#shonebright

          the  fact  that  galen’s  daughter  is  here,  is  in  this  ship  with  him,  doesn’t  help  matters.  stadust  had  always  sounded  like  a  tale,  shining  and  lovely and  distant  -  gone  before  bodhi  ever  heard  about  her.  galen  always  got  so  sad  ‘round  the  eyes  on  the  occasions  they  were  alone  enough  for  him  to  talk  about  his  lost  daughter.  and  now  she’s  here.  if  they  hadn’t  just  fled  an  exploding  city  together  bodhi  would  wonder  if  she  were  a  fragment  of  his  imagination,  pulled  to  the  surface  by  bor  gullet  and  twisted  into  something  seemingly  solid.  he’d  been  seeing  things  in  the  cell,  before  -  figures  and  shapes  and  horrifying  things.  fingers  tighten.

          “he  -  your  father,”  he  starts,  voice  creaking  for  a  moment.  the  guardians  are  huddled  in  one  corner,  the  rebel  and  droid  piloting,  and  it  seems  to  bodhi  that  none  of  them  are  listening  in.  perhaps  it’s  the  sort  of  thing  he  doesn’t  need  to  worry  about,  now,  but  he’s  all  too  used  to  keeping  personal  conversations  hidden  from  prying  ears,  “he  -  he  talked  to  me  about  you.”  

                          looking to jyn, finding that she was holding her own. ahsoka began looking for a way out, but they were trapped, and there was a chance reinforcements would be called with the fuss they kicked up. ahsoka could have easily climbed out of the alleyway ---- but she wasn’t sure if jyn could. then, she heard it. an imperial walker, probably out doing patrol, and heard the noise. with just their two blasters, there wasn’t much chance. or MUCH CHOICE. 

                          ‘ jyn !! get down !! ‘ as soon as the walker was in her sight, her breath slowed. her eyes slipped shut and she began to focus on the force around her, calling it to her, a familiar feeling of warmth spread throughout her. for a fleeting moment, it felt as though her heart wasn’t hollow. she felt connected. her heart ached to reach out for the people that weren’t there to reach back. but before she could be swallowed by the loss of all that she had ever known -- she opened her eyes, hand raised, commanding the force that surrounded her. bending it to her will. as if no time had passed. as if she still were still A JEDI. 

                                 the imperial walker’s legs broke from underneath itself, and before any other time was wasted, ahsoka grabbed jyn’s hand. ‘ c’mon, let’s go !! ‘ 

ONE thing you like abt my portrayal ??

HEADCANONS !!    

               luke skywalker doesn’t know what to do with his status as a legend. first, he’s the wonder boy pilot who took out the first death star. everyone wants to pat him on the back, buy him a drink, tell him what a one in a million shot that was ...   at first, the attention is nice, but he gets tired of it rather quickly. when he overhears his exploits being twisted & stretched far beyond their reality, he smiles to himself & keeps on walking.

     after that, he’s commander skywalker of rogue squadron, a valued officer in the rebel alliance. he’s close friends with princess leia organa. everyone seems to know his name. but he buries himself in the cause & learns to live with the fame -- he’s glad when it dies down a bit on hoth. 

     but then comes endor. then comes the galaxy’s recognition of him as a jedi knight, one of the only left in existence. he becomes more than legend. he becomes myth. 

     his status is something he learns to wear, to put on as easily as his cloak & take off when he’s in the privacy of his own quarters, or with his family. there is always a sense of separation from his jedi persona, the one that people shout for & praise & hate & respect, & his true self. he is a jedi, to his very core, but the difference between his experience is & the public’s perception is vast.

               HE FEELS WARM; WARMER THAN  any other time since he left Tatooine. Space is cold -- colder than he had expected. Vast, unending even. But always cold. He craves the sensation of twin suns kissing the back of his neck with their rays, but he’ll settle for this bubbly, cascading, glowing warmth that starts in his chest & continues out to his hands, his arms, his legs, his mind. He credits the pleasant feeling to the Corellian brandy Han had shoved at him earlier, something the man had been holding captive in the holds of the Falcon ... or maybe it was the Zingaran rum someone else had placed in his hands later ----- the evening had become a mess of faces & flashes of memories in no particular order. He’s too warm to care, really.

     But the crowd of pilots & analysts, rebels all, rowdy & drunk on victory as well as on whatever beverages they’d been able to scrounge up, had become a bit too much for him to handle. He’d enjoyed it at first, but he can’t even begin to count how many hands he’s shaken, or how many times he’s been pounded on the back in celebration & gratitude. He’ll probably have a few bruises come the morning.

     So he migrates to the fringes, trying to find a shadowy corner to sit & watch from for the rest of the evening. He spots an almost uninhabited crate & decides that it’s as good a place as any. He walks over, a little unsteady on his feet but managing not to stumble or stagger, & plops down next to a woman who, after a few blinks & a thoughtful stare, he recognizes as Jyn Erso. He’d met her briefly before the battle. He’s genuinely happy to see her now.