Life In Themes of A to Z [COMPLETE]

[Wyl Staedtler]

Authors Note:

This series of snippets follows Oa Umi'u, Wyl Staedtler's mother, through different events, emotions, et cetera in her life*. It is essentially a bunch of snapshots which are not taken in any particular chronological order.

*(See: What happens when one is bored on the bus.)

[Wyl Staedtler]

Anger

There had always been a subtle air of arrogance surrounding him. Even Oa, a civilian, could sense it in the tone of his voice, could see it in the proud draw of his shoulders. At the time it had seemed inconsequential; a mere fault in what was an otherwise prodigious man.

Of course, one day’s prodigy was the next day’s executioner. That lesson had come hard.

For the first few weeks there had been a raw disbelief. Anakin Skywalker had done all this? Anakin Skywalker? The boy just a couple of years ahead of her class in the Temple? The young man who had never quite blended with the crowd, who always hung back ever-so-slightly as if still bound by teenage awkwardness? She remembered tripping once in the bustle between Galactic Cartography and Astrophysics, nearly falling face-first in the wide stone corridor. Someone had grabbed her elbow and gently—yet there had been some coarseness in the gesture—stopped her plummet. When she’d collected herself she looked up to see Padawan Skywalker, who smiled shyly before disappearing into a classroom.

She even vaguely remembered her best friend having a crush on the former Tatooine slave boy.

And this was the one responsible for the incomprehensible snuffing out of so many lives?

This one boy held so many deaths in his pockets it was almost absurd: Cin Drallig, A’sharad Hett, Serra Keto, Whie Malreaux, Jocasta Nu, Bultar Swan, Shaak Ti, Bene—and those were just a few in the Temple alone! There was Mace Windu, and Aiden Bok, Plo Koon, Ki-Adi-Mundi, Aayla Secura… the list went on and on and on and on. Masters, Knights, Padawans, Younglings… oh, the Younglings.

It was so much to drown in.

For a short while after it, no word had come. Everything was chaotic, the shock and suddenness of the attack rippling out over the galaxy. In those few silent weeks Oa wondered if the others who had escaped—had they escaped? Were they still alive?—knew what was going on. The name Anakin Skywalker wasn’t even in the shadow of a whisper.

Then one day the HoloNet resurrected him, though few knew. Darth Vader. What a horrible sound. With some sort of morbid fascination Oa watched the ‘Net intently; there wasn’t even a glimmer of reflection in the inky black helmet of the Jedi who had once been. Her mind reeled, trying to put it into some sort of logical sequence. How? Why? Eventually she gave up trying to explain it.

Then the anger came. A bitter, hard sort of anger that started with a subtle burning underneath the skin and finally grew to settle in her chest in a hard-packed molten ball that threatened to tear her apart. Sometimes she screamed.

Understanding his rage sickened her.

[Wyl Staedtler]

Bubble Baths

“Oh my stars…” Oa groaned loudly and gripped the sides of the creamy porcelain tub with soapy hands. Little tufts of steam rolled up lazily from the searing water, flushing her cheeks a pretty pink. Oa closed her eyes and sunk deeper into the jasmine-scented bubbles.

If there was anything better than a bubble bath and a glass of wine, she couldn’t name it.

On the ‘fresher floor lay a datapad she’d been meaning to read for months, always giving it a promise as she went about her busy schedule. That had been the plan, to unwind with a bath, some booze, a little light reading; but now as her sore muscles relaxed and her eyelids grew heavy the novella lost its appeal.

Oa unpinned her limp hair, letting it fall in tangles through the fluffy white mounds like thick vines. With a contented sigh the woman breathed in the soothing scent deeply, savoring the peaceful minutes as much as she could. It was all too easy to think about what was out there beyond the four tiled walls of the refresher.

She fell asleep. It was real sleep too, the kind too deep for dreams (or nightmares). For a long time the only sound in the small room was an even breathing and the occasional drip-drip from the faucet.

By the time she woke up, thick with slumber, the water had grown cold and the bubbles had begun to sink into pathetic little puddles of white foam. Blinking blearily Oa held a hand up and studied her wrinkled fingers; she must have been very far gone indeed, enough at least for her to become so waterlogged that she resembled a Dressellian.

With a sigh the woman lifted the stopper to let the water out. A miniature whirlpool formed at the South end of the tub. Somewhat disheartened, Oa stepped out and wrapped herself in a thick wooly towel. She stood before the low counter, staring into the fogged up mirror as she brushed her tangled hair out. The woman took her time, reluctant to open the ‘fresher door and end the tranquil lull that had taken shape.

But finally her hair had been brushed as much as it could be, the tub edges had been wiped free of excess water and the mirror cleared of it’s condensation. Oa reluctantly hit the panel and the door whooshed open, bringing with it a blast of cool air. Her shoulders drooped as she lingered a few moments more before briskly walking out and down the hall to get dressed.

Bubble baths couldn’t last forever.

[Wyl Staedtler]

Choice

A conversation:

“You have to stop.”

“Why? Because I’ve got a baby now?”

“Yes! Yes! That’s exactly why!”

“My baby doesn’t change the galaxy. The Jedi still need allies and I can still help them.”

“The Jedi aren’t dependant on you! Your son is!”

“Then what good is it to let him grow up in a galaxy like this? What will he learn, to be cruel, to despise people because they’re different, to sneak around and lie and cheat and murder? No, I’ll help cure the disease not the symptoms. We’ve enough of morphine.”

“If you do he won’t get a chance to grow up! Do you honestly think that what you’re doing is going to change anything? So what if you stuff a few Force users in your closet, get them off-planet! In the end the Empire is still going to be here. What will you do when that child is lying dead in the street because of your crusade?”

“I’ll try harder!”

“You’ll kill him!”

“That’s a choice I’ve made! I can’t just walk away from it! There are higher stakes at risk here!”

“… I feel sorry for that boy. You’d sacrifice his life for a cause.”

“And I’d give mine just as readily.”

“What are you going to tell him when he asks you why? How are you going to explain to him that you valued the lives of a scattered organization more than your own flesh and blood?”

“I’ll only ask him to understand that my intentions were good.”

“Yes, well, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

[Wyl Staedtler]

Discipline

Thump. For the fourth time in as many minutes Oa looked up from her writing to see her son’s chair bang into the kitchen counter. She kept her eyes on him, and sensing her gaze the boy looked up sullenly. He glared at her for a minute and then looked down, crossing his arms over his chest. He threw himself back in his chair. Thump. “You’d better cut that out.” Oa warned.

Wyl looked up sharply. “What?”

“You know what.” She replied, going back to the letter at hand. Her shoulders tensed as she waited for the reply she knew was coming; on the rare occasions that her son was grumpy there were always smart alecky retorts for everything she said. Everyone knew about the Terrible Twos, but no one had bothered to mention the Foul Fives.

“Geez, Mom.” Wyl scoffed. “I wasn’t even doing anything.”

This earned the boy a sharp look. “Watch it.”

He didn’t look intimidated. In fact, he looked rather smug. Oa bit back a sigh and reminded herself that this was just a stage and, like all things, this too would pass.

Though she didn’t know how much more she could take.

“Why can’t I go outside and play with Yen and Nivan?” Wyl whined, leaning across the table. The sounds of the neighborhood hoodlums playing wall ball could be heard faintly from outside. Oa shook her head. It was almost three o’clock now and they’d had the same conversation every five minutes since noon.

“Wyl, I told you. We’ve got a lot to do inside today.”

“But I want to go outside!” The little boy looked at her so imploringly that Oa felt herself softening. She knew how hard it must be for the child to be so pent up on a sunny day like today, but there really was a lot that needed doing and she didn’t have the time or the energy to keep half an eye on the games outside.

“I know you do Little One.” She sympathized. “But today is not a good day. Maybe tomorrow.” Wyl slapped a little hand on the table and slid back into his seat with a firm plop, throwing his head back with a snap.

“I want to go outside!” he yelled. Oa put down her pen and looked at him with the cautioning glower that only a mother could give.

“You,” she said very quietly, “May not talk to me like that.” The boy looked down at his hands, suddenly very interested in his chewed nails. “Look at me.” Oa ordered crisply. Wyl met her gaze uncertainly.

“You may not shout in this house, and you will not be rude. I understand that you want to go outside and that it’s hard for a young boy with so much energy to be stay in. That doesn’t mean that you can shout and stomp around like a rancor. When I say no, I mean no Wyl; you’re allowed to disagree but you will be polite about it and you will obey me when I say that’s the end of it. Understood?”

The boy looked very small indeed. He nodded his head, chastised, and fiddled with a loose button on his shirt. Oa tapped the table lightly. “I think you owe me an apology.”

“… Sorry Mom.”

“Thank you.” She picked up her pen again. It was quiet for about three minutes.

“… you’re being really mean, though.”

“Excuse me?” There was that look again. “Did you have something to say?” Wyl seemed to consider it for a moment, hesitating with his mouth open as if he were deciding between which two sentences to mumble. Finally he shook his head no. Oa smiled.

“I didn’t think so.”

