. He hadn’t even touched any bonds. If the old ones were still there and not ravaged…he did not know what he’d do.

“I had so much to say,” Anakin started, his voice uncharacteristically subdued and muted, fighting so hard to remain and relaxed and patient. “But I don’t know anymore. I’ve been thinking about things for hours and hours. Everything is going to be so different now.”

“What do you mean?”

“For me, it has only been a day. A day since it was you and me, like always. A day ago, I thought everything was fine. I thought we were okay. For me, the things that you have gone through have not happened yet. I’m alive and healthy, early twenties with a young padawan, fighting in a galaxy-wide war,” he tried to explain but Ben could tell, he was certainly struggling. “But for you, for you, it has been over fifteen years. You saw the end of the war, and something so terrible happened, you left the jedi and are on the run.”

“I did not leave,” he mumbled, absentmindedly. He hadn’t even been aware that he had spoken it until moments after, when Anakin’s head jerked, eyes meeting his in some form of terrified confusion. It looked so real, his uncertainty, and Ben wanted so desperately to believe it. Because if Anakin was befuddled and perplexed, then perhaps he didn’t know, perhaps Quinlan was right and this was actually his padawan. Not the monster that was using his body.

“Huh?”

“I did not leave,” he repeated, a bit louder.

“Did they…kick you out?” Anakin asked, skeptical and unconvinced.

Ben shook his head. “No. Everyone is dead and gone. I’m the last of the jedi.”

*

Anakin

Anakin just choked. That was not what he was expecting. Not that he had many expectations at this point. It was still painful to think about, however, and anything Anakin had expected, they both knew, this was not it.

Ten thousand jedi.

One survivor.

“That’s impossible,” he whispered. He hadn’t even realized he had said it. His voice was hoarse, like he hadn’t spoken in years or if he had spoken too much in that time. It was an odd contradiction, but all Anakin could feel was like he was choking on nothing at all. Because that could not have happened.

“Unfortunately, it very much is possible,” Ben hummed. “I have seen the Temple bathed in blood, bodies thrown carelessly across the halls, shot in the back. I have seen younglings murdered in their beds. They never stood a chance.”

Rage was swelling in Anakin’s chest and Ben studied him curiously. He didn’t seem entirely sure about the validity of his reaction just yet, which just didn’t make any sense. His wariness and paranoia would normally hurt and anger Anakin but right now, he was barely paying attention. It was the overwhelming and heartbreaking feelings that dominated absolutely everything at this point, because there was so many. So many jedi, ten thousand. And they were all just…gone?

Who could have possibly done such a thing?

“How are you not furious?”

“It happened over fifteen years ago,” Ben rasped, and his voice was hoarse and pained. It was like he hadn’t spoken in a long time. Anakin wondered if that actually was the case. “I doubt the horror and grief I felt then will ever truly fade but I cannot…I could not do anything about it.”

“You can now,” Anakin insisted. “We can. It hasn’t happened yet. We can fix this.”

Ben was humming, non-committedly. “Interesting,” he murmured.

Anakin’s brain kept buzzing. This wasn’t happening, was he different and nothing could change it? Was it so bad that Anakin would never have his best friend back? He couldn’t imagine a life now without Obi-Wan being right there, at his side. And he didn’t want to. “What is happening to you?”

He just sighed, long suffering and tired. Obi-Wan was always tired these days but there was something in his expression that was just a little more. “A lot has happened and I’m not sure what you want from me.”

“I want my master back.”

“What does that entail, exactly?”

How to answer that. With everything that was happening and everything that had happened. All of their lives and things they had done and said and not done and said. That was a question he didn’t think he could truly answer, not in its entity. Because this was Obi-Wan and that is all Anakin wanted. “I didn’t realize things had changed so much with us until…until this whole time travel thing. Things have changed so drastically but it is like I don’t know us anymore. We are a tram, the team. We are the best, I can’t even imagine my life without you. But I’ve realized…. it’s like… I don’t know what we are anymore. It’s not the same.”

Much of that may be my fault, I suppose.”

Anakin was so startled by his instinctive desire to agree to such a prospect. When had he turned into the default for blaming Obi-Wan? When had it become so easy? But before Anakin could gather himself again and his thoughts to speak, the older jedi continued. What he said next didn’t seem at all in direct relation to his previous statement.

He was practically choking on the words. “If this is a dream, I do not want it to end.”

Anakin didn’t think he meant to say that out loud. “This is real, master, I swear.”

“I never truly knew why you did it,” he replied, instead. A lump formed in Anakin’s throat. What had he done? “I knew you had resentment, some notion that I had been holding you back. You have said it. If I had, it was never intentional. I’m not exactly the best jedi or teacher, and I know you deserved better, someone who actually knew what they were doing. I know you wanted Qui-Gon and I…don’t blame you. I just didn’t realize I had done so poorly and failed you so much. I did not realize how far you had fallen or when it started.”

