Private Something So Heavy

[Ishida Ashina]

STUPID X-WING | DARAGON TRAIL | LEAVING KORRIBAN
There are dead stars that still shine because their light is trapped in time.
Where do I stand in this light,
which does not strictly exist?
Bernard

I DON'T LIKE MY MIND RIGHT NOW
​

Ishida had been entirely mute since the sword had shown her the memories of the acolyte. And now, cramped, the sword had no room but to rest in her lap and she nervously picked at the runes in the hilt. Gratefully, it didn’t flare up any further connections, it seemed at peace with the judgement it had levelled to the Sith, but it had stirred up a storm in the Jedi.

Her brain felt as though it were suffocating, the walls of her skull crushing in. All those thoughts, memories, implications. And her body felt equally cramped. It didn’t help that the starfighter’s cockpit wasn’t built for tandem operations. Between Bernard and the natural construction of the X-Wing’s cockpit, she’d been shoved in somewhere that had been convenient at the time but was starting to feel suffocating, and the wounds she’d sustained were throbbing in her lower back.

And every small detail, flinch, gesture, adjustment that Bernard enacted to pilot the starfighter had some sort of impact. The shared touch in forced intimacy might have been something to be bashful over, but in her current mental state it just felt like more inescapable impressions on her body that weren’t her own. Similar to how she’d felt when the acolyte had been pulling lever after lever. When Bernard adjusted the yoke with a pull, she got a spike of unwanted memory.

She stopped stroking the hilt of the sword and adjusted it, careful not to cut herself with the exposed edge and squirmed enough that she could dislodge her bicep to move her arm.

For a few seconds, she stared at the side of Bernard’s helmet. She’d never worn one, so the ins-and-outs of their audio reception eluded her. Finally, she curled her hand into a fist and rapped her knuckles against the temple.

“I need air." She explained, putting a little more volume behind the words to feign a crispness she didn’t feel. Complementing the statement, she pointed ahead to the navicomputer at an intersection to the Daragon Trail that rerouted a temporary detour to Yavin. Now under New Imperial control, it had lost some of it’s sacred impact. At least in her perception, she hadn’t been there, ever, and the stories of Jedi and temples didn’t line up with the imperial regime in her mind.

“Fresh air.” She clarified, in case there was some suggestion about adjusting the flow for the life support.

​

 

[Bernard]

I need to stay afloat, for the summer​

Barely thirty minutes had since they had set foot on Korriban, and yet, in that short a time frame, too much had changed.

Bernard stared out into the blue lines flying past the X-Wing's canopy. The hyperspace tunnel seemed to stretch into infinity, going far into the distance where it came together into a black void. That emptiness mirrored what he felt. He was too exhausted to feel much of anything, absorbed in deep thought about the recent events. From their descent into the atmosphere, to their brief exchange at the vents, to their fight, to the fear in—the memories that were imparted into his psyche, and then to what they did to Ishida. As though they were a holo-tape caught in a loop, the sequence replayed in his memory.

Everything seemed to have happened so fast. When they entered the academy through the vents, that moment which affirmed their friendship, it had granted strength enough to brave the darkness in the academy. For the first time, he hadn't had to face the terrors that lurked in the darkness on his own. Instead, he'd done it side by side with Ishida. Later, when she'd rushed into the fray, lost in bloodlust, he'd upheld that mutual responsibility, and followed her into battle. They'd dispatched the Sith together, save for the acolyte.

The acolyte who'd reminded him of her, from all those years ago. He'd seen the flash of auburn hair, stopped his lightsabre mid-swing. Because of the resemblance? Or because she had fallen? He couldn't tell. That scared him.

And then, when Ishida had condemned the acolyte to death, and accused him of hesitation, of defeat, something had been different about her. She'd been more incensed than she usually was. Or, perhaps, it had simply been the first time she'd directed all of her fury at him. Even during their discussion on Prosperity, she'd been angry, but her anger had lacked the sheer passionate hatred she'd displayed on Korriban. Anger that had lit the same spark in him, though he'd found the strength to reign in what he'd felt.

What had he felt?

The sensations began to slowly crawl back as he replayed that element of the memory. The pain and suffering of all the prisoners, the depths of darkness reached the center of the academy, all of the death and murder on the battlefields, and the burning fury of Ishida. It had been overwhelming. For only a few moments he'd let the world around him in, opening himself to it by letting down those walls to sense it again, but all that rushed in had been painful. Even the echoes of the last attack on Korriban had returned, though faintly. That day sat heavily on his conscience. All the deaths caused by the fire, the consequence of his actions, his fault. No amount of redemption would ever make up for that guilt, and all the guilt beyond that. Nothing ever could.

Something tapped against the side of his helmet, and he was forcefully pulled back into the present. He blinked himself back to awareness, turning to Ishida. He'd nearly forgotten she was still there, the old seat of his X-Wing and the sight of his cockpit had been enough to pull him back into the grip of his memories.

"I can hear you fine in this," he explained with a quiet voice.

He glanced to the navicomputer. Yavin would be a good place to rest up. Its history with the Jedi might make it a good place to meditate on recent events, too. The New Imperial Order kept it free from pirates and Sith alike, making it a safe stop on their way back to Alliance space.

"I'm setting a course for Yavin, we'll set down there. Should be there shortly."

A few taps of the console and the pull of a lever later Yavin had been added as the autopilot's destination. At the junction of the Daragon Trail and the Yavin hyperlane the X-Wing would make the detour, and bring them to the ancient Jedi world.

He glanced back to Ishida. She seemed distant somehow, far away despite their proximity. His mind was a mess of white noise while he looked at her. He wanted to say something, or do something, but all his mind registered was how uncomfortable the lack of space inside the X-Wing was for them.

So long as he held onto the steering yoke, she was rather restricted in her freedom of movement, which couldn't have been very comfortable. There was no point in keeping his hands on the steering console, not while the autopilot could do all the work, so he let go of the yoke and leaned back. He slid the pilot's chair back the last inch it could to make a bit more space for them, and, mechanically, pulled off the helmet to set it down on a small surface behind him.

"I'm sorry about this," he said with his arms still raised behind him. For a few moments, he fumbled unsure where to put them, but eventually, he settled on letting them down on either side of the pilot's chair. It still felt off, but there didn't seem to be a way to make it anything but that.

"I'm...so sorry...about everything."

Ishida Ashina

 

[Ishida Ashina]

CONVINCE ME THAT I'M NOT A MONSTER​

"I can hear you fine in this,"

On top of everything else that was swirling around in her psyche, a layer of embarrassment coated overtop the growing infection of despair. Her body tightened involuntarily, and as she looked downcast her shoulders folded inward. As if her body had just silently communicated an abashed oh. And he'd feel it, which just made it worse.

She didn’t want to talk about it. To give any of what she felt the chance to be articulated. Words didn’t express thoughts very well, in her experience. They always became a little more distorted or foolish. But it was a strange way to feel, given how consumed her thoughts were and how ready she was to talk about anything else. To anybody else.

It should have been impossible to be so close, and feel so far away from one another.

Also, right now, she didn’t want to be touched. The means of escape, via the X-Wing, didn’t quite respect that. And not like this. The awkward forced connection instead of anything voluntary, anything kindred or caring that would make it feel better –– like being held so tightly that she wouldn’t break and shatter –– but it was too late for that. Her mind was a kaleidoscopic mosaic of fractured influences. And the cockpit was suffocatingly uncomfortable. If Ishida were any taller, or any more composite as a person, this would have been outright impossible.

"I'm sorry about this,"

That was the last thing she expected him to say, and it caught her entirely off guard.

Trying hard not to move, not to react, Ishida stared straight ahead at the navicomputer. Watching it adjust, the ten-thousands of clicks counting down to just thousands as they approached the holy Jedi planet below.

"I'm...so sorry...about everything."

And he only made it worse by repeating himself.

Still, she tried to keep her focus on the numbers that reduced by the second.

Sorry was one thing, emphasizing so sorry felt like an anvil in her chest. Or something sharp in her heart. Something thick lodged its way in her throat, and she opened her mouth just to draw in a breath sharp enough to pierce through the blockage. It didn't make it through right away, instead, the air settled between her teeth before exhaling a small wet, shaking sound.

Daring a look at him, she felt herself crumble more than she would have liked. Her face knotted beyond her control, her countenance betraying the hardness she wanted to showcase and melting into something emotional and soft.

His apology was as unexpected as it was inexplicable. Why? Why was it every time she was feeling too overwhelmed to articulate anything he was the first to venture into some sort of explanation and sacrifice himself for the sake of mutual understanding? In contrast, Ishida was all too content to seclude herself in silence and ignore the emotional conflict that came with confrontation and admission.

But if he wanted to burden responsibility, she wanted to know the answer to why.

“For everything?” She asked, the words tight and fragile as the navicomputer counted down through the thousands. Her voice proved barely audible above the soft digital white noise. She wasn’t sure if that’s what she wanted to ask, to make him feel worse, to make him feel as awful as she did –– but that’s what happened.

She couldn’t assure him it was okay. That it was nothing. She couldn't take his sorriness away from him, tell him he didn't deserve it. Not before she understood it.

But what he was apologizing for felt too vast to understand, and she still hadn’t worked through her reaction. Everything could have been as small as not helping her through the reaction within the academy, or as large as shattering her worldview three times over.

In this physical circumstance, she felt as though she could see the words floating from her mouth to his ears. It made her want to fold more into her established protective embrace.

The display promised 2,740 clicks until Yavin's Atmosphere fresh air. Which was good, because she felt like she couldn't breathe.

