I hear your husband is Corellian.
The statement is accompanied by a half-smile on the face of her interlocutor; he is attempting to be clever and gently mocks himself for doing so. That night at dinner when she relates the exchange to said husband she wears a half-smile of her own. After all, everyone in the galaxy knows he is Corellian.
I have an estate – a home, really – on the southernmost continent. I am rarely there; my involvement in these types of affairs – a wave of his hand at the briefs before them – keeps me occupied elsewhere.
It is a generous offer: a span of days, however few or many they like, to vacation on his property in a cushion of absolute privacy. He wouldn't think of accepting payment; the offer is merely a token of his gratitude for the deal they are finishing as well as acknowledgement of the grinding effort she has made in service to the new political order.
Between bites of their neighborhood's finest Nabooan-fusion take-out: And are you going to take him up on it?
I'm not sure it would be appropriate, she says. Accepting such an offer risks creating an impression of impropriety, if not actual impropriety. Especially when it comes from a wealthy magnate such as himself.
A democratically minded wealthy magnate, her husband reminds her.
They chew in comfortable silence.
You know, he says, I've never been to that part of Corellia.
They step off his ship onto the private landing pad adjacent to the property. Property. Such a bland, broad word that conjures up anything from a matchbook-sized plot of dirt to an expanse stretching out further than the eye can see. In this particular case, gazing out past the house and outcropped structures, past the rolling hills and valleys that surround them, past the chalk cliffs to what, squint-eyed, is surely the sea, the latter definition is most appropriate.
They leave the ship; this concrete slab is perfectly suitable as its home for the next ten days. There were minor regulations to be finessed regarding the weight of the craft allowable on such a pad, but if there is one thing fellow Corellians appreciate it is rule-flouting, particularly when it comes to the size of one's ship.
Guards at the gate greet them politely; a skeleton crew lives here full-time to maintain the upkeep of the estate and extra security has been discreetly added for the duration of their visit. Neither of them had to inquire; it was simply announced that they would be thoroughly protected from unwanted visitors. Not that, she thinks as she looks around the landscape with nary a tree in sight, an intruder is likely to appear without warning.
The main house is absurdly large, resembling more a deserted hotel than a home. They gawk at the furnishings as they wander around the ground floor, a matronly doyenne clicking her heels ahead of them, gesturing through doorways and toward narrow alcoves. There are paintings and statuary and historical documents under lock and key, relics both from the area and collected on trips abroad. The sway of their tour guide's dress matches her stride, an efficient click-swish that fills the empty corridors.
We should do it in every one of these rooms, he whispers in her ear.
In the end they decamp to the guest house. A mere four bedrooms, it comes with an invisible housekeeper and a stocked kitchen and is far more hospitable than the monstrosity next door. The 'freshers are larger than their bedroom at home and off the back deck, arranged with a view of the cliffs, squats an oversized jacuzzi tub. Steam escapes its watery sheen and merges with the sea breeze as it wafts upward.
It doesn't take much convincing to abandon their suitcases as well as their clothes and lower themselves into the bubbles. It has been years since they had a real vacation and their hopes that the post-war furor would die down into some sort of manageable routine have yet to materialize.
They soak until their skin resembles wrinkly, rotten fruit and then don the robes left on the lounge chairs. She combs her fingers through her hair and he tackles her hopefully but she is hungry and tired and they will have plenty of time to acquaint themselves with the sturdy-looking furniture scattered throughout the rooms.
She hasn't slept this long at a stretch since those weeks they spent on his ship drifting through galactic wastelands. In the morning he rises, rustles through the preserver for juice and cream for their kaffe, unwraps pastries as large as his head and places them on a platter where they silently await her entrance. After one hour, and then most of another, he gives up and heads back to the bedroom.
Too tired to do anything after dinner except shuck off her robe, she had crawled into bed with a barely coherent mumble. Now she snores on her stomach under a sheet that creases and collapses into sharp-edged drapery. Land over land, he thinks, as he studies the peaks and gorges of fabric that overlay the softer curves of shoulders and hips and thighs.
He nudges the sheet off her ankle and replaces it with his lips. He kisses northward, exposing more skin as he goes. By the time he reaches her neck a smile upturns her mouth. He murmurs a few words, circles his fingers lower down and, letting his robe fall open, begins the ascent of that familiar summit.