Anakin froze. That was much to unravel at the moment. He ended up focusing on the end of the speech.

Fallen? As in…?

It couldn’t be possible.

“What did I become?”

Ben did not want to answer, which just worried Anakin more. He must have been so truly terrible for him to withhold this.

Quinlan Vos appearing was annoying, to put it mildly, as Anakin seemed to believe they were making progress. For answers. But Ben, although subtly, looked visibly relieved. “Hey, Obes,” Master Vos greeted with a smooth smile and a comforted expression, as he carefully entered. “How are you feeling?”

“A bit confused,” Ben admitted, truthfully. “None of this makes sense. I don’t know what Sidious wants from me.”

“Perhaps we are telling the truth, maybe this is time travel,” Master Vos suggested.

“Time travel. An interesting notion,” Ben mused. “Not impossible, however rather unlikely.”

“Why is that?”

“Anakin is acting rather strange.”

“How?”

Obi-Wan exhaled and closed his eyes. Upon opening them, he stared at Anakin as if he thought he would disappear. Anakin stared back at him. This didn’t make any sense Then Obi-Wan turned to look back at Quinlan. “Worried, concerned. Not nearly as angry and resentful as the last time I saw him. I wish this cruel trick would end. But, at the same time, I feel as though this could be a wonderful dream.”

Anakin’s breath caught and emotions, feelings, everything just came rushing in all at once. It was nearly unbearable. “How could you?” his voice stuttered in something of vibration, of hurt and pain. “How could you think that I don’t care?!” he cried.

“Skywalker,” Quinlan warned.

“After-.”

Anakin,” Quinlan snapped, a little louder.

His jaw snapped shut. He was trying, he was trying, he was trying; they could give him back. He had to be careful, they all did. Anakin hated being so worried and concerned about what he said or felt. But he just wanted Obi-Wan back. And he would do anything. “I would rather like to meditate, if you would allow,” Obi-Wan said, quietly, unable to meet Anakin’s eyes.

“This isn’t a Sith trick; you are allowed to do as you please.”

“I’m not sure if I want to believe you. The implications of this…. of this not being a trick or a hallucination or a dream…I do not know what I would do with it. It has been fifteen years, in such a dark galaxy, hunted relentlessly for so long.”

“We are going to fix it, master,” Anakin assured, as he tried to calm himself; trying to breathe. He still sounded determined, dangerous. “I won’t let it happen again. I won’t let it.”

“You keep saying such things as that,” Obi-Wan hummed, his brow furrowing. “As though you think you can control it all.”

Quinlan interrupted before Anakin could say something stupid. Which, in all honesty, Anakin knew most would have probably found anything he would say next rather dumb. “Would meditation help you?”

“I haven’t…reached in the Force that way yet,” he admitted. “Since I woke up.”

“Maybe it is time,” Quinlan offered. “Perhaps it will help you determine your reality.”

“Perhaps,” Obi-Wan agreed. “Would you like to join me?”

“Sure. Do you want to go somewhere else?”

Obi-Wan just shrugged. “Surprisingly, here is fine.”

“Do you intend to join us?” Quinlan asked Anakin.

“Yes,” he nearly growled.

“Then can you at least quiet your mind? Your chaotic way of doing things is doubtfully going to be much help with Obi-Wan,” Master Vos replied, flatly.

“It’s alright,” the older master assured, almost sounding even fond of the way that Anakin does things, even something as an attempt at meditation. “Even after all this time, I know Anakin Skywalker. I’d be interested how things end up. With the Sith, with all of their resources, I find it doubtful they could be able to reproduce it.”

Anakin shot Quinlan a smug grin.

They settled down on the floor and Anakin commed Ahsoka. She had gotten there in record time and was invited to join them as well. Obi-Wan’s gaze was soft at the sight of her, something nostalgic and pained. Anakin wondered if she survived, but then he remembered what Obi-Wan had said about survivors. Or lack thereof.

Anakin had never tried quite so hard at the typical form of meditation than he did just then. All the worry, all the fear; he tried so hard. But every time he opened his eyes, every time he reached out, he could see Obi-Wan smirk, subtly. Like he knew something.

Like Anakin’s meditation habits were familiar and amusing.

Was this progress? Was it possible that Anakin could get Obi-Wan back?

At the very least, most of him?

More beings approached, tentative and hesitant as Anakin sunk into the Force again. The 212th, no doubt, and at least six of them. He tried not to pay attention, but he didn’t recognize any of them off hand. Obi-Wan certainly did.

He continued to relax.

Anakin bit back a scowl. Obi-Wan was more comfortable with the troops than Anakin himself at this point. He didn’t really know any of them. Obi-Wan knew several of Anakin’s own 501st by name…perhaps, Anakin should get to know of some of Obi-Wan’s 212th.