[Wyl Staedtler]

Ending the Race

Perhaps there had been a moment, in the preceding days or in the split second beforehand, when she knew. Mortality is such a fickle woman, and those who play with her know that eventually she will win. It is only a matter of time.

When the blaster bolt hit her chest she did not feel pain, or surprise; there was time for neither. In the seconds before she died, Oa Umi’u felt only an unbearable sense of regret… for what, was never realized, because immediately afterward she fell backwards into her apartment and expired. It was then, some kind of mercy which allowed her to leave the world so quickly—even before her mind could question her emotions and giving her as much peace in death as she could have hoped for.

Years earlier she had wondered when her fortune would disappear. It was only common sense and a mathematical certainty that one day her little operation would come under siege. Hiding Jedi on Coruscant was ludicrous, brilliant, stupid, and yet so spectacular that it had been impossible to stop. Oa had promised herself that she would spend the rest of her life helping the surviving members of a tattered time press on.

So when the time came there was only one tragedy. If those precious seconds had been just a little longer—three or four maybe—she would have discovered something else amongst the lamentation: an unquestionable sense of utter satisfaction.

[Wyl Staedtler]

First Times

“It looks like Gundark brains.” Oa Umi’u wrinkled her nose at the blue vegetable dish on the stove. The six year old had come back to her quarters, where she lived with her father, after classes only to be welcomed by the cataclysmic noise that was the Conservatory Epic Orchestra. It meant either one of two things: her father was being sent on a mission, or he was cooking. Both brought with them potential danger.

At first the precocious girl had felt relief when she crept into the kitchenette and found her father hovering over an army of dishes, whistling along enthusiastically to Symphony 12 in A Minor. Kardo Staedtler’s performance in a kitchen was worthy of a Holo broadcast. Cued by the orchestra the Jedi Knight would spin away from a boiling pot of tantraak rice and ouzo leeks to gently glaze a xermaaue (a savory meat loaf which never tasted the same twice and always came out blackened on the outside), before swooping to stir whatever crazy sauce he was concocting for the evening. By the end of it all he would emerge, sweaty and exausted, with a few suspicious dishes that he always made Oa try first.

When her father hoisted her up onto the counter so she could look into the immense stew-pot, all the relief disappeared. Whatever vegetable he had decided to bake was now collapsing inward in a defeated manner, tufts of steam erupting from either end as it deflated. Juices from the blue… thing, were beginning to coagulate around it in a thick paste which Kardo poked at with a fork. Oa grimaced again. “We aren’t really going to eat that, are we Dad?”

“Of course we are! It’s good to try new foods!” Kardo beamed, although he looked a little worried. Father and daughter bent over the pot together and studied the sad little supper. Oa put a small hand on her fathers arm.

“Maybe we could eat in the cafeteria tonight… you could, um, save this for later, maybe.” There was hope in her voice. She couldn’t remember her father ever not eating something he’d cooked no matter how awful it was, but maybe this time…

“Nonsense.” Or not. “This will be just fine, you’ll see, all it needs is some salt.” Kardo brushed his dark hair out of his eyes and grabbed the salt shaker, jostling it liberally over the blue corpse. The salt stuck to the pasty liquid on the bottom of the pot, and bounced off the hardened skin of the vegetable. Momentarily defeated, Kardo frowned. Then, eyes brightening, he grabbed a fork and a knife and began to saw at the dish. After several moments of gritted teeth working the Knight had managed to saw off a small piece. He stabbed it with the fork and offered it to Oa, who pursed her lips and shook her head vehemently.

“Coward.” Kardo said before popping the piece into his mouth. He chewed once, twice, three times. Oa watched with wide eyes. Her father was trying very hard not to grimace. In fact, he was trying so hard that his face was turning a rather pretty shade of green and his eyes were tearing up. Undeterred Kardo chewed on. He made a little choking noise and almost gagged, but with great control and a hand clamped over his mouth, he managed to swallow the awful bite. The Jedi shuddered and briskly got a cup of water, draining the glass in one gulp. “See, not so bad.” Kardo smiled at Oa.

She raised an eyebrow. “Want s’more Dad?”

“No! Uh,” Kardo lifted his daughter off the counter and set her on the floor, then drew another glass of water. “I just remembered, my dear, that I had a matter of great importance to discuss with Master Yoda.” The Knight began to bustle Oa out the door of their quarters and down the hall towards the dining hall. Grinning, Oa looked up at her father as he led her through the Temple.

“So we’re eatin’ at the cafeteria then Dad?”

Kardo blushed. “Well… there’s a first time for everything.”

[Wyl Staedtler]

Ghost Stories

I

Under the simulated night sky in the Temple gardens a trio of comrades lay beside one another, each wrapped snugly in their identical grey blankets that were standard issue with the Jedi. Despite the late hour the three were wide awake and whispers of giggled conversation flitted around the variety of flora like a swarm of Belvarian Fireknats.

Celen Orms, Megkan Trallalli and Oa Umi’u had gotten special permission from their masters and father, respectively, to stage this little camp out. The eleven-year-olds had actually begged for months and only after promising to stay out of mischief and volunteer to help with the upcoming crèche Midwinter Festival production had they managed to arrange it.

The night had gone smoothly so far, with the children eating dinner with the other padawans before meeting promptly at seven to “strike out on their own”, as a rather un-funny Master Gallia had commented with a smile. Now, as they began to unwind after countless games of speeder tag, their minds began to dwell on just how dark the gardens were at this hour.

“Hey guys.” In the dim light Oa and Mekgan could just make out the shrouded humanoid boy. His spiked hair stood up in unruly tufts, making his silhouette look alien. “Have you ever heard the story of Master Leis’li-Lin?”

“Ooh, a story!” Mekgan ignored his question and rolled over onto her side so that she was facing Celen. The little Mon Cal apprentice was the oldest of them all by four months, but looked to be about nine so small was her frame. In the daytime her skin shone such a gentle shade of salmon that it made her seem infinitely fragile. She had the look about her that made others want to feed her. Padawan Trallalli took great joy in relating over and over how once Master Yoda had insisted she follow him to his quarters for a bowl of stew.

Oa wasn’t as thrilled. She jabbed at the dark blob that was Celen’s knee. “I hope this doesn’t end with a big speeder chase like your last story.”

“Hey that was a good story!” Celen protested. It was too dark to tell but the boy was almost positive that the girls were rolling their eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest, hurt. He thought flaming speeder chases and gigantic explosions were a great way to end a tale.

“Oh go on, tell us about Master Leis-lin-lin. I’m sorry. Oa said.

“Leis’li-Lin.” Celen corrected. “And I don’t think you really even want to hear it.” Both girls groaned, and then Mekgans soft voice said,

“C’mon Celen, don’t blame me ‘cause Oa doesn’t like your stories. I want to hear. Please?”

“… well, okay, but only because of you Mek.” Oa sighed as the blob that was Celen’s head turned towards her with what was presumable a smirk. “An’way, Master Leis’li-Lin was a great Jedi Master, about a thousand years ago or something. Just about everyone trusted him and respected him, and over the years he raised three padawans who went on to become cool Knights. Well, one day he secretly turned to the Dark Side and—”

“I don’t like this story!” Mekgan threw her blanket over her head. Oa reached underneath and grabbed her hand, squeezing it comfortingly. Anything with even the smallest potential to be the least bit frightening scared the little one; she’d spent the whole two hours of Killer Zombie Mutant Biteflies From Hell VIII hiding behind the sleepcouch and screaming. Celen sighed and continued.

“Anyway, then everyone found out and all the other Masters chased him into this very garden.” Oa’s eyes widened. Mekgan was breathing heavily, but listening. “He killed one of the new Knights, and they battled him for like, four hours before they finally killed him. Only with his dying breath, Master Leis’li-Lin swore to haunt the Jedi gardens for all eternity.” Celen finished with a proud grin and a bright sparkle in his eyes. There was complete silence. Finally Oa whispered uncertainly,

“Liar.”

The boy scoffed. “I’m not lying! Ask anyone about it, they’ll tell you the same thing!”

“Yeah right, Celen. You probably just told that story to scare me an’ Mek.”

“Did not!”

“Oh sure.”

“I didn’t!”

Crack!

The two squabbling children were under their blankets in a flash. For an unending minute they breathed heavily, listening. “What was that?” Celen finally whispered. Mekgan began to wail.

“Shutup Celen!” she cried. “It was nothing!”

“I heard something!” was the furied reply. Oa, close to tears herself, sniffled.

“Yeah Celen, just be quiet.”

“Why are you two mad at me! I’m just as spooked as you are!” he hissed, scooting closer to the girls. Mekgan’s cries were starting to make Oa whimper. Celen threw his arms over them. “Oh guys, please don’t cry!” he begged. “C’mon, it was just a story.”

Rustle-rustle-rustle

“It’s the ghost of Master Leis’li-Lin!” Mek screamed, bolting upright and tearing out of the garden. Shocked, Oa and Celen watched the fleeing Mon Cal girl and then looked at each other. At the exact same moment the two were off and running after her, leaving their camp behind with nary a thought.