Having slept and eaten and slept again, they finally venture out of the house onto the surrounding estate. There are no manicured gardens or lawn ornamentation here; the windswept landscape precludes frivolity of any kind. They hike over the acreage with the wind in their faces, shielded only when they pass other structures: neat cottages for the staff; storage sheds full of furniture and what look to be old farming tools; and then, tucked away down the slope, a green-roofed garage that holds four near-pristine swoop bikes.
He exclaims and examines the details; makes and models are rattled off as if his previous life was spent as a swoop-bike trader. She smiles, amused, lets him take his time comparing features and specifications.
We'll try this one first, he decides. It's the longest of the four and he swings a leg over the seat, settling into the leather cushion. He twists the handle-grip until the throttle kicks in and then, grin widening, jerks his chin at her.
She climbs on behind him, wraps her arms around his torso and kisses the back of his neck. He reverses through the open doors adjusting the mirror as he goes. Once out in the open, he veers them at an unnatural angle until the house and estate are behind them, then guns the accelerator.
He flies too fast for her to see where exactly they are going or how near or far they are from the ocean. Without helmet or goggles for protection the wind smacks her face, stinging her eyes to tears. She tries to prod him into slowing down but he either doesn't register her attempts or chooses to ignore them; in the end she gives up and leans her cheek against his back. Closing her eyes, she lets the speed carry her first into blankness and then into near hypnosis, a potentially dangerous state averted only by the grip of his shirt in her fists.
It is late spring on the continent but only an hour or two of true warmth can be stolen mid-afternoon. Mornings are misty and gray; nights are downright chilly. After dinner they turn on the fireplaces scattered throughout the guesthouse and watch the dancing shadows on the walls. Later they wander outside, flashlights in hand, straining to see any sign of life in the main house. Smears of yellow-orange flicker in the windows but all else is still. The wind never ceases but after dark it is gentler and they can make out bird sounds rising and falling on the air currents.
Best idea I've had yet, he whispers into her hair later that night.
Which one? she teases. She is loose and relaxed, a collection of depleted nerve-endings.
All of 'em, he answers. Moonlight streams in through the open curtains and sets their bodies aglow. He traces a star trail across her back with his fingertip. You can give me credit for them all.
After a lazy morning of reading and lounging, sun starts to peek around the clouds. Perfect riding weather, he announces, and leads the way to the swoop-bike shed. When they step inside they spot two helmets along with matching goggles hanging from hooks; he tosses her one of each and pulls on the others. This time they will ride separately.
She can't remember the last time she piloted in the open air. She is no stranger to speed but the thrill of being so close to land with all the surprises it brings – rocks and grass and low clumps of foliage rising up with sudden violence – make the ride an exercise in control and endurance. Switching gears to hover at a greater height, she slows the bike and focuses on the larger features of the landscape: the low hills that undulate to the horizon; a higher peak in the rapidly closing distance, playing peek-a-boo behind shorter versions of itself; and off to her left, the ever-present blue-gray ocean. Wavecaps dot the water near the shore; when she flies over the seam of cliff she spies a rocky beach at its base with a few hopeful glimpses of sand.
They stop to rest in a nook under a sharp-edged outcropping. Their adrenaline makes them nervy and before long their jackets are off and their shirts half-undone. Only the persistent dig of rock beneath them and the open vista around them stay their hands.
Let's go to the beach, he suggests. It's more private there.
It's more private at the house, she corrects him.
Back on the bikes she follows him to the cliff-edge and then, in a stomach-dropping descent, down to where the water meets the land. He shoots along that blurry merging of elements as their host's estate recedes to nothingness; then he steers out to sea. She follows, watching as the water below grows deeper and darker until, oppressed by a sensation she can't quite name, she turns back to shore.
They park the swoops and scramble over the rocks in the direction of a narrow spit of sand. After the long ride the up-and-down by foot is a tiring endeavor and she is relieved to stretch out in her clothes on the wet grittiness. The cliffs hover above them, benign yet ever present. She wonders what animals have made their homes in them in the expectation they would be left alone from intruders.
When they get back to the estate the other two swoop bikes are missing from the shed. We could have had company out there, she says. Aren't you glad we waited?