He made a note to himself.

“Is there something you need, commander?” Obi-Wan asked, suddenly.

Anakin startled out of the meditation. He hadn’t even noticed the officer approach. Cody stood in the doorway, patient and dutiful as always.

“You have a call, sir,” Cody responded, a bit quiet.

Obi-Wan silently untangled himself from his position on the floor and stood. “Of course, Commander. Ahsoka, Quinlan…Anakin. I will take my leave. I hope you found this meditation as enlightening as I.”

Quinlan and Anakin perked. Perhaps…?

He and Anakin just glanced at one another. Progress, they both thought. Perhaps they were making progress.

*

Cody

“Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough,” Ben shrugged as he and Commander Cody made their ways through the halls, away from the medical bay. “I do believe I will feel better when I find Luke. Who is requesting my presence?”

“General Windu, sir,” Cody responded easily.

The general let out a little tension in his shoulders while Cody just watched. He had been expecting someone else, he noted, someone worse. Someone he was fearing to speak to. The commander was grateful he could give him someone to speak with that the general actually cared for. Perhaps he could prevent Obi-Wan from talking with that person, the person he dreaded. The room they entered already had the call going, with a shimmering blue visage in the middle.

“Hello Mace,” General Kenobi greeted, fondly.

“Obi-Wan,” Genera Windu softened in such a way that Cody had only heard from Ponds before. Sometimes he had thought that the general hadn’t even been capable of it. It was a rude thought, he knew, but General Windu wasn’t often one to show such sentiment. Then again, this was General Kenobi. From what Cody knew, they had known each other for a very long time and were friends. “How are you feeling?

“I have been asked that quite a bit,” General Kenobi admitted. “I have gotten some sleep and was able to do some meditating. I will concede there is a possibility this is…this is real. Time travel is not exactly impossible,” he continued, a bit quiet, tentative, as if gauging reactions. “I just…I am unsure how to accept it as a possibility, after everything that has happened.”

I don’t know what happened in your past,” General Windu confessed, and he did not look happy about it. Cody had heard about General Windu’s abilities with something called shatter points. He wondered if he could see or feel them through holo calls and if anything changed with them the first time this had happened. “But I know it must have been truly devastating. And those things that happened to you, I…we cannot take those experiences away. But you, us, we have a unique chance to change the horrors of what you have witnessed for others.”

“I will,” General Kenobi vowed, strong and resolute. “I will do what I must. I will not let you down.”

General Windu just looked a little sad, like he knew something that no one else did about him. Cody found it hard to imagine that someone would be a bit upset by General Kenobi’s drive and declaration of persistence. Usually, it was a good trait to have, as far as Cody knew. “I know you won’t. There is a reason I called. We have an intelligence officer that was around Zygerria; the one that gave us the information on the Kiros colonists.”

General Kenobi hummed. “Did this person give you more information?”

He nodded. “Dooku is already heading to Zygerria. His little detour to Umbara has made the Queen send a ship and some of her workers to escort him to her. Basic contact has been made with your missing troopers.”

Both he and General Kenobi perked. “Luke?”

“He has been confirmed aboard but no contact yet.”

“That is something at least.”

“Caution is key, especially with Dooku aboard the ship as well.”

General Kenobi seemed to understand and agreed. “Do not attract attention, I understand. Luke can take care of himself.”

“Even against Dooku?”

“He has been trained and prepared to deal with much worse.”

“Who is he?”

“I’m not sure you would believe me if I tried,” General Kenobi replied, a faintly amused smile quirking from his lips. General Windu mirrored his expression and shook his head, exasperated and fond. “Have you met him?”

“I have not talked to him or seen him, yet no,” General Windu replied, now a bit curious and even a tad more suspicious, although it seemed mocking rather than actually serious. “Why?”

This just made General Kenobi’s smile grow as something twinkled in his eye. “I think, if this is real, I might just love it when you do.”

“Now I’m concerned,” General Windu replied, eyes furrowing.

To Cody’s absolute pleasure and the other High General’s surprise, General Kenobi burst into a light fit of mellow and gentle laughter, authentic and genuine. “Don’t be too worried, dear. Luke meeting you will most likely be the least of your problems.”

Cody didn’t think that made General Windu feel much better, but the mood was lightened just a bit and Cody felt he had some hope. Their conversation lasted a while longer, and while they spoke, they included Cody within their ideas and thoughts on what to do next. Their plan shifting into something a bit less noisy and a bit more subtle. Cody thought with General Skywalker around, it would dive right back into crazy.

He was pretty sure General Kenobi agreed.

