A/N: Another RP-turned-fic, co-written with Mother of Ducklings. Now with extra fluff.
Onderon
o.O.o
Ravaszhi pauses in the open air hangar as sweat prickles at his scalp. The air outside Iziz' starport is green and wet and heavy with condensation, counterpoint to the bright Japrael star blazing overhead.
The other disembarkers jostle him as they crowd past, and Ravaszhi laughs at himself. He'd planned for space pirates, Jedi encounters, Sith encounters, Disturbance encounters, Gree encounters (he could always hope), and food poisoning, but he hadn't thought to check the weather. It's a good day when the worst of his concerns are so mundane.
The slightest exertion of focus, and the swampy pull at Ravaszhi's skin lessens enough for his long robes to be comfortable again. Ravaszhi sidesteps the milling people in his path, and almost immediately spots Evren at the far side of the concourse.
He seems . . . preoccupied with his datapad, but otherwise well. Rested, even.
It's a good look on him.
Don't ruin it, Ravaszhi tells himself, a helpless little knot forming in the pit of his stomach. He slips through the last of the foot traffic and joins him, trying for a smile. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long."
Evren looks up and grins, stowing the datapad as he unfolds from the bench. "No, not at all! Just got here myself, actually—how was your flight?"
"Calm," Ravaszhi says, feeling his smile grow less strained at Evren's greeting. "It was —a nice change. Yours?"
"Uneventful, but pleasant, yes." Evren rubs the back of his neck. "So, er . . . check into our accommodations, drop off gear, then . . . see what the city has to offer, I suppose?"
"Good thinking." Ravaszhi casts a look around the spaceport. It dwarfs them, the crowd, the starships, but not in an oppressive way. For the first time in a long time, Ravaszhi can relax his senses into their natural state and still feel nothing. No threats, no gathering storms of war, no unpinnable disturbances in the Force. It's just there, chaotic and life-drenched and open for the exploring. "We may not be able to see all of it."
"I've lived in Kaas City most of my life and still haven't gotten around to seeing everything," Evren says dryly, shouldering his bag and gesturing towards the exit to Iziz. "This will be an adventure."
"May our adventures include a lot of not fighting or worrying about anything," Ravaszhi says, steepling his fingers in front of his forehead in the Jedi gesture of greeting and blessing. It feels off, forced—one part like he's playing a caricature of himself, one like he's pulling the worn edges of his frayed personality back on after too long just . . . raw. Lost.
If Evren's noticed, he doesn't let it show. "Gods," he says, moving for the doors, "yes." His footfalls are practically swallowed by the noise of the crowds, casual and graceful. "I think the hotel is within walking distance, if you don't mind the risk of stumbling around and getting utterly lost."
Ravaszhi reaches for the Force's presence—humming with the focused intent of thousands of travelers around them, directionless en masse—and lets it steady him before falling into step beside Evren. "I think we can manage for a few blocks." He waits a beat. Then: "After all, what's the worst that could happen?"
Evren stops, groans. "Well, now that you mention it . . ."
After a long, silent moment in which nothing dire happens, Ravaszhi sweeps his arm in an elaborate gesture for Evren to lead the way. It almost feels natural, this time.
The universe continues to spare them any sudden catastrophes as they enter the city proper. Iziz is beautiful, all pale stone and wide boulevards and richly-colored awnings, the streets alive with beast riders, and merchants, tourists and citizens. The historical architecture has been artfully maintained, and the technological advances of a spacefaring society blend in almost seamlessly. It's the galaxy's best kept secret, probably due in no small part to its proximity to Dxun.
It's the most beautiful place Ravaszhi has seen in a very long time. "Thank the Force for the Mandalorians, huh?"
"Talk about Mandalore the Preserver . . ." Evren turns his head to survey the crowd, says: "And it's always nice to be unremarkable."
Now that Evren mentions it—Ravaszhi hasn't felt any hostile attention since he landed. Either there are enough of his kind who visit Onderon for one more Massassi to be unoticeable, or no one really cares. Either way . . .
