#hey queue!

Hajime Iwaizumi, reads his nametag, and you test it in your mind. It’s a good name. You think that anything related to him is probably good. Then you mentally smack yourself.

“Did you know?” You hiss at Aika during a break midway through the class, sweat dripping down your face.

“Know what?” She says innocently, brushing delicately at the baby hairs sticking to her forehead. “I didn’t know anything, but the way you’re looking at—”

“Keep quiet,” you gasp, and she laughs, dodging your half-assed attempt to slap a hand over her mouth.

“The way you’re avoiding looking at the instructor during an instructional class tells me something,” she amends, and you can’t help laughing, albeit a little self-consciously.

“Maybe I just want to prove that I know more than everyone else!”

“Maybe.”

“Towels?” He sneaks up behind you (not really, he’s been making the rounds, and you’ve been… distracted).

“Maybe!” You gasp, whirling around to face him, and you’re sure you weren’t so breathless a moment ago. Get a grip, you tell yourself, and pinch yourself discreetly. “Yes, I mean. Thanks.”

“No problem,” he says, and you’re examining the towel like you’re trying to divine something from the patterns of the threads, so you don’t see the way his gaze roams over you almost too fast to catch, searching for something undefinable. “And for you?”

He turns to Aika, and she takes it with a smile, both sharp and innocuous, like a cat with cream on its nose. The expression doesn’t seem to phase him.

“He was looking at you,” she nudges you. You roll your eyes.

“Yeah, to hand me a towel. He looked at you, too, then.”

“Mm, no,” she hums. You chalk it up to a friend trying to hype you up, to wingwoman for you.

The class is streamlined, the instructions clear and easy to follow. You admire him all the more for his skill in leadership and ability to keep things high-energy while avoiding an overly fast pace. He knows what he’s talking about, and you can’t help that you’ve always been attracted to well-deserved confidence.

Aika waits (there are a cloud of regulars eager to catch up with him) to speak to him afterwards, but you make your way out of the athletic center quickly, thinking already of the assignments waiting for you at home. When she comes back to find you sitting at the kitchen table, glaring at your writing hand like it’s personally offended you by cramping, she takes the opportunity to sling herself into a chair and start telling you about him.

“His name is Iwaizumi Hajime,” she opens.

“I know.”

“You know?”

“It was on his nametag.”

“Oh, yeah. Anyway, he’s a Japanese exchange student, a year above us, which explains why we’ve never really seen him in class-related stuff. He played volleyball in high school but he’s been trying to round out his skills since he came to California, he’s studying to become an athletic trainer, and he asked for your name.”

You pause. Look up from your work. Squint, trying to detect if she’s lying.

“...Did he?” Your curiosity overwhelms you.

“He did,” Aika says triumphantly. “He tried to be sneaky about it, like ‘is this your first time boxing,’ and ‘you came with a friend, right,’ and ‘oh, what’s her name?’ So I was right. He was looking at you.”

“Mm,” you say, noncommittally, but when you’re ready for the next class fifteen minutes ahead of time, Aika only looks at you and laughs.

Here’s a secret: you’re not a beginner. You came to class because Aika begged you to, partially because you’re an experienced boxer and partially because she’s naturally social and going places without friends frightens her, and you hadn’t expected to keep going. You’ve been boxing since you were sixteen, when your father insisted that you take it up for self-defense, and you’d developed a habit you’d never really dropped. You enjoy the sport, or you wouldn’t do it, although you’ve never done it in a competitive setting. You’re not a beginner, going to a beginner’s class, because your best friend wants you to, the hot instructor wants you to, and it’s free, paid for by your tuition fees.

It’s a great class, you have to admit, but below your skill level. It’s also only once a week, which isn’t nearly enough for any proper growth. You start up with a routine again, settling into it with the same comfort your grandfather displays when he sits in his favorite chair back home.