*

Their approach to Zygerria space was upcoming and everyone was feeling the anxiety. It spread over most of the ship but centered around the jedi and those closest to them. Everyone knew about what had happened to Captain Rex and Lieutenant Waxer and the other boys and with the hope that they may still be alive, there was concern and optimism with the chance. The closer they got, the angrier Skywalker got, and General Kenobi avoided talking to him by busying himself with relaying orders and going over plans with the others.

“Boil, Trapper, Wooley, Longshot,” Cody ordered, listing off the names rather easily. There were so few of them that he could keep the circle too. He wondered if Luke would be against him widening their circle. There were several other troopers he knew he could trust, and he felt as he could use the help. “You’re with the general and me. Barlex, Threepwood, Crys, Gearshift, I need you to hold down the fort.”

None of them appeared very pleased with being away from the action.

“I need people who know about Luke and the general’s situation, in case something happens,” Cody continued, trying to calm their nerves. “Because whatever happens, we need to prevent the genocide of the jedi and continue to de-chip the GAR so we cannot be used in such a way,” he said, sternly.

It was then agreed rather readily.

*

Anakin

There were many ships going to and from Zygerria as of late and Skywalker just kept growling at the options before them, as each and every one was passed for any number of reasons. He hated that they were just letting them go, one by one, just waiting and trying to find the right one, the one that would suit their needs. They were going to board and take over a ship that was headed to the planet, the home planet of one of the most notorious former slave empires, one that already had access for easy passage to the ground. There were many to choose from and apparently, they had to be careful with their choice.

He hated it.

But they found one. They found one and were simply waiting for it to fall into their grasp. It would be rather easy enough, he imagined. They were standing on the bridge, patiently waiting. Or at least, most of them were patient. Anakin just kept scowling as his hate and anger rose higher and higher. Obi-Wan had hesitated and Anakin saw it, but he put a hand on the young knight’s shoulder, squeezing just gently, like he wasn’t entirely sure if his hand would go through him or not. Like he wasn’t certain Anakin was solid. Whoever had done this to him, whoever had made Obi-Wan doubt himself so much like this, Anakin would make them pay. And then Obi-Wan would never have to feel that way again. “Their empire will not rise again,” he assured, his voice quiet but certain in his words.

Anakin clenched his fist and tried to release it. His voice was rising, only kept low and down by the growl of his chest space in his tone, grumbling up through his throat. It didn’t really matter how loud or quiet he was, however, and although he didn’t really notice it at first, the other officers on the bridge were rather uneasy with his feelings. “Those slaver scum think they are better than everyone else, that they can just bend everyone to their sick will.”

“Be mindful of your feelings,” the statement was almost oddly comforting, it was rather a staple of Obi-Wan’s teachings, as much as Anakin got irritated with it on a constant basis. He hated it, normally, Obi-Wan telling him this. But it was such a normal statement in their dealings, in their life, the one with Obi-Wan, it was also a comfort. At least something was normal. “You cannot let them control you.”

He bit back a scowl. His feelings were what made him powerful, special, but he tried to appease his master. He would do anything right now just to get a little piece of him back. “I know. I know.”

“Breathe with me.”

“What?”

“Breathe with me,” Obi-Wan repeated and for once, Anakin could understand why people thought Obi-Wan so patient. Anakin actually heard him, actually looked into his tone and his voice and him in the Force. He wasn’t judging him, he wasn’t angry or upset, or anything of the sort. He just wanted to help. He just wanted to help Anakin, even if Anakin didn’t think that his feelings were something that he needed help with. “We have a few minutes before we intercept our desired vessel.”

Tentatively, as if it would burn, Obi-Wan took both of Anakin’s hands. The young knight gently squeezed back. Obi-Wan’s gaze was on them for a long moment, rubbing a thumb in tight, light circles on the, studying the flesh hand as if he hadn’t really expected to see it.

“In four beats, through your diaphragm,” Obi-Wan instructed as he inhaled, expecting Anakin to follow. “Hold…. And out for eight.”

Anakin remembered this exercise. It had been years since he had done it, but he remembered it. He remembered the way Obi-Wan would breathe with him when he felt panicked or stressed. Most negative emotions really. He would go on and on, never stopping until Anakin told him and truly felt better. It never mattered how long it took, Obi-Wan had always been there with him, breathing in time with him.

Once upon a time, it had helped.

When had it stopped helping? When had he stopped doing it?

Did it at all? Or did Anakin just stop seeing the use, when he started using his negative emotions, when he saw them as useful and powerful. Had he started to see it as childish or another way Obi-Wan could control him?

Control him, Anakin nearly scoffed. As if he could. As if he wanted to.

Why were his emotions so heightened and negative when it came to Obi-Wan as of late? It had been like that for quite some time, he realized. He was constantly getting upset and angry with his former master and at this particular moment, Anakin could not recall in the foggiest why.