“What’s everything?”

 

[Bernard]

"Everything."

The stars above the X-Wing returned as the blue lines of hyperspace faded in the transition back into realspace. Countless stars, bright and shining, dotted the view beyond the top pane of the canopy.

"Back on Nar Kreena. Two rangers died during the final confrontation in the generator cave. Their deaths were preventable. It was grenade fire, I saw it happen. If I'd had the Force then I could have saved both of them. If I hadn't been too weak I wouldn't have lost the Force and those two would have been alive. And before that, when I nearly died. I exposed you and the others to danger by rushing in like I was still a Jedi even though I wasn't. What if you hadn't been there to save the rangers from that creature? What if you'd been injured?"

The display read only a few dozen clicks to the surface by now. The blue of Yavin's sky slowly filled the canopy's view. Green jungles stretched through to the horizon. The autopilot identified the nearest clearing, only a short walk away from one of the ancient Massassi temples, and set a course for it.

"On Muunilinst, I was incapacitated. Had I had the Force I could have done so much more. I wouldn't have weighed you down by having to rely on you. I could have helped more people escape, saved more lives, fought the Sith better, kept going for longer despite any wounds. Instead I barely scraped together a distraction and collapsed before seeing the mission through. What a waste.

"And on Prosperity, when I came to visit you. If I hadn't, I wouldn't have said any of what I did, never tried to excuse my—my guilt away like that, and you wouldn't have had to go through everything you did, back there, just now.

"I'm...I'm truly sorry about everything. Everything."

He brought his hands up to his head, pushing them up into his hair, and back down to cover his face. A deep ache settled in his stomach that ran up into his chest. It made him curl forward in an attempt to bring his legs up, but Ishida sat in the way. Instead, he leaned forward, supporting himself with his elbows on the armrests.

"If I—If I hadn't lost the Force...if I hadn't been too weak..."

It hadn't just been Korriban. Before the first encounter with that acolyte in the Sith Library, he'd displayed weakness before. A Jedi would never have faltered as many times as he had. From his first encounter with Lanik, where he'd allowed his emotions to get the better of him, to their second meeting, where he'd let blind naivete lead him into an ambush set by something he still didn't understand. A Jedi would have kept calm, and foreseen the trap. He'd fallen prey to deception, easily led along into believing that Lanik was a servant of the Dark Side all because of his own shortcomings as a Jedi, and it had cost the shining star of the Jedi Order his life.

Taken by hands that were not Jedi's.

"If I had been...stronger...I could have...I'm sorry. I never meant to..."

Ishida Ashina

 

[Ishida Ashina]

As if it were even possible, the starfighter’s cockpit enclosed even further. Compressing more and more with his admission of all he felt sorry for –– and Ishida was trapped to bare witness.

I exposed you and the others to danger by rushing in like I was still a Jedi even though I wasn't. What if you hadn't been there to save the rangers from that creature? What if you'd been injured?"

Part of her wanted to react, to be a person of equal kindness that he’d displayed and reassure him that she had been there, and she hadn’t been injured. Conjecture and hypotheticals of what ifs and if only’s would only keep him suffocatingly sad. That sort of theorizing were the most devastating combination in any galactic language –– filled with remorse, pain, and unactioned responsibility.

Keeping respectfully mum, she bit her lip and adjusted to look back at him, which put her in a position to lean against the inside of his leg.

"If I—If I hadn't lost the Force...if I hadn't been too weak..."

"If I had been...stronger...I could have...I'm sorry. I never meant to..."

Ah, so, she understood. It was not their everything. Not even her everything, but his. All his failures, shortcomings, would-haves and almosts he sought to atone for in the starfighters cockpit. The burden of responsibility was for a trail of his own misdemeanours and so-closes.

A recounting, nay, a ledger of lives he’d witnessed and added to the debt of his balance sheet. And somehow, he’d entangled her in there. Their stories had overlapped enough for him to account for her in some of the instances where better could have been achieved. But mortality got in the way.

And now, he was exchanging that mortality for morality.

She shot a glare at the encroaching environment, filling the glasteel viewport with beautifully clear skylines that blended into lush greenery. In the tumult of their exchange, in Bernard’s confession, she couldn’t see the beauty in the planet. She only saw it as an escape. The chance to get away from this suffocating encounter that turned the cockpit into a confession booth.

Most of it sat with them, piling into whatever empty pockets remained in the constrained seating space. The toll of ineptitude stung, and part of her wondered if this was a reaction born of the exposure from Ashla’s Accuser and the memories they’d witnessed together. At least, the kickstart to so many things left unsaid.

Especially the part where he admitted that the hypothesis he’d proposed, the very one that had left her wondering, curious, angry, hostile, confused, lost, unsettled, was a reaction invoked by guilt. A deflection. When he got to that part of his story, the sadness that had built up in her throat turned hot, frustrated, and she exhaled out a puff of malice.

But his apologizing at the altar of Ashina was inappropriate. She was not the proper hearer, nor the pardoner he sought. But him delving into his wallowing pit of despair was a moderately helpful distraction to pull her from her own.

"Maybe."

Silence yawned between them, and Ishida spent the precious seconds counting through the sins Bernard had admitted. Everything turned out to be quite a lot indeed.

“I can’t forgive you for all that everything. Some, but not...I can’t.” Ishida murmured, squirming to adjust in her seat. Her movements felt detached, unnatural. Like her body wasn’t her own. It didn’t belong to anyone else though, and she was in control of everything, but still felt like a spectre that reached for his hand that drooped limply and pushed her hand in to meet it. A similar gesture to forcing him to share the memories she’d been sacred to witness, but this time less forceful, more gentle. The memories he recounted she’d already been a part of, though the interpretation had been his own. “Most of that is on you to do for yourself.”

The gesture had been meant for everything he’d expressed up to the point where he talked about him excusing his own guilt. And using her as a means to do so.

never tried to excuse my—my guilt away like that, and you wouldn't have had to go through everything you did, back there, just now.

She hardened at reflecting on that again, and pulled her hand away, shoving her feet into space on either side of the pedals and folding her arms across her chest, hugging herself.

“Is this the first time you’re realizing what you did? Really?

What you said made me question everything I’ve learned, it shattered ––” Description and words evaded her, suddenly becoming difficult to articulate in the secondary language. A few Atrisian idioms came to mind but in basic –– she was falling short and her breath became shallow, difficult, thunder clapping behind her breastbone.

“Everything I’ve been trained to be my entire life, Bernard. A weapon.”

Reality stung when she said it out loud, and the words varied in volume while she choked them out. Beyond his scrutiny, she’d just categorized herself to a single noun as definition. Efficient, but painful.

“Reduced to being wrong, or questionable and all because you needed an excuse to not feel guilt for things beyond your control anymore?” Grief wanted to bubble, to boil and spill to fill the space between them with everything she felt. It was too much, too big, too obtuse for her to fully come to grips with. Desperate to contain it, she angled away again and shoved her face into her hands –– the hand that had offered kindness moments ago –– and inhaled sharply, filling her chest with the bitter air supply.

It took her a few seconds to try and compose herself, though she remained on the edge of some sort of emotion. Be it anger or grief, it was hard to tell.

“And everything back there, just now, that I went through,” she repeated his words back to him, collecting sharpness back to her tongue “Only proved merit to your so-called excuse.”

 

[Bernard]

How can we ever protect and fight with our tiny souls​

More memories threatened to cut into his mind with a new whirlwind of guilt. Actions taken and actions not taken resurfaced, all at once. They dragged their chains around him, pulled him down with their weight. It became crushing, unbearable. But then those thoughts began to stagger, stumble, and finally crash as something tapped against his awareness again. He wasn’t alone inside the cockpit of the X-Wing anymore, not this time at least.

There was an intruder here, the oldest home he knew, and she demanded he stay with her, in the present. Her words grounded him, her hand anchored. Until it was gone again, and he was left to float along alone again.

The X-Wing finally set down, a light shake announcing it had made landfall. A hiss of air filled the silence after Ishida’s words, and the viewport lifted, taking away the transparisteel barrier between them and the view of treetops. They’d landed on the crest of a hill, surrounded by jungle loomed over by the small silhouette of the temple that sat against the low sun in the distance. Fresh air rushed into where they sat.

Forgiveness hadn’t occurred to him. The apologies burst forth not as attempts to reach for solace in someone else, but as the only gesture that seemed to have a chance at alleviating the wounds his actions created. Words couldn’t mend anything, but for now, they were the only thing he had. But it wasn’t enough. Never enough. The chains wrapped tighter around his chest.

“I’m not asking forgiveness. I just don’t know how to take that pain away,” his words were calm, and he placed a hand on her shoulder.

After a heartbeat, a sigh escaped him. Carefully, he pushed himself up on the armrests, taking care to slide his legs out from under Ishida without throwing her off. Once free, he pulled himself to his feet on the raised canopy’s handles, standing with one leg on an armrest and the other on the sidewall of the X-Wing’s cockpit.

“I can’t do that for you. I can’t make things better just by swinging the Force around and saying a heartfelt wish. There will always be things beyond my control, beyond my reach. I know that.

“It was easy for you and Sardun, or me, to be those weapons. Always right because we never questioned what we did. Never considering whether, maybe, that thing on the other end of our blade is, perhaps, not just another weed to be cut, but a person. Someone who lives, just like you or I.