"Yes," Ravaszhi agrees. Then, nodding at the building up ahead: "Is this us?"
"Should be."
This early in the afternoon, the lobby is deserted save for the concierge and a sleepy-looking Mirialan drooping over her luggage off to one side. Room key acquired, they make their way upstairs.
Ravaszhi stows his bag in one of the wardrobe compartments, and then wanders over to the transparisteel . . . windows? He pushes on them experimentally, and grins when they slide away, seamless and fluid. "Check out the view."
Evren joins him at the window and whistles low. The clouds are breaking up, and bright watery sunshine splashes the city's stones in patches. Overhead, cargo ships and transport shuttles, and the odd drexl, gleam and fade in turn. In the distance the royal palace towers over the rest of Iziz, graceful yet solid.
"It reminds me of Voss," Evren says. "But less claustrophobic. And less orange."
Voss, with its sprawling, flowering plains and its deep, stone temples. Its strange rituals that bring stranger dreams. Ravaszhi's nails scrape against the handrail, and he forces himself to relax. He's still not sure how much their healing was worth. "I hope they manage to stay out of all this," he manages after a moment.
"Agreed . . ." Evren goes quiet, then sighs, clears his throat. "Think Freedon Nadd's still hanging about, or has Onderon successfully avoided playing host to ancient and eldritch Force entities that feed off destruction?"
Ravaszhi looks up at the sky to where Dxun's silouette hangs huge and green over the city. He'd sensed nothing more sinister than a faint, graveyard-dust sort of ill-will on his descent to Iziz, and that only in deep meditation. He should've sensed something more if Nadd's consciousness remained. "I think Nadd's had his day," Ravaszhi says. "More than once, actually . . . I wonder what there is in the way of historical museums. Arca Jeth should at least get a mention if they commemorate getting rid of Nadd at all."
"I think I remember seeing something about an exhibit at the Royal History Museum," Evren says. "We'll add that to the list of places to go, then . . . if we had a list. Do we want a list? People make lists while on vacation, don't they?"
"The only thing I can tell you decisively about vacations is that people take them. And they're supposed to be . . . fun?" Ravaszhi pretends to pick up an imaginary datapad, and scroll through. "Hm, the galactic basic definition is a little vague. Enjoyment, amusement, or lighthearted pleasure."
"Mm. Sounds highly suspect to me," Evren mutters. He presses his lips together, then says, "Should we head for the museum now, or just explore the city, or . . .?"
Ravaszhi rearranges the back collar of his robe. He hadn't exactly planned for this part. He'd made contingency plans for if something went wrong, but his only real agenda had stopped at See Evren again; make sure he's alright. "Was there anything in particular you wanted to do or see? If not we can always just sort of . . . see as we go."
"I was hoping to see the marketplace at some point, but that's by no means urgent," Evren says. "Seeing as we go sounds wonderful, actually."
"We can take a roundabout way through the markets?" Ravaszhi offers.
"Might even be able to pick up some spice," Evren says agreeably. "Not the drug kind, the seasoning kind—you know what I mean." Evren crosses the room, retrieves his jacket from the back of the desk chair, and pulls it on. "Onderonian cuisine has a reputation for very exciting flavors."
Ravaszhi's sister is the one who can talk at length about cuisine. His knowledge of Sith dishes is limited to bloodsoup, and he's never been able to describe what he knows of it dishes beyond thick, and cloying, and trying to recall the actual taste of the blood coating his tongue and throat just makes him feel ill. Which makes Ravaszhi sad, because it . . . it hadn't been that way. "Nothing like bloodsoup, I imagine," he tries to joke. "It probably wouldn't mix well with the Kessel-grade fuel Mandos export."
"Power games in liquid form," Evren says scathingly, stalking past him with a nod of thanks. "They could at least have made an effort to—actually, if you added—" He breaks off, frowns. "No, that would be vile. Never mind."
Ravaszhi tenses at Evren's tone. "I'm sorry," he says carefully, after a moment, not quite sure what he said. "That was in bad taste." And then flinches at himself. That's even worse. "I didn't mean—are you alright?"
