a little bit of everything

After all, I am now their humble servant. 

It is my sixteenth birthday, and with this age, I am granted insight. 

Most younglings are given a Master at twelve or thirteen, but not me. Instead, I am given twelve Masters at sixteen. And I am not given the rank of padawan. Instead, I am called “acolyte.” 

Servant of the High Council.

I had expected a late appointment, for my introduction into the Order was also late and complex, but this…this I had not anticipated.

I wish I could find the words to describe the thoughts that race through my mind, so I may better record them here, but no fragments come to me. 

Not even a padawan. They will not even make me a padawan.

Acolyte. Assistant. 

Not even a learner. I am an assistant. 

I should be honored; serving the Council in such a way has never been done before, at least not in any records I can find, but I fear the honor is tainted with something unsavory.

The Council gave me my beskar blade first; then they gave me the role of servant. 

It is hard not to find the correlation between these things.  It is hard not to blame my heritage for my current shortcomings.

They treat me differently, and now my lightsaber will physically embody that “special” treatment. 

My Father crafted this new lightsaber hilt. I have no memory of it before The Council gave it to me today, so I am uncertain if this is true. Why else would the Council have a beskar lightsaber piece lying around? As far as I know, I am the only Mandalorian Jedi since the Old Days, and my people do not precisely hand out this metal to strangers. 

The pieces are crafted brilliantly, with skill I have never beheld, and today, after I was given them and when I formed them into my hilt, these fragments aligned to craft a double-sided sword. 

My kyber crystal had always felt slightly unstable in my current hilt, the one I crafted as a youngling, though I had always credited that as my subpar mechanic quality, but now I see that this crystal was made for a more extensive energy outlet. It is powerful enough to maintain both blades. It hums louder in my head with this new hilt, communicating with me better. I feel it stronger. I feel stronger. 

Though I still feel lost when I glance at the beskar. 

The Council said that my Mother gave them these pieces as a gift, instructing them to give them to me when I was “of age.” Whatever that means. 

I am sixteen now. Naboo and Mandalore both mark adulthood at thirteen, with Naboo allowing political appointment and Mandalore enabling full participation in the Clan's duties. Even Jedi tradition considers that age old enough to leave the Jedi crèche. These facts make this “coming of age” gift a little late. 

I suppose I should be thankful anyways, but I think they did not know what to do with me until now. 

Jedi Acolyte.

A made-up role for a made-up Jedi.

I have been close with the Council since my initiation into the Order at age nine, but I had hoped for normalcy after the growing pains had subsided. Instead, I am given a role that keeps me closer to them than ever. They will practically raise me now. I am even given a room in the same wing of the Temple as the High Council. They will always lurk over my shoulder, and they are asking me to lurk over theirs in return. 

Today was just my warning about this role, the official appointment ceremony will not be until next week, and I am told it will be a private affair in the Council chambers. I do not like crowds anyways, so this fact may be a blessing in disguise, though it still burns like a slap. 

I don’t know how to feel about any of it, and recording these uncertainties has only made my mind wander worse.

-24 BBY - Age 19 - The Confederacy of Independent Systems-

The galaxy is in an uproar today.

As I noted a few weeks ago, my involvement in political affairs has grown, and with that, my observation of Senate affairs has grown. Instead of observing a few weekly sessions, I am now attending almost every meeting. For the most part, this assignment is tedious and has left me endless repeating days filled with busy work.

The Senate will argue for a few hours, do nothing, argue again for a few hours, take a lunch break, and then they will return and do more nothing. 

However, recently, this arguing has been doing much more than nothing, and I have been feeling less like a silent observer and more like a bystander to a crime.

For years, there have been concerns that loyalty to the Republic conflicts with commitment to one's planet and makes it impossible to remain objective when working as a whole. Most of these talks seem to have started with the invasion of Naboo, where the senate failed to take action when needed. 

I agree with this standpoint for the most part, though, as usual, I am not allowed to say so. Despite our heavy involvement with the Republic, I have learned that my role, and the Council’s role, comes with a certain level of political neutrality. This does not change how hot and quick my temper and my rage flare, but it does change how quickly I hold my tongue. 

The last thing I need is another scolding from Master Yoda because I am too “emotionally involved” in senate affairs. At least, I am passionate about something. The more I work with them, the more I am convinced the Council is passionate for nothing and instead exists in a constant state of polite interest and disinterest. 

The events of today, however, will change that. 

Many years ago, an incident on the planet Halcyon called into question the authority of the Republic and, in turn, the authority of the Jedi. Several usurpers wished to replace the elected members of their planet and manage their affairs without dealing with Republic involvement. In essence, they hoped for isolationism. The Jedi Order was sent to deal with this matter, and we did. 

Though now it seems our “management” has finally come back to bite us.