“Absolute certainty. Never knowing hesitation because you’re always right. That’s not how the galaxy functions. We can pretend we’re safe in our small world of assumptions. Built like a house of cards, but we pretend it’s a fortress to feel secure, certain, like we’re in control. But the smallest breeze can make it all come crumbling down if we stop running through the galaxy with our eyes closed and our hands over our ears. One encounter, one moment of weakness, one wrong word, and everything falls apart. What we thought was true comes unravelled and breaks, shattering into a million pieces for us to put back together. If we’re lucky, we have someone to guide us through that. Most don’t get that luxury.”

He looked down to Ishida.

“It’s arrogant to think you could ever be unquestionable, Ishida. It’s pure arrogance to think you could never be wrong. Not even the weight of your entire life’s training protects you from making a misstep. It didn’t protect me. It never could.”

Yavin’s sun crested the horizon, just above the treeline. Orange and purple filled the sky, swirling together where clouds drifted. Bernard carefully stepped along the X-Wing’s hull, towards its nose. He looked toward that horizon and came to a halt on the hull’s tip, arms crossed and his cape lightly swaying in the wind. Against the sky he became a dark silhouette, almost a shadow.

“For a long time I didn’t know why I was the one who could keep walking along his path when so many others, so many much greater than me, couldn’t. It never made any sense to me, always made me reconsider, question: Why?

“We can rationalize away the deaths we cause with whatever reason we want. Be it revenge for something that was done to us, or the lack of resources to redeem every Sith we encounter, or some fanatical devotion to some deity like the Ashla. All of those are excuses used to justify why the guilt of their lives, those who can’t walk their paths any longer, who were failed by the galaxy, who deserved better, so much better, doesn’t rest on our shoulders."

He reached out toward the sun, to cradle its light in his palm.

“That light, the last embers of those who die, what remains of them in the Force. Those lights, of all those who died because of my action and inaction. Those whose deaths are brushed aside as necessary for the protecion of the galaxy. Those whose lives are brought into chaos and turmoil. I carry their burdens. I carry it because no one else will. That responsibility, towards them, towards you, it weighs on me,” he turned back to Ishida, cutting the air with his palm, “there can’t be forgiveness until I’ve made things right for them. For you.

“Until the galaxy becomes a place where their souls can be at peace, a place of light. Until I’ve fulfilled my responsibility, no, my duty to them this burden will never ease. I’ll fight for them, fight for a brighter future for all of them, until my last breath.”

He walked back along the nose of the X-Wing, toward the cockpit, stopping a step shy of it.

“I took away your certainty in the Halls of Healing. I exposed you to the truth, that your view of the galaxy was too simple, naive, because I couldn’t find any other way to keep us from crossing our blades. I didn’t want either of us to come to harm, but in that moment of exposing the flaws in our ways of thought, I took away the ground you’d stood on your entire life, and that hurt you.

“I saw your eyes on Korriban, just before the sword did what it did. That fear, that pain, what the recklessness of my actions created. Not all of it, I don’t believe that, but my actions were the straw that broke the bantha’s back.”

The weight of those chains became too much. The heaviness in his chest threatened to crush him from the inside. His legs failed him. He fell to his knees.

“I don’t know how to take away that pain. I can’t put those pieces back together for you, make your world whole again after it shattered. All I can do is take responsibility for what I did and do everything I can to make it right. I want to carry that pain for you, take away the fear, the hurt, but I can’t. It’s impossible. I just...,” he doubled over, catching himself with his hands, “I don’t know how to make any of it right...that’s why I’m sorry. Because I’m not strong enough to know what to do.”

Ishida Ashina

 

[Ishida Ashina]

Their compact situation was relieved, and the fresh aid she coveted poured in. Rich, loamy and mossy scents overtook the staleness and she inhaled deeply, stretching out onto the full length of the seat before standing with her feet on either side of the chair. Bernard took to being mobile, losing himself in his thoughtful response.

He was devoted to answering her, giving recompense for the accusation she’d levelled at him. And thus, despite the calming welcome and Force richness that Yavin had to offer — she was respectfully fixated, and all she could see was the hope he had for himself and the dread he had in that hope. And all she could feel was his utter apology.

Words, words and more words. And even though they were freed from the cockpit’s constrictive intimacy, she couldn’t shake the feeling of suffocation. It felt like he was getting so close to something, inching there syllable by syllable but pivoting at the last breath. Stopping himself short from committing to his ambitions.

There was no taking the pain away, she realized. Maybe she’d recognized it before he’d said it, but to hear him put volume behind the sentiment just made it all the more real. Discontent, she shoved her chin in toward her chest. It was something she’d have to always be with. She could either acknowledge, and grow from it, or let it stunt her.

Learning from pain wasn’t a foreign concept, but it was usually physical. And her father’s pedagogical methods always embraced pain, pairing it with the notion of weapons. Sometimes steel didn’t survive the tempering process. It was only iron, and iron was prone to rust. To become brittle through exposure.

But the finest steel –– Ashina Steel –– was made for the heat, and through the process stronger and sharper than ever. That worked for all the other weapons her father made, and she was supposed to be his best, finest, purest creation. She could be forged through this, even if the burn was unbearable.

Tremendous pressure gathered behind her eyes, and her cheeks felt hollow and thin. Her chest tight and palms heavy while her eyes started to glass with unshed tears. Through the fog collecting over her vision, she watched Bernard turn into a silhouette, and she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. The liquid did not spill.

Suddenly, he crashed physically. Consumed by the weight of all his realizations. She didn’t move, didn’t flinch. Just looked a little sadder.

Flight beckoned her, tempting her to turn and run from this scenario. Leave it behind and just keep on keeping on. Listen devotedly to the fires that had already forged her thus far, deviate from the Arkanian’s challenge. But Ishida had never run before, she always chose the option to fight. Usually, it wasn’t in a battle such as this; but he was an opponent beaten and unbeaten at the same time.

Fighting, she realized, would have been a viable option if his logic wasn’t so sound. She’d thought him foolish on Prosperity, irresponsible. But the visions Ashla had shared, the just measurement used to weigh and measure the Sith left no wanting. Just hurt in knowing how wrong she’d been. How much fear she’d felt at the prospect of failure, of being wrong; and how compounded it had grown through the eyes of the acolyte. The fight, with Bernard, was illogical.

Failure was the actual fear — the anti-goal of the Ashina. And her arrogance, and blind devotion, meant she’d been failing for some time without being aware.

She closed her eyes, unable to keep looking at him collapsed under the intangible weight of his inabilities. Her centre was conflicted, unable to see a resolution. Unable to see how they moved on from this place. He shattered her worldview on Krayiss, then again on Prosperity and again on Korriban. That which she found intoxicatingly unique was contaminating and disintegrating her from the inside out, abusing the want of her curiosity by drawing it out, encouraging it, and then when she thought it might be safe — smiting it blow for blow.

Bernard 's words revealed that he’d fully accepted he was right and realized that this had the potential to be impossible for her. But he hoped, he hoped she could come around. Like he could help. Like a lure she was supposed to bite, he tortured her with that hope that he felt in his own articulated conflict.

Stubbornness anchored within her, keeping her from crying. It was that same mulishness that goaded her to fight. Again. No flight. But this time, the fight was to counter that ultimate fear of failure.

“I hated what you said,” Ishida admitted, opening her eyes again and forcing herself not to look at the treeline as a means of escape.

She had to do more than just not look.

“I hated hearing it. I thought you hypocritical but..your actions are otherwise.”

Moving from inside the cockpit, she balanced until she was able to kneel next to Bernard, fiddling with some of his cape’s hem between her fingers. Discomfort made her movements small, and her voice even smaller. Quiet, forcing herself to keep talking because he’d done the same for her once, twice, three times over.

“And it really couldn’t have been anyone else. I don’t think I would have listened. Or even..”

Her eyes squeezed shut, forcing out the sight of running away. She still wanted to. So much of her believed that she couldn’t be around him if she wanted to recalibrate her perception on her own. It was always men who tried to focus her one way or another, her father, Sardun, Bernard. Somewhere amidst it all, she hadn't the time to frame her own opinions.

From adventure to adventure, all those failings he’d mentioned –– she hadn’t realized. There’d been a subliminal, intangible fascination he’d magnetized her with, undefinable chaos that he introduced and then remedied with each testing statement. Kept her suspended in intrigue, and now just… overwhelming pain. The kind of hurt that clenched a fist around her heart and mind at the same time and suffocatingly squeezed until both were numb.

Those tears that had been so steadfast in their promise to not fall finally emerged and she hastily reached up to wipe them away, rendering her unble to complete her sentence anymore through the overwhelmedness of now.

 

[Bernard]

He'd known she'd hate hearing it. He'd known with every syllable that leapt across that bedside that it would bring her pain, somehow, somewhere, sometime. But the reality of crossing blades, of coming to live in a world where they may have been enemies, had been so much more unbearable. The light was something that could mend, repair, it was supposed to be a message of hope. A ray of warmth in the cold, dark world of steel and ice, where there was no room for compassion or empathy. For anything other than perfection. A pursuit of perfection which could only ever bring about ruin, be it a bright blaze of disaster or a slow, smouldering fire that suffocated the very heart that made a Jedi.

Perhaps it had been selfish to even attempt to avoid their enmity. What right had he had to crack the steel of determination for the sake of not losing something precious, something dear to him that he couldn't articulate at the time? It seemed an act born of cowardice and egotism, now that the fears he'd harboured had become reality. A small part of him wished to go back, to that moment, to find a different path, one that didn't bring such hurt to her. Perhaps if he'd been less direct, less forward with the revelation, shared it in small pieces, would that have made a difference? His mind threatened to become foggy with the weight of possibilities, scenarios to find a solution for a hopeless problem that would take him out of the here and now, but he forced himself to stay present, to stay with her.