From out of the bushes stepped a flushed looking Kardo Staedtler. “Hey kids,” he whispered, before realizing the blankets were all by their lonesome in the gardens. The Knight scratched his head bewildered. “What in the Force…”

II

“Alright Wyl what’ll it be tonight? ‘The Junkyard Y-Wing that Could’? ‘Captain Coruscant and the Nomadic Nemoidian’? ‘The Bravest Jawa’?” Oa looked up from the datapad shelf at her son laying eagerly tucked into bed. The child shook his head, brown locks dancing. His bright eyes coyly glimmered.

“I want the Jedi story! The one with Grampa!”

“Oh…” Oa tilted her head curiously and crossed the room to sit on the bed beside her son. “Are you sure? You heard that one a few nights ago.” Wyl nodded.

“I want that one.”

“Alright then. Once upon a time there was—”

“Hey!” Wyl looked at Oa accusingly. “That’s not how it’s supposed to start! Last time you said ‘Once upon a time, long before now, in happier years’. No skipping.”

“Sorry. Once upon a time, long before now in happier years there was a Jedi Knight named Kardo Staedtler. Kardo—”

“But that’s not what people called him, right Mom?”

“No, it’s not.”

Wyl leaned forward. “What did they call him?”

“Outside the Temple, ‘Master Jedi’. Other Jedi called him ‘Knight Staedtler’.”

“And the Padawans called him ‘Master Staedtler’ too right? ‘Cause it was respectful, right?”

Oa nodded patiently. “Yes, just like letting someone tell a story without interrupting is showing respect.”

“Oh, sorry. You can keep going.”

“Thank you. Alright, now, Kardo lived in the Jedi Temple with all the other Jedi. One day he was called before the Jedi Council and they said to him, ‘Knight Staedtler’—” Oa bit back a chuckle as Wyl smiled widely. “‘We are sending you on a very important mission to a faraway planet.’” Wyl frowned.

“Who said that part?”

“… the Council.”

“All of them?”

“They tended to speak collectively.”

“Weird.”

“Yes. So Kardo accepted the mission like the proper Jedi he was and after many months of traveling (during which he had many grand adventures),” It was growing late and Oa was summarizing where she could, “He finally arrived on the war-torn faraway planet. After much searching he found who he was looking for: the Prince.” Wyl vibrated excitedly.

“And the Prince’s name was Wyl!” he burst. “Right?” Oa laughed gently.

“Yes it was. Well, despite the fact that the Prince was a little on the dirty side—”

“Hey I showered today!”

“Oh fine. Despite the fact that the Prince was only clean sometimes, and that he was a little boisterous at bedtime, Kardo liked the boy. That night they sat down to a wonderful meal of kaashar greens which, even though the Prince didn't really like the taste, were extremely nutritious and—”

“Moooom!” Wyl protested, sitting up. “Is it too late for a different story?”

Oa raised her eyebrows. “You don’t like this one?” Wyl pulled a face and shook his head.

“Not when you make it into a story with a lesson. Like ‘Wyl, it’s fun to brush your teeth.’ Or ‘Doing homework makes you live longer!’”

“So just because it has a moral you don’t want to hear it?”

Wyl nodded. “Yep. I want a Jedi story without a moral.”

Oa tried to hid her giggle, but Wyl saw the broad smile and hee-hee’ed which made her laugh louder. Finally she stopped and thought. Her eyes lit up and she leaned close to her son to whisper. “Have I ever told you the story of Master Leis’li-Lin?”

The boy shook his head. “No.”

Oa grinned and clucked her tongue. “Well then, Master Leis’li-Lin was a great Jedi Master about a thousand years ago…”

[Wyl Staedtler]

Hairpin Turns and Barrel Rolls

This was not the sort of situation she wanted to find herself in. Running through Fairwell Station with Imperial troops close behind hadn’t actually been on her list of things to experience before she died—which, all things considering, could be very soon. Swearing, Oa turned a sharp corner, her boots skidding on the steel grating with a squeak.

“You there! Stop!”

Oh yeah, she was gonna do that.

Risking a quick glance over her shoulder Oa saw that the three ‘troopers were gaining. The woman pushed harder and bolted into a hanger, scanning the room quickly. Two pilots were exiting their ships; she didn’t like the look of them. “Kraast!” Oa weaved in and around the rows of ships erratically, staying out of sight. She could hear the rhythmic beating of the Stormtrooper’s boots on the duracrete hangar floor. The woman crouched behind a cargo ship, her breath ragged.

“Hey Sweetheart, you the welcome party?” Sucking in a startled breath Oa whirled around to face the source of the voice. Standing before her was a tall lanky man, his long blonde hair held back from his face with a leather thong. He had merry grey eyes which were now sliding over her appreciatively, and a sharp jawline that framed a wide mouth that smiled easily. A smuggler, Oa guessed, noting the air of assuredness mixing with just an ounce of rebellion. She wasted no time.

“Can you outfly Imperials?” she barked. The man’s golden eyebrows arched upwards. He scratched the back of his neck lazily.

“Yeah, sure, most of the time I guess.” The grin appeared again. “Why, Sweetheart? A little thing like you on the run from the big bad Empire?”

The man was cut short by a burst of blaster fire. He threw himself to the floor beside Oa. “Yes.” She said dryly. “And if you get me out of here I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

The pilot didn’t even answer her, just started running hunched over. Oa followed him. “Anything I want?” he shouted, raising his voice to be heard over the volley of fire. “You must be pretty desparate!”

The pair jerked to the left as a crate of muja muffins was left smoking by the Stormtroopers. “Well,” she said breathlessly, “Being shot at seems to do that to people!” The man snorted and then grabbed her hand, jerking her over to a ship in surprisingly good condition. As they ran towards it he flicked on his comlink.

“D-Nine, open the hatch now and get ready to take off.” In the seconds it took the two to run to the vessel the entrance ramp was lowered and they barreled up. Oa followed the man into the cockpit and threw herself into the copilot seat, tightening her safety harness with nimble fingers. The pilot was brushing away a hovering droid and working the controls as the engines came to life. “Hold on, we don’t have takeoff clearance so it’s going to be a little awkward.”

“More like horrendous.” Oa muttered as they sped out of the hanger. The ship’s Com Unit exploded in a crackle of static, and then an irritated voice came on demanding their clearance codes. The man ignored it. Things were fine as they zoomed into the inky darkness of space. They could have been leaving for a weekend on Naboo it was so peaceful.

The first of the blips appeared on the computer screen within seconds. “Hold on, here they come.” A bolt of fire ripped through the ship, jostling its passengers uncomfortably. “They don’t waste any time, do they?” he commented wryly, barreling to the left and then turning right sharply. Oa grit her rattling teeth and held on tight. The fighters behind them showed no sign of being thrown off as the pilot twisted and turned crazily.

“Why don’t you just make the jump to hyperspace!?” Oa growled. She was thrown a mildly irritated look.

“Obviously you’ve never piloted a ship before. There’s no dignity in taking the easy way out.” His response elicited a derisive snort.

“Yeah, well, we won’t be alive to worry about our dignity if you keep this up.” Another blast rocked the ship. “I thought you said you could outfly them!”

This time the look was definitely aggravated. “I said most of the time I could! This isn’t most of the time, okay?”

Their pursuers were getting closer and he pushed the engines a little more. Glancing at the computer readout he pulled his safety belt tighter and then reached over and jerked his passengers. “Hold on.”

Oa’s heart was in her throat as they dove back toward the station, spiraling. “Just how is this supposed to help, they’re still right on our tail!” she ground out between her clenched jaw. She received no answer. As they sped closer and closer she found she had to close her eyes to prevent being sick all over the viewscreen. Just when she was certain they were going to crash the blonde hooligan pulled the vessel out of the dive sharply. The ship shuddered, but obeyed with quick response. The few seconds that it took for the Imperials to realize what was happening were all they needed.

“D-Nine, punch the jump!” Blondie ordered. The stars began to take on a fuzzy glow and then they became streaks of white light as the ship made the jump into hyperspace. Oa let out a low breath. She glared at the man, who merely grinned.

“See? Dignity and survival all in one pretty little package.”

She didn’t reply.

[Wyl Staedtler]

Intimidation

Did he know? It had been years—nine, maybe ten—since he had seen her. Even when they had known each other it had been in passing, more of a polite reference of knowledge that made chitchat easier. It wasn’t possible that he knew.

But if he didn’t know, why was she sitting here looking into the cold eyes of this Imperial Officer?

“It’s been a long time Oa.” He disturbed the cautious silence with the neatly clipped question. Oa shifted ever so slightly under his gaze, adjusting her hold on a wiggling eight month old boy; her son. The officer’s eyes settled on the squirming baby briefly. “You’ve been busy, I see. Busy.”

“So have you.” Oa found her voice and was surprised to find that it wasn’t at all the trembling whisper she’d expected. This gave her confidence, and she tilted her face up. “Never expected you to go Imperial.”

The officer chuckled. “Well,” he said after a pause, “We all have our own agendas.” Oa didn’t like the way his eyes bored through her when he said that. “Don’t we?”