Count Dooku, former Jedi, and former High Council Member, has called for Independence.

In a speech people are now referring to as the “Raxus Adress,” Count Dooku has denounced the Galactic Republic and called its government biased towards core worlds and full of corruption. 

His speech is everywhere. It’s impossible to avoid. There are magazines and websites, holos, and billboards. 

His face is everywhere.

And I am not sure that he is not wrong. I have struggled with this feeling, though I try to keep it to myself. Every day I grow weary of the senate and the Order. I want to be good. I want to do my part and fight for democracy, but at night I lay in my room all alone with my nightmares, and I can’t help but feel isolated. The Republic and the Jedi claim to care for and oversee all, but with Naboo…and with me…

I think we are all spread too thin, though I could never say so. I’m so tired all the time, and yet I do absolutely nothing. Is this how the Republic itself feels? 

Count Dooku has founded something called “The Confederacy of Independent Systems” and is rallying many to join his cause and his beliefs. 

The Senate screamed at each other all afternoon, trying to argue against his claims while blatantly showcasing their corruption and favoritism.

Of course, I left my personal feelings out of the report I gave the Council. I already have a headache. I don’t need them to worsen it. 

Some of the padawans say there is a war coming. 

I am trying not to think about it.

-22 BBY - Age 21 - Geonosis-

My first assignment off-world did not exactly go as planned. 

In my last entry, I had expressed excitement for finally being allowed on a mission outside of Coruscant, and I must admit, reading that passage back while droids monitor my heart rate makes me feel mildly foolish.

More than mildly. 

The holos are now calling my assignment “The Battle of Geonosis.” My first mission was the beginning of a full-fledged galactic civil war. Typical of me.

I should have more significant concerns, like the bacta sessions I am forced to endure or the way my chest can’t quite take a full breath, but all I can hear in my head is make-believe gossip. 

I keep imagining what everyone is saying about me, and I keep making up scenarios to torment myself. I picture padawans saying: “Oh, look at Ailani, she has not been out of the house in twelve years, and the second she steps outside, it causes an intergalactic incident.”

Other than a galactic conflict, a major concussion, massive blood loss, and sand still trapped in my hair, I think the mission went okay. A few days in bacta has me sitting upright and back to my usual cursing of the universe, so it seems my attitude survived the crash okay.

The crash. Where to even begin with the crash.

In fleeing the arena, I had accompanied Master Plo on a ship, which would take any able-bodied Jedi to the conflict that had begun outside the main city. In honesty, I did not feel able-bodied for battle. I felt like I had been struck by lighting. The adrenaline ran so high I almost couldn’t breathe. And yet it was magnificent. 

On the ship, I got a better look at our rescuers. Clone Troopers. 

Kenobi had talked about them in his report, as you’ll recall from my entry a few days ago, but seeing these individuals, seeing them was different. 

The Force moves strangely and unnaturally around them. Kenobi has said they are identical, and I don’t know what I had imagined, but they are not. Perhaps I had pictured droids, which are manufactured precisely the same, and feel like identical voids in the Force. Whatever I had thought, it was wrong. 

The Clones are so different it burns. Though I have not seen their faces, their signatures in the Force are just as diverse as all beings. It was like hearing a thousand voices scream at once. It was like feeling a hundred things, a hundred lives, all in one second. 

It’s hard to make peace with the fact that these souls were crafted for war, and that uncomfortable reality has been sitting awkwardly in my mind since the encounter. 

How can one give life so it may be taken away in battle?

I don’t know if that will ever make sense to me, and my brief encounter only adds to this confusion.

There was a Clone aboard the ship, CC-3636. A number instead of a name. And he was smiling at me, though I couldn’t see his face. And he was alive, and real, and human. The Force moved off of him in strong, steady waves, confident and certain. Despite the battle and despite the bloodshed. He was calm and stable. He only faltered once, and I think that was my fault. I practically yelled ‘hello’ right in his face, even as war unraveled around us. 

I was strange and weird. And so that gets a pass. 

And he saved my life. 

He caught me before I could fall from the gunship due to my shaking legs and a blaster bolt that rocked the floor. His reaction was instant, even as mine was slowed.

And when we crashed, he did not seem afraid. Steady, and confident. Peaceful even in doom. Certain. Stable. It was true fearlessness.

Can you teach that?

I find myself fearful now and even then. However, I’m not sure where that fear is pointed. 

I don’t know much of anything, and dwelling on it confuses me more. 

-22 BBY - Age 21 - Notes on Kamino-

As noted yesterday, I currently reside on Kamino, assisting Master Ti as she begins merging our war operations with the Kaminoan's faculties. 

The planet itself is dull, rainy, strange, and clinical. Yet all of that has faded to background noise. 

Because someone spoke to me.