“In four beats,” Obi-Wan repeated and continued to rub circles on the top of Anakin’s hand delicately with his thumb. He focused on the touch, his gaze growing a bit bleary and hazy as he just watched Obi-Wan’s gloved hand move, his tough gentle and light. “Hold four, five, seven….and out one two three.”

They repeated several more times until they were completely in sync, breathing in time with one another, and Obi-Wan was no longer guiding the session. It was just them. As one. Two halves of the same whole.

Two halves of the same whole.

Kind of like the open circle fleet’s symbol.

Obi-Wan’s fleet.

Their fleet.

“It is time,” Obi-Wan said, breaking out of his train of thought. Anakin wished he had more time. He felt like he was getting somewhere. Not just with Obi-Wan, but with himself as well. He was supposed to realize something, he knew it. Something important. It would have to wait. “Do you feel better?” Obi-Wan asked.

It felt nice to be honest about it, and he nodded. “Yes, master.” He hadn’t remembered the last time something like this had helped. Really, he hadn’t remembered the last time he had even done something like this. Who told him that it wouldn’t help? Who told him that this was no longer a good thing? If someone like Obi-Wan was one to do it on a basis, someone as wise and good as him, would it not be good for Anakin as well?

He had so much more to think about.

“Then come, dear one,” Obi-Wan replied, gently. But there was a bit of an edge to it, something Anakin couldn’t quite identify. Perhaps it was just preparation on what was to come. Anakin didn’t really know if Obi-Wan felt something strong like he did about slavery, he doubted it. Obi-Wan hadn’t been a slave for any length of time, but that didn’t mean he had to like it either. The Jedi in general, were doing their best, even before the war, but it just wasn’t enough. With the restrictions in the senate, the illegal activities and simply their lack of numbers, there was only so much the jedi could do. Sometimes Anakin forgot that. “Go fetch your apprentice and meet me in the docking bay. We have a lot to do and an uncertain timetable,” he added. It was technically an order, but it hadn’t felt like it.

Resolute. Anakin nodded.

Ahsoka was raring to go, and they gathered a few soldiers to accompany them. No doubt Obi-Wan and Commander Cody were doing the same. Kix was anxious with the disappearance of Jesse and his other brothers and declared it would be best, in case either someone got hurt or they came across someone who was hurt. He was a good soldier and warrior anyways, even if he wasn’t a medic, Anakin probably would have brought him along. Appo was always a great addition. He was calm and smart, and he was good at keeping people together, although at the moment, they were all a little confused. Perhaps Obi-Wan had promoted him and didn’t tell him? He kept calling the sergeant, commander. It wasn’t completely out of character for Obi-Wan to promote someone and not tell them immediately. And then Dogma was with them as well. In their kerfuffle, he had just slid back into the 501st, looking over what had happened with Krell, keeping rather close to his commanders. Anakin wouldn’t hold it against him; he was trying to be loyal. He just had some bugs to work out, no big deal.

Several 212th boys were waiting with them, armed to the teeth and ready to fight. They had the same calm air that Obi-Wan usually carried around them with something else, as if they were chomping at the bit. Their eyes would darken into something violent and dangerous. This mission was personal. He could understand that. Anakin did realize most of them had been around their meditation study not a few hours prior. He remembered the way Obi-Wan had relaxed in their presence. He still hated that Obi-Wan had relaxed more with them than with Anakin himself, they were his troops, Anakin was his padawan, but he did comprehend something at least. Anakin had his go to’s and favorites, he supposed Obi-Wan did too.

It was an odd thing to think about.

Boarding the upcoming slave ship was rather easy. A single slave ship was no match for even one of the venator ships, much less two. The Negotiator and the Resolute boxed them quite easily and the gunships were off. And any crew of slavers was no match for a single squad of troopers, much less a squad led by a jedi.

Led by several jedi.

It didn’t mean the slaver did not try, however, because they did. Their efforts were a strange mix of amusing and annoying. They tried to shoot at them, threw smoke bombs and other small explosives. Closed normal and blast doors, others reinforced but no matter what, it wasn’t a match for the power and heat of their lightsabers. They could just burn through.

Anakin kept breathing.

He wouldn’t let his anger control him, not with Obi-Wan watching. He had so much to prove. He stayed rather close to his former master and Ahsoka ended up veering off with Master Vos. It wasn’t something that was particularly on his mind. He and Master Vos didn’t always get along but there was something he could trust him with, it was Ahsoka. After all, Master Vos had somehow raised someone as good as Aalya Secura, he must be somewhat decent.

Obi-Wan was…fighting different.

