SPE

SEND ME THREE NAMES + A NUMBER…

FUCK, TAKE A BULLET FOR, MURDER

Fuck: Dorian

Take a bullet for: Nimm & Nareen

Murder: no

SEND ME THREE NAMES + A NUMBER…

ADOPT, BE ADOPTED BY, MARRY

Adopt: Llewyn

Be adopted by: Jezha

Marry: Rishla

SEND ME THREE NAMES + A NUMBER…

SEDUCE, STEAL FROM, SERENADE

Seduce: Merei

Steal from: Luha

Serenade: Myr

Dorian’s eyes are fixed on her when she turns to face him, wide open, but unseeing. As if he is still looking on time so far from now—a time long ago. It wasn’t a friend. A planet on fire, little children crawling from the wreckage, screaming. Little children brought to refugee camps still coated in the ash of their loved ones. A shiver runs through him which he cannot place. Anger, regret, all radiate off of her in ripple-waves. He rests a hand on the small of her back, “I see,” In it, I’m sorry.  

When. 

The truth is, he isn’t certain. If he closes his eyes he might very well find himself back in the Vaults on Coruscant; both moments would be true, existing simultaneously. (His bones are solid now, but he’s still blurry at the edges.) 

Instead, he tells Noa, “It hasn’t been very long,” And it hasn’t. There are simply more things he isn’t saying. 

(He blinks and sees her haloed in lightning. He sees a future where she chose not to end it, and he sees one in which she did.) 

“Rishla is pacing.” His eyes track back and forth, watching the ghost-image of her in the ship’s cockpit. “They all move as if through water, as if through ghosts. I forgot how beautiful the Temple was.” In an instant, he is walking through one of the corridors with his Master by his side. He spots Noa through a window into the gardens and their eyes meet. 

His other arm is pressed between them. Gradually, his palm finds hers and he laces their fingers together. “What did you and the others find on Eadu?”

His kind of eyes. She has to wonder how deeply they go. How do either of them not become exhausted with the thought of having to explain their souls? Explain his mind. Explain unseeing eyes, warping back and forwards in time. Explain eyes that have seen too much war, too young. Explain her grief. There is no need to speak of it. There is no need to spread herself more stretched than planets, hold her hands until there is nothing more than calluses. Eyes to heavy to open for now, they stay closed near the crook of his arm.

“Don’t tell me what they’ve done to it. I don’t want to know.” She doesn’t want the memories to taint more than they already are. If she could, she would move them all to some place new. Some place they didn’t bleed out. (Take the two of them back to the moments they met, the tens, the hundreds, because she can’t remember the first time, and let it be anywhere else.) 

“She wouldn’t have stopped either,” Rishla, she knows her too well too. No need to explain a soul. Quiet and muffled, spoken after a moment as he mentions ghosts, as she thinks of his words seconds ago, “What aren’t you telling me?” About himself. It’s here, she opens her eyes to see him. “Where are you?” A genuine question.

It’s lunch time for the Younglings, leaving way for a mess waiting to happen, but it’s met with a look in Noa’s eye that’s faded through time, that must be seen past trauma, past a heart that’s grown physically weak through years of nothing to care for but a sky. To walk past the Creche, you’d hear the few Force sensitive children, too young to train as Padawans, sipping on milk, the click of a worn fan, and Noa humming an old tune, Morellian. Her brother sang it to her, once. The translation into Basic ruins the tune. Look deeply, and you’ll see the purple under her eyes, the calluses growing thicker on her fingers and palms, lightwhip at her side, she’s used it that morning, trained, for tomorrow morning, will again tonight. Look at the shadow of her eyes. She’s not tired, because there are miles to go.

“If,” Rishla repeats again in the exact same tone, tilting her head and lifting an eyebrow in a manner Noa would know more than anyone is playful. They know better than that. Noa knows better. It was common knowledge amongst Masters, Knights, and Padawans alike that Rishla Ilesar always had something to say—and she would say it, whether in six-hour long sessions before the High Council or in a lift of her chin. 