“I guess.” Her son was starting to paw at her shirt and whimper, hungry. Oa jostled him on her knee. A hot flush started to tickle her ears as the man watched the baby yowl and press his face to her chest. He smiled, enjoying her discomfort.

“I went where I’d gain the most; we’re all obligated to take care of ourselves. You must have to be very resourceful, with a little one. Who are you acquainted with nowadays?”

There it was; that awful wheedling question that wasn’t really a question but an admission of knowledge. A real grown up chicken match. “Are you accusing me of something?” Oa’s eyes went hard and she somehow found the courage to stare right back at the man without blinking. He smiled.

“Not yet, old friend. But a warning,” He stared at her and cracked a knuckle absently on purpose. “You ought to be very careful Oa. A woman such as yourself has the tendency to try and be brave and get involved in things she shouldn’t. You have a certain… determination.” Again he looked at her child, with a sort of glint behind his eyes that made her hold the baby tightly. “A woman’s determination can lead to terrible things.”

Her heart leapt. There was a fire burning behind the blue irises akin to an angry Krayt dragon.

Oa didn’t miss a beat. “So can a mother’s grief.”

[Wyl Staedtler]

Jejune

Rhyy Andran was intelligent. He wasn't booksmart, indeed in all the time she had been with him he'd never bothered to look at anything besides starcharts. It was a kind of crafty common sense that seemed always to deliver him out of otherwise hopeless situations. Pilots Luck, she'd heard it been called in spaceports; it wasn't though. Like so many others Rhyy had just been around long enough to learn a few things and see the value in applying them.

And been around he had. Rhyy was forty-seven, soon to make forty-eight. Oa had not discovered this for months, and when he'd finally given in to her endless questioning she had thought he was joking. The blonde egomaniac didn't even look thirty-five and sometimes he acted half that.

He had saved her life on Fairwell three years ago. He was kind, and she found his biting sarcasm strangely endearing. He understood that she was wounded, and let her rage or cry or pout. When he smiled her heart beat fast, and despite nearing fifty Rhyy had never left her bored on the long evenings en route to whatever planet they were heading too.

They were all good reasons for being with him.

Which posed the question, why was she leaving?

Somewhere along the line, between the smiles and the sex, Oa had grown up a little. When Rhyy had gallently come to her rescue she had been twenty-six, still reeling from the loss of her entire life on Coruscant. Being young and scared had left little room for subtlety which meant that her bones with the Empire were picked with angry outburts and inane sabotage attempts. The best thing that could have happened to her was finding Rhyy; he was older and mellow. He had taken time to form his opinions and understood that they would probably change so acted accordingly. Oa learned patience from him. She learned that silence was often louder than screams.

Apparently her shift in ideals came with a price. Waking up next to the pilot didn't make her feel safe anymore. It left an empty feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Oa found it hard to look at his slumbering form as she packed a small bag silently. Each glance at his shaggy blonde hair, his strong frame folded in sleep, his smiling mouth... with each glance her heart squeezed a little tighter. It was bad enough ending these three years so abruptly, but to do it like this was more than awful: it was cruel.

He would wake up alone in a few hours. At first it wouldn't alarm him, she liked to get up early whenever they landed on a new planet and scrounge up some breakfast for them. He would get up and shave, do some exercises and then go back to bed to wait for her. After a while Rhyy would start to worry. He would try her com. When she didn't answer he would probably go outside and ask around the docking bay about her. It wouldn't even occur to him to check and see if her things were there; he loved her, and she loved him. Leaving would never cross his mind.

Oa folded a shimmersilk blouse and tossed it carelessly into the bag.

He would get over it, she knew. It would start today. Rhyy would wonder why, and then get angry and leave in a fit. Flying always relaxed him and eventually he would get another job and another and another, until one day all the jobs would stop and he would find he didn't miss her anymore.

She would get over it too. Oa had already started; she had a ride to Ansion arranged, and from there she would start a quiet life to recover herself. One day maybe she would pick up where she had left off in her rebellion. Maybe one day she would even go back to Coruscant. One day anything could happen.

There was nothing left in the small quarters that she needed. Oa zipped up the bag and looked around; it seemed empty to her although the room hardly looked disturbed. That was good. It would give Rhyy a few more moments of peace. She at least owed him that.

Oa walked over to his side of the bed and bent down, studying his smooth face with tenderness. She brushed a finger down his cheek. Rhyy didn't move at her touch. Trembling slightly Oa leaned down and kissed his lips so softly that it was more of a breath than anything. With tears in her eyes the young old woman stood, silently grabbed her bag and left.

[Wyl Staedtler]

Keen

The luxury transport was so crowded people were having to stand in the dining hall. At any other time it would have been funny to watch women dressed to the nines trying to hold a plate of Bestuainian Jiesroot and look serene all at once. Though there were complaints, of course, on the whole everyone was simply glad to be away from Coruscant. It was such a dismal time.

Perhaps most of all was the dark, bony woman staying in cabin 2D. Pale skin hid behind long dark curls that were tangled and needed cutting. Her clothes were too big for her, they had fit once. No one on the staff could understand why she had taken the cruise. She rarely left her cabin, only for the occasional bowl of Hoi broth which explained her skeletal frame. Most disconcerting were her eyes though; a dead jade, sunk deeply and so sad they inspired feelings of despair in even the most hardhearted creature.

To think that once she had been vibrant and colourful.

It was with startled pleasure a steward noted her presence on the viewing floor this evening. The ship was to be passing by a noted comet and the view was said to be nothing short of spectacular.

Oa had arrived hours earlier, taking her cup of broth to the platform while everyone else was still eating. She appreciated the silence. Nursing the steaming liquid in one lean hand she depended on the decorative durasteel railing to support her limp frame. By tomorrow evening they would be on Corellia where she would disembark, on the pretense of a tour, and not reboard. But for now she stood staring out the wide viewport at the ever-increasing gold and blue glow of the comets tail. For a reason she couldn’t name (did she need a reason?) her chest tightened uncomfortably, and her eyes filled with tears. To say it had been a roller coaster of a month was putting it very lightly indeed. She was crazy, she knew, but could anyone see the things she had seen and not lose their mind? It seemed to Oa that she had been crying ever since that day, with periods of detached calm cutting in every once in a while.

Eyes brimming, the woman turned to leave.With dismay Oa realized the platform was already filled with people. It didn’t take long before the crowd was pushing to get closer to the railing for a better view. Faced with a sea of passengers, all craning eagerly to catch a glimpse of the now blazing glimmer outside, she resigned herself to the fact that exiting now was not worth the hassle of squeezing through the mass of bodies. As she turned back around a stray tear slid quickly into the hollow of her cheek. Oa wiped it away quickly, but her hand was trembling and she had to fight not to cry out.

By now a collective gasp was echoing as the ship went along its path, casting a sight of the comet that made the great Coruscanti artists renderings look like chicken scratch. Oa bent her head so that her hair obscured her face. She too had gasped, only to release the pressure of holding back her sobs. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Oa turned to her left and stared at a smiling man. She nodded. He didn’t seem to notice her crestfallen face, and continued to stare out the ‘port.

“Last time I went on this cruise there wasn’t anything like this. This,” he shook his head. “This is galactic.”

She wanted to punch him. Wanted to scream at him, “Don’t you remember what happened?”, and shake him to make his teeth rattle. Instead she followed his gaze and stared at the brilliant light. She couldn’t take it anymore; her mouth opened in a wordless cry even as her eyes scrunched closed tightly. Anyone who bothered to look at her would have just thought she was awestruck. Her shoulders drew up as she keened, a fierce silent lamentation. Beside her the man shook his head and smiled.

“Yeah, it gets to me too.”

[Wyl Staedtler]

Laughter

Entry 312

Wyl talked today. My son called me Mama. He looked right up at me from where he was playing and said, “Mama.”, just like that. I was surprised, to be sure, but he just smiled and went back to his game like nothing had happened. And as I watched him a funny thing happened: I started to laugh. I don’t even know why or where it came from, but before I knew it I was shaking with laughter and my boy was grinning at me which only made me laugh more.

Laughing for the first time.

Not the very first time of course, I’ve laughed more times than there are stars in the sky. But today was different. It’s been such a long time I wondered if it were even possible. Years ago, when I was still young and raw from all that happened, I imagined there would be a great deal of guilt with laughing. Today there wasn’t. I was happy today because of one little word.

I certainly hope he says it more often. I missed laughing.

[Wyl Staedtler]

Moments Between Memories

Her stiff cloak cracked in the wind that blew briskly across the platform where the ship was waiting. Mekgan Trallali and Oa Umi’u faced each other with broad smiles to hide their apprehension. The Mon Cal girl’s padawan braid was tucked into her collar to stop it from blowing into her face; she already been hit in the eye once and didn’t need another excuse to make her eyes water.

“How long will you be gone?” Oa asked quietly, trying to be brave. Mek shrugged.

“I don’t know. A few weeks, I guess. Master says that negotiations like this can be tedious.” Her voice was cheerful enough. Oa nodded; it was Mek’s first mission with her master, and she didn’t want to take away from the importance of it all. They would see each other soon besides.

