#possible redemption

Fingon had run for so long that he was now barely strong enough to keep walking—however, something dark and dangerous had taken over his kingdom and home, and he had thought it necessary to flee in search of assistance and council.

Of course, he felt considerably guilty about his younger siblings whom he had left at the mercy of whatever terrible power had encroached upon their realm, but he simply had not seen any other solution.

When he was ready to succumb to the paralysing weariness that had crept into his very bones and lie down, ultimately and irrevocably vanquished by the threateningly looming peril, he glimpsed a thin column of smoke in the distance.

Pushing through the ever-shifting, distinctly unnatural forest that seemed to watch his every tortured step, he strove towards that flimsy promise of sanctuary and salvation stubbornly; at last, he felt an echo of long-lost hope surge within him, and he was determined not to lose his way again.

After everything he had lived through, it was probably naïve to expect whoever had started the fire at the source of the hearteningly dense cloud of smoke to be a friend rather than a foe, but he could not let himself be discouraged now.

Everything had changed since his father, the King, had been overcome by a strange confusion that had fatally addled his mind and dampened his prodigious intellectual acuity as well as his physical strength.

As his son and heir, Fingon had to act—he couldn’t simply stand by as his land and people fell under the spell of the ruinous devastation that was assailing them with relentless fervour.

All but falling down a steep ravine, marbled with gnarled roots and poisonous plants, he finally found himself in front of a small cottage.

“Hello?” he called, casting caution to the wind, as he struggled to his feet slowly. He was tired and sore, his every muscle ached, and his heart clenched painfully at the thought of those he had deserted so callously.

Muted whispers resounded from behind the intricately carven door—the tone and speed of the unintelligible words told Fingon two things: first, there was more than one inhabitant, and second, they were just as surprised to have a visitor as he was to have stumbled upon such a beautiful building in the very heart of an enchanted wood.

Dread replaced the soothing sensation of relief that had assuaged Fingon’s many-layered suffering. Surely, he now considered, creatures who had to retreat so far from all vestiges of civilisation and company had something to hide.

Mayhap, they were monsters or worse who fed on exhausted travellers and lost wanderers—after all, if anyone got sucked into the compelling, merciless magic of the surrounding landscape as deeply as he had, it was highly improbable that they’d ever find their way out again.

Instinctively, his hand flew to his hip to draw the short dagger, dangling from his belt, that his father had given him for his name day a few years prior—he loved and cherished the weapon, and he trusted that he would be able to summon enough strength to take at least one or two of the unseen strangers along with him to the beyond if they were to attack him.

“You go,” someone hissed, and then a shutter was pushed open just a smidgen.

Fingon could make out a pair of flashing eyes, then another one, and another one, and his stomach dropped.

“He’s drawn a knife and all,” another voice, rough and impatient, resounded. “Maybe we should go out armed too?”

“You stay there! I shall go.” The finality in the melodious but stern voice made Fingon cock his head in visceral curiosity—his visions of horrifying ogres melted into images of alluring sirens, and he stepped back into the rapidly dwindling pool of fading light flooding the small clearing he had just crossed.

Shifting into a defensive stance, he raised his blade and waited.

When the door opened, he could not hold back the gasp of astonishment that burst from his throat like a sudden rain shower. No matter what vague ideas he had entertained in the torturous moments of ignorance, he would never have been able to foresee the blinding beauty of the being in front of him.

“You have travelled far; you must be weary.” Lifting lily-white hands, the man—for superficially, there was no indication of any kind of monstrosity or perversion—spoke in that self-same calm tone that had soothed and baffled Fingon previously. “My name is Maedhros.”

Fingon smiled graciously at that lie—he had been the King’s son for too long not to be intimately familiar with that minute shift in inflexion and stature that invariably betrayed a half-truth. He did not doubt that the name given was one that was used by the mysterious entity in front of him—shining like gilded marble in the warm evening light—but he was also certain that it was not the one he used for himself, inside his mind.

“Fingon,” he said, bowing low. If Maedhros was not willing to divulge his true identity and purpose, he did not see any reason to introduce himself with his official name and title either. “I must have gotten turned around somewhere.”

“Where did you want to go?” Gentle mockery lay in Maedhros’s voice now—he evidently was supremely aware of the pitfalls and elusive threats of his forest and had no qualms about letting Fingon know that he doubted the veracity of his words.

“Nowhere,” Fingon chuckled wryly. “I wanted to get away from…It doesn’t matter. You do not happen to know where I could find a sage or a witch perchance?”

Cocking his head slowly, Maedhros let his long hair cascade across his shoulder like a curtain of dancing fire as he pondered the question.

“No,” he finally admitted. “My brothers and I have lived in these woods, guarded by ruthless guardians of stone and bark, for many a sweltering summer and blistering winter, but we have yet to encounter someone fitting that description.”

His bright grey eyes gleamed with sympathy and something darker that reminded Fingon of bone-deep sadness. “I am afraid we cannot help you,” Maedhros went on, his feet already shuffling against the soft grass to turn back to the cottage. “You’ve found the wrong people if it is assistance and succour you seek.”

Flinching as his vague quest was summed up so simply by another, Fingon took a step towards the tall, handsome stranger and—in a moment of utter folly—took that long-fingered, cool hand into his own to keep him from retreating.

“Why are you here then? It is evident that you have divined my motives with disturbing ease, but you’ve also said that you and yours have been confined to this prison of isolation and regret for quite some time. Why don’t you leave?”

“Because we are cursed,” another voice resounded, and Fingon’s head snapped back to the cottage. In the impenetrable shadow of the gloomy hall beyond the open door, he could only barely make out the outline of another being—shorter but just as shapely as far as he could tell—and turned to Maedhros in alarm.

“How many of you are there?”

“Seven, me included,” Maedhros sighed and tried to withdraw his hand; when Fingon would not release it, he soon stopped struggling. “Do not let Maglor’s artful lamentations fool you—we have committed grievous misdeeds. It was to protect others from our reckless folly that we’ve been banished…”

His gaze was pleading now as he shifted as if to shield Fingon from the piercing eyes that flashed like gemstones in the darkness within the picturesque but vaguely unsettling home. “Save yourself…”

They had been banished, Fingon thought, but he had fled like a thief in the night, not even risking the hopeless, crazed fight against an unknown, menacing fate.

“Will you always stay here? Is there nothing you can do?” he asked instead. He and the man whose hand he was still cradling in his own broad palm were almost dancing now—Fingon tried to get a good view of the inside of the house while Maedhros seemed intent on denying him just that.

“There are stipulations,” someone called from behind, “but Nelyo refuses to let us even try to fulfil the conditions.”

Before Fingon could make the gorgeous ginger explain further, a shadow coalesced into the solid form of a man and floated towards them, an affable smile on his sensual, full lips.

“No matter how you feel about the terms,” the newcomer purred, and Fingon was struck dumb by how curiously full and rich his voice was, “this man is tired and hungry. Let him come in and rest—what harm could even we do him with a bowl of fresh stew? We are not monsters—at least, you are not—and we shall obey your words.”

A flash of pain and regret rippled across the pale, freckled face of his reluctant potential host while Fingon tried to suppress the desperate yearning that the flippant suggestion of warm food and a place to sit down in peace had awoken in his chest.

“Maglor, at your service,” the soft-faced siren spoke charmingly. “I promise that Curvo is a better cook than an entertainer, and yes, Moryo is always that morose—it’s not because he doesn’t like you.”

“Stop,” Maedhros groaned, but Maglor had already pulled Fingon away from him and towards the house. “Let me introduce you to the brood. You’ve already met Nelyo—he’s the oldest, and he was literally named for his beauty.”

Fingon had the strange sensation that he was being lulled by the potent spell of the charming words pouring from Maglor’s lips like sweet water, but—in his weakened state—he could not even resist the mellow, unceasing draw of the open door from whence a mouth-wateringly delicious smell now billowed into the quickly cooling air.

“Káno, I beg you,” Maedhros called. “He is…You don’t know what you’re doing…” He hastened after the retreating pair to wrench the clueless victim of the vindictive forest from his brother’s perfectly manicured claws.

Just beyond the threshold though, he was halted by two pairs of hands clamping down on his arms.

“Prince Findekáno,” one of the twins, the youngest and least fatalistically pessimistic of the brood, hissed.

“He could be the answer to our prayers!”

“No, he could not. Let him go!” Maedhros groaned, tearing himself free, and nearly lunged into the small kitchen to save Fingon from the terrible turn in his destiny that would inexorably occur as soon as he got himself entangled with these accursed exiles.

