Blood in the Breeze: Ch 14 (Masquerade)
Parts one and two of this series linked.
Read every chapter on FFN or Ao3.
Summary: A spy and the Outlander walk into a party....then Arcann crashes it. Jorgan faces a demon from the past, and Fynta makes a bold move that everyone will hate.
Chapter Word Count: 5,928
Chapter Rating: T
Characters in Chapter: Fynta Wolfe, Aric Jorgan, Theron Shan, Arcann, Zolah Holran, Bey’wan Aygo, Felix Iresso, Torian Cadera.
Author’s Note: Whole chapter under the cut. Better formatting on Ao3.
Zakuul
The Endless Swamp
Valkorion's words echoed in the back of Fynta's mind. Strike my daughter down, and this empire will be yours to command. They crawled over her subconscious, leaving an oily trail of corruption that soured her stomach. Any time Fynta demanded to know why Valkorion wanted her to inherit his throne, the hut'uun smiled and faded away. The unshakeable chill that those encounters cut Fynta to the bone.
"Damn." Theron's voice broke through Fynta's musing. He held up the stolen Zakuulan Knight's armor and grimaced. "It's heavier than I expected."
Fynta shook away the remnants of her daydream and tugged on her boots. She hated the garish gold that washed out her complexion, but she supposed that it didn't matter as long as her helmet stayed in place. The woman who Fynta had divested of her armor had been smaller, but the fit would do for the short time that she had to wear it. Standing, Fynta twisted to test the joints. "Stop bitching and put on your armor. It's about time you walked into a fight with something more than terrible taste."
"Rude," Theron muttered as he shucked the red jacket that Fynta eyed and draped it over the chair. The spy heaved a sigh in one last effort to gain sympathy, then set about attaching the plates with some direction from Felix.
Once the armor was secure, Felix slapped the helmet over Theron's head. There was some teasing followed by a light chuckle when the spy twisted his faceplate into place. Then, Theron's shoulders slumped. "I can't see a thing in this damn thing."
"You'll figure it out." A flirty response about Theron still being pretty rattled through the back of Fynta's mind, but she didn't chase it through her lips. Too many other concerns occupied the space normally reserved for bad behavior.
"Listen up, everyone." Zolah called from beside the complicated setup of monitors wired into the shuttle's main system. Without looking up, she pointed down the open ramp. "If you want to make the shift change, I suggest you shut up and start running. Fifteen minutes to the rendezvous."
Fynta admired the way that the Chiss agent set aside personal attachments when a mission started. That was something that Fynta had never managed. Even before Aric, she'd rushed in when her comrades were in danger, whereas Zolah accessed the risks and acted accordingly. For the moment, Theron wasn't her lover, but an asset that needed to play his part.
"Right, wish us luck." Theron thumped down the ramp, unperturbed by Zolah's abrupt dismissal. They'd worked together for years while Fynta slept in carbonite. By the time she'd been revived, the two were already settled into a comfortable relationship, with his budding romance with Vector on the horizon.
As Fynta started to follow, Torian grabbed her arm. "Parjir."
"Ni ratiin narir." Fynta's modulated voice sounded more sure of her victory than she felt, but it was enough to convince the chieftain. Torian stepped away with a nod, then closed the hatch behind her. Fynta walked into the swamp confident that if the worst happened, the men aboard that ship would have her back.
Theron started complaining about the weight of his suit less than a klick into their trek, and Fynta's threats to his person began shortly after that. Finally, when the Spire came into view, Fynta felt relief instead of the trepidation of what they were about to attempt. She affected the stiff gate of a Zakuulan Knight, and passed beneath the watchful eyes of half a dozen cameras.
Theron's voice came through Fynta's speakers once they'd cleared the main entry. "Okay, take a left at the next corner, but steer clear of the Horizon Guard. They'll see right through these disguises."
Fynta imagined Theron with his face scrunched in concentration while he worked the unfamiliar HUD inside his helmet. His hand lifted, then dropped back to his side. "Yeah, okay, I'm getting the hang of this. Indo Zal should be waiting for us in that supply closet."
"A supply closet," Fynta drawled. "Really?"
"I didn't set this meeting up," Theron countered. There were few less obvious places to hold a clandestine meeting, but this could be the Alliance's only chance to strike Vaylin while she was weak.
As promised, Zal waited on the inside of the catering room; it wasn't a closet by any stretch of the imagination. While it held tables, food, and cleaning supplies for the party, Fynta could have parked a starship inside of it. She listened to the man's plan while servers and custodians moved around them, carrying on in their duties with the precision of trained staff. Not a single one appeared interested in Indo's meeting with two Zakuulan Knights.
