Author's note: I got the idea for this short piece a while ago and started working on it today. Stefan is one of my favorite OCs and I wanted him to have an opportunity to finally be able to move on. When I first created Stefan, he was simply this shadow of Jennet's past, but quickly grew into his own person. Hope you enjoy, and please review!
Always, LJ
Packing up didn't take as long as Stefan feared it would; he had been determined to be out of the apartment within the week. Now that Ladria was safely installed as new Chairman of the Order, with Revan as General, he had fewer obligations on his shoulders; none at all, really, until the three couples returned from their honeymoon. Then there would be the endless training and planning for the upcoming mission, the meetings to determine strategy for recruitment and maintenance of the Order. All the myriad of details that he thrived on.
But right now, he just felt tired.
He was not unhappy; far from it. Watching his lifelong dream of a new Order, one that a Jedi was free to love and marry, have families, and not hide from the rigid dictates of tradition brought satisfaction and a true hope for the future. Most of the newer recruits were paired off already, and he was genuinely glad for all of them. The triple wedding of Ladria and Atton, Revan and Carth, and Dustil and Mission had been the first of many to come, he suspected. Jennet, of course, had been the first to marry, but she had not been formally recognized even in her own mind as a full Jedi at the time. He himself had seen to it her union to Canderous was registered in the Jedi records, however, dictating to her brother Mical the wording.
Deep inside himself, where Drake and Miranne still lived in his heart, he knew his best friends were joyful that their daughter's marriage was recognized, and their son found at last. He felt their pride in their children, and their gratitude for his part in never giving up trying to locate the child that had been taken from them as a newborn.
"I had bloody little to do with finding him, Drake"Stefan said aloud. "Clever lad did that all by himself."
Another small drama that had played out recently was Mical formally taking the surname Jax. To his surprise, his honorary nephew had entered Mical Stefan Jax in the records, with a shy smile at his uncle.
"I never had a father," he said simply. "And I thought, at first, you were he. I think my parents would approve of the name."
Unable to speak, Stefan had shaken Mical's hand, then embraced him; that said more than words. He felt suspicious moisture in his eyes and sniffed audibly, collecting himself to smile warmly.
"I think so, too," he answered.
Right now, though, alone in the apartment he'd shared once with Jennet, he was feeling weary.
I'm fifty-five years old, Miri, and I don't have a clue what I want to do with the rest of my life.
He'd had the habit of talking to Drake and Miranne in his head and occasionally aloud since Drake died. He knew it was something Jennet did too, although not as often or as naturally as he. It was, he was certain, because she had had some sort of closure with both of them, even Drake, taken so suddenly in battle. Although to be honest, Stefan understood that even if he had been there at the time of their deaths, he never would have complete closure with his two best friends. They were too much a part of him to ever completely let go.
There was no answer to his comment, and he had expected none.
He sighed, levering himself off the couch. He'd been taking a break from packing, but was determined to get the last of his belongings settled today. All he had left was his paintings, and they required careful handling. He was keeping only a few and the rest would go to the gallery.
The landscape above the holofire…that one he'd keep for certain. He removed it carefully from above the mantle and set it aside. The portrait of Miranne, Drake, and Jennet, who had been about six when he'd painted it from a holo. A still life of a bowl of roses and lilies, Miranne's favorite flowers. And another of Drake's lightsabers, his only attempt at surrealism, a faint shadow in the background that he knew was his friend, illuminated by the blue glow of the blades. The hilts seemed to be held by an invisible warrior, partially obscured by a gray transparent shadow where the hands should be and a golden glow suggesting curly hair atop a blur that might be a face looking away from the observer. He'd painted it the day after the funeral, unable to stop the tears that still stained the canvas. Once dried, it had been relegated to a closet until years later when Stefan had been able to take it out and face the pain from a distance.
He had been so angry with Miranne for shutting him out when Drake died, even as he understood. Always the gentleman, he'd stayed away. The anger had soon faded, of course, replaced by a loneliness he had never quite recovered from. When Miri had died, he had felt her passing, but not the living light of her daughter. He'd been halfway across the galaxy and unable to get there in time to pay his respects. By the time he had managed to track down Mirianne's death certificate and piece together what had happened, Jennet was long gone. She had been taught well, and hid her abilities so completely that not even Stefan could sense her.