To his visible dismay, Fingon had been offered the best seat in the house and was already nursing a mug full of warm tea while eyeing a platter of cookies covetously—Maedhros knew that his brothers would have bitten one another for taking even a single crumb more than was allotted to any one of them, but they all seemed happy to let their unexpected guest eat his fill.

The scene—calm, domestic, deceivingly joyous—made Maedhros’s skin break out in goosebumps; he knew just how seductively charming all of them could be, and he was tragically aware of how lethal that magnetic charisma usually turned out to be for innocent bystanders.

“Fingon,” he called warningly. “Do not believe them—this is not safe!” He was condemning himself to a lifetime of solitude and misery, he knew, but he preferred to stew in his culpability until either his sorrow or his siblings ate him alive rather than add to the pile of ashes their indomitable fire had already amassed.

“No,” Fingon laughed and took another deep swig of his tea. “I don’t think I will—I think I’ve found exactly what I needed.” He knew not why he had said that, but—in his heart of hearts—he was sure that he had spoken true. Somehow, the unfathomable and quite possibly wicked magic of the forest had led him straight to this house, and he simply could not ignore such an intervention by superior powers.

“What are the terms?” he then asked quietly—the whole room seemed to petrify into a stasis of shock and solicitude.

“The usual,” Maedhros laughed mirthlessly. “True love, true selflessness, true sacrifice—basically, we have to overcome our wicked nature to help someone else without expecting or accepting any form of gratitude or payment. You do not know who we are, but…it’s as likely as to ask a pear tree to bear apples in winter.”

“Oh,” Fingon grinned sharply, “but I do know. We have been looking for you—where exactly is Fëanor now?”

Thank you so much for reading <3

-> Masterlist for November (by @cilil)

TWO DAYS BEFORE THE COUNTERATTACK

Many travelers would call Pevera as Felucia’s near twin—due to the vibrant, unusual, and colorful flora, the formidable yet fascinating fauna, and the great lakes that stretched and blotched across the continent. However, it colors begin to fade as the Empire devours it with its shroud.

All of you have gathered in one of the temple ruins that make up for the rebel cell’s meeting halls. Beneb and the fighters settled in the jungle that’s miles away from the capital Ulfin’s boundary. You and Cal listen in on the exchange of the soldiers and Beneb regarding their plan of their counterattack.

The main target? The Imperial outpost that’s been erected at the city.

The operation was quite elaborate for a rebel cell, nevertheless, Beeneb was confident that it was manageable—since he had put his faith on his soldiers to be the good ones, albeit being an interesting medley of misfits.

“We will strike at night—when they are most vulnerable, they’ll be under the impression that nobody will be outside due to the curfew,” Beneb interjects, he raises a finger at you. “[Y/N] will be part of the small division who’s in charge of planting the explosions at the very foundation of the building. The explosion will divert the Imps’ attention to their outpost while we free the captives and our men in their holding camps.”

And the former admiral moves his finger to Cal, “You, on the other hand, will go with the assault division. You’re one of the best fighters I’ve seen, my boy, and we’re gonna need all the brawn we can get until the captives have been freed.”

He never liked this idea not one bit—since its conception, he wasn’t really keen on the thought of having you take on one of the most dangerous tasks of this mission: explosives. You had to talk it out of him just so he’s convinced and reassured that this plan will come through.

At the end of the briefing, Cal pulled you to a secluded spot in the camp: at the side of a tent, which is still slightly in sight of other people around the camp.

“You’ve been uneasy since the start of the briefing,” you point out.

He reasons out his exact sentiments on the plan—he doesn’t like how Jax Beneb planned this whole counterattack.

“It seems risky,”

“Cal, in these times, everything is risky,” you argue. “I was hoping you’d have some trust in me—given that they put me in the explosives team.”

“I do trust you. It’s… It’s the plan I don’t trust,” Cal muttered, strictly within your earshot.

“They’re gonna have to do better if they wanted to kill me off,”

“Don’t joke like that,” he clicked his tongue, apparently ticked.

“I’m not joking,” you shrug your shoulders. “I meant it—I’m not that easy to get rid of, and neither are you.”

Cal fell silent. You had him back to a corner on that one. His eyes were wary of the partisans that passed you by, those pair of green irises shifted from one person to another, avoiding eye contact or greeting them with curt nods and mumbled hey’s and hi’s.

You bring your hand to his cheek, gingerly turning him to face you.

“I know it’s scary, but it’s gonna be okay,” you caress his cheek with the knuckle of your forefinger, he nuzzled his lip to the cushion of your thumb.

That same night, you were restless.

You’re haunted by the vision of red and orange burning blindingly behind your eyes, the rumble felt so surreal you feel the vibration at the soles of your feet, and whatever tension it brought you it was suffocating. Later on, in your nightmare, you’re greeted with the sight of Cal lying flat on the floor, facing up, his face is covered in ash and soot, red marks signify fresh yet minor burns, a streak of blood paints along the side of his face. Meanwhile, you can feel yourself lying right beside Cal’s unconscious—and seemingly dead—body. You want to scream, but you’re mute, with only the sound of a hundred, faceless screams, explosions, and the flaring inferno wrapping around the two of you.

“Cal, please get up…!” you hear your subconscious self beg, your voice cracking as you choke on your own words. You couldn’t even hoist your hand to nudge him, let alone touch.

He doesn’t budge. Embers continue to flutter over a plume of black smoke wafting in your direction.

You jolt up, awake in a cold sweat. Your eyes adjust to the dimness of your tent, lit by a single power lamp, your ears prick up and listen to the cacophony of insects chirping in the sparse vegetation of the outskirts. The bioluminescent sap of the trees flowing underneath the bark glowed around the camp in place of the bonfire that’s been put out for tonight.

Cal shuffled in his bed, he was woken up by your exclamation and shallow, rapid breathing.

“[Y/N], is something wrong?”

“I… Yeah…” you stammered, massaging both sides of your head as you hunched your back. “Bad dream is all… Sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep, Cal.”

He hesitated, but did so shortly afterwards. He didn’t close his eyes yet when he laid his back flat on his bed, he tossed to his side facing you, but you returned to your own bed with your back turned to him. Cal watched the steady by labored rise and fall of your shoulders as you coax yourself back to sleep, although you struggled in doing so.

It was a restless night. You literally fought it off by having a quick sparring session with one of the partisans.

Cal approached and leaned against the banister of the pen where you and spar buddy fought. He noticed the sleight of your hand is still intact—the grip around the hilt is firm and secure—but your ankles when buckling seemed flimsy; it’s not that he wanted you to fail, rather he anticipated the likeliness of you fumbling once the opponent lands a blow against your practice rod—which is nothing short of a typical electrostaff with a dead circuit.

“Did you get enough sleep last night?” asked Cal as soon as your sparring was over.

“I’ve caught enough winks. Why?”

“Your form looked off, that’s what,”

“Did I now?”

“Looks like you’re not as confident as you were yesterday,”

“Cal, my nightmare had nothing to do with the counterattack,”

He dismisses it by mouthing the word “Sure” and then the two of continued to talk with the banister between you. Seeing that he is the only person you can confide to with these kinds of dreams, you eventually caved in and narrated everything to him—even the macabre part where you find him lying lifeless next to you and he doesn’t budge.

“Okay, I won’t lie: that is scary.”

“It’s only a dream, Cal, don’t take it so seriously,”

“For a while there, you sounded like you did,”

“Well, it felt real—but that doesn’t mean I believe it,”

The bickering ended before the tension would even rise. Even if neither of you are talking about it, there’s always something that reminds you of it—anything was a potential stimulus: the campfire evoked the images of the burning light that seared your eyes, the collective voices of the fighters gradually melding together into one indistinct voice reminded you of the faceless screams.

This went on for the rest of the day, even during a recap meeting with Jax and the partisans. After that short meeting, you were led by one of the partisans who will handle the explosives with you on the day of the operation.

“Come on, we’ll teach you how the detonators work,”

“O-Okay…”

The partisan sensed the warble in your tone, she chuckled, although not to offend. The adult woman clapped your shoulder and slung her arm around it, hauling you to her side.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, little spark! You’ve got enough time to run away from it before the Imps could even realize it exists!”

The inferno had died down, sated of the metal and flesh that it had devoured upon its blistering wake.

In the rubble, you lay there half-dead, perhaps half-awake. Though in this case, did it even matter which half is which?