According to the Indo Zal, his people had grown tired of Vaylin's cruelty and wished to fight alongside anyone who could dethrone her, regardless of past...sins. He stuttered over the part about the Valkorion's assassination. Fynta wanted to tell the man that Valkorion wasn't dead, no matter how much she wished that he was, but it was a moot point. She was the Outlander, a curse on Zakuul, instead of the vaulted savior of the galaxy. But, they would work with her, for now.
After leaving Indo to his work, Fynta and Theron carried on with their part of the plan. "Almost—there." He was crouched next to a control panel with half his body shoved inside. One hand waved toward Fynta, and she dropped an ion charge into the waiting palm.
Once it was in place, Theron stood and dusted off his pants. His gloves clanked against the armored plating, drawing the attention of a team of passing guards. They paused, then fell back into step together. Fynta almost didn't stop herself from smacking the back of Theron's helmet. His posture still tensed, Theron whispered over their comms. "My bad."
"Di'kut," Fynta muttered. "Maybe you should have gone to the party with Vector while I brought Quinn."
"Hey, speaking of which." Theron jogged a couple of steps to catch up to Fynta, then fell into stride. "Is it just me, or does that guy look at me weird?"
Fynta turned the next corner and stopped at the lift. "How long have you been waiting for an opportunity to bring that up?"
The doors opened without a sound. Theron didn't speak until they were inside. "A while, but I'm right, aren't I?"
Fynta lifted one shoulder while she checked their timing. If no one stopped the lift, then they'd make it to the promenade with five minutes to spare. "Well, your mom killed his dad," she answered, distracted by her calculations. "Not to mention, he and Vector became pals while you were running around Iokath, so—"
"My what?" Theron stammered, his entire body going rigid as he whipped around to look at where Fynta's face was hidden behind her helmet. "How—when?"
Fynta could almost see the raised brows and dropped chin that Theron wore in the few times that something had truly startled him. Fynta kicked him for good measure, and the spy fell back into character. Not that it mattered if anyone happened to be watching that particular security feed. "No idea, you can ask Zolah later. Now, shut up."
Silence settled between Fynta and Theron with only the low hum of music to drown out the sound of their breathing. Finally, Theron couldn't stop himself. "Exactly how well did they get to know each other?"
Fynta rolled her eyes and snagged Theron by the collar when the doors opened. "Come on, we've got hostages to recruit. Settle up with your people later."
Zakuul
Skydeck Gardens
Arcann kept to the shadows of his kingdom, lurking like the vagrants that held out hands to those who passed. He'd never been to this part of Zakuul, not personally. He hadn't known of the debauchery taking place in the Old World, but Vaylin did.
It had taken a long time to decide to return home. Once Arcann had awakened from the hysteria that drove him from Voss, there had been a lot to consider. Senya, his mother, had been chief among them. Arcann still couldn't untangle his feelings about the woman. She had abandoned them to a cruel father when he was young, or so the story went. Then, she spent the rest of her life attempting to atone for the mistake. She had risked herself to save him, and been fired on by her allies.
A rush of irritation swelled inside of Arcann. He had only hazy memories of the escape shuttle, only the pleading in his mother's voice as she begged for clemency. Then, alarms when the Outlander rendered her judgment. It would have been a swift death if the Force had not been with them that day.
Two merchants passed Arcann, offering only a cursory glance in his direction. He'd traded his royal garb for something more suitable for a middle-class businessman, and without the mask that his subjects knew, their eyes slid politely across his scarred face and didn't return. Arcann, once emperor of Zakuul, was now just another ghost in his kingdom.
Flexing his fingers to work out the pent up energy, Arcann stepped onto the promenade. Nothing else mattered while the Outlander was on Zakuul. He could sense his father's arrogance and knew where to find them, but was hesitant to intervene without knowing the scope of their plan, or who had concocted it. Vaylin had planned a grand party to prove that she wasn't worried about the army set against her. It was a foolish choice, to underestimate their foe; her foe.
In his research, Arcann had learned that Colonel Fynta Wolfe had led an interesting life. She was Mandalorian, a stubborn group of people that Arcann was far too familiar with. She had been a spy, then a soldier who commanded the most elite squad in the Republic. According to her records, the woman had no connection to the Force, yet Valkorion wielded her like a weapon. Or did he? Arcann had yet to work out the relationship between the woman and the Immortal Emperor.