It was a real conversation. He looked me in the eyes and everything. He said flings to me, waited for me to answer, and then said things back. Our conversation did not linger on business or duty. It was just a conversation. 

He was talking to me, just to talk to me. 

And even stranger yet? I let him. I let him talk to me, and I even replied and made flimsy attempts at jokes. 

I thought my chest was going to explode. 

But he stayed.

It was the same Clone I had met on Kamino. The one I mentioned last week.

CC-3636. 

Though, I have officially learned that Clone Trooper’s do not use their numbers as names and that, instead, he calls himself Wolffe. (After our encounter, while studying personnel files, I managed to find the correct spelling of his name after several failed attempts. Not that I was looking. I just wanted not to be rude. It isn’t polite to misspell someone’s name.) 

Wolffe remembered me.

That was a strange phenomenon.

He had just caught me in a lie, which was the beginning of our conversation. (R3 and I had been attempting to copy the complete floor plans of the building to double-check with the official account and help the Council better understand the facilities without the additions or modifications the Kaminoans may have provided) And yet, though he caught me in a lie, he did not seem particularly phased or bothered. In fact, he seemed almost amused. 

That had also caught me off guard. 

Last week, when I met him for the first time, our encounter had been flooded with adrenaline. The battle was still fresh in my mind, and my heart was beating so loud. My head was spinning. I felt off balance. 

It was adrenaline.

Yet when he caught me in that lie today, the feeling returned. The head spinning and heart pounding adrenaline. Yet this time, the rush was due to a battle of wits. 

He was spinning circles around me. People don’t do that often. 

I pride myself in memory and wit, but perhaps I have spent too long as a silent observer. Speaking seems to fail me now, for my mind and my lips do not run at the same speed.

And I must admit, Wolffe is more intelligent than I, or at least, he can articulate it better. There is no hesitation to his words, nor his wit, as there is to mine. I doubt my speech before it comes out. He does not seem to—his mind and words in unison in a way that is foreign to me. 

The confidence and stability I noticed on Geonosis is now fully revealed as true certainty. There is an air to it in everything he does, as if the Force favors him. In a way, it does not favor me. 

I have also learned that Wolffe is a Marshal Commander, which makes many things puzzle themselves out within my head. His job is to be stable, so those in his care can follow his lead. 

He has been paired with Master Plo Koon, which means I shall see more of him. And I will admit, quietly, that I am pleased with this development. 

I am lost at sea, and it would be nice to work with someone who lives as a lighthouse.

Even if he likes to spin circles around me. 

-21 BBY - Age 21 - Notes on the War-

We had our first large in-person war meeting today. The Council says these will become a regular occurrence. 

I’m not sure how I feel about that. 

We have only been at war for a little over a month, and already I have seen more than my fair share of generals and bureaucrats. I hate talking with them. 

Though it seems that during these meetings, I will not be asked to talk at all, I will play the same role I play in the Council Chambers, silent secretary.

It’s strange to have such a high rank, yet no rank. 

Everyone at this meeting seemed to exist in a world foreign to me, a place above me. They all have an air of superiority that gives the Jedi Council a run for their credits. 

Though I finally got to meet the entire lineup of Marshal Commanders in person, I can already tell some do not like me. Though I suppose that is fair enough. I don’t entirely like me either.

I already knew their names, and all of them send their reports to the Council through me, but seeing them before my eyes was different. I got a better read.

There is Marshal Commander Cody, who seems to be something of a leader, even among his equals. The other Marshals tend to look to him for approval, even in subtle ways. A glance here, a step out of his way there. 

He must be the oldest amongst them. 

And he does not like me. I already know.

He said three words to me, here I’ll quote them: “Marshal Commander Cody.” (For context, I started the conversation and said: “Hello, I am Acolyte Réillata.”)

There is also Marshal Commander Fox, who is also quiet, but in a less intimidating way. He did not make much of an impression, but I am told he primarily serves senate staff. Acting empty comes with the job, as I am well aware.

Marshal Commander Bly is the most relaxed. At least, he appears to be so. 

There is also Marshal Commander Neyo, who said nothing to me at all. Yet I could feel his stare burn holes in my back.

I am told there are a few others, but they could not be pulled away from battle.

And, of course, Wolffe was there. 

We have only “spoken” a handful of times since Kamino, mainly through reports and things, and yet, seeing him felt like a breath of familiarity. When I was forced to attend meetings and galas and events before, the only people I knew were the Council members. It was like constantly hanging off your mother's arm at a party. It’s just nice to know someone who doesn’t know my entire history and stares at me with big sad eyes all the time. 

He treats me like a person. A normal person. 

He’s not afraid to say the wrong thing, and he doesn’t act like I’m a ticking time bomb or a glass statue. 

He has not even mentioned my beskar lightsaber yet.