Your eyelids slowly opened, particles of dirt that seated along the lining of your eyes made it hard for you to open them. You can’t make of your current location, though the last thing you remember is the heat boiling under your feet while the fire catches up to the elevator while you recovered your strength, the speed of the turbolift cell in a nerve-racking race against the cascading flame, and throwing yourself out of the elevator the very split second the door opened.

“Am I dead…?” your voice was dead quiet that it’s almost as if your subconscious was the one speaking. You asked yourself, still as a stone in where you lie. “Is there something broken?”

The former’s answer was no. Air still entered your lungs.

A few more blinks and the dust had cleared off of your lashes; your field of vision is filled with the monotonous shade of brown, gray, and black mingling together, with specs of glowing red embers floating about the clouds of smoke wafting over you. No heavy debris fell on you, but bodily movement is limited, the only thing you can move is your head. The dust and smoke constantly pricked your eyes that you couldn’t keep them open for long.

You hear footsteps, heavy and slow, you search the person only to find a silhouette closing in on you. When it got close enough, he bent down but you still couldn’t recognize whoever this was.

“C-Cal…?”

The shadow didn’t speak, except a baritone growl rumbled out of him. He stands back up and vanished from your line of sight. The next thing you know, you feel two arms hooking under your shoulders, dragging you out of the debris, bumping into a slab of concrete or metal here and there. He didn’t notice that the bracelet you wore, now scorched to the point that the thread has split and fell to the ground as he towed you.

A few inches of being dragged across the floor later, the hulking figure adjusted himself and lifted you up to his shoulder, carrying you like a sack. It didn’t last long though, the stranger had settled you in a hovering gurney, you felt it sink as it accepted your weight and then rise again to its default level; while you’re still clinging onto the last string of consciousness, a pair of voices—distinguishably female and male, the latter being the one who pulled you out of the rubble. You didn’t know that these were the other Inquisitors who were sent to the scene.

As they conversed, their words faintly trailed in your head to the walls of your skull. You could only hear and listen, but you’re too weak to bob your head slightly to the side to look at them. Their words echoed as you stare into the charred ceiling of the stronghold.

“…Sure she’s alive? The… will have to… about…” the female voice echoed.

“Found her… utility lobby… Can’t find him…” the male replied.

“Alive too… from the fire…”

Their butchered conversation—at least in your own perspective—eventually blocked off as you slowly lose consciousness. The gurney hovers and then pushes forward, following the trail of the female and male Inquisitors—namely the Seventh Sister, a skinny Mirialan—and the Fifth Brother who’s a tall humanoid with gray skin.

They escort you, along with the Second Brother who barely escaped the fire but still managed to maintain a pulse, out of the site and into the transport waiting for them in the far southern side of the stronghold.

The Mirialan examined your comatose-like state. Past through the soot and grime smeared across your cheeks, the streak of dried blood from your forehead to your temples, the reddening of your face due to the extreme heat—she thought it’s actually a miracle that you even survived.

“You sure look though,” the Mirialan female commented.

“Let’s see if the Master is just as impressed as we are,” the Fifth Brother added.

-----

Cal, Larki, and Morzen arrived to the site. Unbeknownst to the boys, the Inquisitors have beat them to it in their endeavor. The fires have lessened in size, not as bad as the initial blast. Some areas of the stronghold were accessible and can be safely traversed. Cal hopped off of his speeder, followed by Larki and Morzen, and the boys hindered the reckless, eager ginger by calling out his name—stopping him in his tracks to give him his own set of protective gear: a breathing mask with a filter tube and a complementary pair of goggles.

“Ready?” Larki confirms the other two as they all donned the gear.

They enter the stronghold through a gaping hole created by the explosion. Prior to going any further, Cal divided the areas per person—taking into consideration your last known location, according to his radar, the path that you took in and apparently out. But since the building has been partially obliterated, the three boys had to think of another way in certain areas.

“Larki, see if you can find your way to the reactor chamber. Morzen, check if there are any other paths created by the blast for survivors to pass through,” Cal instructed. “I’ll head to the annex, or whatever’s left of it.”

The trio split, Cal had masterfully distributed the areas per man; Larki was a tad bit leaner and smaller—give that he’s the youngest among them—so it gives him an advantage to slip through gaps and crawlspaces, on the other hand, Morzen was heavily-built young man. Whether or not it was by coincidence or by pure observation, Cal had tact in dividing the party.

Cal trekked through the remains of the annex, the floor and a good portion of the walls remained intact—although charred and torn open by the impact of the bomb—and the heat from the nearby fires was enough to make him sweat. Fortunately for him, the mask protected his lungs from the dangerously-thick smoke.

“Mind your head, BD-1,” Cal warned.

Cal squeezed his way through the gap between a wall and a fallen metal ceiling beam leaning against it. He ducked and crawled, then landed on fours for a safe landing. He was feeling goof, albeit a little out of place to be so, because he’s hopeful that you’re still alive; rather, he convinced himself that you were, for he could still feel a trace of your presence even though it was gradually getting fainter by the minute.

“Bee-woo…” BD-1 suddenly hopped down from Cal’s shoulder and skittered towards the debris, flashing his light and peeking over small to see if you were in the other side.

There was nothing much Cal could find, so he decided to further investigate in another spot. He navigated the ruins, he followed his instincts to go to the reactor chamber where Larki ought to be; as he ran along the way, his comm rang.

“Cal, do you copy? It’s Larki,”

“I copy, Larki. Did you find anything?”

Cal detected the hesitation in Larki’s voice. He demanded Larki to respond.

“I’m gonna send you my coordinates, meet me there,”

“Where are you right now?”

“I don’t know. Some kind of utility lobby. Just come through, I’ve already radioed Morzen. He’s on his way too,”

Cal had a bad feeling about this. BD-1 received Larki’s coordinates after popping out his little satellite dish, promptly, he flashed the holomap in front of Cal. The young Jedi’s eyes trailed from his current location to a portion of the map colored in yellow, there was a significant, vertical gap between him and his destination—he would have to find a way down.

“Not too far away,” he mumbled under his breath.

Without a moment’s hesitation he sprinted through the corridor, navigating through the ruins to find the quickest way down. At the end of the corridor, the edge of it had been bombed off and torn apart, but Cal looked around to see if he can use anything to his advantage. Hanging on another set of beams over his head is a cable coiled around it, he pulled it out using the Force and rappelled down.

He checked the map again and saw that the distance had shrunk. He struggled to remain optimistic, he could still feel your trace, but it’s becoming nothing more than a wafting swirl of smoke. Cal and Morzen arrived nearly at the same time, but the latter came from the eastern side and circled his way to Larki’s meeting point.

“Look at this place,” Larki gasped in full disbelief of the sheer damage that their bombs have wrought. He gestured at his surroundings with open arms.

The three of them investigated the entire area. Morzen climbed a mountain of rock and metal only to find the chunky remains of the structure. Had there been more bombs planted here, then this structure wouldn’t last for a search party to even go through—that’s what the young man thought. Larki, on the other hand, surveyed the fallen columns that once were the great energy reactors; he dared to step closer to the banister and peek over it, he saw the ground level of the chamber—he couldn’t see anything that would resemble life.

“Looks like we’re not finding anything down there,” Larki commented.

“I sense something, though I can’t explain it,” Cal said to no one in particular.

“You think [Y/N] could still be here?”

“Like I said, Larki, it’s difficult to explain. It’s like… she’s here but she’s not… I know I felt her…”

As Cal continued to ponder and muse about your faint trail that he’s picked up ever since he got here, Morzen continued to search in the rubble; nothing caught his eye—save for a single bracelet lying around. The silvery finish had been dirtied by the grime, the cord had been charred in the middle for it to tear—leaving the torn ends of it as black as coal, contrast to its original beige.

Morzen couldn’t make of the bracelet, but he still considered it a clue.

“Look,” he uttered, catching the two’s attention. He nestled the bracelet gently on the flat of his palm as he approached the two standing by the banister that overlooks the pillars.

Cal almost didn’t want to see what was in Morzen’s hand, because a part of him already knew what it was—he just didn’t make peace with it yet—and when the boy’s hand angled to show the trinket resting on his palm, Cal’s eyes widened.

“Oh Cal… Isn’t that…?” Larki sighed, he felt his heart sink when the only clean spot of the silver pendant shone against the firelight.

He hovered his hand towards the bracelet, Morzen patiently waited for Cal to take it—what neither of these two boys understand is Cal’s Psychometry: if he touches that bracelet of yours, he will never be ready to accept what he will see, hear, and feel.

“Beee…” BD cooed sadly, worried of Cal’s anxiety.