Discovering that his father resided in Fynta Wolfe's mind on Asylum had been enough of a shock to give her the upper hand in battle. Arcann had counted it as a fluke until she bested him on the ship. He needed to tread carefully around this woman. She was as unpredictable as Vaylin, and driven by duty, rather than madness.
The closer Arcann traveled to the promenade, the brighter the decorations became. People milled around the main floor in their finery, excitement rolling off them in equal waves with apprehension. Arcann knew better than to stay too long. More than one of these guests might recognize his face. When the crowd continued straight, Arcann turned for the gardens. He would bide his time in solitude and wait for the Outlander to make her move.
While he waited, Arcann used the quiet moment to observe his kingdom. Lights glittered as far as the eye could see while his subjects, people who had worshiped his father, carried on with life as it had always been. Though he had never been spoiled, Arcann had somehow managed more emotion connected to the passing of a ruler. While Vaylin railed against the Alliance, she received little more than a passing glance from the common Zakuulan. If he survived this chapter of his life, Arcann planned to study the working class for a better understanding of how a kingdom truly worked.
The sounds of battle erupted not long after Vaylin's speech began. The ache in Arcann's chest when he saw the rebels sentenced to death was quickly overcome by the surprise of the Outlander's appearance in Vaylin's broadcast. Things had devolved quickly after that.
Arcann was ready when the fighting spilled into the gardens. He positioned himself at the Outlander's back when she was cornered, grunting when her elbow connected with his ribs. He managed a growled peace reclamation before Vaylin's knights advanced, stealing his attention. His spine tingled with the expectation of a blaster bolt punching into it, but all he felt was the cool press of armor when Fynta was driven back a step.
"Fierfek." Fynta's weight increased enough to push Arcann forward, and he glanced over one shoulder to see that Vaylin had shoved her way onto the platform. Arcann dug in his heels and put his will into becoming immovable. Another growled curse tore from Fynta's lips, followed by a furious scream. The pressure released so suddenly that Arcann fell backward and would have hit the ground had the Outlander not caught his arm. When Arcann glanced up, his sister was gone.
Fynta's grip on Arcann's arm released almost before he'd regained his balance. She rushed to the balcony, and her shouted curses died in the wind. Without their Empress to command them, the knights halted their attack. Gilded helmets turned towards one another, then Arcann, before taking a knee. For her part, Fynta didn't seem to care that her enemies were now defenseless. She spun with fury on her tongue, stalking towards Arcann to jab a finger into his chest.
"You fierfeking idiot." Arcann's brows lifted. He'd never been spoken to so crassly, nor handled so casually. When the Outlander stomped a few feet away, she punched her hands onto her hips. "I had her. It could have been over."
Another man jogged up before Arcann could argue the woman's claim. He recognized the man's face, but had never been able to put a name to it. Arcann knew that the man was a part of the Alliance, so it came as no surprise when he stopped next to the Outlander and gestured at Arcann. "At least we can stop looking for him." Neither made mention of the still kneeling soldiers encircling them.
Heaving a breath, Fynta let it out in a single gush, then faced Arcann. "Are you going to make yourself useful? Or do I have to waste more time chasing your ass all over the galaxy?"
Hard, blue eyes glared at Arcann from beneath a sweat matted mess of blonde hair. He deactivated his weapon and took one knee with the knights. The act tugged at his pride, but Arcann forced himself to lower his gaze. "Would you accept my offer of aid, if I were to give it?"
The derisive snort wasn't the reaction Arcann expected, nor was the sharp jerk on his collar that pulled him awkwardly onto his feet. "Stop that, you look like an idiot." Arcann blinked at the woman. When he reached through the Force, there was no fear, only annoyance. Fynta looked out over Zakuul, her attention parsecs away. Finally, she deflated. "I can't take your sister alone, neither can you. We have no choice but to work together."
At last, Arcann saw what his father must have: Fynta Wolfe's stubborn resilience. Though lacking the Force, she faced the task of removing Vaylin as a threat without being daunted. Arcann nodded, projecting his respect into his body language. "I stand with you, Outlander."
The Petulant Bitch
Galley
Fynta paced the galley, gaze glued to the man in the far corner. The rest of the ship's inhabitants had either made themselves scarce or were positioned in areas of weakness to act as guards. Fynta was the only one in the room with Arcann, and he watched her with a vague curiosity that made her want to punch him.