“If you get bored, com me.” She said. The humanoid girl brushed back her bangs and held her hand there, keeping them pinned to her head. “Miss you, I will.” She said with a soft smile. Mek grinned and returned in the same backwards speech that they so fondly imitated,

“Miss you as well, will I.” The girls giggled and then Oa hugged her friend quickly. Behind them Mek’s master stood waiting patiently, allowing them a private moment. As they broke the embrace, Oa tugged on Mek’s padawan braid. The Mon Cal grinned again, and then bowed formally.

“May the Force be with you, my friend. Make sure Celen doesn’t burn the Temple down while I’m gone.”

Oa smiled. “May the Force be with you, Mek.” One last hug and Mek, holding the end of her braid, ran across the platform and followed her master into the ship. Before she disappeared inside she waved, and Oa waved back. She watched as the ramp closed and stayed to watch as the ship took off into the skylanes. With a happy sigh, she began walking back towards the Temple doors. A few weeks was certainly no time at all between friends.

[Wyl Staedtler]

Not Dark Yet

Shadows are falling and I’ve been here all day
It’s too hard to sleep and time is running away
Feel like my soul has turned into steel
I’ve still got the scars that the sun didn’t heal
There’s not even room enough to be anywhere
It’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there


The surprise came not with his death, but with a training saber.

From a corner in the Temple darkened by the fading light of Coruscant, Oa Umi’u watched as her friend closed his eyes and took a steady breath. His pale orange blade hummed softly, a familiar sound that comforted her; odd, that even his pain brought some kind of peace.

Celen Orms, with eyes still closed, lifted a hand and beckoned a practice droid over with the Force. The little sphere circled the man silently, but he did not move to follow it. Before Oa had time to register what had happened, Celen had deflected the first laser bolt and was easing into fluid motion. It still amazed her after all these years, how the Jedi could move. Like a stream down a hill, all smooth turns and quick water.

Oa had been there for almost two hours watching him. How long the padawan had been practicing was anyone’s guess, but from his wilted looking frame Oa would have bet her life Celen had come as soon as the ashes had cooled. Hours then.

Her back was stiff from the cold stone walls; the training rooms were always cooler than the rest of the Temple. Celen looked hot, and as he did neat vaulted flip, flexible.

Perhaps he had bent too much, she mused, as she noted the usually fastidious footwork falter. Even Jedi could break, couldn’t they?

With alarm Oa watched Celen motion another droid forward, then another and another. He did not stop until there were eight circling on varying orbits, firing a flurry of red bolts that had no apparent pattern. Celen was a blur of orange and tan, and above the hum of his lightsaber his breath could just be heard. With a sudden muted hiss a bolt hit the stone floor and left a slightly smoking mark. “By the Force.” Oa murmered. The remotes were not set on the normal practice levels.

Celen motioned for another droid.

“Stop it!” she burst from her corner, startling Celen who managed to collect himself enough to deflect a laser. An angry look passed over the mans face. He waved a hand at the droids, pausing them, and flicked off his ‘saber. Oa shook her head. “What are you doing?”

“Practicing. What does it look like?” There was an edge to Celen’s voice that Oa had not heard before. A stray curl fell from her hairband, and she felt even more childish before this towering stranger.

“You look like you want to get shot.” She said softly, hating the softness. “You look like you’re tired.”

“I’m not.”

Please don’t do this.

“Celen.” He looked at her and then turned away, walking to retrieve his cloak from the edge of the training room. Oa followed his back with her sad brown eyes. If Mek was here, she would know what to say; the Mon Cal was a diplomat of the heart, possessing an empathy that Oa now longed for. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Celen stiffened, the cloak in his hand. “I know.” He said finally. One broad thumb brushed at a fraying corner of the cloak, pinching the loose threads lightly. The heavy silence between them seemed darker against the failing light of day. Outside quiet voices drifted past without stopping; life went on around them like it always did.

“Jedi die.” His voice was rough. Oa watched the stiff tug of his shoulders as he pulled the cloak on. “We’re not invincible. I’ve seen others die.”

“But none of them were your Master.”

The words hung there alone for a moment. Celen’s grey eyes slid briefly over her own mahogany ones, and then to the slate floor. “No.” Oa could not identify the tone.

Tenderly the woman took a few steps forward so she was closer to the sober man. Once she had been taller than him, but time had caught up and now Celen stood a full foot above her. Funny, how he still looked small. “What did the Council say?” she asked, steering the conversation gently away from that dark hole.

His reply was quick, sharp. “I’m taking the trials.”

“Congratulations.” Celen nodded stoically. There was such a timid grief in his face that Oa almost couldn’t recognize him; the man she knew was confident. This one just looked lonely. “Will you be alright?” Again he nodded. A muscle in his neck tightened when she pressed a cool hand to his face, and Oa pulled it back slowly.

Sensing her uncertainty, Celen tried to smile; his lips twisted awkwardly upward. “I’ll be fine. I’m going to stay here for a while longer.” Oa nodded and hesitantly walked towards the exit. At the door she turned and stared at the stiff figure, just visible in the deepening darkness. The only movement was the soft shaking of a worn cloak, and even that just barely.

I was born here and I’ll die here, against my will
I know it looks like I’m moving, but I’m standing still
Every nerve in my body is so vacant and numb
I can’t even remember what it was I came here to get away from
Don’t even hear the murmur of a prayer
It’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there.

[Wyl Staedtler]

Opportunity (Or Three Days that Never Happened)

I

The boy--well, he wasn't really a boy now was he? Man. No, that didn't sound right either--sitting across from her in the huge lecture hall had amazing eyes. Brown with little flecks of amber in them and so warm that Oa wondered if maybe she ought to take off her sweater. She'd never noticed his eyes before, his hair yes and certainly other near-perfect parts of his anatomy, but never his gorgeous eyes. Of course, those eyes had never been looking at her like they were now.

Hi, he mouthed and she couldn't do anything by glance nervously at the professor who was going on and on about some war over some plant on some planet who-knew-how-many-years-ago. He glanced too, and she wondered if he looked so good in his University of Coruscant jacket because it was a nice cut or because he was cut nice. He was looking at her again though, and Oa felt her cheeks flush faintly.

Hi, she mouthed back not nearly as cool as he had been (was it possible to sound cool without volume?) The way his blue hair was falling across his forhead made something in her chest bubble. She wondered if he thought her hair was pretty, or interesting, or something nice like that. Probably he didn't care.

I'm Levon.

Levon. Le-von. Levon. What a name! And hers seemed so insubstantial next to his.

Oa.

Hi.

He'd said hi to her twice. That meant that it wasn't just some accident that he'd been staring at her instead of paying attention (was anybody actually listening to this dull tripe?) Oa nodded because she didn't know what else to do.

Do you drink caf? His lips were so interesting the way they twisted and puckered. And those eyes again, they were embracing and she couldn't help but fall into them. Oh, right. He was waiting. She marvelled at his patience.

Absolutely. They grinned at the same time, only his grin was just so and Oa felt her heart skip a beat and then go thumpthumpthumpthump to make up for it.

Levon. What a name!

II

"You don't think this makes me look like a big girl?"

"You look dignified."

Wyl looked down at the black gown and then across the seat at his mother. "It's a dress."

"Don't be silly, it is not. Everyone will be wearing one. When I was in college," She didn't even want to think how long ago that had been, "there was a young man twice as tough as you who didn't bat an eyelash at wearing it." Levon had enjoyed it perhaps a little too much, she conceded privately.

"I'm pretty sure you insulted me there, but I'm too happy to care." Wyl tugged at the sleeve of the gown, glanced at his wrist chrono, turned the radio station, and sighed. "Grampa's gonna be there right?"

Oa 'mm-hmmed' and switched lanes. "And Uncle Celen. He wants to take you out for a drink before dinner." Wyl grinned.

"He's the coolest Jedi ever."

"That's one way of looking at it."

"I'm so glad I'm done." Wyl shook his head. "I don't think I could take one more second of Mr. Aeridantic. Seriously, I don't understand how that guy is still alive, he's practically prehistoric."

"Says the twenty year old boy." Oa rolled her eyes and batted at her son playfully. Really, how had he gotten so old? He'd been a baby last week. Wyl looked at his chrono again, bouncing one knee impatiently.

"Geez, Ma, you should have let me drive. We're going to be late for my own graduation."

"We wouldn't arrive at all if I'd let you drive."

"Skeptic."

"Brat."

She smiled. He was a good driver but this time next week he'd be living on his own and stupid as it was she wanted to pretend he didn't have his own speeder and needed her to get around. While they waited for a light, Oa snuck a glance at his profile. He was a good-looking kid, she thought, although perhaps it had more to do with the fact that his grin was infectious and his crisp eyes eager than actual looks.

"'S'not going to get any greener Ma."

Oa turned left and shook her head. She was going to miss him. "Are you nervous."

"No."

"Not even a little? There're going to be a lot of people there."

"It's not really a big deal Ma. This is the easy part."