Cal sucked it in, then snatched the bracelet off of Morzen’s hand—a tad bit harshly rather—and the wave of the Force Echo was overwhelming, coming from a tiny trinket such as this.

The blazing inferno roared in his eardrums, he could almost feel the searing heat burning through his sleeves. The sounds of your labored breathing as you struggled to haul yourself out of harm’s way—while being severely injured at that—matched with Cal’s breathing, his body has mimicked the exhaustion taking its toll on your body. His ankles buckled and then failed, he submits to the floor while trapping your bracelet in his fist—this reaction startled Larki and Morzen, they took a step closer but stopped by Cal himself as he continues to absorb the Force Echo—and the last thing he saw was the debris falling over you as the fire caught on. He saw the last few images in your eyes—he felt you lying flat on your back as the rubble shrouded your vision in pure darkness and the bracelet slipping off of your hand.

The singular twanging of the silver pendant against the metal floor was the stimulus that snapped Cal back to reality. The exact same trace of you that he’s been desperately holding on had suddenly disappeared. When he opened his eyes, he saw Larki and Morzen gawking at him, both confused and expecting an answer from the Jedi.

“Cal…?” Morzen softly murmured, sensing the overwhelming stress within his companion.

Cal’s next action further confused the two: he frantically searched the utility lobby, past Larki and Morzen’s shoulders, and took big breaths in a rapid pace that his breathing mask fogged in between sobs. The embers twinkled red against the tears appearing along the rim of his eyes.

“No, she… SHE WAS ALIVE!! I FELT IT!” Cal growled ferociously.

He stared back at the little bracelet resting on his tremoring hand, the tears that had been welling up in his eyes while being stuck in his Psychometry trance eventually wetted the bracelet and his open palm. They continuously fell like rain. He couldn’t believe it. He refused to.

The plan's going swimmingly. Cal hasn't been caught yet.

He had sensed that Cere prayed he needn't to use his saber prior to his inevitable stand-off with you. So far, he's keeping true to that prayer. He carves a path to the nearest entrance he can find, from there, he discovers the southern exit; taking the posted Stormtroopers by surprise, he incapacitated them quickly befire they even realize what's standing in front of them.

"Cere, I'm in the building—I went through the southern entrance," Cal softly spoke through his comm.

"Copy, I found my way in the eastern wing," Cere explains that she managed to get her hands on one of the computers, splice it and fish out a lot of info. "I'm patching in the map to you, BD should've picked up the file by now."

Instinctively, BD-1 flashes the holomap in the air as soon as he received the data; it shows the locations of Cere, Cal, and their two respective destinations—the medical bay where the child is kept and the hangar where the presumed transport ship should be parked. There's a large, empty gap between where Cal stood and the hangar itself.

"I'm looking at the map now. There's a bit of distance to the hangar, it's on the upper levels too," he softly trailed off at the last word.

Cere noted the fading out of his voice, afraid that she's lost contact, "Cal?"

The boy blinked several times to return to reality. He stutters in his apology for spacing out.

"What's wrong?"

Finally, he opens up about his theory about the transport ship, he adds the lone TIE Fighter he spotted earlier and the underlying possibility that the pilot is you—not knowing that you really are. Cere considers the theory but preferred to go with the original plan; if the transport is truly a decoy, then they'll have to move fast in catching up to you before you even hop into the TIE Fighter with the child—assuming that your TIE Fighter is in a completely different hangar.

The silence of their conversation's conclusion was followed by the gloomy, ominous humming of the corridor that laid in front of Cal's eyes. The stale air that entered his lungs put a tugging weight on him, this place carries a certain degree of corruption that it's simply foreboding to anybody—most especially the Jedi. The sole thought of rescuing you is what kept Cal going; he stalked through the corridor, feeling for any activity in the intersections before going around the next corner.

Eventually, he's halfway into his destination but it seems Cere still hasn't put her diversion in motion. 

Cal peeks over the corner to find a cluster of Stormtroopers—a mix of regulars and scouts—in his path. Two scouts block the path midway while the rest of them stay by the door at the end. He hugs the wall, tugs the saber off of his belt, he stares at the weapons around his clammy fingers; after one deep breath, he bolted out of nowhere and rammed his way through, the dazed troopers barely made a proper aim—some cut close to Cal, others he banked right away. 

"It's a Jedi!" One trooper yelped the obvious.

The redheaded Jedi spotted one of the troopers making a run for a button on the wall. Outstretching his arm with his open palm, he hauled that particular trooper away from the button and then towards him, within a saber's reach he was cut down.

"I can't do this by myself!" The surviving scout trooper whimpered out loud, the warble in his voice huffing through his helmet.

The poor scout braved in charging towards Cal, charging up the electric current on his baton, but was denied a shot by a single, successful parry and then the Jedi followed up with an attack—cutting the enemy down instantly. He now stands before a large, sealed door, he checks the map once more and sees the distance between him and the hangar has shrunken. In the next second, a blaring alarm howling across the complex startled him.

"That ought to be Cere, I hope she has the kid."

Upon opening the door, Cal discovers the elevator lobby—which also serves as a control room. Two troopers had their backs turned to him, manning the computers, while a single KX security droid paces back and forth but its scanners immediately detect Cal's presence—causing its head to jerk to the boy's direction, while its emotionless eyes lit up the moment it saw Cal, the troopers felt the abrupt rise of tension and were alerted by the sight of a Jedi in the room.

"Inferior Jedi!" The KX droid monotonously groaned as it raises a pair of fists, ready to swing it down and bash the Jedi's skull.

Fortunately, Cal evaded the clobber and singes the droid's leg joints, literally bringing it to its knees. Shielding itself with its arms proved useless as the Jedi slices the torso in half, leaving only himself and the troopers. The skirmish was done in five minutes, the boy scrambles to the elevator and slams the button of the hangar's floor number. As the turbolift ascends, Cal takes the time to check on Cere, he kept calling, but there was no answer and he gives up when the elevator gradually slowed down.

The rumble signaled that he's reached his destination, the narrow door retracted into the frame, revealing Cal the vast space of the hangar—each wall was lined with light to medium ships, sitting at the center of the hangar is a transport ship, his ears prick up at the faint wailing of a child.

"Oh no…" he thought. "Cere's too late!"

He ran to the ship, the wailing got louder, then his eyes widened at the discovery: a comlink lies on the floor of the entry ramp, a prerecorded soundbite of the cry plays on loop.

It's a trap!

Behind his head, the baritone humming of a spinning saber flings itself towards him, he spun and deflected it at the nick of time—returning it to the sender: you, perched atop the hangar platform, waiting for your prey to take the bait and then strike. You catch your saber in mid-air while descending from the upper platform with a feathery grace. Striding closer to him, he sees you completely without the helmet for the first time: hair fashioned into an elaborate braid, the tail rests on one shoulder, and loose, wispy fringes frame your face.

"I see you've set off my trap," you pointed out, holding the saber close to your face.

"I knew you'd pull a stunt like that!"

Your eyes lit up, impressed with Cal, "Well, you've become quite smarter than I expected!"

Both Inquisitor and Jedi circled slowly against one another, not knowing who's chasing whom, gentle threats exchange with pleas of coming home only to be received with a hard "no," the tension grows in this wide, open space. Cal decides it's now or never, he attempts to talk it out of you.

"[Y/N], let's come home,"

"This is my home."

He hints at the somber tone of your sentence, almost as if you don't mean it at all, and he believed the insincerity of those words. You mask the denial by making the first move in the fight. The swirl of blades caught Cal off-guard, resulting to a flimsy block on his end; he moved away from the ship, luring you into the wider space for a better fight,  not that it changes much on each other's chances of winning this skirmish.

You barely paused from moving—a tireless lightning rod in human form—the swordfight pressed on in the hangar. For each time Cal struggled to put some distance between you so he can take a second to breathe, you always caught up to him—your frenzied eyes were always the first thing he notices the moment you start to dart towards him, with your arm prepped for an overhead strike and ready to attack. The strike lands, you withdrew and quickly follow up with another—thrusting your saber, he parried it with a subpar flourish and you staggered him with a strong Force push.

The boy flies to the farther side of the room, in your peripheral vision his lightsaber clatters away from him, his hand desperately pats the floor in search of the weapon while he had his eyes glued to you—closing the space at a fast rate. Still lying on his back, he affords a split second to catch a glimpse of his saber and pull it towards him; his own blade hovers mere inches above his neck when your strike landed as you crouch on top of him, bearing your weight on him while you've got him pinned down.

