3. Things you say too quietly - - Grey/Theron
I know you didn't ask for a Jedi!Theron AU with this prompt... but the muses spoke, and well...
âIâm sorry that you couldnât become a Jedi, Theron. You would have been a great one.â - Jedi Player Character, Shadow of Revan
Theron had grown accustomed to a few not-so-subtle glances in his direction and the echo of whispers as he passed. His surname, as well as the apparent family resemblance between him and Grandmaster Satele Shan of the Jedi Order, ensured that his ancestry would never be hidden in the long run. But usually the whispers began after he stepped off the shuttle.
He tried to smother a frown as he strode through the temple, weaving through the crowds milling on the landing pad. If the persistent whispers and exchanged glances between Jedi were any sign, something out of the ordinary was going on. Tython was typically a much more reserved place than this, and the atmosphere set him on edge.
When something was amiss in his environment, the reassuring, yet almost insignificant weight of the lightsaber at his hip was always a comfort. The comfort and familiarity of the hilt, of the bright green blade that shone when he activated it, was one of the few constants in his life. Despite what some in the temple may have claimed, he wasnât quick to draw it â the legacy of Revan followed all of his descendants in pernicious ways.
The murmurs continued with each step, and he caught only snatches of information as he worked his way through the crowd. Perhaps a different Jedi would have stretched out their feelings and tapped into the Force to figure out what was causing the uproar. However, he and the Force had a unique relationship. What came naturally to most of his peers, Theron had to work twice as hard to master. Communing with that mystic energy never came easily to him, and he preferred not to waste his time and energy on petty pursuits when he could more easily use his normal senses. He preferred to be grounded in the physical, to touch something and confirm its reality.
Theron finally emerged from the crowd swarming around the platform and entered the templeâs great map room â and spotted the source of the uproar. He wasnât able to smother the shock of surprise that ran through him when he saw the motley crew gathered around a table in the far corner of the room. Heâd had little interaction with everyone on the Defenderâs crew, but he could still recognize them from a distance. Sergeant Fideltin Rusk appeared irritated, the Chagrianâs lethorns twitching as he attempted to disappear into his seat. Doc, as he insisted on being addressed, was leaning back in his chair, attempting to smooth talk a nearby Padawan who was attempting to ignore him. The little astromech T7-01 emitted shrill beeps at his flirtatious crew-mate. If Theronâs mental translation was correct, it was a stern warning to the medic to stop clowning around.
Of course, the biggest mystery wasnât what the astromech was saying, but why it or the rest of the crew were here at all. The last anyone had seen of the Defender, its crew, or commander was six months ago, when they and several other members of a covert strike team infiltrated a secret fortress and capture the Sith Emperor himself.
Theronâs gaze narrowed on the group, lips pursing together. The busybodies here didnât know about that part, though. All they knew was that a member of the Jedi High Council and a rising star in the Jedi Order had vanished almost completely without a trace.
Rumors of new, powerful Sith cropped up, whose descriptions seemed disconcertingly similar to the missing Jedi. That was where Theron had been, gathering intelligence on these rumors at the behest of his former master, Gnost-Dural, and why he had come to Tython to deliver reports to the Council directly.
He was supposed to deliver the report alongside Jomar Chul, with whom heâd teamed up when the rumors started. During their investigation, however, it became clear that Jomarâs interest in the mission was very singular, centered on the fate of just one of the missing Jedi. Theyâd eventually split up. Jomar focused on his obsession, leaving Theron to chase the remaining leads on his own.
He had a feeling Jomar was going to get into trouble again. Just like when heâd crash-landed on Tatooine while scouting the Dromund Kaas system for Tol Bragaâs strike team and needed to be rescued by the Orderâs resident overachiever. Since âThe Forceâ allegedly intervened and brought Little Miss Perfect in, they had kicked Theron off the strike team. Never mind that heâd already done extensive legwork on the scope of the entire mission.
The story of his life.
Theronâs talents in the Force had always paled compared to the alleged legacy heâd inherited, and the two most prominent rising stars in the Jedi Order had always outshined him. First there was the Barsenâthor, with their raw talent and diplomatic savvy. And, of course, the woman who had nearly saved the entire Order and the planet of Tython from Darth Angralâs wrath. Theron was off world in the Vesla system at the time, and when heâd returned, the temple seemed unable to talk about anything else.