Anakin, he knew how Obi-Wan fought. They had sparred frequently, fought alongside one another constantly, Obi-Wan taught him and Anakin dared to think he had taught Obi-Wan a thing or two as well. They had always been well synced with one another, fighting together like one entity. Mostly because they had been fighting with other another for so long. And it wasn’t just in his padawanship, they were matched together often times during his knighthood too, during the war. Sure, Anakin was technically under Obi-Wan’s command, as the older jedi was a high general, but still, their groups meshed together well. The 501stand 212th worked seamlessly together, just like their generals did. At their best, together, they were an opponent to not be underestimated. One to be feared.

But here, now, it was different. He was different. It was not the same really, they weren’t quite as good. He shouldn’t say that. They were still fantastic, a foe and duo to be feared, undoubtedly, even with their step away from one another. But it wasn’t quite as right as Anakin knew it normally was. Not quite as in sync with each other’s moves as they were before. Oh, how things could change. In a day. Fifteen years. He didn’t like it.

Had it changed so suddenly? Or had this been a slow change? One that had been coming around?

Anakin had known Obi-Wan since he started seriously started practicing Soresu. It was a form he had mastered well. He knew that the older jedi had started off with Aratu, a form he had used against the Sith during the blockade of Naboo. Anakin had watched the security tapes over and over and over again. Many times. He had quickly after that switched over to another form. Anakin had watched as he weighed the pros and cons of each one before finally settling on Soresu, the defensive form. Anakin had asked him why once. He was so good at Aratu, even others had told him that. Obi-Wan had always just looked sad when it was brought up.

“There are so many holes in Aratu, nothing for defense,” he had said.

Anakin hadn’t completely understood it at the time. Of course, he had been ten at the time, so he didn’t really understand much but over time, he did sort of get it. Obi-Wan was haunted by the death of his master, his inability to protect him, although, looking over so many of the tapes so many times, Anakin knew there was nothing he could have done, even if Obi-Wan had been using Soresu during that period. He was trapped behind a barrier, alone.

Sometimes he wondered who was left alone. Had Obi-Wan just not been fast enough? Or had Qui-Gon just ran ahead, recklessly without heed?

Obi-Wan, turned out, was amazing at Soresu, and his demeanor shifted to accommodate that. He was patient and enduring. A good defensive form in contrast to Anakin’s own, more aggressive Shien form.

Soresu was built on defensive blocks and impenetrable shields, which Obi-Wan used to the fullest. It was possibly the most perfect fit for wartime, this wartime, especially against the blaster bolts they were constantly up against, as it was used to deflect and redirect attacks. It didn’t rely on raw power like some of the other forms, raw power that Anakin knew he himself had and Obi-Wan rather lacked.

But that did not make Obi-Wan any less dangerous.

But this…it was still Soresu, the one he was using now, was still identifiable, still the form, still a dance, still an impenetrable shield of defensive blocks…but there was something different about the way he moved. Technical. Mechanical. Something Anakin had never seen before

Soresu often times was criticized because of its lack of offensive attacks and strokes. What good was a defense if you could not defeat your enemy, only block them?

Anakin had thought that once. But he had seen Obi-Wan use that defense to defeat many enemies, including himself.

But this, what Obi-Wan was doing now, even though it was still Soresu, as Anakin could tell, but something was added. Something more raw and powerful, a bit more force behind actual blows that could take instead of just defend. It was Soresu but something was added, something Anakin had not really seen.

What had Obi-Wan done in the future?

He was further, just slightly out of sync with Anakin, a step forward. Was this a sign? Was he being left in the past? Had he lost Obi-Wan forever?

Obi-Wan had never been particularly cruel, sometimes even lacking efficiency in exchange for chance, for mercy and compassion. It had paid off on more than one occasion, even Anakin could admit that, as much as he wanted to just take people down. But that was not the case here. The Soresu master was a whirlwind – giving each of the slaver crew one chance and one chance only – if even that – to surrender and lay down arms. Of course, more often than not, they didn’t. Obi-Wan did not keep giving chances. He did not go out to kill either, Anakin could not imagine his old master doing that, but several slavers lost appendages and others incapacitated by other means. Some would not survive their wounds. Anakin found he didn’t mind.

Obi-Wan hadn’t even paused as he went through the halls, making a straight path to the bridge, where certainly the captain and his closest crew were holed up. They didn’t stand a chance. He barely gave Anakin time to redirect the power in the door to make it open before he went to strike his saber right through it. But when the door did open, he strode in, completely in charge, with a posture to match. There was an air of unyielding, of no chance at all. He did not care what they wanted, and he was not here to negotiate. He was here to take.

“Hello there,” he greeted, although his voice was hard and his tone rather bored with the entire scenario. The captain and a few others just stared, their hands on their weapons, pointed at them. Anakin smirked. “I am General Kenobi, and I am here to take over your ship and relieve you. You of the slaves.”

