#force visions

The hum of the ship filled the air like a lullaby—soft, steady, pulsing through the walls like a heartbeat too slow to be alive. The Nubian cruiser floated through hyperspace, sleek and silent, its regal halls dimmed to twilight for sleep. Outside the viewport, stars streamed in ribbons of gold and silver. A quiet storm. Distant. Unfeeling.

It was only the first night.

And Alina Skywalker was already breaking apart.

She woke as if yanked from another world—one with teeth and fire. Her body snapped upright in bed with a force that left her gasping, a dry, shuddering sound clawing out of her throat. Her vision swam. Her heart pounded so hard it felt like it was trying to flee her chest. Her skin was soaked in sweat, despite the icy cold that clung to the room.

No breath.

No sound.

Just panic.

She wrapped her arms tightly around her middle, folding in on herself like she could keep something inside from spilling out. But it was too late. The vision was already bleeding into the room—into her bones, into the Force. She’d seen it. Felt it. It wasn’t a dream.

It was a prophecy.

Fire. Screaming. A face that was Anakin’s—but not. Scarred. Twisted. Eyes like molten gold, blazing with pain so deep it had curdled into rage. He was fighting—furiously, violently—on a world that bled lava and screamed with every breath.

And the voice.

So clear it might as well have come from her own mouth.

“You were my brother—”

Then silence. Like the galaxy itself had snapped in two.

Alina doubled over, hands pressed to her mouth, trying to stop the sobs that shook her. But there was no controlling it. The grief came anyway. In waves. Crashing. Crushing. She bit down on her knuckles until she tasted blood, desperate to stay quiet. Anakin was still asleep in the other bed, curled into the blankets with Fray tucked against his chest. He didn’t stir.

But she couldn’t stop.

Her shoulders shook uncontrollably, breath catching and snapping, legs drawn up to her chest like she could physically cage herself in.

The Force around her twisted, frayed—like a web unraveling thread by thread.

And across the ship, Obi-Wan Kenobi felt it.

His eyes flew open mid-meditation, his breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t a tremor.

It was a rupture.

Panic. Horror. Pain so sharp it cut through hyperspace and across the bond that linked him to her—still fragile, still new, but undeniable. Her emotions roared into his chest like a hurricane, flooding every quiet part of his mind.

He stood without a word, the silence around him brittle with tension. He didn’t bother alerting Qui-Gon. This wasn’t something to explain.

He was already moving.

The hallways were dark, the lights low, but he didn’t need them. The Force pulled him forward, step by step, each one faster than the last.

By the time he reached her door, the energy spilling from the room was suffocating. Not violent. Not hostile. But desperate. The kind of pain that was trying to be hidden—tamped down like ash over fire—but was only smoldering harder for it.

He didn’t knock.

He didn’t hesitate.

He placed his palm against the panel and the door slid open with a faint hiss.

Inside, Alina didn’t move.

She was crumpled at the edge of her bed, back to the door, her body shaking with each ragged, shallow breath. She didn’t look up. Didn’t speak. Her hands were pressed to her mouth so tightly it looked like she was trying to crush the sound out of her own body.

Obi-Wan stepped inside, slowly, like he was approaching a wounded animal.

Because he was.

“Alina,” he said softly.

She flinched.

Not from the sound.

From him.

He took another step.

Her head jerked the slightest bit in his direction. Her eyes were wild—glassy with tears, pupils blown wide with fear, like she didn’t know who he was or where she was or if she was even still real.

“Hey,” he said again, gentler now, crouching a few feet away. “You’re alright. You’re safe. Whatever it was, it’s over. You’re here.”

A choked sound rattled out of her throat. Not a word. Not even a breath.

It was a warning.

He reached out slowly, his hand open, nonthreatening, trying to offer her a grounding point. A tether.

But the moment his fingers neared her—she pulled back like he’d burned her.

Her whole body recoiled, flinching violently as she turned away, collapsing further into herself. Her nails dug into her arms, her jaw clenched so tight it trembled.

And then—the Force lashed out.