Evren turns to him, tilts his head to the side. "I should be the one apologizing. I can be . . . overly dramatic, when it comes to food. And, by the way, that was an exceptional pun."
"It was completely unintentional." And probably better left alone in any case. Ravaszhi skirts around the subject into the closest segue he can think of. "Isn't there supposed to be a blood pool at the academy?"
Evren nods, expression pained. "Complete with a five-meter-long k'lor slug mutant thing that lives in it."
Ravaszhi gives Evren a look. "Didn't anyone ever kill the slug?"
"I thought I did. The last acolyte to try said she did. The acolyte who followed me never came back out." Evren shakes his head. "Make of that what you will. Perhaps the alchemical sciences contingent breed them, or something . . ."
"I think the most nefarious thing Tython had was the—ah—the uh. . ." Ravaszhi stammers to a halt as his faulty memory coalesces. The indigenous tribes. He hasn't thought about them in what has to be years—and he's not even sure he remembered in those years, not until right now.
It almost feels disloyal to even say it, like he'd betraying something somehow. But now Evren is looking at him. Ravaszhi rubs at his forehead, and then rearranges the back of his collar. "The entire native race the Jedi kept denying were sentient, let alone Force sensitive."
". . . Oh. That's . . ." Evren holds the door for him as they enter the streets. "I take it relations were, erm, violent?"
Were they? Ravaszhi racks his brain. There had been . . . something about . . . kidnapped padawans, he thinks, but that could have been something else. Except . . .
"Their attacks are the highest cause of Padawan death on Tython," Ravaszhi says, parroting the inner-core cadence of a Coruscant native that comes to him from . . . somewhere. "I think I met them during my knighthood trials?" It was all such a long time ago . . . and it's behind him, gone, for whatever that means. "The closest parallel I can think of to how the Jedi view them would be the Hutts and the Evocii."
"Oh, delightful," Evren mutters. "What happened, when you contacted them? How did you go about it?"
Ravaszhi's mind echoes back, empty. His feelings, though—"There was . . . a youngling," Ravaszhi starts. And . . . heat, fire, towering idols—warbles and beeps. Teeseven? "My astromech friend helped me . . . return her. To their shamans." It feels true. But that's all, there's nothing else, and Ravaszhi goes quiet again, his skin heating with the old shame of being such a broken, mangled thing. He can't even remember his own knighthood trials.
"Sounds like an effective way of establishing good faith," Evren says. "Hard to argue with the return of a child to their family."
Ravaszhi isn't sure Evren isn't assigning a sunnier epilogue than what had really happened, but he doesn't say so. "I've never talked about it before," he says instead. Not since he'd forgotten, anyway. He avoids bringing that up, too. Evren doesn't need the burden of Ravaszhi's history.
Except Evren's smiling at him, and not condescendingly, warmth like a stray sunflare radiating out of him. Darth Ikoral had never given Ravaszhi that. "Always happy to listen," Evren says.
Ravaszhi smiles his gratitude. The Sith will never deserve Evren.
They're forced to sidle along the outer wall of a building to make way for a lumbering creature towing a cart down the center of the street; as the thing passes, Evren asks, "Why the interest in Arca Jeth, if I may ask?"
"He was my hero," Ravaszhi answers immediately, and then, "—I mean. As a youngling, I admired him. Master Jeth was . . . strong in the Force, but he advocated diplomatic solutions even though his battle meditation could've won almost any conflict the Republic found itself in. And he didn't think it was right to deny hopefuls the opportunity to train with the Order, even if they barely had a spark of latent sensitivity. He even started his own academy on his homeworld. The Praxeum. He fought back against dark side practitioners when they threatened peaceful settlements, but he wasn't afraid to study their teachings, either. He was the Jedi ideal." Ravaszhi pauses. "At least, he was to me."
"History was never my area of focus, and what I did learn was hardly unbiased," Evren says slowly. "But I do remember that Arca Jeth was always spoken of in tones of respect. And from what you've said . . . He sounds like a hero by any reasonable standard."