It took another three hours to wrap and pack the last of the paintings, and the movers had come and gone while he worked. There was surprisingly little for them to take. Most of the furniture, save a few small pieces Stefan was particularly fond of, was staying. His books and datapads had been removed to his ship days ago, what clothing he kept here easily fit in a couple of soft bags. These would travel with him to Coruscant, along with his artwork and sketchbooks. Everything else would go into storage until he decided if he would live in the enclave or find an apartment nearby. He looked around, poked in cupboards and closets, making sure that he'd missed nothing.
There was only one more object to wrap, and he knew he should have done it right away. Saving it for last made it harder, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to face it. Setting his shoulders, he went into the bedchamber and stood in front of the portrait that hung over the small holofire across from the bed.
It was Jennet, of course. He'd painted it from memory, not basing it on any holo he had or particular moment they'd shared. It was his ideal of her, and had been one of the easiest works he'd ever composed. Only a quarter hour of quick sketching, a day locked in his light-filled spare room that he used as a studio, it had flowed from his hands effortlessly. The colors were bright and alive, her brown eyes laughing, the hair long, completely unlike the short style she'd adopted after her mother's death. She was dressed in a suggestion of Jedi robes, but pale, not the usual brown and buff uniform commonly worn. The light of her marvelous blue-white aura shone in a nebulous glow around her, and her swords were in her hands, glowing faintly blue. She was posed as he most often saw her in his mind, caught in motion, one sword up, one down, the thrill of battle in every line. Her spirit sang from the frame, and he sat on the bare mattress, staring.
The background was deliberately indistinct, just a suggestion of wind and grass and blue sky, almost the color of his own eyes, or Miranne's. And, he thought now, Mical's, too. Jennet had inherited her father's velvet brown, along with his curly caramel hair and love of laughter and life. Rather unfortunately for a female, she had Drake's blunt way of speaking, but such a warm heart one overlooked the occasional vulgarity. Mical, Stefan realized on reflection, was a good deal more like his mother than he knew; quieter and more studious, excruciatingly polite and geared much more toward order and healing than battle. Jennet was an amazing healer; the best Stefan had ever encountered, including Miranne, who had been renowned even in the Order for her skill. She used this ability well and freely, healing as easily as she killed. But her fighting was poetry in motion, the energy she exuded with every move electrifying the very air around her. This he had attempted to capture, long before she had fully come into her skills. She had been brilliant when they were together; she was unrecognizably amazing now.
He had considered giving the portrait to Canderous and Jennet as a belated wedding gift, or for celebrating Helen's birth. But somehow, he knew that it would be a mistake. He and Canderous were on good terms now, each man understanding the other and his role in Jennet's life. It likely would be accepted without question, and all would be well.
But the love he had for Jennet was so obvious in every brush stroke, he knew they would see it and always wonder if this was his last little strike at their happiness. The absolute rightness of the Mandalore and his Lady was not something he could ever question, or cast any sort of shadow over. He had meant what he'd said to Canderous: he would rather cut off his own arm than take her away from him.
No, he thought. It goes with the others. It's a good painting, and will fetch a handsome price for the orphanage. Let some anonymous art lover enjoy it and wonder who she is.
He wrapped it up slowly, touching the laughing face for the last time. Then he slid it into the crate with the others, sealing the box and loading it onto a hovercart, along with the last of his bags and cartons.
Regald, his mercenary friend who stayed here occasionally, would be taking possession in the morning. Stefan had been willing to let the place go for not much more than he had paid originally ten years ago, but Reg, an honest and fair man, refused to consider cheating the Jedi. They had settled on a reasonable market value, adding a fair amount for the furnishings. Stefan had immediately donated most of it to the same orphanage his paintings supported, reserving only enough to perhaps invest in a small home away from Jedi business later. For now, he decided on the spot, he would take back his old rooms at the enclave. The Order would require most of his attention, and it was impractical to rent or purchase an apartment at the capital, which was almost more expensive than Onderon, when he had quarters readily available.
Everything was in order, nothing left behind. Stefan stood in the middle of the apartment, taking in the woodwork, linen fold wall coverings, elaborate mantel and tasteful yet comfortable furniture. He had owned this place for a decade, and shared it with Jennet for almost exactly twelve months. It had only really been home for that year.
All right, he thought to himself, impatient now with his own somber mood and brooding, let's have it out.