You’re working out on your own, having forced yourself past last year’s fear of a new gym and obnoxious college meatheads, when Iwaizumi kills you for the second time.

“Oh, hey! L/N!” He blurts, passing in front of you, and the sight of him, clearly fresh from a workout, towel around his neck, saying your name, makes you emit a horrible kind of high-pitched noise and drop the weight you just picked up.

It lands, miraculously, on the very edge of your shoe, just barely grazing the skin of your pinky toe within your socks. Iwaizumi, understandably, assumes that your gasp-shriek is one of pain and, for the second time in your short life, drops to his knees for you, moving the weight. You take a moment to admire the way his biceps bulge. When you look down at him, his face is blanched, and you could laugh at how stricken he looks.

“I am so sorry,” he says in a rush, and somewhere in the back of your mind, nearly drowned out by the coup de tonnerre roaring in your head at this serendipitous second meeting, you notice that he’s speaking Japanese. “Shit, I am so sorry. Are you alright?”

“Yes,” you respond in kind, unsure if you’re in real life or one of the few (yet embarrassing) dreams you’ve had about him. “Are you?”

“Why would you ask that?” His brows are lowered over his eyes, a wrinkle you kind of want to smooth out with your thumb forming in his forehead. “I’m not the one who dropped their weight.” He’s scolding someone. You can’t tell if it’s you or himself.

“Breathe, you look like you’re going to be sick,” you say, and lower yourself to sit on the floor.

“I’m fine,” he brushes it off. “Are you fine?”

“Yes,” you say. “It didn’t actually land on my foot.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you say, tapping the extremity in question. “Do you want me to take off my shoe for you to prove it? Not even bruised, I promise.” He chokes.

“No, that’s not necessary.”

“You sure?” You arch an eyebrow and move to hold your shoe, as though you’re going to take it off. He averts his eyes, some of the color returning to his face in the form of a scorching blush, and you laugh. “I take good care of my feet, you know. I’ve even been told I could make money selling pictures on the internet.”

You have no idea why you keep talking about your feet. You can’t seem to stop. You wish the weight had landed on your foot, crushing your bone and forcing a hospital visit so you could leave and never come back to the gym.

“Let me take you to lunch before you show me your toes,” he says, laughter infusing his voice as well. You stare at him, wondering if he’s taken one too many protein shakes and now his brain is all muscle.

“You’re asking me out on a date after I spoke extensively about my feet?”

“It’s not a date,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck. He looks almost shy. You suppress a smile. “More like an apology? For almost crushing your… you know.”

“But you didn’t,” you say.

“Please,” he says. “I would just feel better if you let me apologize in a, y’know, tangible way.”

Who are you to say no to Iwaizumi Hajime (20), UCI junior?

“Free food sounds good,” you say slowly, and, giving in to the little Aika reminding you that he asked for your name, he was looking, then aim a deliberately cheesy wink his way. “I suppose I can wait until we’ve had lunch to show you the goods.”

A wide grin splits his face (it is utterly unfair that the expression manages to make him look adorable, somehow, that it sends you crashing back to earth and making him look a little more man than god) even though he’s clearly trying to fight it. The first time you saw Iwaizumi Hajime, you thought he was unreal and untouchable. Looking at the blush burning across his cheeks as he types his number into your phone, you think with satisfaction that you like the reality much better.

He stared down at her for a moment, utterly surprised. It wasn't like he hadn't heard the sound on hundreds of missions over the years. Kark, they'd lived together on a ship for half of those, he'd heard it every time he'd passed the locked door to her quarters. It was entirely familiar at this point.

But she was snoring while sleeping against him. While he had an arm draped around her, and she was tangled up in a couple of blankets. The couch wasn't exactly the epitome of luxury—Theron's left leg, pressed into the arm of it, was also now deeply asleep. But she was comfortable enough with him to let her touch her at all. And she felt safe enough to drift off so deeply that she was snoring.

Theron's chest felt warm, and not because of her head's position.