He slings his arm around her shoulders as they start for the house. They would have been privileged to witness it.
When they collect their bikes the following day, the other two are still missing. Piqued by the idea of mysterious riders who can be raced and, inevitably, defeated, he mounts his swoop and aims inland. She heads off on her own, content to explore further up the coast before looping back over the waving grass. Time drifts in place, undisturbed by the motions of planets and stars; the landscape is a still frame under a rolling sky.
During a circle around the estate there is no sign of the other swoops. She is about to give up and park her bike when a wisp of conversation reaches her on the breeze.
She finds him in a dip past the first ridge with three boys of various ages, maybe in the range of ten to thirteen. Two are dark-haired, brothers perhaps; the third has lighter streaks that flash in the sunlight. They have the lean, rangy look of those who spend much of their time outside. When she draws near, she sees all four of them have dismounted and the boys are squinting skeptically at the lesson on swoop-bike maintenance being offered them.
See here? This should never be more than a finger's width from the inverter coil. Otherwise when you accelerate you're gonna lose what alignment you started off with.
The boys nod vaguely.
He looks up as she approaches on foot. There you are.
Here I am, she says.
He introduces her, the word wife rolling easily off his tongue.
And who might you three be?
They are Callan and Liam and Benji and have no interest in a strange woman interrupting their swoop rides more than they already have been by this man intent on lecturing them on the intricacies of shock absorption.
He crouches back down and shows them the path from ignition to throttle and down to the stabilizers, emphasizing how each connection needs to stay well-oiled and snug for optimal performance.
Before they head back she gets a better look at the trio. Although thin and sporting ragged clothes, they appear well-cared for overall.
Do your parents live here?
The boys glance at each other, each waiting for one of the others to respond.
Ours does, the youngest finally says. His dark-haired brother nods. They take care of the house.
My pa does, says the third. Works on the grounds.
They gun their swoops, the older brother successfully jockeying for the single bike, and take off without another word. She watches and wonders what else they do to fill their time. Surely they must be in some sort of school.
Nice kids, he says. Could use a little more guidance on bike mechanics, though.
Well, thankfully you're here to provide it.
They decide to hike down to the ocean on foot. Down the slope from the main house a trail materializes and takes them along the cliff edge, a narrow footway hugging the chalky stone. There are no handrails or other safeguards and he follows behind her at arms' reach in case her foot slips. They descend carefully, first along one diagonal, then another, until they are greeted at the bottom by a salty spray on their faces.
They find the flattest, widest rock and eat a handful of provisions gathered back at the house. Before them the sea stretches to oblivion, a limitless ecosystem secure in its disregard of all other environs.
Nice to be just the two of us, he observes.
It's always the two of us, isn't it? she thinks out loud. Except for everyone else, of course.
Friends, colleagues, acquaintances, hangers-on; all move in and out of their lives on well-trod pathways. Unexpected situations still arise but the two of them are long accustomed to sudden changes of fortune and have learned to adapt as needed.
Those people don't count, he says. Maybe a few. The others I can take or leave.
Their marriage has been an exercise in accommodating themselves to each other: his instinct for self-directed solitude; her need to rebuild her depleted stores from the energy of others and from the exhilarating pace of her work. In the beginning there were frustrations and missteps but also a determination to soldier through the challenges and arrive at a place that is both an acceptance of their differences and an unconditional respect for their union above all else. Potential early threats, political and otherwise, never materialized, and now that they are settled they merely have to contend with the minor human drama every marriage faces.
He takes her hand and kisses her palm. It's nice here with just you and me, he says again.
The next morning the skies open up. There is no hope of riding in this rain or doing anything else outdoors. She occupies herself on the couch with a book, setting it down every few minutes to stare into the distance. The cliffs and the ocean are obscured through the torrential downpour; the main house is a shadowy blur, all distinctness swept away.
He is restless after a couple of hours confined to the rooms and decides to make a run for the swoop shed. Alone in the house, she putters around performing domestic chores of the type that only irritate her back at home. Later, though the rain shows no sign of letting up, she ventures out. An umbrella is discovered and she jogs in squeaky shoes until she reaches the garage. The door is cracked open and she spies him bent over a motorless frame. A second presence, the light-haired boy, is at once discernible.
You ever heard of the swoop relay that ends in Coronet City?