He wandered around the five room apartment, deliberately reliving every moment that sprang to mind as he did so. Jennet had known about his painting, of course, he'd had the studio set up long before she danced into his life. She had never seen the portrait, however. It had been created a few weeks after she left, when he'd come back, righted the wreck she had left behind, and mourned his loss. Against the Order's wishes, Stefan had not sold the place, merely renting it to various discrete friends until enough time had passed he could safely reclaim it for himself. It had been the first time he'd packed, he recalled. Jennet gone a mere three weeks, he had stayed for ten days to see to the renovation and remove his personal effects. The portrait had been born then, and he kept it with him always after that. Hidden, of course, but with him.
Snippets of memory tumbled through his mind; the spot he'd been standing when he first blurted he loved her; the look on her face as she shook her head in denial and demanded he take it back. By that point he would have done nearly anything for her; but that was one request he never could obey.
"I'm afraid I can't, love," Stefan said regretfully, almost amused at the smoldering look of irritation she shot at him. "It's out there now; no taking it back."
"Well, you're nuts," she said succinctly, glaring anew. "You can't possibly love me."
"Is it so difficult to believe?" he asked softly, crossing the room to where she'd retreated and taking her hand. "It's not like I planned this, you know."
She gazed up at him reproachfully. "I'm not going to do this," she said flatly. "You're Jedi and my parent's dearest friend. I won't let you throw all that away for me."
"Throw what away?" he countered. "An Order that cast aside your parents as if what they felt was nothing? That allowed you to hide your incredible light from the world, because they couldn't accept that love is really what makes everything bearable? Jennet," he captured her warm brown eyes with his own blue stare, and saw her visibly tremble with the heat he couldn't hide anymore. "I've never felt like this before. Desire, certainly, but not this sort of love. I didn't think it was out there for me. But you came along and broke through every barrier I've ever had. I couldn't stop loving you if I tried. And I don't want to. Do you have any idea how precious that is?"
She nodded, mute at the desire flaring between them, but determined not to be swayed. "I have an idea, yeah," she said quietly. "It's not worth ruining your life, too."
"It doesn't," he insisted. "It makes it better, richer, more real. If the Order objects, I'll resign."
"No," she jerked her hand away. "This is insane. I don't love you like that."
"Don't you?" he smiled, and stepped closer. "If you can look me in the eye and tell me that, I'll never speak of it again."
He kissed her then, warm and with every shred of skill he'd ever gained. She shuddered, and he felt her arms go around him, holding him fiercely as she kissed him back. Her heat overcame both of them for a bare instant, and then she was pulling away, drawing back and hitting him across the face with all the force she could muster. He clapped a hand to his cheek, shocked to his toes, and saw she was crying.
"Snap out of it!!" she bellowed at him, tears running unchecked down her face, fury and desire and confusion all jumbled together. "You've got some crazy idea…Dammit, don't look at me like that!"
"I'm sorry," he said, dropping his hand to his side and stepping back a pace. "I wouldn't hurt you for the world. But if you're just trying to protect me, give over love." He spread his hands at chest level, a gesture of supplication. "I know where I belong now, and I can take care of myself."
"You're a sentimental fool that thinks I'll bring back my parents," Jennet said scathingly, but he saw her stance for what it was.
"You'll not get rid of me that easily," he said quietly. "And you didn't answer the question."
"There isn't an answer to give," she snapped, and grabbed her bag as she strode to the door. She was out it in an instant, leaving behind a silence so complete he almost felt as if all the oxygen in the room had been sucked out.
"We'll see about that," he said to the empty apartment.
She'd come back two days later, politely greeting him and asking to come in. He'd stood aside, wordlessly allowing her entrance.
"I've thought about what you said," she informed him, standing well away from him against the sideboard. "And I wanted to tell you that it's true. I don't love you like that." She looked him full in the face, brown eyes never wavering, pointed chin set in defiance.
"I see," he said thoughtfully, not fooled at all, but admiring her determination. "Well, I apologize again for causing you distress. I'll speak no more of it."
"Okay," she said cautiously, relaxing a fraction. "Just so we're clear."
"Crystal," he assured her. It was a supreme effort not to laugh. Although she stood as far away from him as possible without being outright rude, her body swayed betrayingly toward him, and she couldn't quite hide her disappointment in his mild reaction to her statement. "Care for tea?"
"That would be nice," she said, artificial cheerfulness making her voice brittle. He overlooked it and fetched cups.
He kept his promise, and didn't say anything more for the next two visits. She gradually lost her tenseness around him, and one day after dinner she turned to him abruptly.