Everyone mentions that.

He makes me feel normal even though the galaxy has never been farther from sane.

Wolffe seems to be getting along with Master Plo (who he calls The General), and their partnership appears well-matched. I had hoped that would be the case.

Wolffe was also the one to help me introduce myself to the other Marshals before the official meeting started, to only mild success. But I appreciate him helping out, even if he was being playfully witty and dancing circles around me, again. 

I don’t know how he manages to catch me off guard so. It makes my face red and burn. Which only seems to give him more gentle amusement. 

In my head, I can play wits just as fast, yet my words fail me again. 

But he seems to know that. 

He doesn’t make me feel stupid. Just…

I don’t know how he makes me feel.

But I don’t mind entertaining it.

-21 BBY - Age 22 - The Holocron Chase-

I fear that I have fallen from grace. 

I miscalculated.

There was a theft, a holocron. I had thought… I had thought it was my holocron. I thought it was the holocron of prophecy. And I…I overreacted. I panicked. I lost control. 

I did not even grab my weapon, nor my outer robe, nor my communicator, or anything of any use. I just ran from the building, chasing the thief. My head was spinning, the world was spinning, and I could not even gather my thoughts into cohesive actions. I was stupid and listless. Ignorant. My heart was racing so fast, and my mind had been so scattered, and I just. I wasn’t paying attention. I never pay attention. I never…

I lost. The thief, he was better than me. Faster. Stronger. Smarter. 

I failed miserably. I always fail miserably.

I almost died. For moment, with the thief’s hands around my neck, choking the air from my lungs…I thought I was going to die. 

I have thought about the nature of life and death often, and yet at that moment, in that instant, I was so alone. 

The thief threw me from the building like I was nothing. 

I do not remember hitting the ground. When I woke up, I could hardly crawl. But I was close to 79s. And Wolffe had said he would be there, and Maker, my stupid, foolish heart couldn’t…

I crawled to the bar. Though really, I was crawling toward him. 

The entire pack was there, and…

Wolffe didn’t care how much I failed. He asked me if I was okay. He looked at me like…like he saw something. And he wiped away the blood on my cheek, and it made my skin burn even worse, and yet I could not say so because…

He kept looking at me like…

Wildfire insisted I go to the medical station rather than back to the Temple. Despite my baseless and stupid protests, I found myself in a speeder moments later, on its way to the medical center. 

Comet told me I looked as if I got hit by an entire cruiser. I know he was trying to make me laugh. I usually would have. It was funny.

But I couldn’t think of anything. I didn’t feel anything. I was so worried about the holocron, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it, nor could I stop shaking. 

And then…in the dark, where no one could see, Wolffe touched my hand and asked me if I was okay. 

And I cried. 

I broke down into hysterical tears, and I couldn’t stop. I was heaving and sobbing, and it all hit me at once. I hadn’t slept, and I hadn’t turned off my mind in so long, and the chase, and the holocron, all of this was simply a reckless attempt at proving my worth and the worth of my dreams.

But he did not ask about those things. He asked about me. 

He let me cry. 

When we got to the medical center, I was still weeping, pathetically, foolishly. I couldn’t stop. Everyone else left, something about getting the doctor. 

And Wolffe stayed. 

And he let me cry. 

He just…stayed.

He stayed. 

And suddenly, I was talking and rambling, telling him about my visions. I told him about the holocron, and I told him that I keep taking it, and I told him about trying to summon visions, and I told him about the thief and about how I ran, and I told him how I failed, and I told him everything. 

I’ve never told anyone about that before. 

And I told him. And I couldn’t stop telling him. 

And then, when I could finally look him in the eyes again, he was looking back.

He was really looking at me, not just looking. He was seeing me. 

No one has ever…

He saw me.

For a moment, a brief moment under the streetlight, I thought he was going to…it was almost as if things were going to…as if we might…

Things almost got out of hand. 

And worst of all? I wanted them too. I wanted things to spin beyond my control, I wanted to do something stupid, I wanted him to do something stupid, I wanted to throw away my stupid life and my stupid rules, and I just wanted to…

The thought of that want now makes my stomach turn and my hands tremble, and yet at the time, it filled my chest with something like stars. That fact only makes it feel much worse. But the reality and the nausea do not stop the longing, nor does it stop my mind from visiting that memory over and over and over and over and over and over.

It’s been a mere day since then, yet it feels like a hundred years. 

I want to talk to him. 

I need to talk to him again.

I want him to see me, and I want to see him. I want the entire world to live in the moment under that streetlight.

I can’t. I shouldn’t. I can’t. I can’t. 

I need to. I need to. I need to. 

-20 BBY - Age 23 - The First Kiss-

I wish I had died in this morning’s battle. 

But what I have done deserves much worse than even that. 