Nope.
Only one of its kind. For two weeks teams race a course around the clock. No fewer than five and no more than ten per team. Gotta pick strategically, for skill and endurance.
Did you ever compete?
Once. There is a pause, and a grunt, as a loose part is tightened to the frame.
So how'd you do?
We did okay as a team. But what I remember was that I insisted on flying the trickiest legs – the high-alt ones or the ones that went through a storm system or something. Wouldn't take no for an answer when one of my teammates wanted to do those routes. He wiped his forehead and chuckled. They must have really hated me.
I don't think they would hate you. They probably thought you were a good pilot.
We were all good pilots. I was just more arrogant about it. I liked the challenge of flying through turbulence, going as high up as I could while the bike was getting knocked around. I liked the strategy, all the decisions you had to make: do you skirt the outside of the storm and lose time, or do you fly straight through and hope for the best? I did both depending on my mood and the conditions. It was fun.
Did you ever crash?
'Course not. Another pause as he searches with his hand for a missing part. If I had, I probably wouldn't be here talking to you. There're rules in place to prevent the most dangerous situations, but you can't compete if you don't have the experience.
Did your team win?
Nah. Got fifth, I think. I was disappointed and shot off somewhere else, probably to another youthful mistake. He wipes his forehead. They still do the race, y'know. Don't think there's a junior league these days, but you could give it a try in a few years.
I'm not good enough. I've only flown mid-alt a couple of times.
That's a good start. You just gotta work your way a little higher each time you go out. It helps to fly with someone more experienced.
Can you show me?
I don't think I can. There is regret but also a firmness in his voice. But I can give you a couple of pointers on your low-alt flying.
Tomorrow? Can we go out tomorrow?
A pause. She wonders what he is turning over in his head. Maybe.
The rain leaves as quickly as it comes. The clouds scurry to the west, a stiff breeze shakes droplets from the grass, and color is born again.
He goes out riding with the boy. Benji. He promises they'll be back for a late lunch, suggests that maybe all three boys could eat with them at the house today. Give them a different setting from their homes or wherever it is they spend their time when they're not outside.
There is plenty of food in the preserver to feed three extra mouths. She pulls down plates and glasses from the cabinets along with a platter for the cheese and meat that will accompany the reheated entrée of vegetable tangine. She gives the dishes a quick rinse, absentmindedly sponging soap onto the ceramic before setting them aside to dry. At one point she glances down at the oval platter and is startled into remembrance by the color of the inky pattern. A light, piercing blue. Not powder blue, or pastel blue, but something clearer, sharper. Alderaanian blue. The blue of the palace spires against the backdrop of mountains when the sun hits at just the right angle.
Soapy water runs down the drain as the scrubbrush circles and circles. Not for the first time she wonders if any of the atoms that once comprised the bodies of her family, her people, have scattered throughout deep space, bonded with other elements, and made their way out of the vacuum graveyard as a new composition, destined for new life somewhere else.
Probably not, she thinks.
The four of them arrive at the house fresh from wild adventures. The boys look around warily and nudge each other at some silent joke between them. She recognizes it for the nervousness it is and smiles a greeting. She is startled to discover that she is nervous herself.
At the table everyone relaxes when the food is brought out. Conversation kicks off when Callan begins describing the various domesticated animals that claim the estate as their home and eventually winds around to the boys themselves.
Have you all lived here your entire lives?
The brothers shake their heads. We used to live in Kor Vella, says Liam. Moved here a couple of years ago. Our ma didn't like the city.
And what about you? Do you miss the city?
Liam shrugs. A little. Pa takes us back to visit our grandma sometimes.
We have friends in Terra Porta, Callan pipes up. She recognizes the name of the nearest hamlet that might generously qualify as a town.
The platter is passed around and the boys don't hesitate to scrape the remaining food onto their plates.
What about you, Benji? she asks.
I've lived here my whole life.
Benji's adopted, adds Callan.
When I was a baby, Benji nods. My pa was lonely.
Well, he must be very happy to have you, she says, smiling.
He is, Benji says solemnly. It's just the two of us, most of the time.
Do you ever get lonely? She regrets the question as soon as it comes out.
Not really, Benji answers. It's nice here and there's lots to do outside. He glances at Liam and Callan. I like having friends, though.