Noa’s hand on her back is welcome. She meets the other woman’s gaze, unwavering, and smiles softly. There’s a pause before she then moves to pick up her hair, near-black and grown long now, well past her waist.

Her shoulders rise and fall with a soundless sigh. Won’t say, I’m trying. Because there is more than just trying; you either act, or you don’t. You either succeed, or you fail—but failure isn’t a solid wall, an endpoint. The decision is whether or not you stand up again. (See, she rooted herself into the ground. The water over her builds and builds; yes, she is immovable. Yes, she still is. But the test now is whether or not the Jedi will rise again, herself included.)

Golden eyes pierce, unreadable, burning in their intensity. Her lips press into a straight line. “I have so much to say.” There’s a tightness to her words, in the way they’re said at half-volume like there’s a hand at the base of her throat. “It’s been so long.” She’s forgotten how. 

“It’s no excuse,” Her voice is low, deadly serious, “But you deserve to know. I took a Vow of Silence the day the Order fell.” A serious pact amongst Lorrdians—for her, woman hell-bent on making sure her words were felt. “And I broke it the day Obi-wan found me.” 

Which means she spent sixteen years in silence. It’s something she hasn’t confessed to anyone. 

“I understand,” She begins, slowly, “That there is… a need. I understand the consequences.” The next part is said with her hands, Lorrdian kinetic communication—she taught Noa some of it, years ago, and she’s uncertain if the other woman will remember now. Translated, the quick motions with her hands mean: My words are trapped. A hand is closed tightly around them, and I don’t know how to let them out.  

“You heard me, Rish.” Rishla mimics her and its met with only pursed lip smile, trying to be half hidden, some pride in her gaze, something relaxed, something that gets to breathe. There would be times, one of her Younglings, not knowing Rishla in a conference room, not knowing the power of her lungs, asked if the Knight ever spoke much, asked if she was always this silent. Noa would remind that not all is spoken with words alone, and Rishla could hold a filibuster for days, if she needed it, if someone else needed it. Noa knows what causes silence. Her fingers run through the older woman's hair, a playful gaze, "You know I think you can pull of anything," but this doesn't suit you, kept silent. How many years has it taken to grow just a single strand? It looks like grief, hanged. “You keep it—I’m braiding it. It’s inevitable.”

Now, she would agree with her. We don’t escape failure. But we learn, even if in the end, you must run to catch up with those who have already surpassed, but you must go. You can see in the way Noa watches her, she’s waiting for something, but she won’t speak it, Rishla has to stand up herself, they both know it. So, she’s a stone. So, she’s a body of water. So, get up. Rise up. And don’t pretend Noa isn’t saying this because she doesn’t understand. This is how she deals with her own grief. Her own mourning, because if she won’t move, she’ll be further buried into the ground than Rishla, black holes of her eyes acting as quicksand. (When this is over, will she have done enough? Or will she only be sinking into the ground, clawing at a shore?)

There’s a long moment Noa watches her, she knows the importance, leans forward to look the woman in the eye more deeply, looks to her neck. Knows Rishla well enough to her degree of privacy, this was unspoken truths. And as she speaks, Noa’s hands wrap around Rishla’s own, fingers wound together, let her speak into them, feel the words. Noa can’t speak back the same way, but she understands. (Languages are a tight memory, the need to know them. The need to learn quickly, or die because of miscommunication, quite literally.) “Then don’t say the words—not yet,” a look to hands, a hint to speak them how she needs them to be spoken. 

TRANSMISSION…

[Rishla’s commlink beeps softly, storing the blueprints as Noa records them. She exhales sharply from her nostrils.] They have no idea. [Tone stoic, but there’s a hint of anger there, at all of it. Being in the Temple doesn’t help. Her nostrils flare at the thought.] Sacrificing cohesiveness for the sake of immediate efficiency. If they took the proper time to activate their true power, who knows what they’d be able to accomplish. [She’s thinking out loud, conversations had before with Noa when they were younger when the Master was a new Knight asking Rishla to make her a new weapon.] That may be an advantage to us.  