Not aggressively. But in instinct.

A wave of No.

Not a word.

But he heard it like a shout. Like a slammed door in his mind.

“Don’t.”

Obi-Wan froze, the air between them pulsing with raw emotion.

It wasn’t fear of him.

It was fear of being touched. Of being seen. Of being felt when everything inside her was so loud she could barely breathe. She wasn’t ready to let it out. She wasn’t ready to share the storm she was barely surviving.

So she shut him out.

Completely.

And the door between them wasn’t metal—it was will.

He stayed kneeling for a moment, trying to steady the pulse of the Force between them. Trying to send calm. Quiet. Understanding.

But she was shaking too hard to feel it.

He couldn’t fix this.

Not tonight.

So slowly, without speaking, Obi-Wan stood. He looked at her one last time—folded in on herself, her entire body trembling, trying to disappear.

Then he stepped back.

“I’ll be nearby,” he said quietly. “If you need anything. Anything at all.”

She didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t acknowledge him.

So he left.

The door hissed shut behind him.

And Alina?

She stayed like that until her body simply gave up—until the tears ran dry and her muscles stopped working. She lay down without thinking, curled tightly, still shivering.

Still silent.

It was only the first night.

And she had already glimpsed the end of everything.

---

The artificial morning had no warmth.

The Nubian cruiser glided silently through hyperspace, its smooth hallways glowing with the soft light of simulated dawn. The air was crisp and still, the kind of stillness that made every sound feel too loud, every breath too real. But even in the quiet, Alina moved like a ghost--barefoot, blanketed, eyes distant.

She hadn’t spoken a single word since the vision, she hadn’t spoken since the fight either. 

Not even to herself.

Not even in her mind. 

The ache in her chest hadn’t dulled overnight--it had spread, like frost under her skin. A numbness that wasn’t calm. Just…emptiness, a numbing, quiet emptiness where the light just can’t reach. She hadn’t cried again. Her body didn’t have strength. But the tension still trembled through her limbs with every step, invisible but constant.

She left the room like it might poison her if she stayed another minute. Anakin still slept peacefully in the opposite bed, the little creature tucked under his chin breathing in tandem with him. He looked younger in sleep. Smaller. Unburdened. And the sight only made her stomach twist harder.

She couldn’t look at him. 

Not after what she saw.

Not when his eyes--those eyes--had haunted her all night. Gold. Burning. Lost. Wrong. 

She didn’t even stop to think. Her body just moved.

The blanket clung to her shoulders, knotted in one fist, trailing behind her like a quiet flag of surrender. Her other hand brushed against the walls as she passed through the ship’s corridors, fingertips dragging along cold durasteel, needing something--anything--to anchor her to the present.

The ship was still waking. No voices yet. No noise. Just the hum of life support and the dull flickers of status lights pulsing like distant heartbeats. 

She didn’t want noise.

She didn’t words.

She just didn’t want to be alone.

Her pace slowed near a junction--sensing something, someone. A whisper in the Force, not strong but familiar. And then--

Obi-Wan. 

He turned a corner just ahead, tugging at the fastening on his belt. Hair still slightly mussed from sleep, tunic wrinkled, expression soft and unguarded. He hadn’t noticed her at first.

But the moment he did, he stopped.

Their eyes met--for just a second.

And in that second, something passed between them. Not a thought. Not a message. Just the mutual weight of shared silence.

Alina froze, just a few steps away.

Her hands tightened around the blanket at her chest. Her hair hung loose around her face, strands sticking to her cheek from the night’s sweat. She didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stood there, her chest rising and falling in a shallow, uneasy rhythm.

Obi-Wan straightened, his brow furrowing slightly. “You’re up,” he said gently, in a low voice. “Are you…?”

He trailed off.

There was no answer coming.

Her lips didn’t even part. She didn’t make a single sound. Just stood there, trembling slightly under the surface, like a glass holding back the weight of a flood.

But she took one step closer.

Not toward him--just in his direction. A movement not of need,exactly, but of instinct. Of gravitational pull. She didn’t want conversation. She didn’t even want comfort.