He shifted slightly, trying to reposition himself so that he could get some feeling back in his leg without waking her. Chrysali stirred for a heartbeat but kept on snoring; wow, she really was out. After a couple shimmys, he managed to get settled again and breathed deep, resting his cheek against the top of her head.

Sometimes he wanted to curse at himself for being so stupid. How long had he held his tongue, not told her how he really felt? How many more years could they have had together (well, together in that sense) if he'd gotten out of his own head and stopped being so afraid of ruining what they already had? And then, to have hurt her the way he did over the Zildrog crisis, recklessly jumping in to try and solve it all single-handedly to keep her safe, instead of coming to her for help...

But everything had happened the way it did. It didn't matter. What mattered was this moment here, dozing off together while watching a stupid holo-film, feeling safe and warm and happy, so ridiculously happy in a way he'd never really expected to feel. Even with a reignited war looming over their heads. They were here, and together, and it was everything he could've hoped it would be all those years ago.

Theron tried not to ask for much for himself. But sometimes he still caught himself praying to the Force, and this was one of those times. I hope she always feels this safe with me...

The film ended, and he looped it again, letting it become white noise. He couldn't quite get comfortable enough to fall back asleep now that he was awake, so he just rested his eyes, every now and then cracking one open just to watch Chrysali breathe, still snoring ever-so-softly into his chest.

It was another hour before Chrysali finally stirred, a little groggy as she opened one eye and made a slight noise of discontent. "Mmh. Sorry, I didn't mean to drift. How long?"

"Uhhhh," Theron hummed, rotating his wrist to check his chrono. "Only about two hours."

"Mmm. Should get to bed." She started to sit up, but stopped and turned her head to look at him. "What's with the sappy expression?"

"Nothing." Theron craned his head down to kiss her gently, smiling into it. "I just love you."

Chrysali gave him a mildly bemused look. "You're being a little weird, Shan."

He shrugged, and started to sit back up so they could disentangle themselves and get to bed, but before he could sit back up Chrysali caught him with a gentle hand on the back of his neck and pulled him back down, grey eyes filled with sleepy contentment. "I didn't say you had to stop."

"Good," Theron laughed. "Though I don't think the 'weird' thing is something I can really change."

"An' I wouldn't have it any other way," Chrysali drowsily replied, leaning up to kiss him deeply.

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A/N: This was going to be a whole 'Theron and Chrys take a day off to go on a date, goes very chaotically awry' misadventure, but then I sat down to actually write and they said "no ❤ you get this instead". And, I mean, I like it better, so that's perfectly fine, they've already got a bunch of misadventures in my drafts folders anyway. 🤣

Arcann quashed that line of thinking. Now wasn't the time to dwell. He wanted to know everything about this... complication.

Her. This... outlander. He'd read about her exploits in her side of the galaxy—a Jedi, a Battlemaster of their Order, whatever that meant. How she was famous for having killed the Sith Emperor Vitiate.

The same man she and her now-dead companion had insisted was his father, just in a different form.

Arcann wanted to dismiss the idea outright. That he somehow knew how to jump from body to body as if they were some kind of vessel for his soul, and not a living being? Ludicrous.

But... pieces fell into place. Valkorion's long stretches of ignoring his children, letting them and the Eternal Fleet and the Knights handle the day-to-day monotony of running the Empire. The way he would sometimes dissociate in conversation, as if he were listening to something else. His long life, the way he dismissed so many things Arcann saw as of the upmost importance as trivial and beneath him. He treated his people as a god observing insects crawling around on the ground, at times. He'd treated his children like it.

And everything the outlander had said about Ziost... the world of death and dust he had observed shortly after containing the problem...

Arcann wouldn't risk it. Any of it. He would see Zakuul reign across the galaxy, and he would see his father dead and destroyed, once and for all, even if this strange woman would have to dwell in carbonite forever, even if he had to raze half the galaxy to the ground. He was done playing dutiful son to Valkorion, and done letting him control everything. Arcann would make Zakuul better than Valkorion could have ever dreamed. He would remake the galaxy into Zakuul's image if he could.