He could have approached the Defenderâs crew and asked for precise details of their whereabouts for the past six months, or inquire about the conspicuously absent members of their crew. But he suspected that if he just kept walking, more would reveal itself. So, with only an arched brow at the strange ensemble, he made his way out of the chamber.
Theron found his way to the large balcony in the main hall, which overlooked the Eye of Zallow hovering in the center of the vast room. The Chamber of the High Council was just to his right. The Council members were speaking to each other, their words indistinct but their concerned tones loud enough to be heard over the buzz of conversation in the hall. He couldnât help but wonder if the return of the Defenderâs crew was responsible for that, too.
Thatâs when he saw her, leaning against the balcony railing, gazing down at the first floor.
For a moment, Theron almost didnât recognize her, and it was only that dim, electric hum that seemed to pass between only the two of them that revealed the womanâs identity. Gone were the squared shoulders that projected serenity and strength, as well as the ornate tunic she wore after earning the moniker âHero of Tython.â Theronâs eyes narrowed as he took in the pale face, tight jaw, and dark circles that stood out beneath haunted eyes. She wore a plain, stained tunic that hung loosely around her. Her hair was still pulled back into a ponytail, but it hung limply around her shoulders. Possibly most alarmingly of all, her lightsaber hilts were conspicuously absent. It may have been six months since heâd last seen Greyias Highwind, but one look at her revealed sheâd been through hell and back.
Theron could have walked into the Council Chambers â and probably should have â but found himself settling in next to her at the railing, as if drawn there by a gravitational force. With his gaze fixed on the Eye of Zallow, he simply rested his arms on the railing, making no attempt to speak. While he may not have felt like wasting energy attempting to connect to the Force in order to determine the source of some whispers, but the connection seemed easier here. He felt the raw emotions tumbling off of her almost effortlessly â although perhaps it was more her not shielding herself than any effort on his part â and he wasnât sure what to make of what he was picking up. She was projecting a sense of loss and bitterness, but there was a fog over it, as if she was trying to conceal it from all those around her.
Theron kept his mouth shut, trying to push his own emotions to the side. The last words heâd exchanged with her hadnât exactly been the kindest. Heâd been frustrated by being sidelined yet again and took it out on her, calling her a glory hog, among other choice words. Sheâd even apologized later, as if she felt some remorse for his exclusion from the mission. But she also didnât try to persuade Tol Braga or the Council to let him back in.
Of course, after six months of radio silence, the entire strike team presumed dead and now possibly turned traitor⌠in retrospect, it now almost seemed a blessing. At least for him, because it was clear from looking at her it had been anything but on her end.
âSometimes I wonder,â she finally said, her voice so quiet he couldnât hear it over the din of the temple, âif you should have gone instead of me.â
That drew his gaze up to her, and he studied her features closely. He didnât need the Force to see the darkness that clung to her like a lingering stain. Her normally expressive face was masked in an expression he couldnât quite decipher, but even despite that, her eyes still spoke much louder than her voice.
It took him a few moments to gather his thoughts (and stamp down his stubborn pride) before he spoke. âLook, Iâll deny it if you ever tell anyone, but we both know who the better Jedi is between the two of us.â
âI... I did not mean it in that way.â
He almost winced, but stopped himself. He was doing a fantastic job at... whatever this was, wasnât he? âIn any case, I doubt my presence would have made a difference.â
She took a deep breath and nodded, as if whatever heâd said was the most obvious and logical thing in the world. âI suppose not.â
He considered the report he was about to deliver, and the likely identities of the Emperorâs new dark enforcers wreaking havoc across the galaxy. If the rest of her strike team had fallen to the Dark Side â some of the Orderâs best and brightest â it spoke of her resilience that she hadnât joined them.
âYou made it back, though,â he added cautiously. âThat has to count for something.â
âDoes it?â Her voice was little more than a whisper, but he could pick up the despair and resignation in it.