She just needed to not to be alone anymore. 

Obi-Wan watched her carefully. The Force around her was quieter now, but still fractured--like the tremor after an earthquake, the air still thick with tension that hadn’t found release. Her presence was dimmed, drawn inward, but still unmistakably there. Raw. Trembling. And shut off so tightly that he felt like even breathing wrong might scare her back into the dark.

So he didn’t move.

He didn’t approach.

He just stepped silently to the side--opening the space between them, offering her that small, silent permission to come closer if she so chose to.

She did.

Only by a few steps. Just enough that she could stand beside him. Her shoulder just a few inches from his arm. Her head tilted down. Her blanket drawn tighter.

Still no words.

Still no sound.

But she was there.

And she wasn’t leaving.

Obi-Wan glanced down at her--not pressing, not speaking again. Just quietly observing her posture, the stiffness in her spine, the way her fingers kept clenching and unclenching in the fabric. 

He thought of saying something comforting.

Then didn’t.

There was a certain grace in the silence, and she needed that more than she needed questions or platitudes.

So he simply turned and began to walk down the corridor.

And after a long, brittle pause--she followed. 

Their footsteps were nearly inaudible on the polished floor. Her bare soles, his soft tread. Nothing about it was dramatic. Nothing about it was loud.

They walked the length of the cruiser twice without saying a single word.

No one else crossed their path. The halls were still hushed with the early morning, distant footsteps were bare;y echoing in other chambers, droids whirring far away. It was early enough that no one questioned where they were or why they walked like shadows, side by side, always keeping just enough space between them to avoid brushing sleeves.

Alina never looked at him.

But she never drifted more than a few steps away.

Obi-Wan kept his pace slow,steady. No sudden moves. No curious glances. Just presence. Just there. A quiet sentinel walking through the still air. Letting her breathe around him however she needed.

The only sound was the soft whisper of her blanket dragging the floor behind her and the gentle flutter of her breath--still too shallow. Still not right.

She didn’t know where they were going.

And she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Because the moment she stopped walking, the vision might return. The silence of sleep would rise again, and this time it might just swallow her whole.

So she walked.

And Obi-Wan let her.

Eventually, they reached one of the observation alcoves--a semicircle of cushions and viewports, built for contemplation or quiet study. A place to look out at the stars and forget gravity for a while. The viewport curved wide and clear, hyperspace blazing beyond it like rivers of gold-threaded wind.

Alina stopped.

Obi-Wan paused beside her, waiting.

She stared forward--not into hyperspace exactly, but into something only she could see. Her arms tightened around her middle, pulling the blanket in closer, her jaw trembling again like something in her was cracking and she couldn’t hold it together much longer.

Obi-Wan turned his head slightly, watching her--not intruding, not probing the Force. Just witnessing.

He could feel it. The way something in her had been shattered. And now she was just…surviving it. Moment by moment. Like she didn’t know how to put herself back together and wasn’t sure she wanted to.

And still--she didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t cry.

But her breath hitched. Once. Twice.

Her hand reached for the edge of the viewport’s frame, her little fingers curling around the cool metal like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. The tremble moved through her again--not a full-body quake like the night before, but a quiet, constant shiver that wouldn’t stop.

She was unraveling all over again.

She hated it.

It was quiet.

Internal.

But it was so visible to him.

Obi-Wan took a slow breath.

Then he did something very small.

He sat down.

Cross-legged, a few feet away. Still silent. Still respectful. His back to the wall, hands resting calmly in his lap, like he belonged there--like he had nowhere else to be. No questions to ask. No answers to give. Just time.

And she stood there for a long moment, unmoving.

Then--without looking at him--Alina sank there as well.

Not beside him.

Not close.

But near enough.

Near enough that their silences could touch.

She drew her knees to her chest, rested her chin atop them, and stared into hyperspace again.

Obi-Wan didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

---

Three days.

That’s how long it had been since Alina Skywalker last spoke.

And she hadn’t slept in two.