"I need to ask," she said, looking everywhere but into his eyes, "if when you said you loved me, it wasn't because of some weird loneliness for my parents."
"I thought we weren't going to talk about this," he said mildly, handing her a cup of tea.
"You said you weren't," she reminded him. "I didn't."
"Well, that's different," he said agreeably. "Though it hardly seems fair."
"Maybe not," she nodded, "but it's the way it is. For now."
Well, that was a start. A slender gap in the door, to be sure, but it wasn't firmly shut anymore.
"I'll make you a bargain," Stefan said carefully. "Tell me again you don't love me, and I'll tell you whatever you want to know. If you can't do that, I can say whatever I like."
"I don't love you," she said promptly. She even looked him in the eyes.
"Very good," he approved. "Now get used to it, because you didn't let me finish. You must say it every time you want to ask me anything about my own feelings. Agreed?"
"You're not making any sense," Jennet said exasperatedly. "You want me to humiliate you every time I ask a question?"
"No," Stefan grinned at her irritation. "I want you to mean it when you say it. Might take some practice."
"You," she glared at him again, "are a royal pain in the ass."
"Possibly," he said with a shrug.
"Are you going to answer my question?"
"Yes," he said, his eyes twinkling. "I miss you parents dreadfully, as you well know. But how I feel about you is entirely different. I've tried to talk myself out of it for weeks, but there it is. I can't change how I feel, and I don't wish to."
"You're sure?" she said, putting as much skepticism as possible into those two words.
"Absolutely," he met her gaze calmly. "Search your feelings, my dear. You can tell if I'm lying."
She was quiet for a time, sipping her tea and mulling things over. Finally, she sighed. "This is insane."
"What is?" he asked.
"You. Me. Us. I don't know how I feel anymore."
"Am I allowed to speculate, or do you have to 'humiliate' me again first?" he chuckled.
"I don't love you like that," she said softly, but wasn't looking at him this time.
It wasn't exactly a wide open door, but he was savvy enough to leap at the chance she presented. He took her cup from her hand, setting both his and hers on the table in front of the couch. Clasping her hands in his, he looked at her, compelling her to meet his gaze. She did, and what he saw almost broke his heart on the spot. She loved him; that was never really a question. Her fear for him was almost his undoing.
"Jennet," he said very softly. "Love, you can't protect the world, darling. You can't deny how you feel simply to save me. I won't let you, and I love you too much to let you go without a fight."
"You said you wouldn't talk about it," her voice was low and choked. "You promised."
"You couldn't humiliate me enough to make that stick," he teased gently. "Look at me here and now and say you don't love me. It's okay if you really don't, love. I can live with that. What isn't all right is if you do love me, and won't tell me because of some damn fool idea you're protecting me."
She looked up, her marvelous brown eyes tear filled and frightened. "I don't love you."
He stared a full minute, his face unreadable, and she looked back, her face set.
"You're more stubborn than Drake and Miranne put together," Stefan commented with a sigh. "I suppose I have to believe what you say. I am truly sorry I hurt you, Jennet. I won't bother you anymore with this." He looked at her gravely, and saw she understood that he meant it. He wouldn't push her anymore. He kissed her forehead, gathered up their tea things, and carried the tray back to the kitchen.
They spent the rest of the day talking and playing cards, determined to be as normal as possible. It was earlier than usual when she stood and stretched her back, grimacing at a kink in her side from sitting for so long.
"I'd better go," she said quietly. "You're due back at the enclave when?"
"Day after tomorrow," he said, standing and walking her to the door. "You're welcome to come back in the morning. I don't know when I'll get out this way again, and I would very much like to see you."
He'd decided while they shared their day that he needed to stay away a while, to avoid further distressing Jennet. He could keep them on a friendly uncle-niece basis well enough, although it wasn't what he truly wanted. Her company was worth more than his own longings or happiness. But he was only human, and needed some time to get himself into perspective. He didn't show any of this as they got to the door.
"It could be months, then," she said, stopping in her tracks.
"Possibly, yes," he shrugged.
"I'll miss you," she said, turning and looking up into his face. "It's been…wonderful, not being alone."