The decision to accept Arcann's treaty had been rash, but not spontaneous. Lana had brought forth the idea of allying with the young Emperor, should they ever find him, not only to secure Senya's loyalty but because he might come in handy. Fynta hadn't expected the man to drop into her lap with the same proposal.
Arcann's eyes drifted shut, and he sighed. "I can sense him."
Fynta paused mid-step and turned slowly to face the man. Without his mask, he looked more like a boy than he had before. Arcann was at least ten years her junior even without the time in carbonite. The math on whether or not to include stasis still bothered her.
Closing the gap, Fynta leaned against the table. "And?"
Those clear, blue eyes opened to pin Fynta with a look that likely cleared the throne room in Arcann's past life. Fynta found her gaze drawn to his scars, wondering if they hurt as much as hers did, then down to the metal fingers resting on the table. She didn't have to wonder about those. "My father was right to recognize your strength." Fynta's attention snapped back to the man's face. He wet his lips. "But, are you in control, or does he pull the strings?"
Fynta hissed and shoved away from the table. "Your hut'uun of a father has no control over me." She stalked away from him in an effort to release some of her anger. With her temper in check, Fynta turned back to the fallen emperor. "Valkorion might have forced his way into my head, but my choices belong to me."
"Impressive." That single word vibrated through the air in an octave deeper than one of Aric's growls. Arcann's scarred brow raised, even though no hair grew there to display the action. "That resolve may be what Zakuul needs."
Fynta snorted a laugh that hurt her sinuses. "Right. You'd stand aside while an outsider takes your throne?" When Arcann's shoulders rose, Fynta grew annoyed again. "Look, I don't want the shabbing chair. I just want Vaylin, and you, and you're fierfeking dad, to stop trashing my galaxy."
Silence followed Fynta's outburst until Arcann's head lowered. His fingers flexed under the intensity of his stare. When he spoke, the words were quiet and calm. "My hands are stained by the blood of thousands. My family's legacy is dripping with it." He raised his head, and for the first time, Fynta saw real remorse in his eyes. Arcann's hands lifted towards her, palms up in a sign of peace. "It's time for a worthy emperor to take our place."
Fynta lowered herself into the chair across from Arcann. "You actually mean it, don't you?" Again, the man shrugged. Fynta's answering chuckle made Arcann's scars pull deeper into a frown. She leaned back and shook her head. "You know, we could have saved each other a lot of trouble if we'd had this conversation a year ago."
The corner of Arcann's mouth twitched, then fell again. "Too long has revenge consumed me. I want to serve my people, as I should have done all along. Vaylin must be stopped before she destroys everything."
Fynta tapped her fingers on the table and watched Arcann. The man was solid as a rock, not just physically, but mentally. He didn't squirm under her scrutiny. Whatever psychosis had overcome him on Voss seemed to have burned itself out before he returned to Zakuul.
Finally, Fynta was forced to admit that she didn't have a better option. It was unlikely that she could kill Arcann unless he wanted her to, and he would be a handy ally. If Fynta could hold together the ruse that he didn't scare the osik out of her, maybe he wouldn't feel the need to test her authority.
"I can't absolve you of your past sins." Arcann started to speak, but Fynta held up one hand. "Nor do I think you should try. My people don't believe in dwelling on things of the past, we move forward, always forward. There will be members of the Alliance who don't hold to my beliefs. Every single person is there because of you."
Again, Arcann's lips parted, then shut at Fynta's glare. "Some might try to hurt you. I suggest you let them."
This time, both of Arcann's brows lifted. Fynta shook her head. "Not permanently, not lethally. Let a man punch you, the only damage will be to your ego. Let the mother whose children died in one of Vaylin's slaughters slap your face. Let them work out their grief and anger, then, when you no longer appear as a threat, they will work with you. It's the only way you can be accepted as a member of the Alliance."
"That is your offer?" Arcann asked. His voice held only mild amusement. "Corporal punishment?"
"No." Fynta leaned forward, lifting herself from the chair with both palms flat against the table. "That is reality. I'm not tying you up in the square for the public's amusement. I'm letting them sort through the betrayal they will feel when you walk off this shuttle. I'm holding this fierfeking alliance together long enough to defeat Vaylin and kill your father. Do we have a deal?"
Arcann stared at Fynta for a long moment. She could see the calculations: had he thrown his lot in with another tyrant? Was she as mad as his baby sister? Or maybe, she was something worse, a martyr for a galaxy full of talented killers to fall behind. Whatever conclusion Arcann reached, he answered with a simple nod. "We do."
