Someone To Fight For
Chapter Seven
"I've never been to Tython," Lt. Iresso says as they step off of the shuttle and begin to head through the Jedi Temple's halls. His eyes are immediately alight with wonder and awe.
"You mean you were never reassigned here?"
He laughs and Wendy cracks a sheepish grins. "Good one."
"Oh, I try," she teases. "Anyone of the masters here will tell you that I inherited my father's bad jokes. They say I remind them too much of him."
"Does your father work here?"
"Nope. He's normally on Corellia with my godmother these days. They help whatever tenuous grip the Republic has on CoroNET City, and I'm sure you can guess how that is." She clasps her hands behind her back. "He visited Tython often during my training to give the council reports on war activity."
"He must be proud of you."
"Oh yes," she curls a piece of hair behind her ear and smiles to herself. "I know he is."
They turn a corner and enter the main sanctum. Wendy encourages him to explore on his own while she conducts her own business with the repaired Noetikons.
"Just be mindful of flesh-raiders if you go beyond Malakori village." As she turns to leave, she adds, "If you happen to cross paths with a man named Nalen Raloch, tell him that I hope he's well."
"You got it Wendy."
They part, and she heads for the chamber. She invited Iresso to accompany her because she wished to get to know him more during the shuttle ride—and she's glad she did. She especially enjoyed hearing him speak of his old comrades, though the name Jorgan sounded familiar. She knows she'll need to check her correspondence with Billie to be sure. Overall, Wendy finds Iresso to be pleasant, welcoming company, and moreover she's happy to see him settling in well amongst her mixed-bag assortment of crew members.
The halls of the Jedi Temple bring back fond memories for Wendy—of days spent chasing dark pasts, of fending off flesh-raiders, of pursuing the blade and fount of Rajavari, what would later become history in the making, and of learning about these truths from the gentle, guiding hand of Master Yuon Par. She knows that Qyzen will visit Yuon's grave on his own, and pay his respects in perhaps a similar fashion—through reminiscing of hunts long past with a younger Yuon and their long-standing friendship. He does not blame her for the loss, in fact, he admitted to her afterward that it was the right thing to do and that it took bravery to accept such a fate.
The halls of the Jedi Temple are more sombre now. Though many fellow Jedi greet her as she passes by, by her formal title of Barsen'thor, but there's little time to catch up. The threat of galaxy-wide war no longer looms but now the necessities of war in its place. Padawans of the order no longer trained to be truth-seekers or philosophers, but as soldiers and healers standing alongside the Republic against the Sith Empire on planets beyond Balmorra and Corellia.
She only lets herself think of the sorrow and sacrifices for a few moments, as it's too easy to believe that such feelings will linger in this war like festering wounds for years to come. What sacrifices made in the pursuit of justice? What gains or losses?—It's a matter best left solved by bureaucrats or the judgment of historians centuries from now.
A necessary yet unfortunate evil.
Knock, knock, knock.
Gaerwen pulls her attention away from the datapad on the desk, rubs her eyes, and stands to open the door to her lodging on Tython. She opens it and sees Zenith leaning against the door frame. She gestures for him to enter the room.
"You're up late," she says after stifling a yawn. It's past midnight, and she's surprised to see him on planet. She sits down at the desk again. "I thought you were staying behind."
"It's finished," he pulls out a small datapad from his coat's inner pocket. "Wanted you to read it."
"Zenith it's past midnight."
"You're up, aren't you?"
"Barely," she laughs weakly. "I've just been pouring over some history while I have access to these files." She shrugs. "I was actually about to go to sleep, half-unwillingly at least. It's hard stuff to put down." She turns off the borrowed datapad and moves to sit down at the bedside. "But I'll take a look now. They say it's best to re-read stuff when you're tired. You catch mistakes easier when you're tired."
Zenith sits down beside her and offers his device after opening the text-file. Gaerwen falls back against the bed and starts to read. As she does so, however, she's partially interrupted by his own fidgeting; eventually it becomes bad enough that she stops altogether.
"You don't need to be this anxious. I'm liking what I'm reading, Zenith." She looks back to the text. "In fact I think you're a great writer."
He shrugs, and she returns to reading. She makes mental notes of the document: his style is terse, to the point, and his argument appeals to his sense of justice and emotion. There's no poetry or flare: it's the facts presented clearly and concisely. Yet it's the last line that causes her to pause: "We have won Balmorra. Balmorra is free. Get used to saying it. No longer will a Balmorran child be born under Imperial flags, in Imperial chains."
"You… You quoted me." Her cheeks flush.
"Figured it would be a good way to end the speech."
She nods and hands him back the datapad. "Well now let's hear it." She props herself upright. "Tell it to me like how you'd tell your audience."
Zenith then begins his speech, and it's clear he has already memorized most of it. Yet it also becomes clear that he's never presented a formal speech to anyone before and how anxious it makes him. He's too fast, too choppy, and his tone istoo gruff.
She lifts a hand and asks him to pause.
"Take a few deep breaths." She waits for him to do so. "Now I want you to start over, but slowly say the words. If you speed up, I'm going to stop you and you're going to start over."
He doesn't contest the terms, and starts again. It takes him several tries to get through the first half at an even pace. After the seventh or eighth stop, she knows he's becoming more frustrated with himself. On the ninth, he groans and throws his hands up into the air.
"This is pointless, Gaerwen."
She frowns and shakes her head. "On the contrary you're getting better. The more comfortable you are saying these words, the easier it will be to slow down. You need to relax. Let people get to know you." She reaches forward and takes his hand, giving it a squeeze. She then meets his eyes and smiles. "Try it one more time." He looks down. Zenith grunts and appears skeptical with himself and the decision to choose this path rather than incapacitating Fiskan's speechwriter.