He didn't think that was what she had started to say, but let it go. "It's been wonderful for me, too," he said simply, and bent to kiss her forehead. But before he connected, she suddenly stood on tiptoe and grabbed his shoulders, yanking him down to her mouth and kissing him swiftly. He was amazed at her strength; he wasn't a large man but certainly much bigger than her. Off-balance, he grabbed at her waist to keep from tumbling them both to the ground. Somewhere in the process he forgot to take his lips away, and suddenly she was completely in his arms, concentrating on devouring his tongue and his head was so dizzy he swayed on his feet.
"I can't say it anymore," she whispered when she pulled away, leaving him dazed and burning. "I can't look you in the eye and tell you I don't love you. So it's either stay away, or never leave. I can't think any clearer than that."
"That's not clear," Stefan pointed out, trying to make sense of his suddenly topsy-turvy world. "I'm not even sure that's Basic."
"Oh shut up and just kiss me again, okay? I can't think anymore."
He obliged, and she sighed deeply when his lips met hers again. The dizzy firestorm she had started melted into a slow burn that left them both tingling. He deliberately brought them down from the heights of madness to something a little closer to terra firma. When he gently set her away, she opened her eyes slowly.
"I want you badly, love," he said a trifle unsteadily. "I think…you need to go now."
"I said I didn't want to leave," she looked at him, her mouth set in that stubborn line he loved and drove him to distraction.
"I never said you couldn't come back," he said carefully. "But I won't have you when you're scared and thinking you'll never see me again. I love you, Jennet. This isn't a one night situation for me."
"And you think it is for me?" she demanded, starting to get angry.
"No, I really don't," he said, gritting his teeth to keep from begging her to stay. "I just don't think you know entirely what you do want. I won't be a bastard and take advantage of your confusion. It's not fair for me to expect you to know everything you feel right now."
She stared at him, glowering, then slipped out the door without another word. Stefan leaned against the door for a good ten minutes before he could make his way to his suddenly very cold and lonely bedroom.
Stefan was in that room now, simply standing and looking around the empty walls, staring at the spot her portrait used to hang. He knew what he was doing now, and welcomed the pain.
She didn't come back the next day, and he wasn't surprised. The idea of being in love with a man not only her parent's best friend and thirty years her senior, but Jedi to boot was an enormous adjustment. He expected her to take some time to think about it all, her impulsive nature notwithstanding. Jennet was stubborn and often impetuous, but when it came to protecting herself and those she cared about, she was extremely cautious.
Perhaps a better word would be vigilant, he thought as he flew back to Coruscant. She works mostly by instinct, but there is a fine mind there and she doesn't do things by halves. If she decides to stay, for her it will be permanent. I've waited fifty years for love. I can wait a little longer.
When he returned nearly a month later, he left the usual message the he was in town, and was unsurprised when she never showed up in the three days he was there. He was able to get word to her a month later, when he was planning some serious time off, a full two weeks. By then, it had been six months since he had first spotted her on the docks of Onderon.
He missed her terribly those two months, thought about her constantly, wondered if she would ever speak to him again. Outwardly even tempered as ever to his friends in the Order, he had a difficult time masking the turmoil whiplashing through his emotions. Despair that he had frightened her away. Excitement at the thought of seeing her again. Raging desire remembering that last kiss. And under it all, a calmness, a bone deep serenity that no matter how this played out, the universe was a better place because she breathed.
That was how he knew it was real. He felt actual physical pain at the thought of her gone. He could stand absolutely anything but her light snuffing out.
She showed up on his doorstep almost as soon as he'd stowed his bag in the closet. She had a large suitcase, a satchel slung across her chest, and a knapsack over one shoulder. He stared at her under all the luggage, one eyebrow raised.
"Forget to pay rent?" he asked conversationally.
"This is all I own," she said calmly. "I have a lockbox at the bank, and my ship. I travel light. Can I come in?"
"Of course," he stood aside, grabbing the suitcase and hauling it inside. Jennet followed, the two bags almost overpowering her petite frame. She dropped them with a heavy thunk in the foyer, and stood, hands on hips, a fierce scowl on her face.
"I need to say something, and you need to listen."
"You have my attention," Stefan assured her. "Please, come sit."
"No," she shook her head gravely. "I'll say it here. Saves time if you want me to leave after."
"I can't imagine that," he said honestly. "Unless this starts with 'I'm joining the Order.'"
He almost regretted his flippancy, seeing Jennet wince, then glare even more. But hell, he'd been on the biggest emotional asteroid run of his life in the last two months; he deserved a little levity. He faced Jennet with as close to a pleasantly neutral expression as he could manage.