I feel wicked. And selfish. 

Maker. 

I gave in. I gave in today. 

I kissed Wolffe. And he kissed me. 

I could blame him, or I could blame the battle, or the agony, or the pain, but I cannot even will myself to lie. Because for months I have selfishly desired this horrid closeness to him, for months I have written and longed and dreamed and…

What is wrong with me? Why would I do that? How could I have done that? How could I have betrayed myself and my Order, and him like that? How could I have betrayed everything like that?

How could I have longed for something so…

How could he have let me do that? Why did we do that? What we did was a betrayal of everything. How could I have allowed my heart stay so far? 

I feel as if I can hardly breathe. It has been hours now, and I cannot take more than shaking breaths. 

I am choking on my guilt. 

Because even now, I wish he would have kissed me again. 

Even simply writing it out brings back the memory of horrifying warmth. Even the Living Force felt like it was on fire. The galaxy was on fire. 

He kissed me, and the entire universe went up in smoke.

And I wish to be set ablaze again. And again. And again. And again. And again.

But when he looked at me, his dark eyes wide and hazy, I saw not an arsonist but an accidental match. 

And to him, I must have looked like a house fire. 

I wish I had died in this morning's battle. 

Anything would feel better than the agony that lives in me now. 

-20 BBY - Age 23 - The Parents-

I met my parents today.

They were not what I expected.

-20 BBY - Age 23 - The Departure from the Jedi Order- 

I have not written in a week.

I wish I did not have to reflect on that time, yet I find myself huddled away in the corner of an overcrowded shuttlebus, hands trembling as I type, desperate to get it out, desperate to keep it in.

Where do I even begin? 

This journal started as an assignment from the Council, an outlet for my emotions, a place to free my mind. And now that is gone. Writing is no longer an assignment. That is all over now. I type my words here, not because I have to, not because I wish to achieve more profound meditation, but because…

I have no one else to talk to. I am alone. 

I left. I am not a Jedi anymore.

I don’t even know how it happened. 

I entered the Council chambers as a Jedi, and when I left the room, I was…I don’t know what I am now.

Part of me wishes to say it is all Kenobi’s fault, but an even bigger part of me knows that is not true. His undercover mission, posing as the bounty hunter Rako Hardeen, only unveiled my own conflict more truly. 

I wish to keep blaming him anyways. 

That mission drained what strength I thought I had left. I am so tired. This war has left me so tired.

The entire mission was like an endless set of waves, pushing me down and sinking until I finally drowned. 

The night of Kenobi’s funeral, that is when the first cracks formed. That is when the endless tidal waves finally knocked me to my knees.

Ahsoka cried. She cried so much. Her small frame heaved and shook, and I almost told her the truth right then and there. But I didn’t. I maintained the lie.

And when Wolffe comforted her, when he played the perfect role of brother and steady companion, I maintained the lie. I lied to their faces. 

And then, when finally I was sent to Naboo to protect the Chancellor when I finally escaped the eyes of those I had to lie to, I was thrown into battle. 

I am always thrown into battle. I am never allowed a moment. I am never given even a second to…

And R3 took a stray blaster bolt.

The flames enveloped him faster than I could blink. 

There was nothing to save.

He had been my companion for almost two years, and now he is just gone.

And I was lying to everyone else. 

Though the Chancellor still lives, and all together, Kenobi’s secret mission seems like a success, I cannot truly count it as a victory.

It bothered me the entire flight home. All of it. It ate my heart, and shook my hands. It burned within me. 

And everyone else seemed fine. 

Everyone.

I called Wolffe like I always do. Like I shouldn’t. 

He snuck out to meet me like we were stupid kids, and after he jumped the fence, he turned and smiled at me and…and he looked at me like I meant something.

I couldn’t take it. I broke. I crumbled.

I confessed.

I always confess when it comes to him.

I thought he would understand.

He didn’t. And he looked at me like… he looked at me like I ripped a knife into his back and stood now, showing him the bloody dagger. 

He looked betrayed. 

And so I did what I always do, and I desperately clawed for his affections, despite already knowing it was too late. 

I cried. I always cry.

He told me to go home—his voice level and indifferent.

I wish I could erase that memory from my mind. 

And then, when I was in those Council Chambers this morning, all I could think about was Wolffe. And the look of betrayal on his face. 

And instead of giving my report, before I could even process it, the words were falling from my lips: defeat, fear, pain. Everything I had been trying to hide was laid bare.

I cried over R3, and I cried over Ahsoka, and I cried over Wolffe, and I cried over every Jedi and Clone that has ever fought, and every droid that has ever been built for warfare, and I cried over the Republic and the senate. 

But I was actually crying over myself. Or rather, perhaps I was crying over the person I should have been.