"It sounds like there isn't much of a dedicated curriculum to history at the academy, aside from application of the Sith Code," Ravaszhi says. He is occasionally regaled with stories of young second and third cousins' exploits on Korriban, and every time he nearly boards a transport to bring them back himself. Life with Sith is very much an exercise in choosing battles wisely, he's learning. "I'm not sure when you would've had the time. But yes, he's always been one of my . . . role models, if you will."
"On Korriban, no, there isn't a great deal of time for study beyond the Code," Evren says with carefree shrug. "So this should be educational. I'm looking forward to it."
They might even run into a few Jedi, but since Onderon is an uncontested world . . . Ravaszhi tries not to worry about it. He inhales the rich blend of market district aromas. Besides, it's a lovely day. "I think we've hit the food sector. Any spices in particular you're looking for?"
"Nothing specific, but I am interested in the local stuff. Supposedly gilorian grounds are quite good with certain meat dishes . . ." Evren looks around the immediate area, grinning. "Right now, let's just look."
Ravaszhi looks at Evren taking everything in, that helpless little knot tightening in his chest again. Evren should move here, or somewhere like here.
Somewhere where aromatic stalls and stores dot the main thoroughfares, where Mandalorians can lounge against the walls feeding entire raw boma flank to the young drexl curled up by their feet. Where shop owners can measure out spices in every shade of red, blue, orange, and purple imaginable, without a care for anything but the business of the day.
Somewhere away from the war.
"I'll follow you," Ravaszhi says to Evren.
The bright afternoon draws people outdoors, and the marketplace grows steadily more crowded as Evren leads him between stands of geometric fruits he's never heard of, a dizzying variety of teas and caffa beans —some so exotic that they that even look poisonous.
A flash of brilliant red, between a gesticulating Weequay's elbow and the edge of a cart—Evren blinks, then laughs. "Ravaszhi, over here," he says over his shoulder, already angling towards the market stall. "My friend Vette introduced me to these—Ryloth ruby plums. They're amazing."
The vendor, a stocky Twi'lek with as much wrinkle as face and sharp grey eyes, watches them approach with a neutral expression. "Can I help you?" she says.
Evren pulls a credit chit from his pocket. "How much for two?"
She names the price and Evren hands over the money before Ravaszhi can get out a protest —and then his friend is turning back to him, fruit in his outstretched hand. "Here."
Ravaszhi takes it and then stands there, tongue-tied and overwhelmed at the simple gesture for what feels like minutes before gaining his voice back. "Thank you." Then he holds the plum up with a shy smile, pantomiming a toast. "Cheers."
"Cheers," Evren echoes, and he takes a bite.
Ravaszhi follows suit, sweetness edged with something sharp and clear bursting on his tongue. It's the best plum Ravaszhi's ever tasted, without a doubt. "I think I could live on these without getting tired of them," he says. "Your friend has excellent taste."
"I'll let her know you approve," Evren says, beaming. "So, ah, any favorites I should keep on hand in case of sudden visits?"
The Red Sith of Korriban, Ravaszhi's ancestors, had derived sustenance directly from the dark side of the Force. It's a thing with his people, not being susceptible to such a mundane weakness as hunger. He doesn't really . . . but he's not sure that that's a conversation he wants to get into with Evren. Besides, the Galactic Basic words I don't eat are usually loaded with bad connotations. "I'm allergic to Corellian white pepper," he says instead. "Other than that . . . not really. But it's kind of you to ask."
"Ooh, a challenge," Evren says with a smirk. "We'll just have to figure it out, then." He takes another bite of plum, turns on his heel, and sets off in the general direction of the museum once again, a jaunty spring in his step.
A few pubs and cantinas break up the line of food stalls, and Ravaszhi grins. "Now if you ask me about my favorite liquor. Do you drink? Because I've heard Mandalorian liquor is awful. I have to try it at least once."
Evren snorts. "Your funeral. And, erm. No, I do not drink, but you're welcome to do as you will."