"This is the deal," Jennet said seriously. "I love you. I don't want to mess up your life, and I sure as hell don't want you to leave the Order because of me. But I've done nothing but think about you for the last eight weeks, and I decided I'd rather be miserable with you than without you. So I'm here. I'll move in, but I keep running bounties and work fight rings. I won't be kept. I pay my own way. And," she added fiercely, "If there's a hint of you getting into trouble because of me, I'm gone. Deal?"
He looked at her, his heart thumping so loud he was certain she could hear it. He considered her little speech long enough that he knew she wanted to fidget, but kept herself still, waiting his answer.
"No," he said finally.
She drooped for just an instant, but with admirable dignity stood straight and gave him a singularly sweet smile. He couldn't feel any emotion off her; she'd shut down the moment he'd spoken. But he did know her well and knew she was hiding her hurt under that smile.
"I understand," she said quietly. "I hope eventually we can be friends, Uncle Stefan."
"Jennet, darling, we'll always be friends," he said. "Will you hear me out before you go?"
"You said no," she said with some confusion, and, being Jennet, a fair amount of irritation. "What else is there?"
"I said no to your terms, not for staying," he said carefully. "I'll agree to some. Of course you should keep working; you have too much talent to waste languishing here when I'm away. As for the Order, I'll agree to keep our relationship quiet for now. But I meant it, love. This is for always. I will be approaching the Order about us eventually. I want to marry you, and I won't make the same mistake your parents did. I know what I have. I'll fight to keep it. Even you. And I have a few propositions of my own. Not conditions, mind you," he said quickly, seeing her start to argue. "Just…suggestions. Will you allow me to train you?"
"You want me to live with you to gain a Padawan?" she asked, more amused than appalled.
"No," he said seriously. "I want you to live with me because I can't bloody breathe without you. The fact that you're Jedi is simply a bonus."
She had softened at his first words, but stiffened at the last. "I'm not Jedi," she said flatly.
"You were born Jedi," he corrected, "and are a damn sight more powerful than me, or Drake. And you can run circles around your mother's ability to heal. All I want is to help you develop that. You shouldn't be going at it alone."
"I won't learn mind tricks," she said, scowling. "But I'll let you help me fight, and heal, and meditate."
"And defense," Stefan bargained. "Shaking off Force bonds and the like is helpful."
"All right," she agreed. She cocked her head at him. "So do you want me to stay?"
"More than I've wanted anything in my life."
"I won't marry you," she insisted.
"We'll see about that," he said, and held out his arms.
She flew to him, and he held her tight against his heart, never wanting to let go.
He stood utterly still in his bedroom, staring at nothing, deep in remembrance. That year with Jennet was the happiest of his life. Everything he did, thought, fought for, felt as if it was outlined in the golden glow of her love. She was fierce, and stubborn, and so loving he was privileged to simply breathe her air. He would have done anything, said anything, committed the basest perjury to keep her safe.
He should have known it couldn't last. He should have walked away, never told her how he felt, or allowed her to be involved with him. And he should have told her about her sibling when he had the chance. It had been the most selfish of reasons, he knew now, that had kept him from revealing that secret. He hadn't wanted to lose her.
Certainly, he'd had the best of intensions. He knew her well; if he had admitted the whole truth about why Drake and Miranne had left the Order, Jennet would have gone straight to Coruscant and sat outside Master Vandar's door until she gained an audience. She would have risked revealing her own abilities, being swallowed up by the Order and never being allowed to marry him or have a life of her own. The Order would never have told her, and they would have sent Stefan as far from her as they could find, possibly even considered exile.
There would have been no peace, and no gain. But he had a plan.
Convince her to marry him, and make it happen, whatever it took. He would gladly leave the Order. He just needed to convince her of that. He didn't care what they would do or his loss of living and prestige; he was a good fighter and would always have a means to make his own way, and Jennet would never starve; she took care of herself just fine without him. The Republic was always looking for diplomats as well; that was also a consideration for employment and remaining useful. Once she agreed, and they were wed, he would confess to her about her lost sibling and confront the Order together. At least then, when they failed, she would have something to fall back on, not waste her life pursuing what he had tried for twenty three years to accomplish. He hoped her love for him would compensate.
And it almost worked. That was the hell of it. He came so close.