Not really. Not even in snatches. Not even out of exhaustion.

She simply couldn’t close her eyes without the fire rushing back in.

The moment she did--when her lashes so much as fluttered shut--there it was:the world aflame, Anakin’s face twisted by something not-him, molten gold eyes screaming through a voice that didn’t sound human anymore. The Force around her had changed. The air, her heartbeat--everything had shifted the night she saw it.

And she hadn’t spoken since the moment she whispered--

“...Obi-Wan…”

--barel audible, during the fight on Tatooine outside the ship. His name had been the last thing she trusted her voice to carry.

Since then? Nothing.

Not a syllable. Not a hum. Not even a breath too loud.

Only silence.

Thick. Cold. Swallowing.

The kind of silence you wrap around yourself when words hurt too much to say. 

She hadn’t eaten more than a few forced bites. Hadn’t left Obi-Wan’s general orbit. Hadn’t looked anyone in the eyes.

And hadn’t slept.

She kept moving instead--quiet,dragging, glass-eyed, but moving. Sitting, pacing, crouching by viewports, hovering near the meditation chamber, always within line of sight of Obi-Wan. Never speaking. Never resting.

Anakin had stopped asking questions by the end of the first day. The way her gaze passed through him unsettled him too much. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t mean. She just wasn’t…present. 

--

That evening, Obi-Wan found Qui-Gon again—same place as always, the curved starboard viewport glowing faintly blue with the sheen of hyperspace. The hum of the ship filled the silence between them, but the Force between Master and Padawan rippled with quiet tension.

Obi-Wan stood there a moment, silent.

Then: “She’s not sleeping.”

Qui-Gon looked at him over his shoulder, one brow raised.

Obi-Wan stepped closer. “Two full nights, Master. I’ve checked. She doesn’t even close her eyes for more than a blink. No rest. No dreams. Just… stillness. Like she’s keeping watch over something none of us can see.”

“And still no words,” Qui-Gon murmured.

“Not one,” Obi-Wan confirmed, jaw tight. “She hasn't spoken since she said my name at the shipyard. That was three days ago.”

He exhaled sharply. “I thought she might say something to Anakin. Or to you. But she doesn’t even look at him. Only follows me. Even then, it’s not really following—it’s like she’s… orbiting. Like I’m the only fixed point in her universe right now.”

Qui-Gon turned more fully toward him, folding his hands behind his back. “Has she acknowledged you in the Force?”

“Only in instinct,” Obi-Wan said. “She doesn’t reach out. But when I meditate, she sits near me. When I move, she moves. When I stop walking, she stops too. She breathes with me. It’s like—” He hesitated, brow furrowed. “—like I’m the tether she’s using to keep from drifting off into something else.”

Qui-Gon studied him. “And how does that feel?”

Obi-Wan blinked. “I don’t know.”

“Uncomfortable?”

“Not exactly,” he admitted. “It’s not her. It’s what I feel around her. The Force bends differently. Not dark—not dangerous—but so tightly drawn in on itself it’s like she’s collapsing inward. And I don’t know how much longer she can hold herself together.”

He paused, then added in a quieter voice, “And I don’t know if I should try to stop her.”

Qui-Gon regarded him with something just short of concern.

“You care,” he said simply.

Obi-Wan’s brows drew in. “Of course I care.”

“No,” Qui-Gon said, gently. “You care more than you’re prepared to admit.”

Obi-Wan said nothing.

He didn’t need to.

The air between them said enough.

Finally, Obi-Wan spoke again, low and earnest. “I want to help. I want her to talk. To sleep. To feel safe enough to breathe again. But I can’t force that. I can only… be nearby.”

Qui-Gon gave a quiet nod of approval. “You’re doing what many Jedi forget. You are holding space. Not fixing. Not explaining. Just… being.”

“It doesn’t feel like enough,” Obi-Wan whispered.

“It isn’t meant to,” Qui-Gon said. “But it is. You may be the only thing keeping her from disappearing entirely.”

Obi-Wan’s throat tightened. “Then what do I do if she does?”