I keep seeing Wolffe’s face in my mind. 

How many people have I betrayed? How much have I betrayed myself? 

And the Council was the same.

They consoled me from a distance. They offered wisdom and calm waves.

And my wicked tongue…

I screamed at them amidst my sobs. I said I couldn’t take it anymore. I said I needed out.

That made the room chill. 

And I couldn’t take it back. 

I have spent years agonizing over my role, perfecting my role. I am a Jedi. I have always been a Jedi. I do not even know what else one can be. I do not know life beyond this. 

And I have dreamed of a life beyond this. How many nights have I practiced this argument? How many nights have I dreamed of telling the Council how I feel? I’ve made up arguments and spun stories. I’ve dreamed of this. 

Foolishly dreamed. 

And yet the moment the words left my lips, the moment I confessed, I regretted it all. 

My chest still hurts from crying. 

No one tried to stop me when I ran from the room. Did they all see this end? Even though I did not? 

I did not even go back to my room, I could not bare the thought. What belongings did I have there anyway? What of it mattered? What of it was even really mine? I have never belonged there. 

I have never belonged anywhere else. 

Yet I just walked out the door. I walked down the steps. 

I just left.

My legs gave out the moment I was alone, though, away from prying eyes. I couldn’t even cry, and yet I could no longer stand. I was in an alley behind the Temple, trembling on the ground, lost in broad daylight. 

I do not know how long I sat there. 

I thought about writing then, gathering all my thoughts and letting my mind pour like a river. 

I also thought about apologizing and running back to the Council chambers, begging and pleading for forgiveness or understanding or…something. 

I thought about Wolffe too. I thought about how he used to look at me, and I thought about the resentment on his face last night. I let him down, and now I will never be able to make that up. 

But as I sat there, unable to cry, unable to beg, move, or write. Unable to even feel. As I sat there, something settled over me, something sad and yet clear.

I was alone. And I had done it to myself.

There was no one to blame. No one to let down. No Order to die for, no Council to protect, no government to enforce, no will to bend.

No Wolffe to cling to.

It was just me, alone in the alley. Alone.

I have felt alone every second of every breath of my entire life, yet here I was, truly alone. I am truly alone. I cannot tell if it is crushing me or setting me free.

In that alley, I had burned every bridge, I had set fire to every wall, and I was just Ailani, alone. 

I was no Jedi, no daughter, no almost lover or friend. I was just, Ailani.

My thoughts were empty and yet so loud. Even now, they scream. I don’t know how to feel; I don’t know what to say. All I know is that I am…alone.

All I could afford was a shuttle ticket to Naboo. All I had were the credits in my pocket.

I want my homeworld to swallow me whole. 

Alone.

-19 BBY - Age 24 - The Bodyguard-

Captain Typho appeared on my doorstep this morning. 

I had not even made breakfast yet.

He came with a job offer, a call back to service, and a holy mission. I thought I would have more time. It’s only been a month. A month. I’ve kept my head down. I’ve kept quiet. I’ve kept to myself. And still, the war has found me again. 

He brought a formal invitation to service, signed by Queen Neeyutnee herself. A request of my services in her Highness’s Royal Guard. 

Typho said that officially, my role would be as a handmaiden, yet unofficially, Queen Neeyutnee needed a bodyguard. A Jedi. 

I wanted to say no. I wanted to scream and shove Typho out of my apartment. I wanted to yell and cry and fight. 

I do not really know what I want. 

I would like people to stop asking things of me. I would like to drown in my room, sinking in my loneliness until it chokes me. I would like to wander in the wind forever until it sends me away. 

Instead, I sat at my kitchen table, staring at the golden seal of the Royal House. A bodyguard. A handmaiden. A former Jedi. 

I am constantly lost between regret and longing. I dreamed of leaving the Order, leaving that life, and yet I find myself missing it and also hating it. 

I cannot regret what I did, leaving the Order, and yet I fight with it even in my sleep. It lingers in my life, and it has returned to me now. 

I am done serving the galaxy. 

I need to serve the galaxy. 

I do not know who I am if I am not serving the galaxy. 

What is wrong with me? Why must I do this over and over? Must I always sign my life away to the highest bidder? 

I accepted the job.

-19 BBY - Age 24 - Notes on the injury as the Decoy Queen-

It is now day seventeen in the medical bay. 

Technically it is month three, day seventeen, but I have only been awake for seventeen of those days. The medical droids say that I have been in and out of consciousness, but my mind cannot float back further than these seventeen days. It’s like I hit a wall every time I try.

I find myself listless, wandering in the wind. This medical center has trapped me within a cycle of memory and pain, leaving me in a bleary loneliness that I cannot shake.

Droids come in and check my heart rate.

Clones stand guard at the door.

Rane and Este visit me, and they give me news about the outside world. 