"I almost kind of like this position!" You crowed mischievously.

"[Y/N], please!" He pleaded again.

Without your helmet, Cal saw the life in your eyes better—if he saw wrath the first time, now he sees the misplaced anger and sorrow, the exact same feeling he found during his meditation. He even spots a hint of pink swelling beneath the rims of your eyes.

Has she been… crying? He pondered in that small window of time.

"You don't have to do this—your pain isn't strength!"

Your eyes flared again, but with denial you bellowed, "You don't understand the power that the Dark Side has given me!"

Generously, you withdrew, flipping away from him and landing in the same cat-like grace, giving him a chance to scramble back up on his feet. There was a time for a breather, enough for both. Again, the two of you slowly circle one another while a hostile air hangs over your heads, you point your saber at him.

"I didn't want to be as weak as I was before," you gesture your arms wide open. "And here I am."

"The [Y/N] I know was never weak to begin with,"

You paused in your tracks, slowly angled your head to face Cal, absorbing the empathetic gentleness in his voice. He could make his way through your heart faster than you could build a wall between the two of you. Unconsciously, the atmosphere seems to turn docile.

"I hate it when you patronize me!"

As quick as lightning, you attempt to execute a dashed strike but this time, Cal was prepared for it and he had been anticipating such an attack—he's been reading your every move up until you paused to banter with him. You strike again.

One.

Two.

Slash.

And another.

You jab, but he blocks. Another, and he prevails.

Eventually, he gathered enough strength and momentum, and became at par with the pace and dexterity of your technique. The clashing of sabers became more violent and heavier as the moves from both Jedi and Inquisitor became more pronounced—a contest of brute force. This sudden burst of strength wasn't much of a surprise, you keep up the assault and Cal surely isn't backing down—nor does he plan to.

A single beep of his comlink rings, "Cal, the child is secure! I'm coming for you!"

Cal saw your wide, aghast eyes glimmering with fear and panic, and perhaps a desperation that translates to "I need that child back!" which he felt all at once in that piercing glare when you shot him a look—with your bared teeth and furrowed eyebrows. Heeding to your lessons you, weaponized your emotions against the Jedi, you became a dagger in the wind—amplifying the heaviness of your strikes when it lands and the litheness of your body when eluding his saber.

Cere comes rushing into the hangar, saber and blaster in each hand, reassuring Cal in mere seconds that the child has been brought home.

"The Mantis should be on its way here by now," Cere whispered, her voice shuddered at the words.

She glanced to her side and then fixated her eyes to you—dressed in Inquisitor's garments from the neck down. In your periphery, you saw her blaster hand tremble with fearful disbelief; a secretive smirk played on the corner of your lip, as if to ridicule her shock, her first-time reaction amused you.

"Long time, no see, Cere." You crooned.

"[Y/N], good gods…"

"Oh come now, don't act so surprised. This is your second time anyway!"

A second Jedi wasn't any difficult, thought it's a fresh challenge instead of the typical one-on-one.

"Amazing, I get the privilege of seeing a cut-off Jedi fight firsthand!"

During Cere's attack that you held in a block, you examined Trilla's hilt up close—she had likened it with her old hilt by covering the sleeve with leather wrappings—you glanced at yours in its original form: blood red beams gleaming menacingly on either end, mingling with the purified, ice white blades.

You had to give Cere some credit, even after all these years of being voluntarily cut off from the Force, her muscle memory of combat is intact, incorporating her rugged style with a blaster.

"Impressive," you hummed after a parrying strike, and then another. She quickly switched to her blaster and shot twice, much to her dismay you've banked them seamlessly. "Most impressive."

Cere comes charging at you, ready for a jab, and you'd parry; just when Cal thought you have your attention to her, he attacks—more or less, attempt to—from behind but you duck and twirl, evading his lightsaber and planting a kick on his shin. This dynamic of alternating between the two Jedis lasted for more than a minute, a medley of attack patterns used against you—a handful of which have dealt damage on you, some missed you, but you enjoyed this death-defying thrill, it livened you up in this dull hangar.

Your mischievous, insidious grin stretched across your face melted when the entire hangar rumbled under your boots, explosions roared behind your ears; while holding your ground, you turned to find the source of the sound and found portions of the building are being reduced to shrapnel and inferno. Cere steals your smile and paints it with triumph on; you're not even that mad, you shoot her with a snarl of your lip, catching on with her little game, all the while impressed.

"Oh joy, you'll experience how I actually nearly died!"

You pulled away violently from the tangle of blades, pommeled Cere across the jaw with your own hilt, and pushed her at a certain distance.

"[Y/N]!!"

As the ceiling above your heads crumbled and rained dust, your lightning-fast flurry of the lightsaber did not waive; the boy didn't want to be outmatched—he cannot afford to, now that they're all standing inside a building on the verge of collapse—his dexterity and nimbleness spiked, adapting to your own caliber. Cal wanted to finish this as soon as possible, and he had to think fast; in his peripheral vision, he sees Cere bringing herself back up on her feet, dazed from your hit across her face, and then understood the gravity of her damage.

The garrison begins to collapse, any moment the entire roof will fall over your heads if neither Jedi nor Inquisitor shall stand victorious in this duel. In a final, colossal clash of lightsabers, both youngsters were encased in the sheen of their luminous weapons.

“[Y/N], come on, let’s go home,” Cal pleads once more.

“I can’t—” you choked, tears didn’t hide themselves from Cal, they streamed down your cheek as the stability of your grip fluctuated—influenced by the medley of emotions storming every fiber of your being. “I don’t belong there anymore!”

Despite the sheer intensity, Cal’s voice remained soft and gentle to you, as it always has. In a last-minute resort, he encourages, “You always have belonged with us, and we’re waiting for you to come home.”

Another tear streaks your face, your eyelids drooped, and then spoke in the most defeated, somber tone.

“It’s too late for me now, Cal.”

The crumbling ceiling groans, your eyes roll up and saw the reinforcement beam give way to two colossal chunks of debris plummet in a 50-foot drop from the ceiling straight down to a docked TIE Fighter.

“CAL, LOOK OUT!”

He didn’t fully see your reaction at the last minute; you pull him in and then push him away, but in turn,you got yourself closer to the blast radius. The hot wind picked you up into the air and flung your to the floor like a ragdoll, hitting your head upon landing, rendering you unconscious.

“[Y/N], NO!”

A sharp, piercing noise shrilled in Cal’s ears—all the other noises and voices are reduced to echoing gibberish, even Cere’s calling of your names—straight ahead, he saw you lying unconscious on the floor, covered in debris. He desperately crawled towards you, blatantly ignoring the hollow calls ringing behind his ears; he cradled you in his arms, ignoring the crackling heat flaring near his cheeks.

“[Y/N], come on…” he stuttered. “[Y/N], stay with me… I’m not leaving you a second time!”

He shakes you to coax you into waking up, he could’ve sworn he felt your body shuffle in reaction, he placed his forefinger and middle finger on your neck and found a pulse. He snaps his fingers and BD pops out a stim, he injects it straight into the flesh of your upper arm—you jolted and sucked in a lot of air at the same time, as if emerging into the surface from underwater.

Indeed, you were alive, but relatively weakened by the blast. Your voice saying Cal’s name was drowned out by the roaring flames and the thundering collapse of the garrison.

“Cal, we have to go now!”

Bursting with adrenaline, he scoops you up into his arms and followed Cere to the escape route; evading all the explosions as much as possible and keeping the enemy encounters to a minimum. Although, the evacuees are confused whether to engage the intruders—and presumably, in their heads, rescue the Inquisitor from the Jedi, but they’re felled by either the blasts or Cere’s blaster.

Speeding through the corridors, Cere led Cal to an open docking platform. The Mantis waits at the edge of the catwalk in a fly-by, lightly swerving to dodge blaster fire from the ground, and the entry ramp hangs open.

“Come on, you guys!” shrieked Greez.

Merrin waited by the frame of the entry ramp, the strong wind of the ship and the environment whip her fringes as she feels for balance while getting farther out. On the other hand, Cere and Cal—with you still in his arms—are almost to the edge of the catwalk.

“Come on, you have to jump!” cried out Merrin from the ramp.

Cal assessed the gap between the platform and the ship, it was a risky jump—one miscalculated step equaled to a hundred-foot doom.

“They’re gaining on us!” Cal screeched.

“You go on ahead, I’ll cover you and catch up!”