"There's nothing to know. This is me."
"Zenith," she drawls out the first syllable, "Please, trust me."
His eyes flash back to her own, and it's that same look as before. It makes her blood run hot and her pulse stronger. She tries to not think about him kissing her, and instead reminds herself to focus on the matter at hand. With a sigh, Zenith complies.
This time he nails it; she doesn't stop him because she knows he's got it. Slower, steadier words, and because of this growing success as the speech continues, his confidence shows.
"See?" She smiles brightly. "Tenth time's the charm. You did well, Zenith. I'm proud to see you following through with my advice. You should give yourself more credit. Your talents extend beyond the trigger."
It's charming to see him humble and modest, she decides, because it's rare. The battlefield makes him cocky, makes him proud because he knows he's good at getting the job done in whatever fashion.
They decide to pick it up the next free time where they're both available. He gathers himself and his datapad, and she tries to keep herself awake, just for a few more minutes.
"Are you staying here or going all the way back to the ship?"
"Planning on finding something here."
Gaerwen nods, stands up, and follows him to the door. He steps outside into the cooler, quiet hallway of the small cantina's guest lodgings. It's much cooler, and Gaerwen folds her arms in order to warm herself. The music is empty from the air, and only the peaceful sounds of a sleeping Tython welcome their ears.
Zenith thanks her again and bids her a good rest, quietly and without much emotion in his voice. His expression is blank, and his eyes are just as tired as her own. He turns to leave but Gaerwen stops him by gently touching his arm. His head turns.
"What?"
She freezes and her lashes flutter. Her blue eyes widen and she almost forgets her request. The table's have turned and she has stage fright. She lowers her gaze, but feels his eyes on her regardless.
"What is it Gaerwen?"
"I-I," she swallows hard. She raises her gaze and bites her lip. "I was wondering if you would," her voice softens, "I was wondering if you might kiss me again."
Zenith touches her chin and tilts her head so that once again they're meeting eye to eye. His calloused hand lightly moves over her cheek, rubbing her freckles, and trailing downwards to trace the line of her lips. They part slightly as she breathes in sharply, and she moves closer to him, craning her neck, and meeting him half-way. This time she knows to enjoy the strange, new sensations and not to be alarmed or surprised by them. He's warm against her, and as she gradually slides her hands over the leather of his coat in order to wrap her arms around his neck, she too becomes warm. For someone so rough and coarse behind a trigger and a scope, Zenith is gentle and perhaps timid in waters such as these. Her fingers draw lazy circles on the back of his neck and at the beginnings of his lekku, and it procures a low grunt from his lips.
It's mostly a chaste, simple kiss, but it's enough to make Gaerwen giddy. When they part, she remains close.
"You can stay, if you'd like. It's a large enough bed and I promise I don't snore."
Her blissful smile fades when he untangles himself from her arms and takes a step back. His face is stone and his eyes are difficult to read. Dread washes over her in a quick flash of panic. She fears that she's knowingly crossed a boundary and the situation needs to be rectified. She reaches out for him but he's already walking away.
"Look, Zenith, I'm sorry, that was—"
He stops, glances over his shoulder, and quietly says, "You need to get your sleep."
She watches him leave with his hands in his pockets, and it leaves her both confused and cold—she hopes that he might change his mind. Yet once he's turned the corner and out of sight, Gaerwen frowns and closes the door and crawls into bed in order to battle doubt and try to reconcile with her own conflicting emotions.
Knock, knock, knock.
Gaerwen swings her legs over the side of the bed, since she has not fallen asleep yet. Her body is completely exhausted, and she's frustrated with herself.
Just an hour of rest, is that so hard to ask for?
Her mind races as if she's had three cups of caf, and it isn't agreeing well with her. She yanks open the door and is about to say something likely rude and unwarranted to the likely innocent person on the other side of the frame. But words escape her when she sees that it's Zenith leaning against the door, equally as tired-looking as her.
"You came back," she whispers as her mouth gapes slightly. "Why did you come back?"
"Can't sleep."
Gaerwen narrows her brows and folds her arms across her chest. "And what makes you think that I've been awake all this time?"
"I've seen your expression on soldiers in the Resistance before." He shrugs. "You're angry with yourself for being unable to fall asleep."
"What makes you think that my offer's still available, huh?"
Zenith smirks. "Because you, Wendy, owe me a favor for letting you sleep in my bunk a few nights ago."
"Is that all you think of? Deals and owing people and making sure everything's equally squared out and that everyone's properly paid up for their wrongdoings?"
"It get's the job done one way or another."
Gaerwen sighs and opens the door to let him inside. He's no longer wearing his coat, but instead the cream colored shirt and the dark pants she gifted him.
"You're downright wicked, Zenith," she says as she falls backwards onto her bedsheets. "Depraved and heinous and plenty of other nasty words that are too vile for me to say, being the good and innocent little Jedi that I am, after all."
He sits down on the opposite side and chuckles. She pushes her loose hair away from her face, cranes her neck so that he can see her equally mischievous smirk.
"Should try living life a little more dangerously." He lays back in the bed parallel to her.
Gaerwen props herself up and leans over him. "I thought having a rebel like you in my life would be a decent enough risk."
They both then settle atop the sheets in the proper way, and she lays on her side and looks at him with heavier eyes. "Goodnight, Zenith. Sweet dreams."
He cracks open one eye and offers her a small, all-too-rare smile that fades just as quickly as it appears. "You too."
This time, they both fall asleep with greater ease.