The war is worsening. We are outnumbered. We keep trying. 

I want to care about these things, and yet…

All I do is relive that night on the balcony.

That argument haunts my sleeping mind and waking thoughts. It burns like my shoulder wound, and yet it aches in a way that no painkiller can dull. I wish I could stop remembering every second, and yet that memory sits in my mind so vividly I can see it when I blink. 

I can still see Wolffe standing before me, his helmet shielding my eyes from his face. How I wish he would have let me see his face again. But even that small comfort was denied me. 

He was angry with me. 

He is angry with me.

I think of him every moment, and I fear that he is not thinking of me at all. The things he said…

I can still hear him, his criticisms and bitterness echoing in my mind on an endless loop. It was like my heart was being ripped open. He has known me, he is the only one who has ever known me, and on that balcony, he used that knowledge, that closeness, that…

He ripped my heart from my chest.

And I deserved it. 

He makes me feel so small. 

Sometimes that helplessness is wonderful, horridly wonderful. I used to get swept away in it. I still get swept away in the memory of it. Yet other times…times like that balcony, I feel as if I am standing before an indifferent wave, seconds before it drowns me. 

He drowns me. 

Maybe that is why I keep dreaming of him. 

That drowning is the only memory I can visit in this hospital room. It is the only recent memory I have of him. I write of him every day; I dream of him at night. Rane says the Republic is dying, and all I care to wonder is if Wolffe misses me, as I am missing him.

I have this deep-rooted fear that I will not know love until it threatens me with a knife. For despite the cruelty, despite the words thrown like knives,  the drowning is like a weight.

It crushes me like an embrace, squeezing the air from my lungs. 

I miss it so much.

I miss him so much. 

-19 BBY - Age 25 - Order 66-

Something terrible has happened, though I do not know what.

I cannot feel Wolffe in the Force anymore. 

It feels like the galaxy has died. 

-19 BBY - Age 25 - The Death of the Parents-

I returned home to Mandalore today.

I must have missed my parents by less than a day. 

My Mother’s blood hasn’t yet soaked into the floorboards. It is still bright scarlet and not deep maroon.

I do not know what I am supposed to do now.

Their home is in shambles as Mandalore remains under siege. The kitchen has a hole in the ceiling, and their bedroom has a sinkhole. Every few moments, I hear explosions. Sometimes they shake the house and cause paintings to fall off the walls. 

I cannot bring myself to minimize the damage. 

I came here for shelter, and instead, I stumbled into a cemetery with only ghosts and bodies for company.

My Mother died in the living room.

My Father died in the hall. 

Buried under rubble. 

I will have to bury them properly.

I wish I could bury myself beside them.

-18 BBBY - Age 25 - The Old Mandalorians-

It’s been two months, and I finally feel as if I have begun to adjust to my new life amongst the Old Mandalorians. 

Mando’a still does not come naturally to me; the disconnect between it and Common still takes a moment to translate in my head, but I find myself adapting as well as I can in such a short time.

Though it’s hard to keep up with conversations since my Mando’a is so dated (I find myself cursing both my Father and Wolffe for this) but everyone seems to like me well enough. Sort of. 

They still refuse to speak Common with me; it is Mando’a or silence. They’re not exactly going easy on me. No matter. Nothing has ever been easy for me, and I have survived.

I can survive this. 

When I am not studying Mando’a, my time is filled with star lines. From what I’ve gathered, the Clan’s last navigator passed away or perhaps moved on. I’m uncertain of the complete translation, but the bottom line is his absence. 

The Clan seems to manage okay, but if I am to prove myself useful, this is my best chance. Though no one openly opposes my presence, I would like them to do more than tolerate me. I want to be a part of their machine. Something needed. Something important.

I want to be useful. 

-17 BBY - Age 26 - Day 47 with the Alliance-

Relief work has slowed significantly, and alliance talks have all but stopped.

We are at an impasse. 

Bail says that the Empire is halting most refugee work under the guise of “reorganization.” People are being assigned chain codes at a much higher rate, and getting them for individuals without any documents is nearly impossible. 

Alderaan was supposed to be a stop on people’s journeys, and instead, individuals are stuck here for months, lost in chain code purgatory. 

Every day more people are brought to life in the relief camp, and every day more of them are stuck here. 

It all reminds me of the Clone Wars. Sometimes it feels like they never ended.

Senator Organa will not stop; however, I know he does not give up easily. Nor does his Queen. To them, the refugee work is not a mere cover for their alliance activity. In fact, humanitarian aid is the same drive for their small rebellion. They are doing this for noble reasons. 

It makes me slightly guilty since I only agreed to join because of a less-than-noble reason. Though, those motives have shifted.

This is what I should have been doing during the war. These are the people I should have been helping. I feel more productive and useful than ever, though  I know I can do more. I can always do more.  