"Ishida, I..." a knot formed deep in his throat.

Words couldn't escape, left choked back into a heavy chest that became increasingly constricted with every moment that passed. Whatever thoughts tried to wrest reason from the clutches of that moment remained buried deep beneath an overwhelming instinct to make it go away. Everything. All the pain, suffering, confusion, fear, everything that hurt. It all had to go, somehow, somewhere. It didn't matter where, but that burden, his burden, their burden, her burden, it was growing too heavy to carry, and all he could do was grasp in the dark to find the words to ease it all.

All the walls, the armour of ice that had kept the distance between his heart and the world had broken down, slowly, and now all of it came rushing in. It had melted away steadily and on Korriban the last pieces had cracked away, exposing it in its unshielded entirety. Now, seeing the tears run, sensing all the pain, now his heart bled from wounds that ran deeper than anything he'd ever felt before. The pain was debilitating, it was so novel in its intensity, but familiar all the same. An old companion that he'd fought many battles with before. He couldn't let it win now, not even when it brought with it hurt in tidal waves that threatened to wipe away everything.

"Ishida..." he barely managed a whisper through the knotted hurt in his chest as her pain rolled over him.

No matter how much he searched, he couldn't find the words. There was a subtle awareness that, perhaps, there were no words to find, no phrase tucked away in some corner of his mind or in her tears as he was condemned to watch ignorant of any and all solutions. Yet, even in the depths of their shared winter, there could, perhaps, be space for light. He placed an arm around her back, hand on her shoulder, and his other hand on the side of her head, in hopes to cradle her into a close embrace, to bring even the smallest comfort of warmth as she wept free her pain. It seemed the only thing to do. When words failed, perhaps their departure ushered in the moment wherein one could do nothing more than feel.

Ishida Ashina

 

[Ishida Ashina]

Ishida was so overwrought with emotion, that she remained limply in place when he moved in to hold her. But she didn’t stiffen, didn’t pull away. Just stayed there, withering in her existence and pressed her cheek into his palm with an ashamed sniff.

There was as much relief as there was humiliation in being so openly upset, so readily admitting defeat and putting humility before honour. She couldn’t remember the last time she cried in front of anyone, even memories of her mother’s arms felt distant and as much as she wanted to tell him she didn’t want to be seen like this, she remained quiet. Only because she knew that wasn’t true –– there was a distant want to expose him to everything. Keep testing the boundaries of their ever-strengthening friendship. So far, his respect and realization was boundless; The way he observed wall after wall she built and cautiously found ways around them. Over. Under. Until they were ready to come down by her choice.

But he wasn’t able to speak, to keep the conversation going. She couldn’t blame him, it was her who’d been unable to finish her thought –– so she pushed it out, broken though it was. It was as if she was watching the words being built in her mind’s eye before they managed to take volume.

“Or even —“ she continued, through shuddering inhales and exhales “Try and see if you were right.” Finally, she saw what they were. The words she wanted to say were visible in her mind, but the task for her tongue was too great. How good of a job would it do communicating the intentions of the mind? Of the heart?

And once she started, would she be able to stop? Control was slipping away in liquid form and even though she tried to wipe them away, they wouldn’t stop. It was a release she hadn’t felt in years and it was entirely unnatural and wonderful and liberating.

“I would have killed her otherwise,” Ishida admitted solemnly, softly. Like she always did. As if what she said was horrifying even to her. With the admission came another swell of voiceless whimpers, and she squeezed her eyes shut again as if it would help to just gush it all out at once and get it over with.

What if she had killed the acolyte? And not given the opportunity to trial how redemption worked? Patience, opportunity, kindness, empathy? What kind of monster would she be? How far would she continue to go?

He’d saved her from that horrible chance of prolonged failure. And given the first glimpses at a pathway to that brighter future.

I’ll fight for them, fight for a brighter future for all of them,

His touch eclipsed, softened, gave her sanctuary and as much as training and bloodline wanted to resist she sank into it and shoved her face into his neck, turning to wrap her arms around his shoulders tightly and pulled herself into him.

“Thank you,” she spoke into his collar, giving in to the fight of staying and facing the repercussions of being wrong.

 

[Bernard]

Echoes of sorrow faded as they became locked in the one-sided embrace. Old wounds and grief were slowly buried as he was forced fully into the present and away from the attacks of moments long passed. More and more did soft sobs and softer words take up his cognition while the pain he had not successfully prevented settled in and replaced the ache he felt. This wasn't any longer a phantom pain that echoed from history, it was present and here. It was real, something immaterially tangible. But it wasn't everything anymore either.

It took him by surprise when she pushed closer and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. For a moment he opened his eyes. Seeing her so close, so vulnerable, it was as though Ishida had become a completely different person from the warrior he'd first encountered on the battlefield of Nar Kreeta. In his arms she seemed soft, delicate, and warm. Her quiet sobs still stung his heart, but his mind seemed clearer, and her warmth seemed to finally settle in himself as well.

He hugged her tight, closing his eyes again and resting his head against hers. The comfort of proximity, he hoped, would soothe their hurt and bring some harmony into that shared disorder. If nothing else, it brought a moment of solace, one he didn't know he had needed so desperately.

"You didn't, that is what's important. You made that choice to spare her. You'll see that you'll grow stronger from this, even if it hurts right now," he whispered.

Leaves rustled in the distance and a cool wind brushed over the clearing. Bernard's cape swayed, curling around them and falling away again when the breeze had passed. Ishida's soft breath danced over the skin of his neck and the sensation struck him of feeling completely exposed. He didn't give in to the reflex that wanted him to push away the foreign presence and protect a spot so vital. Instead, he relaxed and let himself fall into that feeling of closeness, despite the instincts telling him not to. Dozens of thoughts, worries and half-formed sentences faded the more he eased his guard, only aware he'd held it now that it was disappearing.

Ishida Ashina

 

[Ishida Ashina]

YOU MAKE ME FEEL AGAIN​

This moment felt delicate, so fragile that if she breathed too hard it might shatter. This moment, him providing comfort that was so foreign, such a distant memory, that it was unlikely she’d felt it before at all. But it was precious and nice to be so wrapped up in his embrace that reciprocated hers born out of needing instinct.

It was subtle, the way the posturing of defences melted. She hardly noticed the shift –– like an exchange –– in the tension of his acceptance. His armour did its job at protecting the details beneath, but it was herself that felt heavier. As if her body had just decided to become the most burdensome version of itself and completely released any poise that might have kept a reserve of strength. And Bernard accepted it all, tightening to take her into his hug and promising to, again, stay with her.

Like peeking through the blinds at the dawn, the light of a new day started to spill in and take over her vision entirely. It was brilliant, bright and light.

This was almost as much emotion as when Aaran had let that trooper go. Helped that SICA squadron escape the Ashlan Crusade’s wrath on Ziost. How had he known to do that? How had he known to pause, to exercise patience, redemption –– Ishida’d felt nothing but white-hot rage; more than she’d ever felt, and ended up vomiting it all out. All that betrayal, sense of worth, hurt, pain, confusion. At least here, the nausea was at bay, and even her tears were slowly starting to dry up.

"You didn't, that is what's important. You made that choice to spare her. You'll see that you'll grow stronger from this, even if it hurts right now,"

Looking over Bernard’s shoulder, feeling his head against the side of hers, she saw beyond their little space on the X-Wing’s nose and was reminded of where they were. On Yavin, an ancient Jedi planet under a sky of fading colours, with a skyline of treetops and temple peaks.

If she’d never left Atrisia, she’d never have experienced this, all this, this planet, everything he’d mentioned and her own undoings. Already, she was growing.

But it didn’t feel like stronger.

She’d never felt so fragile.

Genichiro Ashina would be disappointed.

Michael Sardun would be disappointed.

Everyone that had poured time into honing her, refining her, making her better, stronger would be revolted at her hesitation. And the decision that resulted from her waiting.

Was she disappointed?

As much as her father and master had spent time on her, so did...Bernard. Not as much, and differently, but it was still time. It was just different. Kinder, not more or less invested, but the motivation felt something like mutual or ––

She closed her eyes again, squeezing out the last rivulet of grief.

“Will I?” Ishida murmured, feeling hesitation drip from each syllable. The words were building up in her chest and throat, swelling until they hardened, and could no longer be contained. Her tears had already flowed freely, why couldn’t her speech!

Instead, they grew hostile in her larynx, scratching and eager to be said. It was as if they overflowed their way out of her system and forced her to slacken her hold on him, adjusting to lean back so she could fill the space with verbal sentiment rather than physical.

Even this, being so vulnerable was something detestable in the eyes of Ashina the Invincible. It made that confusing conflict rise again, and another sentence broke apart before it fell from her lips; turning to dust and getting lost in Yavin’s gentle breeze.

She was still closer than ever before, close enough to notice the irreparable detail of his synthflesh against unblemished skin. Where the lines intersected and scarred, a permanent reminder of the damages he’d endured in this life of light versus dark. The scars born from battling evil, and she languidly slid her one arm from his shoulders so she could touch the difference, mesmerized, but stopped just centimeters from contact.

A lifetime battling darkness.

The gaze that was peeking out the blinds was forced away by training, conditioning that said no, and drew the curtains on her. Forcing her to look back at the room she’d always known. The dawn concealed from view.

...Send you down an even darker path than the one you are already on.”

"That is the path of the Dark and you do not want to tread those grounds."

can be corrupted beyond repair.