The boy paced back for momentum, buckled his knees when he slightly crouched, he fixed his grip tighter on you, and trusted his heels as he propelled the balls of his feet off the floor. The Mantis hovers at a considerable height by the edge of the catwalk that won’t send anyone hanging onto the edge of the ramp for dear life.

The soles of his boots planted flat on the metal floor and briskly trotted inside, settling you down gently on the couch, and then he joins Merrin by the ramp, watching Cere blast at the incoming Stormtroopers.

“Cere, let’s go!”

The woman produced a detonator out of her belt pouch and set it off. As a finisher, she gathered all the strength in her throwing arm, the bomb rolled towards the Stormtroopers’ feet and encased them in a cloud of fire and smoke. She quickly turned tail and made the jump, she scrambled on fours to get inside the ship and Cal slams the door button once she’s in.

“Punch it, Greez!”

The forgers at the Imperial armory fashioned your mask with a hybrid of square and triangular accents. Meanwhile, you donned the ash-gray ensemble that goes underneath your armor plates. In the set, you’re granted a pair of pauldrons, gauntlets, greaves to go with the calves of your pants, and a breastplate with a red stripe along at the hem. They all fitted like a glove.

The piece de resistance is all that’s left.

You watched the Imperial armor technician weld and solder the helmet until it morphed into their ideal, desired shape. Sparks flew, shimmered to light the room, and then die out almost instantly. Bit by bit, you’re starting to see his artistic vision realized.

“I do not discriminate. Newcomer or otherwise, I put a lot of attention to detail in all of my crafts,” the technician thought out loud, perhaps sensing your curiosity and worry that it might not look as good as the others.

“I’m sure you do, considering how many we are right now,”

“It doesn’t matter to me whether there’s dozens of you. I can make one unlike the other—always.”

He harrumphed a scoffing laugh as a response, taking pride in his declaration before continuing.

The armor technician has finished the shaping phase, next he lets it sit for a minutes before cooling it with vapor. You watched the whole process with great intent and curiosity, at the same time, it’s as though you’re watching your new face being created right in front of your very eyes.

He gingerly took the helmet in both of his hands, cradling it with an esteemed carefulness—treating it with royalty and high regard, for crafting an Inquisitor’s mask was a heavy yet rewarding task to complete. This particular forger was an expert crafter, he hand-designed and sculpted most if not all Inquisitors’ helmets and masks. Feeling the weight of yours in his hands, he carefully stepped away from his smelter and toward you; like a monarch’s crown, he presented it to you and inched it closer for you to take it.

“Twelfth Sister,” addressed the armorer.

The gloss of the duraplast once cooled distorted your reflection on its convex surface. A part of you doesn’t recognize this face, the other acknowledges it but doesn’t accept the reality—at least not yet.

From the armorer’s hand to yours, the helmet rests in its rightful owner’s grasp. You hoist it to the top of your head and then lowered it once you’ve aligned it. One moment, your eyes were shrouded by black, and then the next thing you know you’re seeing red—literally—through the visor of your helmet, though you see things as clearly as you’d normally do.

“It’s a perfect fit,” you said blankly, although the comment delighted the armorer very much.

He bowed and returned to the front of his smelter, he’d afford small glimpses of you getting used to the helmet. From your end, there were functions that you’re new to—such as infrared scanning—and there were buttons disguised as accents on the side of the mask that respond to these features.

“Interesting,” you mouthed to yourself, not caring whether the armorer heard it or not.

You tried breathing through the mask, fortunately for you, this won’t hinder the strenuousness of your fighting style—let alone movements in general—as well as catching your breath. For a moment, it’s as though the same world was unraveled before you with brand new eyes—ones that stopped fighting the hatred and used it as strength, rage that blinds yet helps you see with great clarity, the intoxication to power was a permanent leech on your skin and you relished it.

Now completely outfitted in your Inquisitor’s garbs, you make your exit out of the armorer’s chamber and head out to join your “brothers and sisters” in conference. Being the newest, therefore the lowest in rank, the crew and Stormtroopers have mixed feelings about you—though you could care less.

They looked at you with curious yet skeptical eyes as you strode past them. You arrived in the conference hall, heads turned to the door at the sound of the sharp, metallic buzz and then revealed you standing on the other side.

“Ah, the newbie, right on time!” the male Twi’lek Inquisitor chirped, his pointed porcelain white teeth standing out of his glistening, obsidian-black skin.

You stepped in, took that one gap in the line and seemed to have closed the circle surrounding the holotable. You didn’t miss much of the briefing, though they picked up where they left, you intently studied all the holographs that are flashed on the table: battle tactics, ship routes, and person profiles. You listened to the Second Brother explain everything down to the last detail; you saw what kind of person  he is when the two of you aren’t swinging your sabers at each other’s neck, trying to kill one another.

The next part of his presentation included a whole collection of head shots. He explains that they are the current, surviving Jedi across the galaxy. The images of unnamed faces encircled the holotable and slowly rotated for each and every one to see. Below their portraits are short, bulleted write-ups of the latest reports about them: be it last known locations, current agendas, potential accomplices, and recent activities.

After the one you’re looking at, the next one made you quiver in your armor—you can spot that splash of red hair, a naïve freckled face, that boyish charm and a scrapper’s roguishness from a parsec away.

Cal’s head shot rotated and froze right in front of you; blank, jade eyes blending in with the fluorescent blue of the holograph as it stared through your helmet’s visor.

The most crucial part of your past life stares back at you.

The male Twi’lek, namely the Fourth Brother, noticed you in the corner of his eye, sensed your uneasiness and discovered your intrepidity replaced with a sudden, dramatic loss of self-confidence. The Second Brother continued his exposition.

“According to our latest intel, these are the Jedi currently in hiding. Some of them are so bold enough to join factions, such as the traitor—the former admiral Jax Beneb who made with a faction in Ulfin,”

“This one, Cal Kestis, joined them not too long ago. He travels with the Mantis crew comprised of its pilot, a Lateron named Greez Dritus, the right-hand and former Jedi Cere Junda, and… er… a witch. We don’t know the latter’s background, we can only confirm she’s Dathomirian.”

“She’s called a Nightsister,” you corrected the Second Brother.

“He and his crew got themselves involved with the uprising in Ulfin,” the Fifth Brother continued.

“Until the Imperial fortification was bombed—no thanks to Twelfth Sister right here.” The Seventh Sister finished with a voice of chagrin and sarcasm.

There were soft gasps and quiet murmurs amongst the other Inquisitors who apparently had no prior knowledge.

“In my defense, I wasn’t one of you that time,” you dryly chuckled before adding. “Took a few good voltages before you broke me, eh Seventh Sister?”

Feeling outclassed, Seventh Sister rolled her eyes and avoided eye contact from you. The sight of her furrowed eyebrows and the crease on the side of her nose warranted a satisfied, mischievous smirk. You bobbed your head at an angle while the next head shot proceeded, and then Cal’s image rotated to the female red-skinned humanoid with cropped brown hair on your left—this one is known as the Eighth Sister.

Second Brother continued with his plan, catching everyone’s attention by clearing his throat and getting back to the objective at hand. The point was to fan out to selected planets and systems where the Jedi stragglers ought to be and hunt them down—which is their original prerogative ever since the Inquisitorius was formed. Before anyone else could call it, you pressed a button which prompted the ring of head shots to spin wildly until the picture of Cal glows right in front of you.

“I’ll find him, along with Cere Junda,”

“Pheh! Hey, who says you get to have first dibs?!” the Eighth Sister screeched.

“Do you know them like I do?” you raised your voice against her and you were met with a stifled silence due to the lack of a good answer. “You’d be more productive in recovering junk parts salvaged by Jawas than finding the Mantis crew and the Jedi boy!”

The same silence hung around the holotable. You seem to have a knack in making anyone who spoke against you to hold their tongues. It seems everyone was waiting for you to elaborate on your rationale.

“I know the pilot’s flying tactics as well as Cere Junda’s technical tinkering that go hand-in-hand. The Nightsister is not to be underestimated lest you won’t be meeting her good side; and her powers exceed urban legend—she can cloak a ship like a normal cloaking device would, she can raise the dead, she can bury you alive six feet under without even touching a hair on you. That’s how potent her magick is. The boy, on the other hand, I know the most—his fighting, his emotions. Point is: I’m the best chance in finding them.”

You glanced left and right, searching for an objecting reaction from the Seventh Sister and Fifth Brother, and then looked straight into Second Brother’s eyes.

“And you can’t deny that, Second Brother. So do the two right beside you.”