Fynta turned to find Felix standing behind her. His normally pleasant features were hard while he looked at Arcann, but softened to almost sympathy when he found her. He opened his hand to display a comm. "It's not my place to tell you what to do, sir." Felix dropped the comm into Fynta's hand. "But, you might want to give him a heads up."
"Fierfek." Fynta had used that word a lot today. She thumped Felix on the shoulder and stepped out into the hallway to dial the frequency. A thousand greetings flitted through her mind until Aric answered. Fynta forced a smile. "Hey riduur, are you sitting down?"
Odessen
Military Wing
Jorgan sat at a desk in a tiny back room that was shared by all the commanding officers. It was a hastily erected lean-to, made of spare pieces left over from the construction of the mountain base. He sighed and rubbed his eyes, wincing when he put too much pressure on the damaged one. It would take time to get used to new tender spots on his body. Some healed faster than others.
A knock on the door, a plain, wooden slab on hinges, pulled Jorgan's attention from the report. "Enter." He didn't look up, and calling admittance was more formality than necessity, anyway. Fynta had banished most of that when she took command, preferring the open door policy like in their Havoc days.
A throat cleared, bringing Jorgan's gaze upward. A blue Twi'lek stood at attention in front of the rickety desk. Jorgan's blood ran cold with recognition before his temper ignited. "Help you?" He ground out, having done well to avoid any such interactions with this particular individual. Visions of the man darting away from his wife's door, shirt in hand instead of on his body where it belonged, clouded Aric's vision.
"Permission to speak freely, sir?" The Imperial accent surprised Jorgan enough to assent to the man taking a seat. He watched while the Twi'lek folded onto the equally lousy chair. Jorgan signed the final datapad and set it aside, folding his hands and glaring with impatience.
"I wanted to apologize," the Twi'lek began, shifting awkwardly. Jorgan waited in silence, pinning the younger male with a stare that used to make soldiers quake. If this man was Imperial, he'd likely seen more terrifying things than an aging Cathar with only one good eye.
Jorgan's gaze flicked to the name patch. "For what, Lieutenant Lo?"
The Twi'lek swallowed, then found his spine. "I'd prefer not to pretend that you don't know who I am, sir." Jorgan's brow lifted. "You can't hide that kind of hatred."
Jorgan leaned back in his chair, careful not to unbalance it. "And you assumed confronting me in person was the best option." He looked pointedly at the closed door. "Alone?"
"So, she told you." Jorgan didn't answer. He was a lousy liar and couldn't bring himself to confess to this soldier that he'd only learned of the dalliance with Fynta because of the security camera outside her room. Old anger rose, his knuckles white with the force of his restraint.
Lo took Jorgan's silence as permission to continue. "I didn't know that she was married, sir. Otherwise, I'd never have accepted the invitation. Think what you will of Imperial soldiers, but we don't tread on another man's territory, if you take my meaning."
Aric's jaw worked to release the tension of his clenched teeth before speaking. "How did a Twi'lek ascend to the rank of lieutenant in an Imperial military?"
The question didn't appear to take the man by surprise. "The Empire's not stupid. There are alien regiments that can go where some completely human ones can't. Planets where we're viewed as less of a threat."
Aric nodded. It made sense, and the Republic had expected as much. A few alien units were harder to pinpoint in a galactic-sized war. Sitting forward, Jorgan tented his fingers on the desk. "What makes you think that I'm interested in your apology?"
"Because I know how seriously Cathar take their vows." Lo held Jorgan's gaze while he spoke. "It's not just for you, sir. I've been transferred into your unit to replace the numbers lost on Voss. I thought it best to clear the air early."
"You think being an alien makes you an expert on Cathar?" Jorgan barely held his anger in check, envisioning the feel of Lo's windpipe breaking beneath his thumbs.
Lo shook his head, lekku quivering with the weight of the tension filling the room. "My commanding officer was Cathar, sir. A widower. He explained things to us when we tried to set him up on a blind date. Not a pleasant conversation, that." Jorgan's anger dissipated only enough to clear the murderous thoughts from his mind. "There's a lot that I don't understand, but I felt it important that you knew my side of things before we began working together."
Before you get me killed, Lo didn't say.
The lieutenant stood to leave, but Jorgan stopped him. Those parting words sat wrong with him, and he couldn't let the man go believing that he'd been manipulated by an unfaithful woman. "Sit."
Lo obeyed, shoulders tight but hands away from his weapon. Jorgan rubbed his scalp with a growl of frustration. "Carbonite poisoning presents in many ways, one of which being memory loss." They'd rehearsed the lies enough that he could stumble his way through convincingly so long as it was mostly true. Lo wasn't the only one to notice the vast difference in the Fynta from before, to the woman who led them now. "She'd lost the last ten years of her memory."