Reality shocked her again, and she felt a pang trill through her chest. It was sharp enough to finally push out the sentences she’d managed to trap behind her teeth.

I WISH THAT I COULD CHANGE​

“Grow stronger as a Jedi, that’s what you mean isn’t it?”

She pulled back almost entirely now, both her arms away from his shoulders though their legs still touched, but that hand that hovered near his jaw dropped into her lap. Her throat was closing over those words she wanted to say again, and made her voice sound thinner.

“Hearing you talk so selflessly, so passionately about protecting people, saving lives...your purpose to protect and preserve,” She looked down, ashamed to be invading a hero’s space. It might have hurt her now, but she felt worse now about the pain he shared on her behalf. She’d felt him flare up on Korriban when she challenged him –– the restraint he’d chided her over hadn’t just been over the acolyte. Fractions of that intensity had been at her, she realized that. "Make things better, make yourself better."

And he didn’t deserve to feel that.

Not because of someone who was here selfishly, seeking out the answer for a lie she’d been born into. For years her father had pretended Inosuke didn’t exist, and it had been the first time she’d rebelled from him –– coming to the New Jedi Order to seek her elder sibling out. He’d controlled her all his life, hardening her, isolating her, making her something as cold and sharp as the finest steel. And then she’d met Sardun, and he’d put that finessed coolness to the flame, impressing on her further and further a sense of purpose beyond being the best warrior. It was to be better than the evil in the world, good enough to destroy it all with indoctrinated righteousness.

“My cause for joining the Jedi isn’t so pure. I just had The Force –– some training –– and wanted to find Inosuke, but Sardun gave my violence a focus.”

Verily, if things hadn’t been so hasty after Ilum, and if she hadn’t experienced how vile and evil The Brotherhood of the Maw was, she might not have been around anymore.

"My only exposure to Jedi teachings, before Sardun, was at a school that trains lords of war.”

She stopped and interrupted herself instead.

“I can’t do this.” Her fingers ran through her hair, resting her elbow on her knees and looking back at the horizon while dried blood caked into her tresses turned to dust at her touch. Tens of thoughts flashed through her mind, colliding recklessly into one another to make her psyche a kaleidoscopic, unintelligible disaster of white noise.

“I can’t do this to you. I ––” Ishida bit her lip, wanting to turn and run. But if not hurting him was her reason for distance, then she needed to say so. Otherwise it would be so much more painful.

“Even without The Force, on Nar Kreeta, Muunilist, your focus was making other lives better. Protecting them. You were more of a Jedi then than I am now. Mine has –– that’s never been a part of who I am. Who I’ve been raised, no, trained to be.

When I saved your life on Nar Kreeta, it’s because I knew I could kill that creature. Not because it was the right thing to do or because I could save everyone from it.” Just like that Bryn’adûl thought it could kill each one of them in that tunnel.

"If we go straight to killing those who've fallen, then we fall to their level, Ishida."

She paled slightly.

“And I’d never questioned it until,” she made a face, and finally lifted her eyes again. “You.”

Sucking in a sharp breath, she bit her lip and let it slip out through the corners of her mouth. The war between her mind and heart was growing louder, more calamitous.

“And, I know that I should care about redemption, healing and potential.”

But I don’t want to care because of you. Because I like what you say, how you say it, what you do with it. That’s –– I don’t want you to look at me with expectation.”

That same fear came creeping back into her expression, a diluted version of the final terrified glance she’d delivered on Korriban. The glassy, apprehensive look of her unsaid fear Because what if I fail.

“I’ve got to figure this out.”

 

[Bernard]

A part of his inner self resisted when she pulled away, unwilling to let go of the deeply cherished moment, but it wasn't his to keep. The warm imprint where she'd been began to fade as she broke away from that shared proximity. In her stead, cold air filled the space she'd inhabited, emphasizing her absence. He wanted to give an answer to her question, but it became evident that more thoughts, more words were building up, so he relinquished that space. For a while, her eyes wandered along the paths left by old wounds and, instead of the words he expected, she reached out to trace them with her hands also. His jaw tightened in the face of uncertainty, but her hand stopped just shy of the artificial skin.

“Grow stronger as a Jedi, that’s what you mean isn’t it?”

Her hand dropped away and with it the physical tension he'd built, relieved by a very different kind that made his stomach tighten. Her words came after all, but they felt wrong. She painted him in a light that was entirely too kind. The valiant hero who lived to protect. But what hero had slain one of his own?

“My cause for joining the Jedi isn’t so pure. I just had The Force –– some training –– and wanted to find Inosuke, but Sardun gave my violence a focus. My only exposure to Jedi teachings, before Sardun, was at a school that trains lords of war.”

The irony was that her position reflected his when he'd reunited with the Jedi on the forgotten station of Peace. During that time he'd been so overcome with grief and anger that he'd felt nothing other than the urge to destroy the Dark Side in whatever shape it crossed his path. It was destruction for destruction's sake, violence with a focus. Kill those who took his own, and spare everyone else the same pain.

In all that arrogance and conviction, he had ended up cutting down the greatest symbol the Jedi had known for decades. Ultimately, his quest for vengeance had blinded him and made him fall so far from the Jedi that his own ancestors had rejected his very being, bringing down retribution for his past crimes by taking away his future as a Jedi.

Between the two, he'd been the one to commit unforgivable sins that would require a lifetime's work and more to atone, and yet here she placed herself so low because she hadn't been able to see her path through the blindfolds wrapped around her eyes again and again.

“And I’d never questioned it until," their eyes met again, storm clouds over tranquil white seas. "You."

The thought struck him suddenly that, despite his wish to help and do nothing but assist, he might be eclipsing her sight after she'd finally let that blindfold fall away.

“And, I know that I should care about redemption, healing and potential."

If she did, then that proved that she was already well on her way to treading a better path. It promised immense hope for her to grow stronger from all this after all.

"But I don’t want to care because of you. Because I like what you say, how you say it, what you do with it. That’s –– I don’t want you to look at me with expectation.”

And so his concerns came true. He closed his eyes and exhaled, deflating a little as all the tension that had kept him upright left him at once.

“I’ve got to figure this out.”

That same fear she'd felt on Korriban echoed in her eyes. Its significance struck him, but he couldn't grasp its meaning. He wanted to ask about it, to understand it better so he could know if there was a way to alleviate it but that thread had slipped between his fingers as she reached her conclusion, and it didn't seem right to press her to bring it to the surface now.

"You do," he agreed instead.

But finding the answers to her question required new thoughts, new impressions, and most importantly time away from the influences which carried away her thoughts like leaves in the wind, swept in whatever direction that wind intended. Instead, the turmoil and the chaos had to be given time to return to peace and harmony on their own. The pieces had to be picked up to construct a new, stronger foundation that could support itself better by standing on its own strength. A process like that took time, but its rewards were well worth the pain and effort.

It couldn't be undertaken with anyone but one's self, however. Not if she was to stand on her own strength without the need for that wind to carry her in whatever way it wanted.

"I made a promise to stay with you and help you in whatever way I could. Until you were healed," he began. He opened his eyes to look into hers again. "But I don't believe you'll figure this out if I'm always here to remind you of the burdens that expectation you carry places on you. I think I would help you better if I left your side for now. Until you know where your path will take you."

Even as he said the words he could feel his own resolve crumble under the reality they would usher in. He took her hand and placed it in his. He could feel the pit in his core slowly gathering more unease, felt his body tense as though it was expecting to be struck. Still, he didn't stop taking in every last detail of her and committing it to his memory, because suddenly it seemed so fleeting, their time together. Both the time they'd spent and the time that remained.

"You can take the X-Wing. It served me well, it will do the same for you."

The starfighter had been his companion since those early days on Peace. Serving as a place of refuge and a private sanctuary. It carried him from one end of the galaxy to the other once he'd lost his way and never failed him during his search for a better path. Now, he hoped, it could guide her to the path she needed to tread.

Don't let go, he suddenly recalled the words she'd spoken when she'd last had that fear in her eyes. They struck him, syncopating his breath for an instant.

Had that been her fear? That he would do exactly this, leave her on her own by breaking his promise to stay with her no matter what happened? The way she spoke of herself and of what she needed to do didn't support that thought. For a moment he'd felt he'd understood, but now he fumbled in doubt again, trying to understand but failing.

He became vividly aware of the apprehensive tension in his body again. He broke away from her eyes and looked down at her hand, wrapping his fingers more tightly around it. He stayed that way for a few heartbeats, taking in those moments, then he looked up to find her eyes again.

"But know that I intend to keep my promise regardless of which path you choose to follow in the end,"

Ishida Ashina

 

[Ishida Ashina]

But some things in my past I cannot change
But I can change

You should know the truth​

I'm not locked in my bones
I've been changed forever​

"But I don't believe you'll figure this out if I'm always here to remind you of the burdens that expectation you carry places on you.."

Is that what she’d said? That’s what she’d been thinking, but she hadn’t meant to force that reality between them. He wasn’t a burden, she was just afraid to project her shortcomings onto him and turn him into one. He’d dropped a question in her lap, like burning hot coal, and she had to figure out how to either turn it into amber to douse it.

She could barely hear the rest of his sentence over the thunderous din of her heart. It was thumping so loudly it felt as though it might shatter through her ribcage and leap out between them. It only grew louder when they connected again, her hand in his and his searching eyes finding hers ready to connect; wider than before.

I think I would help you better if I left your side for now. Until you know where your path will take you"

It was better when she talked less. Her words were weapons against herself, their little daggers dragging through her throat and marking up her tongue, eventually bleeding into the words themselves and creating new wounds.

