I remember those years. Cassian thinks I don't, but I do.

I remember the day he picked up the rocks and broken bottles and hurled them from the rooftops at Imperial soldiers on the streets.

I remember when he told me about it. I watched the fire grow in his eyes. I watched the birth of the rebel that day.

He was six years old.

I remember the day our father died, far away in a protest on Carida. Just one of many. Just a number. He told me Papa had gone away for a while to fight. He told me that for a long time.

I watched him turn bitter that day. I watched the birth of the soldier, the slow burial of the boy deep, deep down. He grew so far away from me. Sometimes, we were light years apart in the same room.

"Ben," he would say, "why can't you just take care of yourself? Why do I have to do everything for you, all the time?"

Because Papa has gone away, I wanted to say. I never did. I would tell myself that the boy was almost gone, and that the soldier didn't remember what it was like to be helpless.

He was seven years old.

I remember the day he first killed someone. That day I remember best of all. It was the last day I saw the boy. It was a Benduday.

After that day, I knew only the soldier. It was eons until he allowed me to carry my own blaster. He did not want me to know a burden like his.

He was eight years old.


18 BBY

BAKURA

"Cassian."

The voice was small and high, like a little bell. It was a voice meant for laughing and pretending and screaming with joy. Instead, it had learned hushed and somber tones. The boy turned around from where he leaned against the counter. His dark hair was wild, his dark eyes wilder. He had just run a long way home from the shuttle bay, the path taking him straight through the very same field and hollow tree where he had first found her. Where he had heard the war begin. He was covered in sweat and grime from his long day away. As he turned around, he thought he must have looked utterly barbaric. He thought, surely, she would be able to tell what he had done.

He looked at the little girl to whom the voice belonged, no more than five. She hugged the edge of the doorway, as if too scared to come into the kitchen. But the boy knew this little girl, and she never got scared.

"Is Papa coming home soon?"

Even in such early years, her Basic was accented like his. His father had taught them both Festian first, but insisted that they always speak Basic, even when they were alone. Better that their roots could not be traced just by the language they spoke. His father had always thought of such things.

She wore one of his tunics. Since his death on Carida, they mostly just collected dust in a drawer anyway. The cream-colored tunic was so big for her that the bottom piled in folds on the floor. She often tripped and fell when she wore it. She often hit the ground hard, bruised her knees, skinned her palms, or sometimes failed to catch herself altogether and got up with a busted lip or a bloody nose. But she never cried. Not this little girl. Not since the day he had found her. Her hair fell in ringlets around her pale face, like a tawny halo. Her hazel eyes were always flung wide, eager to take in the world. She hardly missed anything. Like a watchful baby bird.

The rebels that often came to check in on them called her their "little convor". Their little Benduday. They had arranged a schedule of periodic visits after his father had been killed, to ensure that they were supplied with at least a little food. In turn, the boy was learning from them, carrying out the parts of missions they couldn't. He snuck around mostly, causing diversions, setting charges, stealing bits and pieces. They made him carry a blaster at all times, made sure he knew how to use it. Just in case. But he had never needed it, never pointed it at a living being.

Until today.

"No," he answered finally, trying to keep his voice even. He turned back around and removed a bottle of Bantha milk from the conservator. He took a glass from the cabinet and filled it to the brim with the blue stuff. He tried to lift it, but his hand began to tremble. It was the hand that had pulled the trigger.

"When will Papa come home?"

A growing sense of dread began to creep up the boy's spine. What was she doing here? he thought suddenly. Why had he picked her up that day in the field? He couldn't protect her from the universe. She didn't belong in a war, and yet she would grow up knowing nothing else. Because of him. Because he had chosen for her that day.

"He's never coming home, Ben."

"Why not—"

The glass fell and exploded at his feet, dashing blue milk across the tiles.

"BECAUSE HE'S DEAD!" He screamed it at the top of his voice. He didn't care who heard him. The child didn't flinch, didn't even blink her big hazel eyes. Her face was a small, perfect mask. Like a porcelain doll. The next breath of air he drew set his lungs on fire. Every part of his body went terribly numb. He sank to the floor, hands over his face.

"Ben…" The sobs wrenched through his body, threatening to tear him apart from inside. "I-I killed s-someone…I p-pulled…the trigger, I…I didn't…I didn't h-have a choice…" The silence seemed to drag on forever, only punctuated by the sound of a fractured soul. What would she think of him? She must be so afraid of me now.

He felt a tiny hand tug at his fingers.

"Cassian," the little bell-voice whispered. He slowly peeled his hands away from his face. They were covered in dirt and snot and saltwater. She perched in front of him, tunic stained blue. She was looking deep into his bloodshot eyes.

"There is always a choice, Cassian. That's what Papa used to say, and we must say it too."

She smiled, wiped his tears away with her sleeve, though more soon replaced them.

"There is always hope."

He smiled and sniffed.

"Bucketbrain," she whispered.

"Stinkweed," he murmured back.

She encircled his neck with her little arms, hugged him like only a child can. He gathered her to him and held her there for a long time, on the kitchen floor, soaked in Bantha milk. And he remembered why he had picked her up that Benduday long ago.

"I will never let you go," he told her.


Just a quick check to make sure we have our years straight. Since Cassian found Ben as a baby in 23 BBY, we can assume she was born in that year as well. So, in 18 BBY, she was five years old; in the chapter that took place in 3 BBY, she was 20; and in the "present" chapters (0 BBY) she is 23.

Hope you all enjoyed and see you next time!