"So," the Twi'lek paused, eyes narrowed while he worked through the information. "She didn't know that she was married?"
Jorgan shook his head, and the Twi'lek released a hollow laugh. "Thank you, sir."
"For what?" Jorgan expected that he knew the answer, but he wanted to hear the man say it. He needed to know that this matter was closed.
Lo licked his lips, then scooted to the edge of his seat. "I couldn't make the stories of the woman that drew my regiment here, a woman who united warring factions and called for peace, fit with someone who would marry a Cathar, then fu—sleep with another man."
The Twi'lek turned an unhealthy shade of blue. "I mean—not that we." He stumbled over another attempt to correct his mistake while Jorgan watched. Lo blanched. "I don't know any more about your wife than the other men in the training room."
Jorgan's brow shot up, more amused than irritated, now. He wondered if this was how Fynta had seen him all those years ago. A soldier hopelessly tangled in her presence. Finally, Lo slumped. "I'd like to stop talking now—sir."
"I think that would be best for both of us." Jorgan swallowed a smirk and waved the man away. "You're dismissed. But, Lieutenant, this information is privileged. Rumors of the commander's diminished mental facilities will not help anyone."
Lo nodded and stood to leave, then stopped before his hand touched the knob. "Did she remember, sir?"
"She does," Jorgan answered, pleased that he was able to keep the fear out of his voice. Every morning he woke up wondering who shared his bed. He didn't know how long that would last. "Two months ago."
The Twi'lek smiled, transforming his features from alien into handsome. "I'm glad to hear it, sir." The man slipped through the door, leaving Jorgan to ponder how many others saw through the hastily crafted lies that the council had formed. Valkorion had changed Fynta enough that even those who barely knew her could tell a difference. Eventually, the truth would have to come out, or she might lose the trust of the people who followed her.
Deciding that he'd completed enough paperwork for one day, Jorgan pushed away from the desk and started home. His comm vibrated with a message from Shillet that she would be helping in the kitchens tonight. Jorgan suspected it had less to do with her desire for community service than with the fact that most of the youth hung out there under the guise of working. He hoped that a boy wasn't involved, then banished the thought before it could make him more irritable.
Jorgan sighed, turning left instead of heading home. He didn't want to sit in an empty apartment at the moment. A sharp pain shot through Jorgan's eye and he paused to put pressure above and below it. It didn't satisfy the need to rub, but gave him something else to focus on, at least.
"It could be worse." The voice rumbled so deep that Jorgan felt it in his chest and inner ear. Opening his eyes, Jorgan found himself in front of Admiral Aygo's office, the older man inspecting him through the open door. Aygo gestured at the empty chair, and Jorgan accepted.
When Jorgan sat, the Bothan offered a wolfish grin. "Could've lost both eyes."
Jorgan snorted, wishing that he could get away from people asking about his damn eyesight. "Hard to be a sniper with one eye."
Bey'wan propped his elbow on the desk and pointed at Jorgan's eyepatch. "Isn't that what the fancy do-dad is for?"
"It's a learning process," Jorgan admitted, though he stopped short of mentioning that he hadn't been to the range yet to try it out. The hope of being able to shoot meant more to him at the moment than the potential of failure if the interface didn't work. He made excuses, and let himself believe that simply having the technology was enough.
Aygo chuckled and leaned back in his chair. "It's hard for old soldiers like us to learn new tricks. But, don't ever admit that in front of the recruits. Enter."
A petty officer from the Imperial Navy stuck his head in after a quick knock on the wall. "Sir, we've got a problem."
Aric's comm vibrated a moment later, and he fished it out while Aygo accepted a datapad. When Jorgan answered, the tension in his chest released at the sight of Fynta's grin until he noticed how tight it looked. "Hey riduur, are you sitting down?"
Aygo glanced up, then dismissed the officer, motioning for the man to close the door. Jorgan waited until they were alone, then answered. "Just sitting here with Aygo telling old war stories."
"Good, he should hear this too." Aric's chest squeezed until he had to remind himself to breathe. Leaning forward, he set the comm on Aygo's desk. Fynta gave up on sounding chipper and sighed. "I need you to trust me. Arcann is with us. He's coming to Odessen."
"In shock cuffs?" Aric asked before he could stop himself. Aygo leaned over, and Aric heard the creak of a drawer opening.