Wounds that slipped out involuntarily and sounded gaping and raw, hoarse and weak: “Bernard,”

Despair overstepped the patience of her soul and she sighed so deeply it almost entirely deflated her, as if she were so heavy she might sink through the X-Wing’s nose into the earth. Only his hand on hers kept her there. She clutched at it involuntarily, her free hand floated back to connect back with the shoulder of his armour plate.

"You can take the X-Wing. It served me well, it will do the same for you."

Realization altered the composition of her expression. The slope of her brows loosened, and the curve of her mouth pulled her lips more agape as she studied his sincerity. Shock pushed itself through to the surface, and she gave a small shake of her head. Not necessarily in denial, but evidencing her disbelief. His X-Wing?

That stupid, wonderful, stupid X-Wing? But he’d been so relieved to see it, purposefully deviating from their objective to check-in on its well-being. He’d even spoken to it as if it were sentient.

But where would she go? She couldn’t imagine shoving into that cockpit alone, taking off and leaving him. Not now, not after that sincerity. She knew she should, she knew that in the end, she would –– she’d already thought about tearing away from this clearing.

In her mind, she’d wanted to get away from him. At first it was to run away from the conflict, to sort through it on her own. But she’d stayed and faced it. Then it was to protect him from turning into condemnation or regret, categories her Senseis and past-life influencers were quickly falling into. Contaminating their relationship like that would be terrible, but she couldn't see a place where she wasn't too prideful to wholly accept his help. But to hear him say it, to admit that maybe it was for the best, made her bounce back to a place of indecision.

For the first time, she’d found a sanctuary of sameness. Like their souls matched in an indefinable way. There were overlaps in the way they appeared, the way she perceived him to her, she saw that she’d felt that if nothing else other than the fire that had culminated in emotions shared on Korriban. It was a dangerous reality, falling for someone else’s thoughts.

But seeking that as a hiding place–– he was right to push her out, even if there was a mutual appreciation in their friendship’s foundation that recognized history and only looked forward, a font of and it filled her up so. The thought of losing that, of losing him, was numbing.

Emptiness had raised her, made her a shell of a human seeking some sort of fill. The lives and souls of others, those darker than her, had meant to inhabit in lieu of anything else. Now she was heartache and war.

He intensified the pressure of their touch, and she got lost in the booming of her heartbeat again. She could feel it this time, beyond the loudness of the thump-thump-thump, she could feel the tremble it forced through her torso. The rise and fall involved even her shoulders and she felt an overwhelming swell of pressure behind her cheeks and eyes.

"But know that I intend to keep my promise regardless of which path you choose to follow in the end,"

If she hadn’t just cried out the last of her tears, she would have burst again. Not out of misery this time, but because she had no other means to express the rawness of her emotion. It was a primitive sort of wanting, to perfectly communicate the resounding impact of his sentiment. The sincerity behind his intention was like a golden glow, alluring, vibrant, and warm.

The depth of that promise was boundless.

At first, she’d thought it had been confined to the walls of Prosperity. She’d given him hours at best to stay true to his word. Then hours had turned into days –– long enough that he’d seemingly taken back to residing at his otherwise uninhabited room aboard the legendary Jedi ship. Those days melted into a long enough time for him to feel at ease enough to partner with her for the Korriban deployment. Even within the Academy walls, she’d flung herself into activity first and, true to his word, he’d stayed with her. Even here, pouring out his heart and withstanding her initial outlash, the accusatory gnashings of her teeth, he stayed with her.

She knew he was telling the truth. That he’d put action with utmost sincerity behind that intention, to thwart that exceptionally lonely way to live.

That’s why she couldn’t be around him to find herself, she’d get lost in that dedication.

Softness conquered her countenance, and her breaths became slow and deep, blocked by a swell at the base of her throat. Her eyes moved left-right-left-right between his, searching for the words somewhere in the depths of pearl.

Her mouth parted to speak but produced only a voiceless buzz of her vocal cords.

She tried again, a small knowing smile creating a curved frame for the words that slipped through: “I know now.” If it were possible, she held his hand tighter, the hand on his shoulder gently brushing the space on his neck where her face had been. "That's..a really big promise, Bernard. " But please don't unsay it. "The end might not be..I..I..can't promise I know where, or how far away it is."

She stopped. She didn't want to talk him out of it.

Everything suddenly became so simple and so complicated all at once. All those promises, all that history, all that future, culminating at a multidimensional intersection with acute clarity.

There were so many other things she wanted to say, so many other actions she wanted to take, but her sense of reality helped her keep composure. She’d already threatened too much between them today, forcing him away, then in again, then away. Away enough for him to agree. That was the boundary she had to respect now, not introduce further undue harm.

He’d equipped her with a question, a purpose, and now she had to seek out perspectives, experiences and answers from others.

“Your X-Wing?” She croaked out, keeping herself somewhere in the corporeal realm despite the booming of her awareness.

“I can’t just..leave you behind.” Not here on Yavin, not somewhere in her past.

“I really..can’t. For so many reasons outside of wanting to just..stay here with you. Even if it’s just for a little while longer.” She admitted sheepishly, quietly. Then following up with the reality of the deferral. “I don’t…” she winced. “..know how to fly it.”

Blame Hebo.

 

[Bernard]

Don't leave​

"That's..a really big promise, Bernard. The end might not be..I..I..can't promise I know where, or how far away it is."

You idiot.

He'd already known the risk when he'd promised her. During their time spent on Prosperity and later on their way to Korriban, he'd had plenty of time to consider the extent to which he would keep that promise. It hadn't been a decision he'd made lightly. Even in that hospital room, when she'd almost lunged at him with her swords, he'd been committed to facing the consequences of that choice. He didn't run, didn't shy away. He'd stayed true to his intentions as best he could. Even if she had attacked him, he would have stayed.

Had he abandoned her then when she'd fallen so deeply into the pits of disorder, what kind of Jedi—what kind of friend would he have been then?

“I can’t just..leave you behind. I really..can’t. For so many reasons outside of wanting to just..stay here with you. Even if it’s just for a little while longer. I don’t...know how to fly it."

"You can leave me behind," he said with a sober edge to his voice. "And you should."

Yet, as he spoke, his core rebelled with everything it could, knotting up his stomach and pushing chilling waves of discomfort through his body. He felt his emotions fighting against the mask of rational calm he put on. This wasn't what he wanted. He wanted the same as she did, to stay here longer, together, but he was also keenly aware of the problematic nature of that desire.

Beyond breaking with the Jedi Code, he could sense the fear that, if he were to give in and stay with her longer, the indecision already building would become too much to bear and he wouldn't want to leave after all. And his duty would then make their inevitable separation all the more devastating for him.

But she needed to find clarity on her own, deserved it after being wielded like a weapon all her life. She'd said as much. If he was the pillar on which she leaned for guidance, she would never discover her own strength to see what she wanted to see, not what he was making her see. He feared that fate for them, and she was right to reject it, too. He had to let go.

Still, he didn't want her to face all of it on her own. Those similarities between them, the way she reminded him of his early years with the Jedi of Peace. He was intimately familiar with the perils of that path. His experience could help guide her away from even greater pitfalls and heartaches. It could help her heal faster, less painfully. He'd done so much damage, he had to undo it somehow, and he couldn't if they were separated, could he? Couldn't his presence also heal?

No, he would be too attached to see clearly what needed to be done. His vision would be clouded just as hers would be. They'd become blind together, lost in each other.

But they could become lost without one another as well. Stumbling through the galaxy, falling back into old patterns that had required them to be together to break.

His mind raced with possibilities again. So many different futures for them, each with its own unique perils and consequences. Each, once more, illusions wrought by his heart to obfuscate what his duty was.

For her to heal, she had to let go of her past and find a new path forward. For him, he had to let go to not interfere.

"Come on," he stood up to lead her to the cockpit, holding on to her hand as though she might have disappeared then and there. "I'll show you the controls you'll need to get back to Alliance space. The basic mechanics are the same as a speeder's."

He found his footing between the side of the cockpit's frame and on the ladder descending down its side. Holding onto the canopy with his free hand, he stood ready to help her inside the X-wing's chair with a good view of the controls.

This wasn't what he wanted, not at all. The tension running through his body was winding so tight he felt he would snap in two if the anticipation of losing her continued for much longer. But it was the best thing to do, what he had to do, he told himself.

This was his responsibility and his duty to her.

Wasn't it?

He continued watching her for several moments. Her eyes seemed to be without horizon. Storms that turned his heartbeat into thunder.

"You need to go...because...if you don't I-I can't promise you that I'll have enough strength to let go."

Ishida Ashina

 

[Ishida Ashina]

STAY WITH ME A LITTLE LONGER​

"You can leave me behind, And you should."

Her heart pitched itself into her throat. He sounded so certain in the decision, that she hated giving him the choice, and hated the way words had failed her again. The way she’d framed her hesitation had been so centred on his influence that he was set on removing himself from the possibility of influencing or contaminating her any further.

But maybe, the longer they spent time here, together they could reach another conclusion, something wherein they could be defined but –––

"Come on,"
"I'll show you the controls you'll need to get back to Alliance space. The basic mechanics are the same as a speeder's."

—-And just like that, their union was shattered. The urgency behind his movements was clear to discern that this choice was one of necessity, but it was a fragile decision. A focus that was tenuously held from both of them. It was like on Korriban, where her fury had culminated to the point of it being infectious, so shared was the ambivalence of their next steps and the inevitable break.