He never did figure out who had betrayed them. He had been so very careful, mostly at her insistence, to be sure, but still. He wasn't foolish enough to lead the Order straight to the remaining Jax family member. She had been so frightened of being forced into the Order she had denied her complete power. He wasn't about to put her though any of it.
She never knew that they had caught up to him before she saw him that last night. Kavar had been the one to waylay him, warn him of the Order's knowledge, and was kind enough to allow him some time to say goodbye. He insisted on it; threatening to go public if they didn't allow him to see her that last time. He went home that fateful night, used every ounce of his skill to hide their impending doom, and in the morning, quietly left her sleeping and was taken away in restraints.
When his trail began, he had hoped that the Order didn't know who Jennet was, that they had assumed she was simply a woman he had become involved with and be prepared to mete out the appropriate punishment for his indiscretion. His strategy was going to be admitting his guilt, leave the Order, go back to Jennet. But when the charges were laid out in the closed session, his heart sank to his toes. Gone was the hope of simply defying the Order. They knew everything, who she was, her parents, every job she'd taken in the last two years. And they suspected her abilities, despite her talent for hiding. He saw in cold black and white the ruin of her life, the end of her independence, the breaking of that bright spirit. There was no question; he couldn't let them do it to her.
She was all that mattered, and he agreed to everything they demanded.
"But I have a condition of my own," he stood calmly, his eyes boring into Vandar's. "Jennet will be left alone. Permanently. You will no longer pursue her, or ever approach her. If I hear she's been brought in so much for questioning, even if it has nothing to do with her own alleged abilities, I will make everything I know public. I will find Jennet, tell her everything, and she will make your life hell until you tell her where her sibling is. This I promise you. She is a gifted warrior, and more determined than anyone in this room. Leave her in peace, and I will agree to anything you want."
And so they agreed. He signed everything, asked for and was granted time to put his affairs on Onderon in order. Came home to the empty apartment, saw the destruction she had left behind. A trusted friend had smuggled her a holodisc, and he knew by the sheer magnitude of the carnage she had gotten it.
I'm so sorry, my love, he thought, and for the first time since Miranne's death, wept.
He allowed himself only a short time for tears. Dry-eyed, he went about the task of cleaning up the ruins of the apartment, and near the end of the ten days they'd given him, with nothing to occupy his mind or hands, sat down and sketched her. He didn't eat or sleep for a full day, when at last, exhausted and heartsick, he put the last touches on her portrait. It took two days to dry and cure, soften it enough to roll without harm. During that time, he gathered all his paintings and donated them to the local gallery. She had smashed or broken almost everything in the place but curiously, left his art alone. It gave him a small hope that in the end, she didn't hate him. Not that it mattered. She couldn't hate him any more than he did himself.
He couldn't bring himself to pick up a brush again for at least a year after that. Jennet's portrait stayed hidden, brought out only on those rare occasions he simply had to see her face. Most of the time, he got along very well, barring that disastrous month where he tried very hard to punish himself and the Order by remaining drunk pretty much constantly. Quite a trick, really, for a man who was an accomplished healer in his own right. But it hadn't worked, he was too honest with himself to pretend to be a drunkard. So he returned to duty, and threw himself into the Order again. They'd taken everything else that had mattered.
When the Jedi murders began, he had been terrified Jennet would end up a target. He himself had barely escaped the destruction of the Miraluka home world. By the grace of the Force he had been sent back early, to report to Vandar. Not caring a great deal about his own survival, he had nonetheless cared very much for his friends and brethren within the Order, and began searching for survivors, while avoiding attention himself. At the same time, he had begun to search for Jennet again, hoping she had successfully hidden her Force connection and escaped assassination.
He wasn't certain what he'd say if he did see her again, but he wanted with all his heart and soul to at least be able to apologize in person. He honestly never expected her to forgive him, let alone let him try again. But he'd hoped, in the most secret depths of his soul, that perhaps now, with the universe crumbling around them and the Order all but gone, there might be a chance they could be together.
And he'd found her, on Onderon, accompanied by Jedi and….Mandalorians? He blinked when he'd realized the man who had stood in front of her was none other than Canderous Ordo, Hero of the Republic, and Mandalore. His Sight allowed him to see their auras, and all his hopes had died. It hadn't even been all that painful, when it came down to it. Just a quiet breath, and his life was irrevocably changed. She was alive, powerful, no longer in hiding, and loved. It didn't matter that what put that light in her eyes wasn't him. It was there, and everything was all right in the universe.