The rest of the Inquisitors turn to the Second Brother for his reply, he gave in and he cannot deny that cold, hard fact—that you were once in connivance with these people. And so, you’re granted with your chosen targets; the others followed suit in selecting which Jedi to go after.

—–

Cal wakes up in a cold sweat again. It has become a frequent occurrence, an unwanted habit that he’s trying so hard to kill.

The weeks turned into months, he’s honestly lost count that he had to ask someone else.

They’ve moved on from Jax Beneb’s rebel faction and went off-world. At first, it was difficult convincing the boy that they had to go and leave the planet, as there’s nothing coming back to him as much as he hoped, and whatever he’s waiting for is just dead air. He had developed a destructive habit of drowning himself in trances—he’s practically returned to where he was before: where he loses control in meditation, doing so has distorted his subconscious vision; he eats only once a day—sometimes not at all—and locks himself up in his room. BD-1 is his only companion through and through, but not even the tiny droid can get a word out of the Jedi boy.

The bracelet, your bracelet, is now worn around his wrist; but in the first time he’s secured it on his arm, the leather cord felt like it was burning and searing through his skin, but when others would take a look at it there’s nothing out of the ordinary. The metal pendant, with the scorch marks obscuring the finish, felt like a red-hot branding iron on his arm, his hand twitched and jerked, yet he couldn’t bring himself to swat away or rip the trinket off.

He hated the pain, but it was the only comfort he knew of remembering you by.

A self-imposed penance.

He blames himself for not coming sooner to get you out.

“[Y/N] would hate to see you like this, Cal,” Merrin started to scold.

There was nothing the Nightsister got out of the Jedi.

When he looked at her straight in the eye, she flinched; and then she got a closer look of the sorry state he’s in—there were dark circles around his eyes, the swelling and the redness of the lining of his eyes suggested restless nights whiled away with crying, untreated cuts and bruises spotted his knuckles and the damning evidence is the small yet noticeable streaks of blood on the gray walls.

“Merrin, I can’t crawl out of the grave that I’ve dug for myself,” Cal shuddered, his voice muffled as his mouth was blocked by his knees folded and drawn to his chest. “I know she’s still here. And I’m talking like the sentimental kind, no, I really know. You have to believe me. You all must think I’m crazy.”

“You don’t see or hear any of us saying so,”

“I know, I just… I don’t know if I’m imagining overthinking it but I just feel like you guys are only humoring me,”

“I don’t do that kind of thing, Cal, it’s not in my nature,” Merrin shook her head. “But I miss [Y/N] too. More than you’d like to know.”

Cal sighed and didn’t speak further. Merrin dismissed herself out of his bedroom and reminded him that Cere had left a plate of dinner for him before closing the door. When he was left alone again, he hung his head low and ran his fingers through his loose, unkempt hair.

He had been alone for most of his life, but this was a different kind of loneliness—one that he isn’t entirely used to. The emptiness, the silence, and the depression bore an alien, coldly terrifying air that hung heavily around his bedroom. The engine hum drowned out his sobbing as he tucks himself away in bed, deliberately forgetting his meal outside.

Cere feels all of that grim emotion pooling inside that room, she wonders how much of those feelings will she pick up if she opens that door—could she take it? Will she be overwhelmed? These were the questions she asked herself.

“Give him some more time. I don’t think he needs us right now, Cere,” Greez glumly said, stopping her in her tracks in any attempt of consoling Cal.

Cal could not sleep—another problem he’s dealing with. He lies with his back flat on the bed, tears trickle down his temples and pools on his pillow just below his ears, he feels like he’s nestled in his deathbed. He can close his eyes, but he cannot catch a wink of sleep. Sometimes, he mistakes dreaming for meditation—of the other way around.

As the meeting pronounced adjourned, they scrambled out of the conference hall while you’re left alone. Arms crossed with one another, you stared at the set of head shots you projected on the table—Cal and Cere. Even though you know them so well, you wondered what kind of information the spies have written about them in their reports.

Your eyes trailed to the write-ups for each profile.

CAL KESTIS

Last known location: Ulfin City in Pevera, Goltan System

Potential accomplices: Cere Junda, Greez Dritus (shipmate), unidentified Dathomirian female

Recent activity: Involvement in rebel-initiated terrorist assault

Charges: Conspiracy and acts of terrorism against the Empire

CERE JUNDA

Last known location: Ulfin City in Pevera, Goltan System

Potential accomplices: Cal Kestis, Greez Dritus (shipmate), unidentified Dathomirian female

Recent activity: Involvement in rebel-initiated terrorist assault

Charges: Conspiracy and acts of terrorism against the Empire

You sighed as you finished reading through the facts of their profiles. You turn away from the holotable and stand in front of the mirror that oversees the operations happening outside the Fortress in Mons Golotha. It’s originally a spice mine owned by a crime syndicate who capitalized in the illegal spice trade, but since the occupation and establishment of the Fortress Inquisitorius, the propriety was handed over to the Empire.

Through the window you watch the moving specks that are the people slaving away to harvest the raw, unprocessed spice, loading them into crates and then into freighters. But the turmoil of these pitiful workers weren’t your focus, you’re channeling it to finding Cal’s connection in the Force and through the Force. The storm in your mind has calmed for a time, allowing you to think and meditate clearly; even in the darkness, you see a light at the end of the path. You pursue it, as you run towards it like an excited, curious child you utter his name.

Cal…

His eyes shot up, he was on the verge of falling asleep already until he heard his name in the distance. He sat up, surveyed the bedroom and found nothing. He shrugged it off as nothing and decided to lie back down… but the voice called again.

Cal...

Now this time, he recognizes the voice. He bolted up.

“[Y/N]?!” he gasped.

Where are you?

“Where are you?”

You didn’t answer, one question led to another.

I need to find you. Tell me where you are.

“I… I’m in—”

“So, Twelfth Sister! How’s the hunt coming along?”

The boisterous Fourth Brother interrupted you and deprived you of the most vital part of your plan. He barges right into your personal space; before he could utter another word, you grabbed him in a chokehold using the Force and slammed him against the window wall. The impact was so hard that a crack appeared right behind his head almost like an icy halo.

The grit of your teeth hissed out the words, “What. Do you. Want?”

He gurgled his words but turned out into frothy noises, you saw him tap for submission on the glass and his ankles buckling.

“What is it that you have to say that is so important that you had to interrupt me and my meditation!?”

“I…. Guhhkk! Wanted to ask if… aagghhk! You plan to go alone!”

You released the Twi’lek, he fell to his knees coughing and clutching his neck.

“I work alone. Go.”

You turn away and wait for the Fourth Brother to leave your sight. Despite calling each other brother and sister, there was no filial connection amongst one another; simply put, it was only tolerance and putting up with each other’s bull. You, on the other hand, hate everyone. Some of them may have not played a part on your turning, but you can’t help but remain hostile towards them—the Eighth Sister deduced that it’s a normal feeling when you’re the fledgling of the Inquisitorius.

You leave the room and make for the hangar to your TIE Fighter.

Meanwhile, Cal was met again with silence and the ecstasy he felt in hearing your voice—even just in his head—died with his melting smile. He sighed and slipped under his sheets again, his heart ached as he coaxed himself to sleep.

THE DAY OF THE COUNTERATTACK

The operation proceeded as planned.

All of you have been preparing for this since the fall of dusk that night.

You had help in hitching a ride from the temple ruins in the jungle to Ulfin. Some rebels drove landspeeders, but only until you got to the city walls that shielded it from the wilderness. Cal caught you by the arm before you regrouped with the detonations team.

“Hey, see you later?”

You smirked, “Yeah, like always.”

Despite your recurring nightmares and anxiety, Cal aided in keeping those inhibitions at bay and encouraged you enough that everything will go as planned. It was worth pondering why his worries were transferred to you ever since you had those nightmares—but you swore to yourself that it wouldn’t happen, you will not allow it.

You and your group were equipped with live trackers—your signatures will appear as blips to the assault division’s, including Cal’s, radars. The redhead constantly stared at your signature marked with your name’s initial, it moved at a natural pace on the radar but something troubled him as they crept through the fortress like scrap rats.

“They’re close to the reactor chamber,” Cal reported to his team.

“Good, they should be going down there and sticking those claymores in a matter of minutes,”

“Come on, [Y/N]…” Cal mumbled through the grit of his teeth.

The destination was the base—the location of the main reactor chamber—and you were carrying your share of the explosives. The leader made it transparently clear of who goes where and which goes to whom. You had to navigate your way through a metal maze—and while doing so, you’re memorizing your path in which will also be your way out—until you found the enormous pillar brimming with electricity and energy.