Qui-Gon didn’t answer for a long moment. Then—

“You go after her.”

Obi-Wan stayed seated across from her for a long while.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just let the silence stretch—easy, quiet, not suffocating.

Alina didn’t look at him.

But her breathing changed.

Subtly. In sync with his.

And he took it as a small victory.

He wasn’t sure if she even knew where they were headed. If she remembered what came next. What awaited them on Coruscant.

But he did.

The Council.

The fate of the Chosen One—Anakin Skywalker—would be placed under intense scrutiny. And with him, so would Alina.

Her origin. Her bond with the Force. Her silence. Her strange sensitivity. Her refusal to speak. Her attachment to Obi-Wan, sudden and unsettling. Her pain.

It would all be questioned.

And if she wasn’t able to even speak for herself…

Obi-Wan’s gut twisted.

Later that night, he met Qui-Gon again in the cockpit—this time at Obi-Wan’s request. The forward viewpanels had dimmed for the cycle’s rest period, casting the interior in soft indigo light. The stars still streaked endlessly, but their pull felt heavier now.

Obi-Wan stood with his arms crossed, jaw tight.

“We’re less than thirty-six hours from Coruscant,” he said quietly. “She’s not ready.”

Qui-Gon nodded once, but didn’t speak.

“If the Council sees her like this,” Obi-Wan continued, “they’ll assume trauma. Instability. Too much attachment to me, not enough clarity of thought. Some of them already see Anakin as dangerous—they’ll double that fear with her. Two children from Tatooine with massive midichlorian counts, no training, and unexplained Force disturbances between them? They won’t tolerate it.”

“They’ll want control,” Qui-Gon agreed.

“They’ll want to split them up,” Obi-Wan said. “Or worse—refuse them both.”

“And you believe that would break her,” Qui-Gon said, softly.

Obi-Wan looked down. “She hasn’t let go of me since the vision. She’s barely touched sleep. If they separate us, if they interrogate her while she’s in this state—she might not speak. She might shut down entirely.”

There was a long pause between them.

Then Qui-Gon asked, “So what do you propose?”

Obi-Wan looked up, eyes sharp despite the tiredness in them. “I want to bring her back to herself. Enough for her to stand in front of the Council and be seen as she is—not as broken, but as… silent by choice. Steady. Strong.”

“You believe she can do that?”

“I believe she wants to,” Obi-Wan said. “But she’s trapped in whatever she saw. She’s trying to hold it alone.”

Qui-Gon studied him. “And you believe you’re the key.”

“I don’t know what I am to her,” Obi-Wan said. “But I know that right now, I’m the only thing she trusts. And if I can guide her out—remind her that the Force didn’t show her that vision to crush her—maybe she can find her voice again.”

Qui-Gon finally nodded. “Then we do it together.”

Obi-Wan blinked. “You’ll help?”

“She does not need answers, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said. “She needs permission to feel the weight of what she’s seen—and not be cast out for it.”

Obi-Wan’s brow furrowed. “The Council may not be so understanding.”

Qui-Gon gave a small, grim smile. “Then it is our job to prepare her to meet them with the fire she carries—not the fear they expect.”

Obi-Wan exhaled, relieved.

Then asked, “How do we begin?

---

The next morning, the ship’s light cycle flicked back on—soft golden rays spilling into the corridor like a new sunrise.

Alina was still awake.

Still seated near the wall.

She blinked slowly as light touched her face. Her body was tight with fatigue, her shoulders hunched under the weight of too many sleepless hours.

She didn’t register Obi-Wan’s approach until his shadow crossed the floor beside her.

He crouched again—quiet, patient—and this time he spoke.

“Alina.”

Her name was soft. Kind.

She didn’t look at him. Not at first.

But her chin lifted a little. A flicker of awareness moved through her features.

“We’re going to Coruscant,” he said gently. “The Council will want to meet you. They’ll want to ask questions.”

Her eyes didn’t change. Her face didn’t shift.

But something subtle tightened in her posture.