Fynta shook her head. "As an ally. We...have a plan, of sorts."
Jorgan's lips pulled back in a snarl. "Are you fucking insane?"
"Yes," Fynta laughed, but it was airy and strained. She rubbed her face. "He's the only one strong enough to fight Vaylin. I don't like the chakaar anymore than you do, but we need him. The enemy of my enemy and all that." She waved her hand in the air, then sank into a crouch against the wall. "I need you in my corner on this one. A lot of people are going to be pissed."
Aric tried to hold on to his anger, but Fynta looked exhausted. She hadn't slept well in weeks, muttering or cursing in her sleep. Though she hadn't gone for her weapon in a while, Aric knew that the nightmares had returned. He swallowed the bitter words his heart felt and leaned back. "Okay, but we need to make preparations."
A sense of relief loosened Fynta's shoulders. "I was hoping you and Cormac could talk to some of our mystical allies. Maybe they can come up with a plan to restrain him if things go to the Void, again."
"I'll handle it. How long until you're home?" Somehow, voicing the question lifted a weight from Jorgan. Just the ability to ask his wife when she would be back in his arms warmed him after years of lonely nights.
"Twelve hours." Fynta checked her chrono. "And thirty-seven minutes. You'll be there?"
Jorgan nodded. "Wouldn't miss it."
"Thanks, riduur." Fynta's smile looked more genuine this time, and she yawned. "I'm going to crash for a few hours. I'll see you soon." The comm went black, leaving Aric staring at the device separating him and Aygo. Fynta never said goodbye, and Aric appreciated it now more than ever. He never wanted to receive another farewell message from her again.
Bey'wan clinked two glasses onto the desk and poured each half full with a rich smelling liquid. The decanter sloshed as he placed it back into a drawer and shut it. Finally, Aygo pushed one of the glasses closer to Jorgan. "Here, son, you're going to need this."
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Let Love Lead Us
OH MY GOD I wrote a ridiculous holiday fic. Here goes.
Characters: The collective Luminous legacy accompanied by various members of the Alliance.
Setting: The Alliance Cantina, soon after the end of KotET
Spoilers: Vague KotFE & KotET
Description: It’s a time of celebration on Odessen and across the galaxy. For members of the Alliance it’s a joyful but poignant time. Jedi Consular Aitahea, Senya, and Lana – Lana?! - take the cantina stage as a surprise to everyone.
The celebrations of a thousand worlds had passed in the last year, most of them forgotten in the terror and struggle of so many battles and so much suffering. The mourning had been steady, and the peace supplied by the formation of the Eternal Alliance was tenuous at best. The Empire remained tentative allies, and the Republic was still an unknown quantity. It was difficult to know what direction the future would take.
Aitahea and Senya had taken it upon themselves to pick up where Vette had left off. After her loss, the usual raucous parties, the wild revels, and even a few Mandalorian kote ky'ram had diminished, even after the Alliance was victorious. This didn’t sit well with anyone, but all were hesitant to take up the mantle until the consular and former knight approached the commander.
Erianthe had given her reluctant approval; she still wasn’t quite sure if the traditions of Fete Week or Life Day were appropriate to their fledging alliance. But everything coalesced when Lana, who so rarely revealed details about her personal life, unexpectedly offered her own talent for the cause. It was hard to tell who was more surprised; even Theron didn’t know about Lana’s childhood keyboard training. She explained, somewhat bashfully, that with a little practice she could probably accompany singers. And so it was scheduled.
As usual on Odessen, it was raining.
The cantina stilled as Aitahea ascended the steps of the stage. When the Jedi turned toward the microphone and looked out over the room, she had to pause to blink back tears. Some clever being had placed carefully lit candles – real candles – around the room. Their glow lit up the myriad of skin tones and textures, reflecting back in eyes of all sizes and colors.
The consular’s husband and daughter sat at a table closest to the stage, young Lucent alight with the excitement of being allowed into the cantina for once. Erithon grinned at Aitahea and gave her a little wave. To think the Barsen’thor would be standing on a stage about to sing in front of her husband and daughter, not to mention an audience of Imperial, Republic, and even Zakuulan folk – no Jedi in the galaxy could have foreseen this.
Senya politely cleared her throat just as Aitahea heard the first notes from Lana’s keyboard. She swallowed hard and took a deep breath before offering the room an unsteady smile.