Swept up to her feet, she followed after him, attached through that tangible link. She was fast becoming distraught, and she looked down at the seat she was meant to occupy, and the series of controls that were far more complicated than the parallel to speeders he’d drawn.

Ishida had left places and people behind before. She’d left her family, her home and it didn’t feel this cataclysmic. How could she begin anything new, will all of those yesterdays leeched inside of her?

Looking up at him, his words chilled her more than the gentle breeze that swept the edges of his cape and the loose wisps of her hair.

"You need to go...because...if you don't I-I can't promise you that I'll have enough strength to let go."

The ache in his voice turned her inside out. A wound had been created this day, and each sentence they passed between one another kept it open and unhealed. Was she so selfish to work the blade deeper, make the hurt more gruesome and worsen the scarring?

She let out a staggered breath. Her mind was screaming indistinguishable commands that her body couldn’t translate or react to. Rendering her absolutely paralyzed. There were motions she wanted to follow through, but the commotion of her feelings made her nerves short circuit and useless.

“Bernard I,”

If this were a fight, this would be simple. He’d just admitted total enervation if she did one thing –– to take advantage of that would be the warrior’s way for a swift victory.

But he was so far from an opponent, she had no idea how to move forward with this relationship. It was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. The core of her personality was in success through violence, and while that had been a beneficial foundation for them to start on, the version of herself around him was far more dynamic than the weapon she’d been sharpened and refined to.

The balances of their relationship were confusing, it was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. There was no rivalry, no hostility, no violence, no manipulation. She had no relationships that hadn’t soured or turned into something unfavourable by fault of her own perception, or the influence of others –– and she wanted to preserve him as he was, protect from that. Even if it was just to keep him safe as a memory. The friend that wanted to help, to give, to nurture. A role that not even her mother could wholly fulfill, by way of her father’s interference.

She wanted to stay with him so badly, so much longer, that she was ruining this before it began. Overthinking. Fantasizing. Imagining. Expecting. Worrying and leaving no space for the potential of natural evolution.

Would it be easier if she just sealed herself away as he said? And hope that one day they’d reunite when she was a fuller version of herself, so they’d both have equal ground to stand on in self-assurance? Staying with him now was a quarter or even a half version of herself, incomplete and wondering. Like the phases of a moon –– beautiful, fractional, small pieces that would one day be whole.

As with all things, she depended back on the wisdom she’d known since birth. No amount of reciting the Jedi code would overrun the tenets of her clan. His words were based on the future, and concerns that he would not be enough to do whatever it was that needed doing. She didn’t believe him, but she believed in him.

This entire time, he’d reduced his personal proclamations to focus on his weaknesses. Weak because he didn’t have the Force, not strong enough to make what he’d made wrong better, not strong enough to be faced with that lonesomeness of her leaving.

But that was the future projection of him, not the present.

And her worries were also seeded in the future, wherein she’d condemn him for his trying to influence her.

Death is destiny. Live in the present lest you squander the temporary. ​

And if she got in that cockpit and died? Would a goodbye be a regret?

This was like so many other moments they’d shared, where it was as if she was both deeply attached and unattached in their interaction. Part of her recognized the intersection of importance with profound multidimensional clarity, and the other part was entirely incapacitated from a lack of experience or understanding on what was inappropriate or at all right.

But this temporary was fragile and easily squandered; his insistence for her to leave was as tenuously held as the agreement she was unwilling to give.

Out of all the powers the Force granted, she wished she had the ability to see into the future more than just a few seconds, more than just enough to trigger instinctive reactions. To see if there was merit for them to be concerned for the future, or if the present was where all things would either fall apart or grow stronger.

Beyond the future though, Ishida’s affinity to recognize fault lines and their damnable intersections was distantly at work, at a view that encompassed them as a pair. It was apparent that Bernard was taut, his posture forcibly stoic. He looked as unconvinced as he sounded, and the potential of a fracture here in their friendship felt as inevitable as it felt devastating if she agreed to leave. It would be a break, but it would be like a splintered fracture rather than a clean, repairable break.

She wanted to say something, anything, to make the present last longer. But this was entirely unplanned, and finding the words was impossible when he’d said everything he needed to at that moment. Certainly, she could explain her history, why she needed to push him away –– but he seemed only interested in her future. The strength she could draw from each experience. And if she explained that, would he believe her? Or would it feel like an excuse? Up until now, all their dialogue had been genuine –– but something felt different. It was an emotion beyond exhaustion, and it was overcoming the war between mind and heart.

Maybe she should counter his need to make another promise, defy it with a sharp don’t. It was a promise she didn’t want him to make, let alone keep.

Hesitation is defeat. One must be direct, deliberate and decisive in all things.​

People tended to say more with the words they didn’t express, than the ones they did. But Bernard had just heavily handed her...everything he felt. She studied his face while trying to sort through her reaction, her immobilization. It felt daring to make this much eye contact, to be this intentionally matching the emotion behind those eyes. It was like her soul was on fire, and any argument she could come up with to leave him behind was melting away. It took her a few seconds to realize it, but she was looking at the personification of what-if and almost, and in the temporary, in the ephemerality of now, those were words that were grotesque, hurtful and deeply unsavoury. They were the direct results of hesitation.

Ishida stepped to the edge of the cockpit, balancing at the margin between the ladder’s top and the cusp of the armoured insert. She didn’t want to hurt him –– and she wanted him to know that. Somehow. Every cell in her body wanted it, drawn like matter into a black hole, like gravity. The pull was titanic, nearly irresistible.

So she didn’t resist, didn’t fight it. Let herself succumb to that emotional impulse just as she had in his arms, with her tears, and been welcomed in safety. And when she moved her hands to press against the armour over his heart and stretched ever-so-slightly with the moderate vertical disadvantage, it felt like she was moving in slow motion and hyperspeed at the same time. Languid and timid, but sure and irrefutable. In reality, she had no clue how quickly or slowly she moved –– all she knew was her heartbeat was drowning out all her other major motor senses. She could feel it in her fingertips, her throat, behind her eyes, and hear it in her ears.

And that moment? Where she’d felt perceivable clarity? Erupted into starry blindness, and obscurity took over again and scattered itself amidst the constellations.

She kissed him, searching for that understanding. Without warning, without a plan, without anything but a certainty that defied any idea of hesitation in her bones. Words would fail her, she knew they would. She’d seen the potential sentences run through her mind and not make it to her mouth, but none had done justice to articulating the looks they’d exchanged with their eyes a hundred times before it reached their lips.

 

[Bernard]

Cruel Dilemma​

The smallest, reluctant noise of surprise hopped out of him. She'd come close. So close. Too close, and not close enough all at once. His mind scrambled for a rationalization, some way to construct a logical framework around what had just occurred, to find the cause for this effect, or at the least to reason through the prior moments, but the more it raced, the more it tired, and all those efforts fell under the tide of something else.

All the tension that had pulled him taut came undone. The knots in his stomach untied. His face flushed with warmth so strong it seemed unlikely an Arkanian winter would make it wane. Gradually, his eyelids grew heavier, obscuring half of the faint grey circles that marked his irises.

He'd been so insistent that she needed to leave. So blinded by fear, seized by apprehension, that it seemed the only way to avoid the fate where the pain of it would have become unbearable.

His eyes opened again slightly, suddenly, as he drew a quick breath. Last vestiges of resistance flared, making a final attempt to break the connection he feared to embrace, but did so without success. The grip of fear had loosened, and all the tension melted away. Peace overcame him, and he found he could think clearly again.

Had they parted out of fear, it would have only brought more fear. Fear and suffering. He'd been too foolish to recognize that and had been more a fool still to think of making those the last words he spoke before a departure that might never have them reunite. Beyond the foolishness, it would have been tragic, and most of all, a regret he wasn't sure he could have carried.

He surrendered to the moment's brilliance and leaned fully into their wordless exchange. He secured his footing and let go of the canopy to wrap his arms around her again, gently pulling her closer.

Were it that time would have to stand still for all eternity, he wouldn't have minded if all clocks broke at this very moment. For the first time for as far as he could remember he felt nothing but the urge to stay where he was and to do the opposite of what his duty called for.

He continued to hold her tight, in their second embrace, as long as silent words still needed to be spoken. Until he felt all the words they would ever have to say were said. A soft breeze picked up around them, rustling leaves in the distance and gently sweeping over blades of grass. Cresting just over the treetops, the sun had almost fully disappeared, burning orange left behind against the clouds up high and shards of light to pierce between the tree trunks.

When the breeze let up again, so did he, pulling away from her reluctantly. He felt at ease, empty of silent words. His expression still lacked any strong emotion, but it held the faintest hint of happiness in its ease. After a heartbeat or two, he closed his eyes and placed his forehead against hers.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"Thank you, because now I can correct my promise," he began. The law which forbade promises that one could not keep was one he was familiar with, but this one he had every intention of seeing through. "I promise I won't let go.

"But, we should still walk separate paths after now, for a while at least, so you can heal. What I feel—The experiences we share—" he sighed. Unable to help it, a smile worked its way into his expression and he continued "my love for you will render me blind to what must be done. The road you need to tread to mend what shattered, you deserve to walk it until you find answers to your questions. The Order's masters can guide you, or another being you can fully place your trust in, but it's a path only you yourself can walk."

He searched her eyes for a long moment, lost and wandering.

"If you need to, however, come find me at any time and I'll do what I can. Though, should we not cross paths until you find what you seek..."

Before another word passed between them, he leaned in to capture her lips again. It was a more subtle sensation than their first kiss. He felt contentment, serenity. Found peace and connection in it.