His flesh-and-blood thumb ran over some inscription on the outlander's lightsaber. He glanced down at it, bemused, unable to read what it said—it was in some language from the wider galaxy. It had clearly been inscribed with love and care; the lightsaber was almost as beautiful as a Zakuulan-made one.

He pitied the outlander, for a moment. Trapped with his father. Her green eyes had been piercing as she studied him on the way into the throne room. Those most determined to run away from thier fate are those most doomed to meet it, one way or another, she'd warned him as Heskal had stormed away from them. She seemed almost... haunted.

It was almost a shame that finally slaying Valkorion once and for all likely meant killing her, too. But compared to the sacrifices Arcann was willing to make to ensure Valkorion's death, that was nearly a pittance.

He clipped the lightsaber to his belt, just for safekeeping, and turned on his heel, striding out of the chamber and leaving the outlander and his father behind.

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A/N: Last year's Emperor prompt had me digging into Tenebrae's head, so this year I decided to dig into a different Emperor's head and explore the ruthless side of the wayward son of Zakuul, since we see what he does in the name of the Empire and killing Valkorion but never the thought process behind it. What does he think about the whole "Vitiate-Valkorion-Tenebrae" thing? Or Tenebrae's plans to consume the galaxy, meaning Zakuul was basically just a side project to pass the time with? End result: I love him but Arcann's got some ISSUES, man. And at this point, he's been exposed to Tenebrae's corruptive presence long enough that he's going to do ANYTHING to ensure Valkorion's dead and Zakuul remains what he sees as the peak of civilization.

He'd thought time would help, but he should've known the answer to that. If time still hadn't fully eased his confliction over his clan's history, how could a few weeks ease the turmoil in his mind over the burned remains of their banner? And no one's efforts to get him to stop dwelling worked, either, not even Mako's. The only thing that had helped get his mind off things was Rass Ordo roping him into shooting contests out of boredom—with all the other Mandalorians, it was different. None of them was truly untouched by his father's rebellion, even all these years later. But Rass, closer in age to him and far too young to have fought in it with the rest of Clan Ordo, understood a childhood of being haunted by the word arue'tal, and had done his best to simply be a friend. Even then, it only helped so much.

Torian couldn't get the Commander's words from days before out of his head. How you feel about your past is for you to decide.

He still couldn't, yet. It was ridiculous that some small part of him still couldn't. He'd told her the truth—Jicoln had broken a trust, and they all paid for it. But... oh, Devika would never let him hear the end of it if she knew he wondered whether or not it was right. Not the battle itself, or his father's choice, but the reason why. Would any of this had happened if they hadn't sided with the Sith?

Some part of him had wanted to keep the box around as a reminder. Open it when he needed to remember, shut it when he needed to put it aside. But it was getting to be too much. He couldn't live like this. He had to do something with it.

There was only one person he knew would understand his feelings about this.

Torian's fingers twitched towards his holocomm. He had to make a call.

___

Unnamed planetoid, edge of Mandalorian space

A week later

"Ugh. And I thought Ruhnuk was a dustball," Rass muttered from the copilot's seat as they settled the Bes'uliik down on the empty field, squinting out at the ruined expanse.

Jaiga couldn't respond for a moment, eyes out the viewport on the desolate landscape and hands clutched around the steering vane with white knuckles. She'd never wanted to see this place again if she could possibly help it.

Over twenty-five years, and the former battlefield for the Crusader's Schism was still as war-scarred as ever.

Unpleasant memories flashed through her head like a strobe light. She still heard the explosions and screams in her sleep, this wasn't making it easier.

A heavy arm dropped over her shoulders as a head that wasn't hers looked over the back of the seat. "So, we gonna keep staring, or we gonna keep brooding? Because I can hear Tor'ika getting antsy back there."