The captain tried to fight him. He charged and Anakin was all ready to fight back; with his saber at the ready to defend Obi-Wan and take the being down. But Obi-Wan put a gentle hand on his arm before spinning his saber, almost lazily. Anakin barely even saw it move. The captain was on the ground then, crumpled on the floor. Unconscious or dead, Anakin didn’t know. It didn’t matter.

“We must move quickly if we are to keep with the ship’s schedule,” he said and stepped over the slaver, away from him. The rest of the crew had surrendered, staring at their employer with such wide eyes, one might have thought they were no longer inhabiting their bodies. Anakin snarled at the slaver on the ground but bounced after his former master with renewed interest.

The cargo bay had quite a number of slaves in it, spreading several species and people. It was not a large ship by any means. It wasn’t as though Anakin had seen many ships, particularly, that were crowded with slaves, but there was a good dozen or two huddled together. They were cowering and kept to the walls, away from them, many chained to the walls. Obi-Wan just glanced at him, eyes soft and sympathetic and dragging him out to walk into the middle, with a translator droid hot on their heels, before tugging down for him to sit down with him. Anakin followed what he was doing.

Their level. Smaller, less threat. Taking off weapons and setting them away. Within sight of them so they could see. Everything laid bare, just like them.

“Frightened and scared beings act fairly universal,” Obi-Wan hummed under his breath, sad and tired.

He took a breath and told the droid to translate for any of the slaves who did not speak basic.

“My name is jedi Obi-Wan Kenobi and we are here to help you,” he started, his voice gentle and kind, but loud enough for those who knew the language to hear it. Beside him, the droid called out in another language that Anakin wasn’t entirely sure he knew. “In a few minutes, you can be taken aboard a Republic cruiser, where your chips and collars will be deactivated and removed. You may eat and rest and will be given clothes. Troopers will come around to ask what you would like to do moving forward,” he gave a pause, allowing the droid to translate the passage. The slaves look tentative. “You may accompany my troopers to Coruscant where you will stay at the Jedi Temple until you can start new lives where you would like, contact families and home worlds if you have them or find a new place to settle.”

Anakin just stared at his master, silently. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting really. Was this it? Was this not? His head was swimming.

“Over there is Sergeant Barlex,” Obi-Wan said, gesturing beside him as he continued and the droid relayed the words, even pointing over to the clone as well. Anakin looked up and sure enough, several clone troopers stood by him, none of which had their weapons on them at the moment. He made a gesture, and the troopers removed their helmets, revealing their generally identical faces. Anakin stared at them, reaching out, as if he could just memorize them right here and right now. These were some of the troopers that Obi-Wan cared for, that he trusted and loved. Anakin should trust them too, at the very least. Because he did, to some extent, have to. Trust them with Obi-Wan’s life, especially when he was not around. “He and troopers Gearshift, Crys and Threepwood will be assisting you.”

Carefully and slowly, Anakin stood up and he walked over to one of the slaves, kneeling down in front of them, keeping his hands where they could see him and telegraphed his movements. He gave them some bread that he tucked away in his robe and handed out pieces for them to share. “There is plenty more where that came from,” he promised. He wasn’t entirely sure if they could understand his words, but they seemed to get his meaning.

“Please do be kind to them, Sergeant,” he heard Obi-Wan’s voice behind him.

“Of course, sir,” the trooper replied, curtly, but his voice was surprisingly understanding, and kind, despite the gruffness of it. “Keep yourself alive. And bring our kid back home, would you?”

Our kid? Anakin hadn’t known that some of the 212th troopers already knew Luke. Already knew him enough to like him, to be a bit rather protective. Was it that easy and simple to bond with them? Could Anakin have that with even Obi-Wan’s troops so effortlessly?

Obi-Wan nearly laughed. “Of course, sergeant. You quite like him, don’t you?”

Barlex shrugged as Anakin made his way back over to them, upon giving several slaves a few things of bread. He had kind of stuffed his pockets and robes and sleeves with them. Water wouldn’t have kept in the battle or a fight, but food was the next best thing. “He’s a good kid. Strong head on his shoulders. Calm, determined. Not a great listened, sneaking off with Lieutenant Waxer’s platoon but, well, it seems to run in the family.” He almost even sounded amused. That didn’t seem normal for the trooper from what he could tell.

Anakin’s former master snorted. “Ah, you have no idea, Sergeant,” he chuckled.

“We’ve got this, sir,” another trooped nodded next to him. “We will get all the people off the ship pronto so you and the others can move on schedule.”

Another nod. “Thank you, Threepwood.”

“Gearshift is rounding up the crew, preparing for departure.”

“Departure?” Anakin asked, curiously.

“Since we cannot technically free slaves and take down slavers due to the Chancellor’s emergency powers,” Obi-Wan growled, more than just a bit bitter. Anakin continued to be mildly surprised. He wondered why that was. “We will…ahem…convince and persuade them to abandon the people and scatter.”