For a moment she wished he'd turn and tell her that, yes, he was a little nervous about finishing school and moving out and starting a new job. That he didn't know whether or not he'd do alright, and that he was panicking because he couldn't remember how much soap to put in the washing machine or what temperature to cook nerf casserole at. Oa had long ago stopped being his confidante though;as soon as he'd turned thirteen Wyl had found it embarrasing to talk to her about things like My Body is Changing, or There's This Girl. Her father had been wonderful, and Celen was practically a god in Wyl's eyes.

"Ma?"

"Yes Wyl?"

"Don't cry okay? I mean, there's nothing to cry about." He shrugged his shoulders. "I'll still be coming for dinner and stuff."

Oa feigned shock. "Are you admitting that you're going to miss me?"

Wyl shrugged. "Nah. Just your lasagna."

Perhaps, she thought as she pulled into the university, everything would be okay.

III

As she watched her grandchildren sleeping on her bed, Oa couldn't help but notice how much they looked like Wyl (with the exception of Reu who was a carbon copy of her mother). The old woman didn't get to spend a lot of time with the children, not since she'd retired and moved to Naboo. Summer vacation, when Kint and Litta were out of school, and sometimes in the winter when the whole family came to visit. It wasn't often, but it was enough.

She enjoyed her solitude. She had her own schedule, mostly consisting of toiling away in her garden and making trips into town to the library. She had a pretty little house on the water with a fantastic neighbor who brought over fresh vegetables from his garden and even asked her out to dinner sometimes.

When she thought of the way things could have been, those many years ago when one choice could have ruined everything, she felt all the more grateful for the way the sun shone through her bedroom window in the afternoon. It was a simple thing to love, but it was always the simple things the meant most in the end.

Reu stirred, and Oa held her breath until the child rolled over and let out a soft snore. She was only halfway through her caf, and she wanted to finish before she was bustled off by eager children.

It was more than the sun, though. It was her health, and her family, and the way soups tasted after a long swim in the lake. It was the thrill of finding a new story to read, a new recipe to try, a new plant to grow. Silly things like hanging laundry, and important things like the three figures laying limp and secure on her bed. Oa couldn't help but breath a word of thanks for the way everything had turned out. It was a good life, in it's quiet little way.

[Wyl Staedtler]

Proposition

I want a child, she had said to the old woman, the one who had shown up out of nowhere and stayed for no reason. White eyebrows had risen but strong, wizened hands had merely pulled tight a stitch on the blanket being mended. When it was evident no retort was coming, Oa had repeated herself. I want a child. I'm lonely.

That's no reason to have a child. Lonliness is no reason. The wise eyes had been so full of gentle chiding that Oa was once again a little girl under the steady gaze of a parent.

I used to work with children. I liked them. I wanted kids of my own one day.

Was you who was saying how much you'd changed, just last week wasn't it? Lamenting over it.

Oa had glared and petulantly spit out, That's not what I meant. I'm getting older, I want something that's part of me. The old woman had sighed then, and the little hut shook against the tremendous winds outside. They were warm in here though, with a tidy fire to sit in front of and sturdy walls to trap the heat.

Going to get a kit then? Maybe grow it in your little garden? Woman needs a man to have a child, and in case you haven't noticed we're not exactly outnumbered here.

I'll go home. The words'd slippout out before she'd thought about them properly. Only for a bit. Just until... until it took. The woman had eyed her carefully for a long moment, reserve evident in kind eyes and for a moment looked as if she were going to say something ill-willed. It passed though, as it always did.

Things will change. Can't raise a child on Ansion, s'no place for a wee one. Only good for hiding.

Stubbornly she'd insisted. I want a child.

**

So now she was on Coruscant. She was on Coruscant for the first time in ten years and not just on Coruscant but on Coruscant and in a club. With her long hair tied loosely at the nape of her neck, and a shirt that certainly hadn't been made for any practical use, Oa very nearly fit in. She was older than most in the club though, and her eyes were doing a poor job of hiding her unease.

Still, she'd had two requests to dance and four suggestive winks. None of the men (she didn't even want to remember the lanky Twi'lek female who'd wriggled her lekku in a very distinctive manner) were quite what she was looking for. Perhaps she didn't have the right to be so selective, perhaps she would have done better with the first one who'd approved of her but by Alderaan this was her first time in ten years and probably her last time. In some selfish way this was hers as much as her childs.

Then she saw him.

He was sitting at the bar, lolling really, with a sort of ease that immediatly aroused a flight of flutterbys in the pit of her stomach. Tall and lanky, with long, gracefully articulate hands that had no business holding a glass that well. For a moment she caught his gaze and saw bright green eyes under a mop of chestnut curls. He smiled and raised his glass at her--she couldn't stop staring at how nimble his fingers were, how broad his palms, how nice they would feel against the small of her back and--

"H'lo. Drink?"

Oa hadn't realized she'd walked over to him. She nodded dumbly and he motioned the barkeep who quickly slid down a glass of something brown. Oa sat on a stool and smiled.

"Thanks."

He shrugged easily, a motion which described him completely and not at all. "No problem. What's your name?" Oa shook her head and sipped her drink; she grimaced at the bitter taste.

"Doesn't matter, I think." His eyes slid over her then, from toes to top and then again slower. When he came back to her eyes there was no shame or coyness in his gaze, like she'd thought. He was perfect. With raised eyebrows Oa tried to grin cattily. "Approve?"

"Oh, yes."

"Fancy a toss?" To his credit, he only looked mildly surprised. He shrugged again but picked up a jacket that had been draped across the bar and then with thumb and forefinger gently took her wrist, right where the pulse was thumping. Oa bit back the gasp, but couldn't stop the shiver. Warm smile spread over his face.

"I take it you do. C'mon." And just like that he parted the sea of people and swept her through with him into the cool air outside. In natural light he looked softer, his gaze piercing. She didn't care where he was taking her, really. All she could think of was the firm press of his fingers at the base of her neck, gently playing with the downy hair there and slowly working out a knot of tension as they walked.

He took her to an apartment, his or someone elses, who knew, but it didn't matter. The door shut and he turned and kissed her softly, holding her up when her legs trembled. "Listen," she whispered, holding onto his arms and with eyes closed. "Listen,"

"Okay." He murmered, pulling her towards a bedroom with those wonderfully steady hands on her lower back, the pads of his fingers tracing small circles on pale skin.

"I... I want..." she bit her lip as he let one hand drift around to her belly. "I want you to get me pregnant." The hands stilled, though he was still holding her up which was a fine idea because if he'd backed away Oa surely would have fallen to the floor. His heart was beating steadily, hadn't changed pace.

"Hell of a statement." He put a finger under her chin and tilted her face to look at him. Those laser eyes watched her. "What's your game?" Oa shook her head. This was somehow worse, his waiting patiently, one hand draped temptingling across her.

"No game." she promised. "No names, no expectations. Please don't ask why." She knew he wouldn't. He might wonder, but he wouldn't question if she asked. He stared at her thoughtfully and stroked a loose hair from her forhead.

"Why not just lie about protection then? It'd be easier, yeah?" Oa shrugged.

"A lie's a lie. What does it matter?" He seemed to consider that, and then slowly lowered her onto the mattress on the floor and trailed a finger down her neck into the little pool of her throat.

"Doesn't." he murmered against the skin. Oa almost cried. It had been right to pick him. He was the right one. "Doesn't, at all." With one easy movement he kicked the bedroom door closed with a foot. She relaxed. "Let's give you a kid then, yeah?"

"Yeah."

[Wyl Staedtler]

Questions

It is a biting chill that makes thick wool an envious possesion, draws clammering sentients into tidy cafes to sit above steaming cups of dark tea and swirling stimcaf. The sharp air pinches at exposed skin, drawing rosy spirals on pale palets and thieving breath with claws like ice.

Under the grey light of the mid-morn sky Oa sits, freezes, on a thin wooden bench--she is glad for the timber, in this antiquated little park, which saves her from the bone-aching chill that metal would have brought--and watches as her son runs screeching from slide to swing to ladder and back again. He is a six-year-old blur, all red parka and cocoa-stained trousers, immune to the cool of the month.

It is regrettable on such rare January days that they have settled into a routine. Breakfast and a walk is all well and good when it is warm but for everything there is an apointed time and season; which is to say that now is neither the time nor the season to be spending any great length of time outside.

"Wyl," She calls, her voice a hoarse rasp, like ash from the pewter-curl cold. He whirls around before she can say anything more and all elbows-and-knees comes barrelling at her enthusiastically. Out of habit Oa puts her hands out to stop the tumble which always ends the boys mad dash through dewy sand. Wyl giggles and buried his scarlet-cheeked face in the billowy warmth of her sweater, using the soft folds as a makeshift handkerchief and drawing an amiable scowl from his mother.

"I ran fast, huh?" He says brightly, clambering onto the bench beside her to lean against a yielding side. Oa nods and puts her arm around him, pulling him closer and tucking his jacket tight around little hands.