TRANSMISSION…

feinkomo‌:

When Fein learned that Xavis was going to Eadu, he’d practically insisted they spend time training, preparing. Jedha had taught them all that the worst was not a just a possibility, but a probability, and he would not lose the first person he’d come to care about on Yavin to a stray saber or blaster fire.

He watches Noa, instinctually adjusting his stances at her words, flowing into the routine they’d come to find in their training over the last few weeks, but always keeping Xavis in his sights. He would train to cover Xavis’ weakness, watch him to know where he needed to be on Eadu to keep him safe - to make sure they both came home to their menagerie of beings in their room.

“Master,” Fein protests without thinking, “I can fight beside him. Its better for him to start off relying on me, is it not?” Better to have him rely than to stand alone, better to let him find comfort in the reliance than to land on enemy lines terrified and alone.

He knows now is not the time for questioning, but as he stands in their little practice ring, he can’t help but ask for as much detail as he can. He was too afraid to question on Jedha, too intimidated to clarify the things he should have known, and all three of them know where that left them.

Fein will not be the cause of another death for the rebellion. Not this mission.

it looks easy, even, how the other two move - in tandem, with grace, light-footed and sure. even as a student, fein is quick and sharp; holds an element of the grace that underlies noa’s every move. next to them, he is pitiful at best. 

he tries to hide how tired he is, body aching and mind berating. he wonders if it’s worth it if it’s that obvious.

when the two of them speak, he merely shuffles on the spot, white-knuckled with how tightly he grips at his own hands, nails digging into palms, feels it through the exhaustion that courses through bodies. 

“i can - well, i can try. see how it goes, right?” he offers, tries to keep that smile from slipping, make it something of a reassurance against fein’s words. knows the other means only well but still winces at how small it makes him feel, shoulders slumping. “it’s fine - i mean, i’ll only slow you down. it’s better you go at your pace so that you can improve instead of watching me play catch up.” 

he turns to smile at noa, bows his head a little. “i’ll work harder - sorry for taking up so much of your time. i promise - promise  i’ll try.”

says so because he can’t promise he’ll do better. 

@feinkomo​

There's a look in her eye, some black hole and she's spiraling through. Does it look like acres, a planet of fields, only she has ever walked on? Does it look like silence? Does it look like her only in a bra and underwear because she was too exhausted to lift her arms to dress herself, ribs showing, death coloring her cheekbones? Does it match the primal voice that's learning to become louder than before? Does it look like vines and trees moving at her command, roots walking above land? 

"I know, trust me, I know. I know what you want to do. But, we don't practice here for what we can't promise." A beat. "What will you do Xavis if Fein cannot be by your side? What will you do if you must be alone, despite all our efforts? Even if it never happens? There will come a time, you'll have to face the galaxy alone—that's what we prepare you for." To be stronger than you thought you could be. To prepare for the worst, so when the worst comes crawling around the bend, it'll quiver. "Fein, I know you want to protect," does it remind her of someone? Softly, "I know. But it is not your worry here." It's her's.

DATE & TIME: 1/17, 3:00PM LOCATION: The Temple TAG: @nniedra

The crystal hums faintly from its spot, laid out on a piece of cloth in front of her with all the other components that go into creating a lightsaber. Not quite hers. Not quite not, either. (It called to Mathias, Nimm knows that. It called to him and his solar flare heart—she knows that. When she holds it flat in her palm, it buzzes faintly, as if saying, you’ll do. But you’re not the one I’m looking for. Nimm knows that.) 

Gaze fixed on the disassembled lightsaber, legs folded neatly, hands on her knees, she waits for something to happen. The others have already begun; parts levitating in midair and spinning precisely into one another. She’d repaired pods and broken things for as long as she could remember, but this is entirely different. This isn’t something she can just put together with her hands. 

It takes a moment for her to feel a shift in the air and immediately, she looks up, ears burning red with embarrassment at the sight of Noa. 

“Hi,” She offers weakly, the corner of her mouth pulling into a barely-there smile. Nimm had just watched Master Niedra battle an Inquisitor; had watched her, brilliant and lit by lightning. There’s no helping the way she folds into herself now, yet again. Feeling inadequate, yet again. 