It was a far cry from the cheerful Padawan whoâd fought alongside him against the Flesh Raiders in the Gnarls. Or the pompous and pious young Jedi who rescued Revan from the Maelstrom. Or the honest Knight who always seemed to land the toughest missions, earning her the Grandmasterâs favor. As much as heâd resented her outshining him throughout his Jedi career, seeing her in this state was much, much worse.
In all of his years as a Jedi, Theron had always been reaching. At first, for the Force â trying to establish a connection which eluded him repeatedly over and over until one day, suddenly, an intangible yet firm hand had grasped him like a lifesaver being thrown out into stormy waters. Heâd been reaching ever since. For the respect of his peers. For his motherâsâer, the Grandmasterâsâacknowledgement. Trying to reach for some destiny which always seemed to be plucked out of his grasp every time his hand closed around it. Over and over, he kept trying, with a stupid persistence that would have a smarter person giving up and moving on.
The woman in front of him had once been the personification of everything heâd been striving for. Heâd looked into her bright, shining future and compared it to his own. Who always came out on top? Who walked away with the fancy titles and the admiration of the whole Order? And who had to stand in the shadows, watching as she earned accolades for her bravery and skill? As he looked at this shell of a once great Jedi, he wondered if maybe all this time, heâd been reaching for the wrong thing.
And yet he reached out again â but this time, to rest a hand on her shoulder.
When she looked at him, he could see surprise mingling with something softer. As if heâd plucked some cosmic string, the surrounding air seemed to shift, and a silent symphony filled the empty spaces between them. A familiar warmth rose up, melting the fog that shrouded her. He pretended not to notice when she blinked once, twice, a curious shimmer almost clinging to her lashes.
Neither of them moved for a few beats. Then she extended her hand, barely brushing his before pulling back, a faint blush creeping up on her cheeks. The minor emotion rippled through the Force, and for a second, Theron thought he heard a tune that sounded familiar but couldnât quite place it.
âEvery moment is what we make of it, right?â he said, trying to move past any awkwardness heâd created.
The corners of her mouth twitched slightly upwards, the closest thing to a smile heâd seen since heâd last seen her. âWhen did you become so wise?â
âWell, you know â Iâm a Jedi. Comes with the territory.â
A laugh. A sharp, clean laugh, as if it had been trapped in her chest and only now had a way of escape. For a moment, she was almost herself again. Almost. The gray pallor remained, as did a haunted look in her eyes, a tension sheâd not yet released. But he could see a spark now, a flash of the pastâs brilliance. He wondered what it would take to restore that light to its former radiance.
Probably time.
âThat you are,â she said, her smile still on her face. âAnd a pretty great one too.â
âI think you and I both know who has done the most good.â
âIt is not great deeds that makes a Jedi,â she sobered slightly, tilting her head at him, âbut this.â
She reached out, placing her hand over his heart. Her eyes crinkled as she gave him a half-smile, and the air between them practically crackled. A divine warmth radiated from her fingertips, through his shirt, and deep into a forgotten part of himself and lighting a fire in him. Not the type that left a searing mark, but almost cleansing â as if something was drawing him out of himself and connecting with her, making another part of them both more whole. The moment hung there, the rest of the world reduced to background noise. That strange energy filled the air between them and seemed as natural to both of them as breathing. Perhaps it was the Force; perhaps it was something else. Heâd figure it out... later.
Her hand dropped, and she took a step back, bringing the surreal moment to an end. It was as if the room suddenly reappeared, drowning out the strange music that filled the space between them.
For lack of anything else to do, he rubbed the back of his neck. âI should⌠report to the Council.â
âIt is probably wise to not keep them waiting,â she agreed, tucking her hands behind her back.
They exchanged a glance, and he was caught off guard by the softness in her expression. She didnât move as he walked away from her, but her gaze followed him as he approached doors to the Council Chamber.
He took a brief pause just before entering to glance back. She was still there, leaning against the railing, her gaze distant. Perhaps he was imagining things, but she still seemed to radiate the warmth that had filled the distance between them. He reached out through the Force, and was met by a familiar light. Then it was gone, as if tamped back down.
He turned away and was about to slip through the door when he heard her voice drifting to him, soft but somehow louder than the wind. âThank you, Theron.â
That was the only thing she said. But it was enough.
He smiled â and walked on.