"I won't if it makes you uncomfortable," he says immediately.
"No, really, it's fine," Evren says, half-raising his free hand, palm out. "The only discomfort arises when people know I'm not interested and try to persuade me otherwise. Or vomit on my shoes. That was . . . memorable. So as long as we can avoid that, by all means, feel free."
Ravaszhi chuckles. "Don't worry, I'd like to remember my vacation. And have good things to remember about it, while I'm at it."
"Mandalorian liquor for the Arca Jeth fan. We'll add it to the as-yet-hypothetical list," says Evren. He glances around, then starts angling a bit to the left, where a sign for the Royal Museum points the way. "Almost there."
When he sees it, Ravaszhi breaks into a wide, boyish grin. The Royal Museum is draped in long, orange banners that call to mind the Jedi master's iconic robes and proudly state the current displays on loan from the Arkanian Praxeum and elsewhere. "This is going to be amazing."
They ascend the wide staircase leading up to the tall doors at the front of the museum, then step through into the echoing atrium. The exhibit's drawing quite a crowd, but it doesn't take too long to acquire shiny flimsi maps of the building and shuffle through to the first section of the displays. Evren falls back a pace or two, gestures for Ravaszhi to take the lead. "Where to?" he says. "I wouldn't even know where to begin, there's so much . . ."
"Maybe not with the Naddist uprising . . ." Ravaszhi looks up from his map and around, then down and up again. He'd spent countless hours in his young life pouring through accounts of Arca Jeth's work, teachings, and seeing it all detailed in the somber, respectful displays is somewhat baffling. "I would like to see what they have to say about him as a Jedi Watchman; the Watchmen haven't been active in living memory and it's not . . . er."
Ravaszhi looks at Evren, to make sure he's alright with all this. Jedi Watchman, Jedi hero, after all. "If that's alright?"
Evren folds up his map and pockets it, nodding. "Oh, yes, absolutely. I've only heard of the Watchmen in passing . . . What are they? I mean—" He looks down for a moment, then meets Ravaszhi's eyes again, almost . . . sheepish. "Mind if I badger you with questions?"
Ravaszhi laughs, and then ducks his head and covers his smile when people turn and look. "Please do," he says, more quietly, mindful of his volume. "If you don't I might get carried away and babble at you without any sort of coherency. The Jedi Watchmen were particularly skilled knights and masters who were assigned to protect single planets or systems."
He leads Evren to the interactive holo display of the Japrael System, pointing out the marker that indicates Jeth's first landing on Onderon. "Arca Jeth was the Watchman of this system. Onderon wasn't known to the Republic then, and appointing a Jedi Watchman was sort of like . . . sending an ambassador." He grins. "An ambassador with a lightsaber and gift with battle meditation."
"Just in case, of course," Evren says wryly. "So a warrior-diplomat—wait, battle meditation? Really? That's . . . beyond impressive. I take it the Jedi—or the Republic—wanted Onderon quite badly, then?"
"It was just as rare back then, believe it or not. And actually, Master Jeth never solicited Onderon for Republic membership. They just wanted . . . to . . . help . . . " Ravaszhi trails off, suddenly aware of how naive that sounds.
Evren eyes the projection. "He did help. More than that, he appears to have ended a civil war and established Onderon's sovereignty, if that first display was any indication. Ulterior motives on the Republic's part or not, the good he did remains, yes?"
Ravaszhi stands there, frowning, turning it over in his head. Even if the Republic—if the Order—did have some kind of ulterior motives in their appointment, that wasn't Master Jeth. Ravaszhi had practically memorized his life's record, once, and whatever else is missing, whatever else he's lost—Ravaszhi doesn't have to question his memory of his childhood hero's works. Evren is right; the good Master Jeth had done remains, self-proving. "You're right," Ravaszhi says, finally. He shakes himself, and points out the next exhibit. "I don't think the Council has appointed any Watchmen in the past century, if not longer. It's a shame."
"How so?" Evren asks.