Breaking the kiss, he found distance enough to speak again.

"I'll be waiting for you."

Ishida Ashina

 

[Ishida Ashina]

Resolution is victory.

His touch felt like vindication, and she folded into its warm encompassment. All those barriers she’d built that he’d managed to explore and find new ways around –– she felt a door opening within, to the clarity of early morning. Former things were finding a way to erode and make an exodus, making way to invite new perspectives into the courtyard behind the surrendered walls of Ishida.

A lifetime and only an instant passed in those two heartbeats when they parted, and she was unable to look anywhere but his face. Feel anything but the shadow of their acceptance.

Her own expression was likely as unreadable as the one he mirrored back to her; but for different reasons. Practiced stoicism melted, leaving a variegated network of features that were still cast back in the action of seconds ago. Her lips hummed with the lightness of everything unspoken but felt, and the soft rhythm of affection’s aftertaste.

Warmth shared between them again, she could feel the embers of care against her forehead and she was careful not to move. Tessellated delicately in balance with him on the curve of the wonderfully stupid X-Wing’s cockpit.

"Thank you,"
"Thank you, because now I can correct my promise, I promise I won't let go.

She felt his words slip from his mouth and onto her nose, tickling along her cheeks and gently tugging her eyes shut so she could hear better, experience it without distraction and feel each syllable as a breath and hear the promise for all the truth it was.

"But,

Reality threatened at the gates of this nascent elysian, and she tensed involuntarily. Stormy grey eyes fluttered back open, and the loose slope of her relaxed brows tightened again.

"my love for you

For about five or six words after he articulated an emotional one, Ishida was deaf. It leaped out at her, painting itself in neon in a world of black and white and turning its volume up into unignorable technicolour. It was so alarming and so subtle and natural at the same time, that Ishida felt a clenching sensation around her lungs. It came out as a small exhale sound, and she slackened in his hold. How long had it been since she’d heard someone say they loved her?

Did it matter?

Did her relationship with Bernard constantly have to be contrasted to the desolation of all her others? The more she found herself in want, the more she’d find herself in ––

"If you need to, however, come find me at any time and I'll do what I can. Though, should we not cross paths until you find what you seek..."

Need. The more she’d find herself in need.

And what a wonderful thing to require.

Mirth bled from her mind and heart, through her teeth and pulled her mouth into a small smile which he eagerly consumed.

He left no more room for projecting her considerations anywhere beyond this shared moment, and the action she’d initiated, he further expressed how right it had been by closing the distance again and brushing his lips against hers with a sureness that she felt taken over by.

Twilight air was quick to rush between them and replace the exchanged heat with a coolness that could only belong to Yavin’s evening. Even the environment took a backseat to the girl’s selective hearing.

She wanted to coerce him further, to hear that word from him again, to hear how much he loved her –– partly from a source of honest disbelief and partly from a teasing sort of arrogance. But fully with greed. The sort of greed that threatened to make a starved man gluttonous.

But the other part of her knew better –– the part that manifested as an intangible pat on the shoulder and told her this was enough. Not to push her boundaries any further. He was focused on their separation, and dwelling too much on the now would consume room for future growth. And what if she heard it so much now, and he was unfit to say it to the future version of herself? Or in contrast, she was unfit to hear it?

"I'll be waiting for you."

She wasn’t even certain she could unpeel herself from this embrace, and she closed her eyes again to seal herself into a moment of sanctuary away from the inevitable break. It felt warmer though, like a blossom that was growing after being nurtured to show itself to the sun.

“Come back to Coruscant with me.” Ishida murmured, her hushed voice dipping into shades of pleading rather than the strong tones of negotiation she’d expected. She felt her fingers curl involuntarily, gripping at loose bits of fabric and tightening the texture in her hands. “That’s where I’m going, that’s where the first connections I have that I want to pursue are.

Otherwise, we’re on an ancient Jedi planet now. There’s –– there are places to start here."

She caught herself and managed to look down for a moment with a frustrated expression, before back to that new, delicate connection. "I'm not saying I don't try and sort through my mess alone for a while, or try to without you. I think you're right to suggest that. I really do, and I thank you for that. I just..

We can delay waiting just a while longer.”

 

[Bernard]

"A rather beautiful mess," he said, with a slight, lingering smile.

His thoughts snapped back to the present moment and he suddenly found himself a little bashful over the comment. It certainly wasn't something Bernard would have ever admitted to saying, much less was it something a Jedi would or should say. Blatant displays of emotion like these were so far beyond what the first tenet of the ancient Code taught that it gave him a moment of pause as he reflected on the significance of his breach. Had it been wise to invite this proximity? There were countless examples of Jedi falling because they allowed their emotions to run free. Was this another step toward a dark path?

The selfishness of what he'd done provoked shame all of a sudden, and he nearly pulled away. But something kept him locked in that embrace. All of this was, to an extent, a selfish act, true, certainly out of line with the teachings of complete surrender of one's being to the Force the Jedi taught, yet as he looked into Ishida's eyes, felt the overwhelming comfort her presence brought, he couldn't help but wonder if, perhaps, the more recent Jedi had been right to amend the teachings.

"Uhm," he from his thoughts to attend the much more important present, "more practically, regarding a return trip, neither the New Imperials nor the Silver Concord have cleared the rest of the Daragon Trail. There are still remnants of Empire forces plaguing that route—it might indeed be wise for me to tag along," he said, giving the reflection of the forest-obscured sun in the glasteel window a thoughtful glance.

"Though I do have to admit that delaying the inevitable wait is the more tempting aspect of that proposition," he paused a moment, trying his best to fight the smile breaking its way onto his expression again, "I want to cherish the memory of this—of you—let's make it the best it can be?"

He leaned away, enough to need the balancing hold on the X-Wing's canopy again, but not far enough that he let go. He didn't want to let this moment go entirely just yet. A little while longer, indeed.

"Yavin's a big place, so where do we start?" He grinned.

It was as much a question of where she wanted to begin discovering Yavin's history as it was a question about what area of Jedi life she wanted to explore first.

Ishida Ashina

 

[Ishida Ashina]

His compliment betrayed no abashedness, and Ishida felt an embarrassed sort of warmth suffuse through her face, neck, chest. That pleading expression shifted to something flushed and rosy, and she looked away briefly to conceal the uncontrollable reaction.

What did she say to that? Thank you? Compliment him back? Kiss him again?

All of a sudden, she was reminded of their bloodstained appearance. The unsettling tiredness in her bones and the ache of fatigue from the emotional outpouring that was leaving her feeling a bit like a drought. With all of that, she relegated herself back to silence. A place of fluency and comfort.

But further fretting shifted to listening again when he agreed to come back with her, for practical purposes only. She gave into that loopy smile and titter and squeezed the collection of cloth in her hands.

And staying on Yavin seemed to appeal to him too, matching all her reasons for wanting to linger. When he smiled, it rapped against her ribcage; becoming an imprint she wanted to see more of. The solemness they’d shared for so long started to fade in place of this new sense of togetherness. The sort where she knew she wanted to see that smile more often, and whenever she could, be the reason for it. That was a strength she could grow into, happily, non-selfishly. And it was a strength she hadn’t realized was even categorically considered, not something she could have trained for. But to strive for? She could try.

But what if she failed?

Two wintery warriors were fast-changing through the seasons of their souls, now like autumnal leaves steadily falling, falling, falling.

"Yavin's a big place, so where do we start?"

There it was again, that grin.

Drawing in a deep breath, she forced herself to look away and out at the planetside. The rolling trees, the loamy scents, the spiritual intensity of The Force’s impact.

“Big, ancient, there are so many stories from here. I imagine the planet itself has much to offer if we just listen, meditate on The Force and its wills.”

But that wasn’t super exploratory.

The breeze picked up again, and her heart raced along with it. Nightfall threatened the pair of Jedi, and she peeled her look away from him back to the skyline with the obvious silhouettes that poked well above the treeline.

“What are those?” She asked, pointing with the freed hand once he adjusted to compensate for the awkward balancing routine they’d put themselves in. Which was a physical parallel for the emotional tightrope they tread.

 

[Bernard]

Bernard shifted, turning to follow her gaze to the silhouetted structures rising from between the treetops. He'd expected grandiose pyramids, but what greeted him were almost diminutive triangular silhouettes. In everything they'd been caught up in since their landing on Yavin he'd barely noticed the structures looming over the jungles. Photos in the Jedi archives had made them seem taller than they appeared. Then again, half a lifetime's worth of living among the cloudcutters of the galaxy's most advanced ecumenopoli could make any structure constructed without the aid of repulsor technology look rather underwhelming by comparison.

"The Massassi temples, I always thought they'd be bigger somehow," he mused. "They have varied and extensive histories, indeed, each worth exploring in its own right and likely hiding some sort of ancient Force secret. You want to go see them up close?" he asked, noting the fast-approaching twilight. He surveyed their immediate surroundings.

It was the first time he'd thought to make note of them since they'd made landfall. In the turmoil of emotions he'd been careless with the usual post-landing protocol, though, he assumed most any natural threats would have been scared away by the X-Wing's noise, and any unnatural ones had likely long been taken care of by the New Imperials. They seemed to have a knack for those sorts of matters. The tree lines appeared devoid of any activity beyond the occasional sway of leaves when a breeze passed. Reaching out through the Force, he didn't sense any apparent danger either, which would be good enough for now.

"We can head out in the morning, it's getting pretty late and I'm starting to feel the repercussions of, well, everything settling in. Some rest should do us both some good before we head out."

Ishida Ashina