I am still working in the kitchen, organizing mealtimes, and passing out food, but with any luck, soon, I will be able to help acquire chain codes. 

There is a group that leaves once a month, disappearing for days before returning with many blank identification cards. 

I know these are alliance members because Rex and Wolffe are among them. 

Where to even begin with Wolffe…

He invited me here, and yet, forty-seven days later, he is still ignoring me. 

It is like I do not even exist. He looks through me, beyond me, as if I am some invisible wall. He acts like I am some ghost sent to haunt him. 

He invited me. I thought that meant…I thought maybe…I thought perhaps we could have tried again. I thought I had been forgiven.

Stupid. 

I do not deserve forgiveness for leaving. I want it, though, so badly. 

I want to prove my worth again. 

I just need the opportunity. 

-17 BBY - Age 26 - Observations on Love-

It is strange to wake up in someone else’s bed and yet know you belong there. 

I have not belonged anywhere in a very long time. I have not even belonged to the bedrooms that have been mine or the apartments that have been mine. I have not belonged in things I have owned nor things I have earned. I do not deserve to belong here. And yet I do.

I belong here, in a bed that is not even mine. 

It has been two months of days like this, and I do not know if I will ever truly get used to the warmth that Wolffe brings me.

My entries from the beginning are lost and listless, my words delirious and intoxicated with adoration, and though much of that makes me roll my eyes now, I still find myself slightly lost in him. 

Perhaps more than slightly. 

Maybe I am just better with words now. 

Sometimes he is suffocating, and late at night, when shadows claim my mind, the warmth of our closeness burns so hot it scorches my very soul. That warmth makes me worry over ridiculous things, faithless things, and empty things.

Yet then I awaken in the morning, and Wolffe is there, laying beside me as if it is the most natural thing in the galaxy. His hands tangled in mine, naturally and achingly warm. It makes my head spin with a dizzy and drowsy adoration.

I awaken with this feeling every day, and it only gets worse every evening. Because Wolffe, he looks at me like…

He kisses me as if he’s always done it, as if we have been this close for eternity.  It feels like an eternity. Even longer. I cannot imagine not being like this. 

The warmth is not always kind, but it is always warm.

Like yesterday. 

Yesterday I burned. 

I do not know if it is the stress of seemingly endless missions or my own restless heart, but I find myself burning more lately.

So Wolffe and I argue more. 

Last night he wished to argue about my ego, calling me reckless and impulsive. A “renegade with something to prove.”

His was not wrong, but my hurt swung faster than my sense, and in turn, I said something about his inability to relinquish control, and of course, that ruined everything for the rest of the night. 

He left to sulk in the engine room, and I stayed to sulk in the pilot’s chair. 

I feel bad for Rex, who was then forced to be my co-pilot for the rest of the flight. Though he is polite enough not to say anything, he’s kind enough to fake enjoyment over traveling with me.

I kept thinking about what Wolffe said all night, though, even as I stared at the controls. 

A renegade with something to prove. 

I do not think Wolffe knows I am trying to prove something to him. 

I am trying to prove I am worthy of him.

He will not let me show it. 

And yet, even after the screaming and words that were said only to maim, Wolffe was here when I awoke.

He’s still sleeping beside me now, even I write. 

And I still find myself belonging here, in a bed that is not mine.

-17 BBY - Age 26 - The Final Entry-

It is our last night in Mandalore.

And we are successful. 

The Old Mandalorians have agreed to help the Alliance maintain the shipping routines, and with their protection, our secrecy and security are now certain. 

Though, it took much convincing. But none of that matters now. At least it’s done.

In the morning, Wolffe and I will begin the long trek back to my ship and the even longer flight back to Alderaan. 

I should be sleeping. 

Wolffe is already sleeping, his arms wrapped around my waist as I sit and write. 

I should be sleeping along with him. 

I could argue that his warm breath and embrace are keeping me awake, but I think perhaps I am beginning to get too old to justify lying to myself. 

Something is bothering me, lingering in the shady places of my mind, creeping slowly and leaking across my head until it is all-consuming. It’s not a vision; at least, I do not think so. 

I told Wolffe it was a headache. He would not understand it otherwise, and there is no sense worrying him, for even fellow force-users did not understand the things I see and feel. 

Wolffe told me I was not getting enough sleep. He always says that. Though, he is not entirely wrong. I’ve never been able to sleep well. 

I told him that my lack of sleep was mainly his fault. 

He laughed then, quietly and softly. I love it when he laughs. I wish I could have laughed in return, but I could only force a weary smile. 

I pretended to sleep for a long while to make him happy. But I know what I feel is bigger than just a lack of rest. 

I’ll need to meditate on it when we get back to Alderaan.