Don't we all, she agrees, quirking her eyebrow at her husband.
One evening they are curled up on the couch in front of a movie when there is a knock at the door. They open it to find Benji and Liam, out of breath and panicky. They both start talking at once.
Callan flew off – I don't know where – he wouldn't tell us – he knows to come back before dark – sometimes we go out together but he's the one who always wants to go home, the one who gets scared – I don't know what he was thinking, we're supposed to be back any minute –
Whoa, whoa, whoa. You don't know where he is?
The boys shake their heads.
Haven't you told your parents?
Liam shakes his head again. I want to find him before they realize he's not back. They'll be mad and blame me.
She sighs and looks at her husband. Let's do a quick check, she proposes. I'm sure he hasn't gone far.
We had a fight, Liam admits guiltily. I called him a little kid. I didn't really mean it, though.
They jog to the swoop shed for the bikes. We'll head inland, her husband says. He motions Benji to climb on behind him. You go up the coast. He'll probably hear us before he sees the headlamps. Stop frequently and keep your ears open.
She had planned to do just that but nods anyway. Waving Liam onto her bike, she revs the engine and lifts off.
As they fly she tries to control the worry festering inside her; after all, it is hard to imagine anyone, even a child, finding themselves in a truly dangerous situation in this place. The ambient protection of the estate, the lack of predators, the security presence – all conspire to form a protective shell around the living inhabitants. But her nerves increase nonetheless until, on their fifth pause-and-call, a small voice answers back.
They touch down near the spot of the voice. Liam is angry and relieved and after an initial hesitation runs over and bear hugs his brother. You scared me, he accuses.
Everything okay, Callan? she asks, striding over.
He nods, shame-faced. Beside him, Liam turns protective. He just needed some time to cool down.
Callan glares at his brother. I'm not a little kid, okay?
Liam sighs. Fine, you're not a little kid.
I didn't mean to go so far out, Callan explains. I was going to fly back but it got dark and I couldn't see very well and I couldn't decide what to do and –. His voice trails off.
Let's head back before your parents start to worry, she says. You two lead the way on that bike – nodding at the swoop that Callan came out on. I'll follow.
The boys perk up a little and climb on Callan's swoop. She follows closely at first and then hangs back to give them the space she instinctively feels they need. In the gray of her headlamps, the two brothers are a single unit, hunched over the bike's controls, Liam's arms around his brother's, spurred to conciliation as they fly as one.
Back at the estate they wait for Benji and her husband to return. The minutes drag on and the prospect of a second rescue mission presents itself. But that would be impossible, with the house all lit up and the bike's navigation system engaged and the pilot who prides himself on never getting lost. Nevertheless, she grows uncomfortable, marooned outside with the brothers who she can tell are exchanging anxious glances with each other.
Then: pricks of light come into view followed by the sound of the swoop. She can make out Benji in front, leaning intently into the wind, gripping the handlebars as he steers them home. As they draw nearer, she sees the pilot-now-passenger behind him delivering instructions or advice or perhaps rattling off fuel efficiency statistics of these particular models.
By now other adults have found their way to the impromptu gathering. She can guess at Liam and Callan's parents, stumbling down the hill from their house, eyes on their boys, calling out what happened? and everything okay here? She nods, fills them in briefly, skirts over Callan's transgressions while the boys stare at their feet.
Benji? Benji?
Another figure emerges from the gloom.
I'm here, Pa. Benji slips next to her, looks up at her briefly, and then moves toward his father. Everything's fine.
You shouldn't be out so late. We've discussed this before. The new arrival turns to the visitors, awkward now in their status of vacationing interlopers flitting in and out of this family drama. Thank you. It was good of you to bring him back.
He wasn't lost, she clarifies. Her husband has joined but stays mute. He was very helpful.
He is, most of the time. This is said affectionately. Time to go home, Benji. Bedtime for you.
All right, Pa. Father and son start toward their home before Benji half-turns and gives them a wave. Good night. See you again, maybe.
Good night.
Why do you think we were offered this trip?
The question catches her off guard. In the dark she opens one eye, thinks for a moment.
Realistically, it was probably an attempt to garner favor with a delegate of the new government. She rubs the sleep from her eyes, marginally more awake now. Little does he know I lost my sense of misplaced obligation years ago.