I don’t care if the house is packed
Or the strings of light are broken
Sana-Rae lingered near a handful of Enclave students, while Bey'wan Aygo listened appreciatively from the bar. Aric Jorgan’s schooled bearing hadn’t changed, and Kaliyo was attempting to look indifferent, but their attendance itself was conspicuous. Though Dr. Oggurobb hadn’t deigned to leave his lab, several of his scientists had wandered away from their projects and lingered at the edges of the cantina. Even Koth had paused in his pursuit of snacks to listen.
Love is who we are, and no season can contain it
Love would never fall for that
The couples had all gravitated toward each other. Torian and Tember stood close, the gunslinger leaning into the Mandalorian’s tender embrace. Tember, having rarely heard Aitahea sing through their disconnected childhood, watched her elder sister with an admiring expression.
A few steps away from them were Prelsiava and Siravei, smuggler and hunter standing hand in hand. Sia’s hair – always an interesting shade – was currently silver-white, setting her jade Miralian complexion aglow. Siravei’s usually severe expression had softened, an unusual light of affection – usually reserved for Sia alone – brightening her dark eyes.
Even Alis and Abraxis sat with their shoulders touching, the agents conspicuously close for a couple who rarely expressed displays of affection. Hylo and Gault danced charmingly in an open space, sharing only an occasional chaste kiss given the unexpected audience of children that weren’t usually in attendance. Aitahea watched Lucent pull a face at the adults before slipping away from Erithon.
Love is not a toy, and no paper will conceal it
Love is simply joy that I’m home
Standing near the commander, Theron Shan seemed oblivious to everyone but Lana. The spy watched as Lana’s hands moved swiftly over the keys, her eyes flickering from the keyboard to Aitahea to Senya and back. Lana leaned into the rhythm, silently tapping a foot while her head bobbed gently.
Why so scared that you’ll mess it up
When perfection keeps you haunted?
Alliance Commander Erianthe Tihomir, always the picturesque Jedi Knight in her impeccable white robes and serene expression, had her hands clasped a little too tightly in front of her. Her dark skin had a pallor to it, a shadow that had settled there after Vaylin’s death and still hadn’t lifted. Even when Valkorian had occupied her mind, a determined flush had brightened her face, an ardent energy suffused her every movement. Now the Miraluka Jedi stood like a statue, poised on the brink of shattering.
All we need is your best my love
That’s all anyone ever wanted
In a far corner of the room stood Isme. The inquisitor watched the performance with hooded eyes, arms folded rigidly over her chest, until Arcann stepped to her side. She glanced up in surprise when he briefly touched her shoulder. The former emperor didn’t quite smile at Isme, but the look was fond. When Isme turned back to watch the stage, her shoulders had relaxed and her eyes shone in the candlelight.
Love I look to you, and I sing
Senya’s rich alto buoyed Aitahea’s sweeter soprano as the wordless chorus spiraled through the halls of the Alliance base. Even those still at their stations paused to turn their heads toward the melody as it dwindled away into the keyboard’s dulcet notes, gently echoing away as Lana touched the final keys.
We sing
Let love lead us
There was a moment of breathless silence, then Lucent came flying around the corner and stood waving her hands from the stairs. “Mama! Everyone! It’s snowing!”
The room turned as one to marvel at Aitahea’s daughter, and Tember darted over to hoist her niece onto her hip. “Show us, Spark!” In pairs and handfuls, the crowd trickled up to the landing pad where, sure enough, glittering flakes drifted through the frosty air. Lucent wriggled out of her aunt’s grasp and twirled through the flurries.
The last group out of the lift were the performers and their partners, Senya, and the commander. Erianthe lifted a hand, letting the snowflakes settle into her palm before they melted away. Lana gave Theron a knowing look before slipping her hand into his. A pleased smile spread over Senya’s face as she watched her son place a hand beneath Isme’s elbow. Aitahea and Erithon slipped through the crowd to Lucent, and the trooper lifted his daughter onto his shoulders.
Eventually, everyone wandered off the landing platform until Theron and Lana were the only ones left.
“Did you plan this?” Theron asked.
Lana’s replying laugh was warm. “I appreciate the recognition of my superior organizational skills, but not even a Sith can make it snow, Theron.”
Theron considered this for a moment before nodding and slipping an arm around her shoulders. “Just checking.”
AN: In my headcanon, learning the keyboard was part of Lana’s upbringing on Dromund Kaas, like any upper-class Imperial girl (she actually also sings spectacularly but that’s never going to happen in public ever). I’m only using partial and disordered lyrics, but if you’re curious, you can refer to “Love is Christmas” by Sara Bareilles for an idea of the sound.
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