"You did." Smiling down at her son the woman leans down to kiss his chocolate-glistening hair. She recieves an indignant groan from The Boy Too Old To Be Kissed in reply and ruffles his hair playfully. Wyl scrunches his face up, a study in pensiveness, and then draws a breath in the way small children do when they are deciding whether or not to ask a question. Oa waits patiently, knowing a.m and the quiet inwardness of the still park makes the child hesitant. Finally he seems to decide and ducks his head into her breast, muffling gentle soprano pitch.

"How come I don't got a dad?" he says shyly, and Oa feels a fractured defiance in the middle of her chest rise to her windpipe; she is sure that she should not be feeling this possesive anger, this private rage that howls against her ribs and threatens to pierce the hollow at the base of her throat. Wyl must feel the tightening because he lifts his narrow face to stare at her curiously. She should not have this need to defend herself, this bloom of protective indignation directed at her son, her boy.

"Mom?" He is creasing his forhead, the expression startling on such a little face. Oa bites back bile and smiles a cheerfulness she doesn't feel.

"Oh, well," And this is easy, this pretending, "You just don't Wyl." There is jovialness and humour and honesty buckled under the words. Oa wonders how she became so good at lying. For a moment they are quiet with such neccesary false faith in make believe, and then Wyl shakes his head; even at six he knows the taste of not-quite-right. Pressing tighter against her, like the beat of her heart will tell him what he wants to know, he says,

"But I had one, right?" She is ashamed that she has made him resort to tenses to derive an answer, but the foreign reluctance to be honest with him is still growling in her hollow belly. She nods stiffly, jaw a sharp angled line against the backdrop of the little playground. "So where is he?"

"I don't know." She feels the elusive ache of once known touch, wonders if Wyl feels the same homesickness for a man he doesn't know, will never know, cannot know because she cannot even give him a name--cannot give him even a syllable. What can she say? Even if she knew where to seek, where to find, how can she explain to Wyl that it is impossible for him to have what he needs; the decision has been made since before he was born, this shift from scattered fugitive to matriarchal refugee. There is no room for anyone else but the two of them and what there is of that night, that man, she wants all to herself.

"Why not?" The strangled question catches her by surprise and she has to think hard, back ages it seems, to come back to this ambush of a conversation. The weight of Wyl against her seems very heavy now.

"He never told me. We never talked much." She turns her gaze to look at his face, watches as reluctant acceptance creeps across the bridge of his nose and into his terrifying blue eyes. He shifts on the steady bench and for a hopeful moment it seems as though he has recovered and is going to race back to being a boy. He nearly does, starts to run through thick mixed dirt, but then falters and turns all at once to put a hand on her knee. Oa smiles. There is a wary hum in the air, impossible to ignore, as Wyl holds her gaze unflinchingly.

"Does he love me?"

She wishes he had let the silence have half a chance to take hold. There are no right answers to a question like that; sound and colour blend as her eyes mist to protect themselves from the onslought of a northern wind. She sighs softly, a prayer to a dozen fallen friends, mentors who should be here now to be confided in and to offer advice.

She reaches a bony hand out to brush his cheek gently. "Yes Wyl." There is no mistaking the broken plea that doesn't quite make it out of her mouth. "Like the stars. He loves you like he loves the stars."

Wyl smiles then, hiccups in wild happiness and darts away; he loves the stars too, even though they are vague and strange to him. If he is vague and strange to his daddy, like stars or sighs spilled like prayers, it is a victory. Oa watches as he races away whooping at this genesis, this revelation.

She wonders if she will ever feel the wonder of such release.

[Wyl Staedtler]

Resulting Mayhem

It all happened on a Tuesday, at 2:04 in the afternoon. Oa was sitting cross-legged on the couch with a cup of tea, doing the Sunday crossword puzzle that had been pushed aside in place of more important things, when Wyl trotted out of his bedroom. He looked bereft enough that Oa forgot about a twelve-letter word for "formed when calcium carbonate is heated" and set her tea aside.

"Mom," The child looked at her with eyes that brimmed with the kind of horror usually reserved for gruesome deaths. "I've lost my glee." He sighed then, a pathetic little whisper that dribbled from the corner of his mouth and fell like a pebble to the carpet below.

"Oh dear." Oa murmered, catching on to the serious nature of the matter; it was one thing to be bored, but missing jollies was an entirely unfit state for anyone (except maybe Imperials, who never had real delight anyway.) She steepled her fingers together in the universal sign of Thinking Deep Thoughts Bound to Solve the Problem. "When was the last time you had it?"

Wyl thought before solemnly replying, "It was still there when I was colourin', but when I went to get m'legos I saw it had gone."

"Ah, so it isn't lost at all Wyl!" Oa grinned and got up from the couch, the backs of her knees protesting the start of a new adventure. Wyl was looking a little less worried and he seized the firm hand of his mother with vigour. "You've just misplaced it. I'll bet you it's still in your room, even."

When they entered the little room, Oa cast a critical eye around. It was quite a room for gaiety to have up-ended, with it's bright orange walls and the giant mural of Coruscant's skylanes to the right. It was quite uppity of Wyl's jollies to have skived off, Oa thought with a dark look. She squinted at the far corner, which got the least amount of light during the day, looking for any sign of sparkles or purple light; it would have been a dismal place for a joy to be and so she wasn't surprised when her examination revealed only a toy bantha, lost and forgotten long ago. "Hmm." She said, placing one index finger to pink lip. Wyl mimicked her. "If I were glee, where would I be?"

"The toybox?" Wyl pointed to his neon green crate, closed suspiciously tight for a midweek afternoon.

"Of course!" Oa yelped, bounding over to the box with Wyl close behind. She threw open the lid began to burrow through the playthings, tossing several model speeders and a stuffed Wookie to the floor. "Ah-ha!" rose out, slightly muffled from beneath a stack of Captain Coruscant comic books. Oa emerged, a long silver whistle which played fourteen tunes all on it's own clasped in her hand. Wyl shook his head.

"Not my glee."

"Ah. Well. Not in the toybox then." Pinching her lips together, Oa scooted on her knees over to the closet. She threw the doors open and she and Wyl began to check between the piles of too-big clothes that were stacked on the floor. When that proved fruitless they checked all the pockets of Wyl's jackets, and then his trousers, and even the pouch of the hooded sweater that he had never worn because it was an unfortunate colour green (previously only seen in the vomit of male banshees during mating season). Sadly, nothing turned up.

They decided that divide and conquer was the best way to go, so Wyl took one side of the room and Oa the other, with the door closed to prevent any rogue happiness from escaping, and a promise to meet in the middle. They'd been searching in earnest for ten minutes (combing the carpet, bending the blinds, and other such alliterous methods) when Oa lifted the dangling bedspread. "Uh-oh..."

Wyl glanced over his shoulder, hands stuffed in his drawer of playclothes. "What?"

"It's worse than we thought Wyl." Oa cast him a woeful look and pointed to the black line that was under-the-bed. "I'm afraid your glee is under the bed, with all your cast off socks and undies." Wyl dashed over, all trembles, to see for himself. The boy paled visibly.

"It's gone then." He muttered, closing his eyes against the awful truth of it. "Nothin' ever comes back from Under There." The full shock of the probably horrible demise his glee had undergone hit Wyl, and he fell back onto the floor with a loud groan. Oa huffed indignantly.

"Hey now, we'll have none of that!" She yanked a very floppy Wyl up off the carpet and fixed him with a narrow stare. "Do you mean to tell me that you're just going to surrender your glee to the dust bunnies and dirty undergarments that easily? For shame, Wyl, for shame! Where would we be if everyone let their jollies go so easily?" Oa shook her head. "I'll tell you: we'd be holed up in dark little caverns on dark little worlds, crying and eating nothing but lima beans, that's where. No, my boy, you come from better stock than that!"

"But there're socks under there that've gone rabid!"

"Pah!" Oa scoffed, waving the dangers of stark-mad cotton away with one hand. "All we need is the proper protection. Come on."

Ten minutes and a kitchen raid later, they were ready. Wyl had a baking sheet affixed to his chest with an apron, from which several spoons and ladles of varying sizes hung. On his head was the metal colander, glinting dangerously, and his hands were protected by a pair of bright red oven mitts. He had tied a dishtowel over his nose and mouth, and carried a potato masher in one fist and a pot lid in the other. It had been agreed that because he was smaller (and since it was his glee) that he would be the one to go under the bed and Oa (wearing a bowl and armed with a large fork and a cheese grater) would remain outside to catch anything that got away.

They stood staring at the bed before Wyl turned and gave his mother a brave nod. "If I don't come back, take care of my smashball card collection; they're special edition."

"I will."

"It was great to know you."

"You too. You were always very interesting."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. The socks aren't getting any tamer." Oa patted Wyl on the shoulder as the little boy nodded dutifully and turned to face his fate. With one last glance over his shoulder, Wyl shimmied on his belly until he was completely under the bed. Oa crouched and waited. At first a few grunts were all she heard and then there was silence. Oa frowned. "Wyl? Everything all right?" She hoped he hadn't been strangled by wayward boxers or anything.