The reaction to her joke never arrives. He gazes at the ceiling, thinking.
What if –
What if what?
Benji's adopted. What if I'm his – if he's my – a frustrated, confused huff of breath – and we were asked here under the guise of letting me know.
She is stunned, unable to speak at first. The thought has never crossed her mind, has never presented itself as a possibility.
You think you might be his real father?
Yes. Could be. He shifts beside her, uncomfortable now. He told me his real father was a pilot. That's what he said, at least. I'm not sure how he knows that.
And his mother?
Just that his pa said she was young and not in a position to raise him.
She tries to keep her tone as gentle as possible. Are you sure you're not being a little paranoid?
Maybe. He is quiet. I can't tell.
Do the math, she suggests. Is it even a possibility?
It's possible, he concedes. He has already considered this. But that long ago – I don't remember the specifics of that time.
If true, it has the potential to knock their lives off course. And yet deep down, whether by intuition or force-sense or a gnarled dread-hope, she thinks it cannot be true. She can't tell if he wants it to be true, if he is drawn by that same dread-hope that may yet unfurl into something else: upheaval, confusion, acceptance, and eventually a kind of peace that, she imagines, comes when knowing you have created something that will both bind you and release you to your purest form.
We could do a test, he proposes, and she is jolted back to reality.
Do you think Benji would agree to that? Or his father?
Do they have to know?
Yes, she says firmly. You can't do something like that without their consent.
I suppose not, he sighs. He rubs his face tiredly, the familiar gesture that never fails to prick something deep within her. I don't know what to think. Or not think. He looks at her regretfully. I think I need some time.
She knows him as she has known no one else, but she cannot enter his mind, cannot fully understand the simultaneous longing and fear he inhabits.
He climbs out of bed and she hears him in the main room rustling around for a flashlight. Seconds later the front door closes with a soft click. She shuts her eyes and tries to imagine the circumstances that would have led to something like what he suspects, all the twists and turns of fate that would end up with them on this remote outpost riding a swoop bike with a child of his blood.
It is difficult to imagine.
She awakes and her immediate sensation is surprise that she fell asleep in the first place. The bedside chrono reveals several hours have passed. The mattress dips and she feels his presence before he wraps himself chest-to-back around her. His body language is calm, or maybe resigned.
You okay?
His chin brushes her head in a nod. Yeah. Went out walking for a while.
Patience has never been her strong suit, especially at three in the morning. And?
He breathes deeply into her hair. I'm not sure it's what I initially thought. The more I think about it, the crazier it seems. Even saying it out loud sounds crazy.
It's not crazy.
It's a little crazy.
You had a connection with him. A bond. That's normal, and good.
Maybe. He is quiet for a moment. It's not because I feel like something's missing, y'know? It's not – I don't want you to think that.
I don't.
Good. He sounds relieved. That's what made it strange – it seemed to come out of nowhere, created by nothing in particular, which made me think there must be some truth to it.
She takes a minute to absorb that. You know, we can do that if we want. Have a child.
I know.
They leave it at that, for now. The topic is a benign presence in their lives, like those chalkstone cliffs lining the sea, waiting for further definition before moving into the realm of reality.
She rotates onto her back, caresses his cheek. I love you.
He kisses her forehead. I love you too. He draws back, his smile warm, his eyes crinkling. Think it's about time to leave this luxury retreat and head back home?
She nods. I think I'm ready.
He nudges her over onto her side and wraps himself around her again. Good. Me too.
A/N: I'm not sure what to say about this piece. It was one of those efforts that over the course of the writing meandered from idea to idea, subject to subject, so much so that I started to doubt it was actually an H/L story at all. The inspiration for the setting and tone came from a book I read, but then the plot took me in a direction I didn't want to go. I kept writing anyway and for the longest time couldn't figure out what the piece was really about. Then I realized (or decided) that it was about marriage or, more broadly, a bond between two people that necessarily excludes others but also, on occasion, lets in a new perspective which can either weaken or strengthen the union. All of this is to say I'm grateful to anyone who reads it – or reads any of my stories – as most of the time they feel like puzzles I'm trying to solve while in conversation with myself. So: thank you for reading and to those who leave kudos and comments – they are very much appreciated.