“I know you’re not ready,” he continued. “But we want to help you get there. Not just for them—for you. So you can speak when you want to. So you can stand in that room and know your voice still matters.”

No response.

But her eyes moved—slowly—to meet his.

And Obi-Wan felt it.

A flicker.

A pulse.

Like something behind her silence had shifted.

Still buried.

But not unreachable.

He didn’t press further. He just held her gaze for a moment longer, then offered his hand.

Alina stared at it.

Didn’t take it.

But she didn’t pull away, either.

She let it stay between them.

An offering.

And for the first time in three days— Her lips parted.

She didn’t speak. Not yet.

But her mouth formed a word.

And he saw it clear as day.

“Okay.”

A whisper of a future, still fragile.

 But no longer gone.

---

The corridor was dim and still, bathed in the cool glow of the ship’s artificial lights. A muted pale-gold panel flickered overhead, mimicking day-cycle for the sake of circadian rhythm—but it was sterile, emotionless light. Functional. Constant. The kind of light that didn't warm, only reminded.

The Nubian cruiser hummed quietly beneath them, a gentle mechanical pulse rising through the walls and floor. It had become background noise days ago—like a second heartbeat for the ship, one steady enough to be ignored, but impossible to forget.

Alina hadn’t slept in two days.

Not a single minute.

She’d sat. Paced. Curled in corners. But never rested.

Now, though—now she was still.

For the first time.

She sat next to Obi-Wan on the floor of a narrow corridor near the rear observation chamber—far from the cockpit, and even farther from the pressure of Anakin’s wide-eyed questions or the shadow of the Jedi Council looming in their near future.

She hadn’t spoken in three days.

But she’d mouthed okay that morning. And that small act—soundless, breathless—had felt like movement. Like something shifting inside her, if only by degrees.

Now, she sat just close enough that their shoulders might have brushed, had she leaned a little more.

Obi-Wan sat beside her, quiet as ever. Legs stretched in front of him, spine straight despite his fatigue, hands loosely clasped in his lap. He hadn’t spoken either. Not for several minutes. He simply waited—offering presence, not pressure.

Then, slowly—

Alina’s shoulder sagged toward his.

It started as a drift. Not intentional. Not conscious. Her head dipped forward once, then lifted with a jolt—like she was catching herself. A small tremor ran through her shoulders, and she pulled the blanket tighter around her.

But she was losing the fight.

Her body leaned again.

And this time, when her head tipped to the side, it didn’t stop.

Her temple came to rest against his upper arm—barely there at first, like she wasn’t fully aware of what she was doing. Her breathing stayed tight for a few seconds, like part of her still thought she might need to flee at any moment.

Then— A long, slow exhale.

Her shoulders dropped.

Her grip on the blanket loosened, and her fingers curled gently inward against the fabric in her lap. Her face turned slightly into the sleeve of his tunic, not in search of comfort—just gravity, finally allowed to win.

Obi-Wan tensed for half a second.

Not in discomfort.

In startled stillness.

This was the first time she’d touched him without fear in three days. The first time her silence had felt less like suffocation and more like surrender.

And then he felt it—

Her breath evened out.

In. Out.

Not perfect. Not deep.

But steady.

She was asleep.

At last.

He turned his head slightly, glancing down at the top of her head. Her hair was a mess—half-plaited still from the race, a few strands stuck to her temple. There were smudges of exhaustion under her eyes. Her lips were parted just slightly, her expression soft with fatigue, not pain.

She looked young again.

She looked 9 years old again.

Like she was supposed to.

And breakable.

And human.

Obi-Wan didn’t move. Not even an inch. His shoulder ached already, but he didn’t shift to make himself more comfortable. He didn’t dare. The ship continued to hum beneath them—hyperspace outside the walls stretching silent and endless—but here in this hallway, the moment held.

Because for the first time in two days, Alina Skywalker had stopped fighting sleep.

And she had chosen him to lean on.

Not the Council.

Not Anakin.

Not the Force.

Him.

He closed his eyes—just for a second—and let his head rest lightly against the wall behind him.