Ravaszhi looks at him with a quizzical smile. "A Jedi on every world, devoted to nothing but its peace and protection? Think of all the people they could help. And being stationary within a single system would mean these Watchmen know the people and culture they serve on a much deeper level than Jedi who travel from mission to mission across the galaxy. No matter how wise or powerful the Jedi, there's no substitute for having personal trust with the people we serve."
"Ah," Evren says, tilting his head to one side. "That makes sense. And it would do wonders for the Order's fuel bills, cut down on all the shuffling of Knights from the Core to the Rim every five minutes . . . I'm really not seeing a downside. What changed?"
Evren's discomfort is glaring in the fact he's made it into a joke about the tab.
"I'm not sure," Ravaszhi says carefully. "Numbers, maybe, or—" the Sith "—the war. In Master Jeth's day most of the conflicts before Exar Kun rose to power were isolated, not galactic. With something on this scale . . ." Ravaszhi shrugs. "Priorities are different." And then, a peace offering: "Although the Sith seem to have a similar idea with the Moffs and Overseers."
"Maybe. The intent seems to be somewhat less altruistic in the Empire's case, though. Speaking as a filthy reformist and occasional traitor, a galaxy where Jedi focus on diplomacy and humanitarian work sounds like a good one."
Ah. Yes. The Jedi's part in the war, in escalating the war, in hunting the Sith down instead of focusing on protecting those who needed it . . .
Indisputable, and Ravaszhi is as guilty as any of them.
There's a statue of Arca Jeth in the next room. Ravaszhi gravitates to a stop in front of it, recalling the towering bronzium rendition in the Jedi Temple's ruin. This version is white marble, as smooth and polished as Rhinnal glass. The Arkanian master stands tall in his flowing robes, four-fingered hands spread in diplomacy or welcome.
Ravaszhi looks down at his own hands, inadvertently mirroring the statue's posture. "Before," he starts, unable to make himself use the words when I was still a Jedi, "the Order, the Light, being—" Ravaszhi swallows—"doing things of worth . . . they were all one and the same to me." And he had been nothing without them. Not a Jedi. Not a person. "But they're not. Being worthy, having good in you, isn't exclusive to the Jedi."
He looks at Evren, and sends him a flare of warmth and gratitude. "You showed me that."
Evren swallows. The Force grows tight and still around them, and then Evren rubs at his eyes.
Ravaszhi takes an abortive step forward. His friend is—he's made Evren cry, what has Ravaszhi done—
"I think Arca Jeth would be proud of you," Evren rasps. "For—for caring. About people. Helping them. Jedi or not, you're . . . There's good enough in you to outshine galaxies."
Ravaszhi flinches. If Evren only knew . . . but he's not hurt, these are glad tears, and when Ravaszhi opens to answer he finds himself blinking, swallowing. His chest is tight. He presses the heel of his hand to the tight knot there, trying to knead out the tangled emotion. That Evren thinks so much of him . . .
His palm encounters the blue crystal he's wearing under his robes. Evren had given it to him, once, what felt like a life ago. When he'd been a Jedi.
Ravaszhi laughs, or tries to, and ends up hiccupping. His emotions are bleeding out into the Force, love, and gratitude, and the helpless sense of devotion he has always felt for Evren, and he can't control them but he doesn't think he needs to, either. Not with Evren. Never with Evren. "Thank you, Evren. That means so much to me."
Evren chokes out a laugh of his own. "Thank you. I'm—I'm glad I could help."
Evren's own emotions flare back, and Ravaszhi is filled with a warm rush of thank you I love you I'm so lucky to know you, so close and powerful that Ravaszhi can almost hear his friend's internal voice in his mind. And then Evren's strong arms are around him, pulling Ravaszhi against him. Ravaszhi melts into him, dropping his chin to Evren's shoulder and holding him as tight as his claws will allow without hurting. He's still crying, and he's still hiccupping, but it doesn't matter. "I love you, too, Evren," Ravaszhi says aloud. "I'm so proud to be your friend."
o.O.o