“We cannot arrest them?” Anakin hissed.

“The Chancellor says he does not want to strain relationships with the Hutts and other powerful entities,” Quinlan Vos snorted as he and Anakin’s padawan walked up and united with them. She was practically bouncing, her eyes fiery with justice and a readiness to battle. “So, he’s been easy on their…employees and their occupation of choice.”

Anakin swallowed. That…could not be right.

That could not be right. No way that…

His thoughts were interrupted by Obi-Wan’s next words, his voice growing loud, as if he was trying to drown out Anakin’s thoughts. “Are there any other beings or things aboard that need to be moved?”

Anakin was technically paying attention, but his eyes were on the slaves that were gently being led by the troopers, sans their weapons, off the ship and towards the larger vessels. Someone had landed the Negotiator already, so the people were being led straight into the docking bay, away from the horrid place that was once a slave ship.

One of the troopers did have his weapon, but he was rounding up those that were obviously slavers and masters. Anakin stared at him for a long moment. The gear tattoo on him was interesting in some mundane, distracting way. It almost looked like was moving, like real gears.

“A few animals,” Ahsoka replied, easily. “Not any big ones, but a few small ones. Generally friendly.”

“Probably used as pets,” Obi-Wan mused. “Commander, can you get one of the boys to start hauling any living thing off as well? I don’t want to have to worry about any of them when we move on.”

Anakin imagined the trooper nodded but he was watching everything else instead.

“Anakin?”

He startled and turned around. Everyone was staring at him. “Huh?”

“I called your name a couple of times. Are you alright?” Obi-Wan asked, still hesitant, but no less worried.

He frowned. “I can handle myself.”

“That is not in question,” his former master cleared his throat as he spoke carefully, like he wasn’t sure what to say or how to say it. It almost made Anakin scowl because Obi-Wan had never been this uncertain about and around him before. It was incredibly frustrating. “But I know this situation is difficult for you and that is completely understandable. It is not a question of your ability, dear one.”

Anakin nearly melted right then and there. Obi-Wan froze, only for a brief second, as though he hadn’t realized he had said the sweet endearment. Had it been such a while since Obi-Wan had called him that? For him, he supposed, it had been fifteen years. For Anakin…had it been long? Why did he stop? Did he stop at all or did Anakin just stop paying attention?

“Anakin?”

He blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“Are you sure you want to go to Zygerria?”

“I went the last time, didn’t I?”

Obi-Wan hesitated and glanced away briefly before looking back straight at him. He looked so concerned. Was he worried that Anakin would fall apart right then and there? When Obi-Wan needed him in the heat of the middle of the mission? He wouldn’t, of course, and Obi-wan’s lack of faith disturbed him more than he cared to admit. Anakin wondered what had happened last time; if he had let Obi-Wan down in such a way. “Yes,” he replied, cautious and slow. “And suffice to say, it did not particularly end well on any notion of the time.”

“What happened?”

The older man swallowed and glanced at Master Vos. Anakin huffed. Of course, he knew. “Did you tell Master Vos?”

“No,” Obi-Wan mumbled. “He just knows me. We have been friends for quite some time, if you recall.” Oh, he could. “And aside from rescuing the colonists of Kiros, the mission before did not go particularly well. It was different than what we are doing now of course, but no one was put in a good position, least of all you.”

He wanted to bristle. He really did, but the look on Obi-Wan’s face made him stop. Something had changed. Maybe it was the look on his face or maybe it was the way Anakin was seeing that look on his face. Like, something he hadn’t quite noticed before. It was as if he could see what Luke was talking about. The grief, the infinite sadness. Had Anakin put that on him? It wasn’t pity, but rather empathy, of kindness and just wanting better for him, not about him.

Obi-Wan didn’t mean anything poorly by it, Anakin thought to himself and for some reason, that realization just floored him. He was just trying to protect him. Even if he didn’t want him to, even if Anakin could protect himself, Obi-Wan continued to do so. Was it really because Obi-Wan didn’t think he could do it himself, that he didn’t have the faith in Anakin’s abilities? Or was he just so used to it that it was just second nature. Obi-Wan had spent over ten years protecting him, teaching him. He supposed that wasn’t something he could just turn off. But then again, after all, wasn’t Anakin trying to do the same thing, all the time.

“I’ll be okay,” he vowed, walking back over to them and taking his place at Obi-Wan’s side before anyone else could snatch it from him, shooting a bit of a glare at Master Vos and the other troopers, pointedly trying to avoid Ahsoka so she would not see it. “And if I’m not, I will tell you.”

That surprised his former master, but his expression was quickly washed away by calm and pleasant gratitude. “Alright, I believe you.”

Anakin swallowed. He would not lie to Obi-Wan.