Your eyes were filled with the light of the energy at the very base of the reactor. You could only imagine just how catastrophic the explosion will be and how far the blast radius can reach. You could’ve sworn you felt your heart drop to your stomach upon the sight of the reactor pillar.

“Don’t be intimidated, little spark! Once you paste those bad boys up, this reactor will pale in comparison to their punch!”

“It’s not that…” you mutter, supposedly to the boisterous female partisan, but you kept it to yourself as she would not comprehend what you’re sensing.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this…” You thought to yourself, and it’s got something to do with the plan.

The rest of the fighters approached their designated pillars, producing the explosives from their packs and then adhering them to the metal surface. Meanwhile, the adult rebel noticed you hesitating.

“Well, come on, kid, we don’t have all day!” the older lady coaxed.

Eventually, you took your own claymore and attached it on the pillar’s base. You set off the timer for 30 minutes, enough for everyone to get out of the chamber safely and regroup with the ones in the surface. In the middle of your configuration, the weird feeling you detected became stronger—only you had their senses spiked. Your abrupt turn caught the woman’s attention, she shot you a quizzical look, your eyes surveyed the entire reactor chamber… until you spotted a shadow perched on the beam above her head.

“Kid, are you okay?”

“LOOK OUT!!” you screeched but it was too late.

The shadow had made its presence known—the watcher descended from the high beam with ease and drove his crimson saber straight into your companion’s spine, killing her instantly.

“NO!!!”

All of your other companions were on high alert as soon as they heard your first cry. They set their blasters to kill, all barrels pointing at the enemy fully clad in jet black armor. Without a doubt, this was an Inquisitor—everything about him was a dead giveaway from the helmet down to the saber. You brandished your own while the rebels surrounded the Inquisitor, inept to comprehend the sheer power of one individual.

“Well, hello,” the Inquisitor cooed in a singsong manner, tilting his head as he spoke. It appeared that he had his eye on you, for you were the only one standing out amongst these rebels.

“You’ll pay for what you did!” you growled.

“Oh, this?” he nudged the body with his boot. “Sorry, but we all have our accidents once in a while, eh?”

You found his remark revolting. Not once, not even in a single inch, did you remove your eyes from him. From what you can tell, you sensed that he is elusive—he’s made a good example of that before he made your fellow rebel a landing cushion for himself and the other end of his lightsaber.

“You’re quite young for a Jedi, a youngling during the Purge no doubt,”

“What do you know about me?”

A throaty chuckle was your reply; he positioned himself in a stance, as well as his saber, in the offensive.

“Perhaps, you could show me,” invited the Inquisitor.

It was he who made the first move. He cut through the wind like a dart, swift and sure, until you broke his lunge with a block. You prepared yourself for impact, but you didn’t expect it to be this heavy! You’ve found yourself caught in a frenzied dance of blades, waving and swinging your saber at the Inquisitor who’s keenly refusing you a chance of a jab at all.

This new enemy in the lines, the shadowy Second Brother, was a blade in the dark.

You’ve got to hand it to him—he is very stealthy and acrobatic, he almost makes it impossible to catch up to him. Not even the sharpshooter of your team can land a mark, let alone graze his armor, as the Second Brother leaps from one parapet to a platform and so on.

Spinning in place as you followed his movements was an old tactic to tire you down, that much you’re certain, and he was impressed that you read through his plan. He didn’t linger from his high ground too long; for someone of a heavy stock, he appeared and moved as light as a feather while he’s perched on the safety banister of the platform. Holding out his dual-edged saber in one hand, he tucked his knees and sprang off from his perch, darting through the wind again towards you.

You prepared yourself again for another heavy landing. Little by little, you determine his attack pattern: he prefers confusing his enemies visually by leaping from one surface to another—like a Kowakian monkey-lizard—and when he’s in an optimum position, he’ll buckle for a heavy, dart-like attack as he bolts through the air, propelled by the take-off caused by the balls of his feet.

“You’re a smart one, aren’t you?” his voice rung muffled through his helmet as he strains his weight against yours, making you some sort of anchor.

Compared to him, you’re half his size and strength, but you didn’t let that intimidate you. You destroyed his stance by kicking him in the knee, straightening his leg from its tucked position, and follow it up with another foot to the stomach. The pain was tolerable, nonetheless, he wordlessly commended your courage and boldness.

“A thorny one, too!” he cackled.

You turned to the rebels.

This fight was obviously a trap for you and the rebels to lose time. Despite the compromise, you urged everyone that the plan must pull through.

“Switch on the timers now!” you ordered for everyone as you held fast against the Inquisitor.

As soon as you gave the order, one of the rebels sprinted towards his reactor, stretched out a hand as he ran so his fingers could at least touch the button…

Until the Inquisitor extended his arm, aimed at the scampering rebel, and essentially seized the man’s capability to move—leaving his fingertip just a mere inch away from the button to start the countdown.

“Ah-ah-ah!” the Inquisitor chirped in a mocking, singsong tune. “You wouldn’t wanna ruin the fun, now would you?”

Using the Force, you break off his connection with the man and drew his attention to you. Apparently so, ruining his own sick definition of fun is something one must not do—not even a Jedi.

You fixated your eyes on him, you watch him slowly crane his head from the rebel to you—obviously vexed by your interruption—and so he lowered his arm, subsequently releasing the rebel. His throaty growl prevailed the low-pitched machine hum of the reactors.

Bemused at you, he snarls, “Thorny one, indeed.”

“Careful not to prick yourself then!”

The Second Brother liked your snark. The two of you resumed the whirlwind of blades as the rebels took advantage of the preoccupied Inquisitor and made a run for the explosives already glued to the pillars.

“[Y/N], COME ON!” another rebel vigorously swung his arm in the air, repeating a beckoning gesture at you as he let the rest of the partisans scale the ladders and make their escape.

“JUST GO, I’LL FOLLOW!!” you cry while struggling in the block against the Second Brother.

“Are you sure about that!?” he shifts more of his weight against you, in an attempt to make you fumble and finally give him a window to attack.

The rebels make their way out of the reactor chamber with less than thirty minutes ticking behind them. Engaging the Second Brother has cost you ten minutes already. A shortcut was made, courtesy of the bombardment caused by the skirmish on the ground. They pass through the obliterated hallway with a hole in the wall, a few Stormtroopers’ bodies strewn across the floor, and a row of busted turrets.

Back on the ground, Cal is the singular crutch that gave the rebels the advantage they so desperately want and need. This is a large playing field, and so he had the equal amount of room to practice, experiment, enhance, or improve. Cal was confident as he deals more hits in the vanguard along with the rest of the rebels in the front; eventually, he had to fall back from the bulk of the action as he felt something wrong.

“Bee-boop?”

“I’m not hurt, BD… I sensed something… quite bad,” Cal panted, clutching his chest as he struggled to calm his breathing.

He shook it off and fished out his compact radar from his pocket. His eyes followed a cluster of red blips moving in the same direction—which is south in his perspective—though, he spotted your blip which remained in the reactor chamber. He stared at the red dot, your red dot, pondering why it has remained in the same location or only moving in what ought to be just paces in real life. He clenched his teeth hard enough for this molars to grind against each other. He puts away the radar and returns to battle.

Where are you, [Y/N]? What are you still doing there?! He thought to himself as he cuts down the trio of Stormtroopers aiming at him.

Meanwhile, you’re still busy with the Second Brother; there seems to be no end to his energy—still acrobatic and swift as the first time he made himself known. Another clash and long intertwine of your blades, he finally saw through you—in your eyes, lit by the contradicting colors of your weapons—and discovered the determination slowly transmogrifying into desperation.

“Ahh,” he purred, and then chuckled. “Now I see what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

“You know nothing, you treacherous oaf! Nor will you ever!”

“There it is!” he voluntarily withdrew from the clash of blades, evading your overhead strike, and gestures with his arms thrown open to the sides as if he had an epiphany.

He pointed the end of his saber to you.

“There’s that darkness, you’ve buried it so deep within you… but now it has emerged,” he tauned.

“Keep quiet!”

Out of frustration, you charged and lunged at him. A reckless move in the heat of the moment.

The Inquisitor had no problem whatsoever in deflecting you; he’s confident that he has attained the upper hand of this duel—now that he’s spotted a weakness in you that you’ve unintentionally let out.

This collision of blades was the most intense than the ones that came before it. You could almost see his sinister grin through the plate of his mask as your sabers—a dramatic contrast of color and of virtue—illuminate your faces.