Stefan Tai'rhi stood in his apartment, eyes closed, heart quietly beating a slow cadence. He'd faced down his past, and rather than empty, he felt…liberated. The pain had passed, and he knew now his ghosts were at last at rest. Jennet was where she was meant to be, and his heart would mend.
"I loved her, Drake," he said aloud, opening his eyes. "I did. I always will. When I see you again, brother, remember that, please."
Feeling oddly at peace, he left, towing the hovercart behind him.
Four weeks later
Four Mandalorians on the streets of Iziz was no longer an unusual sight. The honor guardsmen were enjoying a rare few days off, visiting taverns and raising as much hell as they could without getting arrested. A certain troublemaker who had unwisely attempted to kill their Mandalore had been dealt with in a fair fight, in front of witnesses. The authorities had dismissed any charges of attempted murder, as it was clear to anyone who had been there that the fool had drawn first. Kelborn was feeling quite pleased with himself, being the fortunate one that had made the killing shot. Too bad Dax or Jarxel wasn't with them; they were the ones that really had the right to dispatch the man.
He was just going to suggest going to their favorite tavern to celebrate when Kex suddenly yanked his arm hard.
"Hey, Kelborn, look there. Doesn't that look like our Lady?" The burly warrior dragged his commander over to a window, peering into the depths.
Kelborn leaned forward irritably. He wasn't the sort to gawp at scribblings. Give him a good sword or well-crafted blaster; that was art. But he caught sight of the painting displayed and his eyes widened. He whistled, shaking his head.
"Damn me if it doesn't," he said with honest admiration. Whoever the artist was, they had caught Jennet to the life. Graceful and deadly and beautiful, her hair flying behind her, the long curls waving like a banner, swords flashing. "Hair's too long, though," he pointed out.
"Argus doesn't paint, does he?" Xarga asked generally. "He's the only one I can think of that draws that knows her."
"Not that I've seen," Kex shrugged. "It can't be the Lady," he said after studying the portrait carefully. "Says here it's by a local artist. No name, though. Strange." He looked up at his fellow guardsmen. "Xarga's right, her hair's too long, and she looks younger, somehow."
"Nah," Zarga scoffed. "She's older than our lass, it's clear to anyone with eyes. And the Lady hasn't lived here in years. Says right here this shop only got this a couple weeks ago. Must be new," he said logically.
"Still," Kelborn said thoughtfully, "it's an amazing likeness."
Everyone agreed to that, and stared a while, oblivious to the interested stares they were collecting. It was not likely that anyone have ever seen a group of Mandoa admiring anything in an art gallery window.
"We should get it," Kex said suddenly. "It'd look a treat in the receiving hall."
"No one would ever think it wasn't our Lady," Xarga agreed. "Even with the hair."
"How much?" Kelborn peered again in the window and whistled again. "I won't say it's not worth it, but I could buy at least two top of the line blasters for that."
"And what do you want to save your credits for, old age?" Zuka demanded acerbically. "The Mandalore would be right pleased with this, even if it isn't really his Mate."
"Shut up, you old codger," Kelborn said, grinning. "I wasn't saying I won't pitch in. But," he added in practical tones, "You get to carry it around."
"I'll carry it," Kex interjected. "I saw it first."
"Whatever," Zuka shrugged. "I don't mind helping."
"You just want to score points with Lorna," Xarga teased.
"I don't see you with a willing woman around, except in that club of yours," Zuka grinned.
"There's too much of me for one woman alone," Xarga winked.
"Always bragging," Kex elbowed him sharply. "Damn puppy."
"Are we going to buy that painting, or argue about women?" Kelborn reined them in with a glower.
"Can't we do both?" Kex asked hopefully.
"The things I put up with," Kelborn grumbled as they went into the shop.
It really did look like Jennet, though. He wondered who had painted it. Whoever it was, they obviously loved her like we love our Lady. Maybe more.
It was an odd, sentimental thought, and he stopped a moment. His Mandalore loved his Mate beyond reason or logic, and it didn't make him any less a leader or a man. In fact, with the fighting skills of the Lady combined with the battle ecstasy, it increased all of their skills. He'd never thought of love as a weapon before. Maybe it wasn't, though. Maybe it was more like salvation. He certainly felt invincible under his Lady's spell.
Shrugging off his unfamiliar and slightly disturbing thoughts, he followed his men into the gallery. He couldn't wait to see the Mandalore's face when they presented the portrait.