Noa stands behind the Younglilngs, the young Padawans, something soft and something that may remind you of the way slow way flowers bloom in her eye. Professor Huyang is lost to them, its parts spread across the galaxy, perhaps, but his teachings to a young woman still ring in the mind, the feel of the saber parts along her hand. She told a young Wookie a bark, strong as steel, native to his home, has been a favorite of others from his home. Lightsabers, so far and rare in the galaxy, the same as the wood that will house his Crystal. As she spoke it, don't think she missed the other young child so close. Don't think, she wouldn't know Nimm from miles away, wouldn't spot her in cities. She feels it. See the knowing tic of her brow, the twist of her lips.

One last look to the room before she crouches down so Nimm can hear whispers better, “Hey, Pumpkin, c'mon, I want to show you something, bring what you have with you." She gives, reaching out her hand for Nimm to help her stand, still holding it as she leads the younger woman to a clear room, the voices of the Padawans muffled here, but heard if one of them is needed there. 

When the doors open to welcome the rest of the team, the building is silent save for the hum of far off machinery and the hurricane. The walls house no windows, but the clap of thunder, the press of heat from lightning, the beat of the rain still bears down on the building. Rain still drips from her nose, wind whipped the hair from her braid, letting her still need to brush the stray strands from her eyes. This is neither of their first missions, but it is Fein’s first with her. And it is his first where he will not repeat the consequences that occurred on Jedha, they both will make sure of that. There are no marks from her fight with the guards, the reason for the now silent hallways, the men slumped unconscious at the walls, blaster bolts only absorbed by her skin, directed into light. It could take in lightning if it struck her. Know it by the curve of her brow. Know it's an ability she developed after took the deadly hits to the heart, long ago. She won't be almost dying that way a third time. The sign of combat is only seen in her eyes, in the way she holds the lightwhip ignited in her hand, saber in the other. 

They are silent, because they have to be. Because there's about no choice in the matter with the hurricane’s wind in their ears, whipping her hair through her eyelashes, pulling it out of the braid, now slick and wet with rain, the same water she has to blink out of her eyes. Half of her moments, more, are sensed, a reaching out—senses pushed out in all directions, into the building, up above, below to the others below them, and to her side, to the old friend that climbs beside her. The windowless walls, they'll have to make it to the top. It's purposeful, the way she stays beside Jezha, keeps his pace. What they do here is done together, with trust, with respect, sometimes, unspoken, as it must be now.

A hand to the wall, she can sense it, the vibrations, a tug, and a fog, like the air can have a calling, like the Force can push its way into her heart. Flashes of memories that just occurred, a mosaic of them, a holoscreen flashing through channels too quickly, and she breathes between them. (The true villains haven't yet arrived, but the guards, she can sense, know where they unknowingly wait. The weapons they hold. The walls memories just some time behind the present, when she pulls them like strings. The lightwhip on her side gains weight, calling her hand. It's no time to confer what he senses, no matter what blueprints were memorized, they could not control what's inside. But the pair of them, they're not the kind to ever become lost.)

TRANSMISSION…

[Palpatine is a coward—but he is a coward with power, he’s a coward who knows how to hide. Rishla says nothing more; what she thinks, Noa already knows. Instead turns her attention to the blueprints and half-constructed weapons. Eyes narrow slightly at the words.] I see. [A look back to Noa, a nod.] Can you step closer to the blueprints?—the holos, on the far right wall.   

TRANSMISSION…

"We'll do that again—Fein, switch arms, and this is practice for you as well, remember your back. We'll speak more on it during break," Noa instructs, circling the pair as she observes them, voice clear, nothing she says is a suggestion. And she is Fein's Master, but for now, the focus is on the friend he brought into their training. She welcomed Xavis too. Her leading the mission to Eadu, it goes unspoken that those behind her would not go unprepared. Afraid, perhaps, but if we wait until we are unafraid, then we will wait forever. But they can be ready, she can make sure they're ready. 

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