Tython. The world of calm. Of ancient trees. Of sacred leaves whispering in the wind. And now… home to a stranger with ocean eyes and a hunger for knowledge sharper than any blade.
Illaoï had devoured the Jedi Archives like a castaway finding water. Ancient scrolls, dusty holopads, forgotten fragments — she read everything. Every single thing. The archivist, wary at first, had quickly surrendered to this quiet storm of curiosity. Within days, Illaoï went from "monitored presence" to "officially protected nerd-in-residence."
Her memory was flawless. She retained every line, every word, every marginal note. Not for pride. For understanding. The Force. The Empire. The Jedi. The Sith. Symbolic language. Art. History. She wrote constantly — her journal now a weighty tome, bursting with sketches, stray poems, musical notations, and diagrams.
She wandered through the nearby villages, at first sparking unease — being trailed by a Sith and three armed Jedi isn't exactly reassuring. But a few gentle words, a healing touch, a melody on a makeshift flute… and the hearts began to thaw.
The Twi'leks gave her gifts — fabrics, rare plants, polished wood. She bartered, crafted: a flute, a miniature harp, a delicate ehru. She healed. She listened.
Her outings? Frequent. And unintentionally comedic. Jedi sent to "keep an eye" on her often ended up chasing shadows. Scourge? He watched with arms folded and a smirk that said everything.
"They'll learn," he'd grunt. "You don't keep a bird from flying by chaining it. You just teach it new tricks."
She always came back. That was enough.
Aboard the ship, she found her rhythm. Hours spent alone, drawing, composing. T7 became her shadow, recording her music like a devoted pup. Doc pined. Kira gushed. Rusk respected her organizational prowess to the point of genuine awe.
Loewen… was deeply troubled. But kept it buried under Jedi calm.
And Scourge? He didn't understand. Or refused to. Sensations flickered back into him. Remnants of something. Ghosts of emotions. They irritated him deeply.
When the date of departure loomed, Illaoï proposed something insane:
"A farewell feast. In the Twi'lek village. To thank those who welcomed me… even in doubt."
And perhaps, she whispered to Loewen, "to remember what it means to live."
The Order's Masters were invited. The whole village rose to the occasion. Tables were set. Lanterns strung between trees. Children laughed. Songs floated through the air. Illaoï cooked.
And it was divine.
Under her surprisingly military-level coordination, the feast was flawless. The precision of plating, the cooking cadence — even Rusk was struck speechless, nodding in solemn approval.
The food? Otherworldly. Spiced, subtle, rich. Far from ship rations. Doc forgot to flirt for a whole ten minutes. A miracle.
"We're keeping her," he mumbled between bites. "Marry her. Crown her. Just don't let her go."
After the music and laughter, Illaoï rose.
"I'd like to share something. A memory. An image. A little piece of who I was… elsewhere."
She walked to the pond. Twi'lek musicians struck up a soft, tribal rhythm. The water trembled.
And she stepped onto it.
Her feet kissed the surface without breaking it. She walked like glass beneath her. Water rose in spirals around her, swirling with the beat. Mist spiraled. Lantern light danced through it like stars.
Then — sculptures.
Frozen roses bloomed beneath her feet. A towering tree of ice spread crystalline branches. A wave, curled in frozen time, surrounded her — a fragment of another sea, from another world.
She didn't speak. But her whole being sang.
And in that silence, she gave them a piece of her soul. A truth none would know, but all would feel.
This wasn't a performance. It was a gift.
And in the back of the crowd, arms crossed, stood a Sith.
Scourge said nothing.
But for the first time in centuries… even he saw beauty.
And that, perhaps, was miracle enough.