It wasn’t peace yet.Not even close.

---

She slept.

Truly, deeply—finally.

And as her body stilled, the Force began to thread itself through her again. Not like before—not like the brutal, jagged blaze of the vision on Tatooine that had left her broken and raw.

No. This time, it came quietly.

Like a tide returning to a beach it had once abandoned. Soft and salt-kissed. Patient.

Alina didn’t resist.

She was too far under, wrapped in a silence that—for once—felt kind.

She stood barefoot in a courtyard that glowed like late afternoon.

The sky overhead was a soft wash of amber and lavender, the light catching in strands of her loosely braided hair. There was warmth in the stone beneath her feet, as if the sun had soaked into it all day and was now slowly releasing it back into the air. Petals drifted on the breeze—ivory and soft blue—and laughter echoed faintly from a garden just beyond the walls.

Everything was slow.

Everything was still.

She looked down at her hands.

They weren’t trembling.

No blood. No dirt. No ashes on her skin.

Just smooth palms, fingers slightly calloused from something practical—work, perhaps—but steady. She wore a dress she didn’t recognize, simple and weightless. It moved with her breath. A satin ribbon cinched the waist—deep blue, like the sea on Naboo at night.

And then she noticed the flowers.

Tucked into her braid.

Threaded through an archway just ahead.

Woven into the hem of her skirt.

Orange blossoms. Pale lilacs. Blue thistle. Meaning layered in scent and silk—fertility, courage, trust.

A celebration.

A joining.

She took a slow breath and stepped forward.

At the end of the courtyard, framed beneath the flower-draped archway, was a man. He stood patiently, hands folded in front of him, posture straight but not formal. His clothing was ceremonial but soft—ivory tones layered with quiet detail, like Jedi robes reimagined for a world that had never known war.

He wasn’t a stranger.

She knew him.

Even if she couldn’t see him clearly—his features blurred slightly by the Force, the way dreams often are—his presence resonated like a low chord in her chest.

Like gravity.

He looked up when she reached him, and something in his expression made her breath catch.

He looked at her like he saw her.

Not as something fragile. Not as something to fix.

But as something sacred.

The dream moved like water around her. Sound was muffled—like the world knew this moment was only for them. She saw a figure beside them—a soft-spoken officiant, robes loose and sand-colored—say a few words she couldn’t fully hear.

But she felt the meaning.

The energy. The weight.

This was not a vision of chaos.

This was a vow.

The man took her hands.

His touch was warm, calloused. Familiar.

And when he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of it, her heart did not panic.

It settled.

A calm, rooted feeling moved through her—like the sun finally rising after a long winter. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t name him. Couldn’t see his face.

What mattered was the stillness inside her.

The rightness.

He leaned close, forehead resting gently against hers.

And whispered something.

She couldn’t make out the words.

But they wrapped around her like home.

Alina stirred.

She blinked awake slowly, confusion clouding her features for a moment as the soft dream slipped away. The hum of the ship returned to her ears—the faint thrum of hyperspace beyond the walls, the quiet breath of life support, the far-off mechanical whisper of the nav systems adjusting.

Her cheek was warm.

Pressed against something solid.

She shifted slightly, blinking again—and realized…

Obi-Wan.

Her head was still on his shoulder.

Her entire body had curled toward him sometime in her sleep. Her hand rested lightly on the edge of his cloak. The side of her face was pressed against his upper arm. Her knees were pulled up, one foot tucked under his stretched leg. They hadn’t moved in hours.

He hadn’t moved in hours.

Obi-Wan was still as stone—but not tense. Not uncomfortable.

Just present.

His eyes were closed, though she couldn’t tell if he was meditating or simply resting. His breathing was steady and quiet, syncing gently with hers like it had in those early hours when she couldn’t find any peace.

Alina stayed there.

Not because she was too tired to sit up.

But because the feeling in her chest—the one the dream had left behind—hadn’t faded.

She didn’t recognize the faces. She didn’t understand what it meant. She didn’t know when or if it would happen.

But the echo of it— The calm. The safety. The certainty—

It was still there.