"Shab, Rass, you startled me," Jaiga snapped, shoving his head back. He shrugged, dodging her hands. "Hey, c'mon, you were all spaced out."

"I was not. I just... never thought I'd be back here," Jaiga said, eyes flicking uneasily to the viewport again.

Rass rocked on his feet, then smiled. "We could always just say 'screw it' and go. There's a nice cantina I know you haven't been to over on Concordia. Go get drunk, sing some old space shanties, probably pull you and Torian out of another barfight—"

"Why did we bring you along, again?" Jaiga asked, nose scrunched with annoyance.

"Emotional support? I'm a better option than Jek or Dev, at least."

"Whatever you say," Jaiga muttered with a roll of her eyes. She rose out of the pilot's seat and headed for the rest of the ship, Rass slouching into step behind her while chattering idly about... something. Jaiga couldn't quite listen to him. She slid down the ladder and glanced over at Torian, pacing by the ramp exit. The box was tucked under one arm.

"You sure about this, ner vod'ika?" Jaiga asked gently.

He swallowed and nodded, jaw set. "Yes."

"Okay." Jaiga took a deep breath and hit the ramp controls, opening it up for them to step onto the ruined field.

Dust billowed across the empty plain. Helmets were lined up on stakes as memorials to the fallen, shifting slightly in the breeze and worn down from decades of exposure to the elements. There were no birds, no wildlife, no flowers, even after all this time, as if the landscape itself just couldn't heal from what had happened there. Brother had spilt sister's blood. Parents and children, at each other's throats.

In Jaiga's eyes, there were no victors of the Crusader's Schism that had threatened to tear their people apart, not really. Just survivors.

The expressions on Rass and Torian's faces hurt deeply. Both had been too young to fight back then, had never seen the aftermath. A part of Jaiga envied their innocence.

She led them through the battlefield, then up an incline, to the cliff face where it had all ended. The banner left behind by Clan Lok to claim their victory had been torn to shreds by the wind and sun over the decades, just some stringy strands on a rusted metal pole. Jaiga stopped at the edge and turned, nodding to Torian. "Right here. It was right here."

"You're sure?" he asked, barely above a whisper.

Jaiga squeezed her eyes shut, throat tight at the memory. "I will never forget."

Torian nodded, and stepped forward. He opened the box, murmuring last rites in Mando'a so softly neither Ordo could hear it. And then he took a deep breath, and he stepped onto the spot where Jicoln Cadera made his last stand, and let the wind carry the ashes of the Clan Cadera banner across the battlefield and beyond.

Jaiga watched the shreds and ashes dance in the breeze. Her eyes fell to Torian as he turned, and he took a deep breath.

"Now, no one can use it as a symbol, or a weapon, or anything," Torian said, voice full of conviction. "Come on. Let's leave this place in the past where it belongs."

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A/N: hello hi i am obsessed with the Crusader's Schism's affect on the Mandalorians of the SWTOR era and 70% of my Mando-centric writing always ends up connected to it somehow. I know the Old Wounds chat with Torian ends with him less stressed about the banner, but the idea for this one came to me in a rush and I had to do it. It's a little shakey because I was battling mild burnout and some stress over getting so close to the day 'deadline', but I like it. :)

TLDR is that Jaiga's father and uncles grew up with Artus Lok/Mand'alor the Vindicated and Jicoln Cadera until they all fell out over Artus' choice to keep them allied with the Sith. Before that, all the kids grew up playing together and Jaiga basically babysat Torian during her teens before the Schism happened. Rass is here because I love his character and saw a place I could sneak him in, and then I got hit with the realization of "hold up he and Torian are roughly in the same age range and Clan Ordo was on Jicoln's side of the Schism, why has Rass potentially growing up receiving similar treatment not been mentioned yet???" and decided he was coming along for the ride.