And she wasn’t afraid of it.

For the first time in days, she didn’t want to run.

She didn’t want to be alone.

And slowly—so slowly she almost didn’t notice—her fingers curled slightly tighter into the fabric of Obi-Wan’s cloak.

She closed her eyes again.

Not to escape. But to remember.

And even though she didn’t speak— Not yet— Her body said what her voice could not:

Thank you. Stay.

And Obi-Wan did.

---

Finally, 36 hours later, the Nubian cruiser descended through the clouds of Coruscant like a blade of silver light cutting through a stormless sky.

The city-planet sprawled beneath them--endless towers and traffic lanes glowing in blue-white streaks, sunlight glinting off permaglass domes and rooftop landing pads. The senate district gleamed in the distance, its domed architecture framed by hundreds of ships in orbit and descent.

The Jedi Temple was just visible, rising like a monolith from the cityscape--quiet and still, ancient and waiting.

Inside the ship, movement had begun again. 

Droids moved efficiently through the corridors, powering down long-range systems. Ramps were being lowered. The airlock hissed and adjusted with the pressure change.

The movement had come.

Landing.

Obi-Wan stood near the exit ramp, cloak pulled over one shoulder, gaze steady. He hadn’t said much that morning. Neither had Alina--though she hasn’t said really anything in the last three days--. She’d stayed beside him through the final hours of the journey,quieter than ever--but something in her was different now.

Not broken.

Not better.

Just stronger in its stillness.

She stood beside him now, arms at her sides, fingers twitching slightly as she watched the landing ramp lower. The light spilling in from Coruscant’s midmorning sun felt too bright to her. Too exposed. But she didn’t flinch from it.

Anakin, however, was vibrating with excitement.

“Whoa--did you see that tower?! Is that all one building? That’s the Temple? Is that where were staying? How do they fly those ships without crashing them?”

Qui-Gon chuckled behind him. “You’ll have time to explore, Anakin. Slowly.”

“But it's huge!” Anakin said, pressing his hands to the glass. “I thought the podrace was cool but this--this is the best.”

Alina’s fingers twitched again.

She took a breath.

Then another.

And then--

She moved.

Just a few steps.

Forward. 

Toward Qui-Gon.

The moment was so subtle that at first, no one noticed. But Obi-Wan’s head turned slightly, sensing the shift in her presence.

Alina reached out--

And gently tugged on the edge of Qui-Gon’s robe.

He turned, surprised. “Alina?”

She didn’t drop her gaze right away. She held it.

Her voice, when it finally came, was soft. A little scratchy from disuse. Thin.

But it was unmistakably hers.

“...Will they separate us?” she asked.

Qui-Gon blinked,startled--not by the question, but by the fact that she had just spoken, after not for the last few days. The tone was quiet, but not weak. Like a candle lit in the dark,just enough to say “I’m still here.”

Alina’s little hand fell back to her side.

She didn’t look at Anakin, who was still chattering about sky lanes. Her eyes stayed on Qui-Gon.

“Me and Anakin,” she said,voice low. “Will they make us go to different places?”

Her throat worked,like the question had lived inside her too long--pressed down,unspoken, painful.

“I don’t want to be apart,” she added,even more softly.

Qui-Gon crouched slightly so he could meet her eye level. His expression gentled, the weight of his years showing in his pause.

“That is not what we want,” he said carefully. “The Council may ask difficult questions. But you’re not being taken from each other. Not today.”

Her shoulders eased--barely--but her jaw remained tight.

“They won’t like me,” she whispered.

“They’ll see you,” Qui-Gon said. “And that will be enough.”

Behind her, Obi-Wan’s posture shifted. He didn’t speak. But when Alina turned slightly,she saw him watching her.

Just watching.

Not pushing.

Not leading.

Waiting.

And there—just for a second—she allowed herself a breath that didn’t feel stolen.

Anakin came bounding over again. “Are we going in now? Will I get a lightsaber today?”

Alina didn’t answer him.

But she stepped forward.

Onto the ramp.