"I found it! It was way back in the corner here, by these--ah!" Oa nearly toppled over as Wyl started hollering, accompanied by a lot of crashing and banging. With nary a thought about safety, Oa dived under the bed after her son, fork at the ready.

"I"m coming, son!"

What ensued next would be remembered as the Last True Battle of the Whites. There were a lot of sharp elbows and knees, and the stale odour of unwashed laundry permeated the war-torn air underneath the twin-sized bedset, but at the end of it both Oa and Wyl managed to drag themselves back out and into the light of day relatively unscathed. Mother and son collapsed into each other, a heaving heap of bakeware and dust bunnies. Little growls could be heard coming from the young socks that hadn't been felled, but the monsters didn't venture out for fear of being speared and tossed into the laundry hamper.

"Hey Mom." Wyl finally panted. Oa raised an eyebrow and her fork, just in case.

"What?"

"My glee is back." Wyl smiled toothily up at her before the colander slipped off his head and onto his face, knocking against a tooth and making him hiss. Oa patted his head wearily, a tired smile of her own tugging the corners of her lips.

"I'm very glad."

And she was.

[Wyl Staedtler]

Stars, and Their Unravelling

One thousand three hundred eighty four.

Despite the scorching heat during the day, Tatooine was actually very cool after the suns had set. At first Oa had found it mildly amusing, wearing a heavy tunic in the middle of the desert, but after the first few nights she grew used to the contradiction and found herself looking forward to the relief that evening brought.

One thousand four hundred twenty seven.

Mos Espa had been a shock. Growing up on Coruscant Oa had seen a great many things and, like most Coruscanti, believed herself to be incapable of surprise. Yet the helter-skelter crowds and foreign banter of the little hive, so similar to home and in the same instant so vastly different, had unnerved her. There was a certain roughness to Mos Espa that had been refined on Coruscant generations ago; corruption here was clearly seen and identified (and ignored). Oa found herself preferring the finessed deception of metropolitan life to this honest amorality.

One thousand four hundred ninety.

Thankfully they weren't staying in the buzzing port. Rhyy preferred to camp away from other beings and instead made the four mile journey in from their ship every morning. He had more or less finished his business and they would be leaving in two or three days. Oa didn't mind; they were always on the move and the sights such a lifestyle afforded were welcome. It meant that she rarely had time to pause and think of the last two years. Except on sleepless nights, of course.

One thousand five hundred two.

"S'bastard thing about counting stars, isn't it? Y'always get a crick in your neck and then you've got to start over." Oa startled and turned to find Rhyy watching her, his lanky frame resting casually against the ship. He wasn't wearing a shirt, she noted absently, and she could just make out the lines of his ribs. It worried her, his recent weight loss.

She hugged her arms to her chest. "I thought you were sleeping." Rhyy shrugged.

"I was, but I woke when you went out." He pushed himself off of the ship and scuffled over to her with a wide yawn, looking upwards at the star-filled sky. "Gorgeous. It may be awful but Tatooine's got great skies." Oa nodded and let herself lean into his chest, sighing in satisfaction when he wrapped his naked arms around her. The rough stubble on his cheeks scratched her pleasantly when he leaned in and whispered, "How many were you up to?" Oa shrugged, accidently knocking his chin with her shoulder.

"Over a thousand."

"Poor girl; you were probably counting the same ones, over and over, without noticing."

"No, I wasn't." Oa insisted firmly, once more looking up at the twinkling canvass. Rhyy snuffed softly, a small laugh that tickled her neck. "Really, I wasn't." She insisted. "I kept track of them by constellation."

"Didn't know you were an astronomer."

"I'm not." Oa made an exasperated face. "But there were classes, back home you know, and they were interesting." This was true. In the Temple they had recieved very thorough schooling on such subjects, and she had furthered that knowledge with personal study. Rhyy raised an eyebrow and lifted one sinewy arm, pointing a bony finger at a cluster of lights.

"What's that loopy one, then?"

Oa squinted, trying to find the "loopy" group in the vicinity that Rhyy was indicating. A twisting line of stars seemed to be where he was looking and she smiled. "It's hardly loopy. Look, it starts there," She moved his hand up and then drew it across and down to the right. "And ends there. That's Lado, the Fluffkit. And there," Her hand laced in his as she guided him to a cross-shaped constellation beside Lado. "Is Lofn. She was in love with Lado."

"That's disgusting." Rhyy's lip curled in distaste. Oa laughed quietly, the small sound loud in the silence of the camp.

"Lado was a young man when she loved him. Lofn was married to Camulus," Their fingers traced across the sparkling heavens to another constellation, Oa moving his fingers to connect each star. "She hated him though, and she and Lado embarked upon a torrid affair." Rhyy tch-ed but didn't interrupt. "When Camulus found out he had Lado turned into a Fluffkit, the least manly thing he could think of."

"Serves him right, the sneaky scumbag. What'd he do to the tart?"

"Nothing. Lofn vowed she would always remain by Lado's side and Camulus spent the rest of his life trying to woo her back and off Lado. And over here..."

They stood there for ages, leaning against one another. Oa softly whispered legend and lore while Rhyy listened, gently trying to distract her with scratchy kisses placed on the curve of her neck, her earlobe, her jawline. Once or twice she paused and closed her eyes, a smile playing at her lips, but then she would resolutely grab his hand again and point to a new contellation. After a time Rhyy gave up and leaned his head on her shoulder, the comforting lull of Oa's voice relaxing him. When she ran out of words Oa herself was rather sleepy. "So that's what I did. Counted the constellations and then the ones in between."

"Mmm. Forgot about Inanna though, love." Rhyy ignored her pulling away from him, though he did take a second to enjoy the look of confusion on her face. He hitched a shoulder up and with a jerk of his head motioned behind them. "Y'know, the one who shacked up with whatshisname when his wife took off with the cat."

"You knew all about that?" Oa sputtered, her pretty mouth agape. Rhyy shrugged.

"I'm a spacer, Sweetheart, and an old one at that." She stared at him a moment longer before exclaiming, in tones of amused distress,

"Well then why did you let me go on and on like that?"

"Because. You were excited about it."

"Still, if I'd known you knew..."

Rhyy sighed. "It doesn't matter Oa. I like listening to you talk; like hearing you at ease." He spread one hand over his eyes and yawned widely, shaking his head after and making his blond hair--silver in the night's wash--fall across his forhead. Oa had shut her mouth and stood watching him with an expression that Rhyy had come to know meant she wasn't sure how to feel. He held out his hand. After a brief hesitation Oa took it and squeezed his fingers tightly.

"Let's go inside."

"Don't you want to finish telling me the stories?" she shook her head.

"No; that's all I know, anyway, and besides," Oa pulled at his arm gently and he came with a reluctant glance upwards, as if he didn't believe her, "I've got a crick in my neck." As they walked up the ramp of the ship, bringing sand from their boots inside to spread in the corridor, she fought the urge to turn for one last look and continued to their quarters, flopping onto the bed and closing her eyes. She felt the matress dip as Rhyy followed and a moment later he curled up next to her, throwing an arm across her protectively. Oa shifted, easing the awkward position of knees and elbows, and turned so that she could see the outline of Rhyy's profile. Her lips turned up in a quiet smile.

One.

[Wyl Staedtler]

Ten Random Facts About Oa Umi'u, As Written By Her Scandalously Attractive And Wildly Intelligent Friends On The Occasion Of Her Birthday (Because We Couldn't Afford Anything Except This Daft Lacy Card)
(Which isn't true but Celen held the pen hostage and insisted on writing the title. Sorry.)

1. According to <strike>Kardo</strike> Master Staedtler (he said I could call him Kardo, Mek) when Oa's mum was <strike>knocked up</strike> pregnant with her she insisted it was a boy and refused to go have it checked. They went about for months calling her Miletus until out she came missing <strike>her ta</strike> <strike>a co</strike> Very Important Bits. It's all just as well, really, because Miletus is a bloody shifty name for a bloke.

2. Oa hates Tuesdays on principle. She says it's bigoted and ignorant to hate Mondays simply because they have the misfortune of being the start of the work week. Of course, it's just as senseless to hate Tuesdays because they aren't Mondays but it's best not to argue particulars with a girl who once championed the Senate to endorse an "Adopt-an-Ewok!" campaign.

3. Fifteen was not a good age for Oa. At it's best points it involved a lot of dodgy wooden jewelry, teased hair, spandex, and sparkles. Thankfully I've still got the holographs which ought to make for a grand time when she has her first boyfriend.

4. Just before I was Knighted she made me promise to stay in touch no matter where either of us was. The galaxy is big, she said, but not that big.

5. Oa hums. Incessantly.

6. Everytime there is pokepear pudding at dinner Oa claps her hand over her mouth and squeaks, like she can't believe her luck.

7. After my master died I went a bit mental (and by a bit I mean stark raving round the twist). Got it into my head to leave the Order and go to Daan, stay with an old friend who'd got shipped out with the Agricorps. Oa showed up at my quarters to help me pack. She didn't say a word until all my things were stowed away and then she told me she hoped I'd find what I needed before hugging me. I don't think I let go of her for a good twenty minutes. When I finally did she unpacked my bags and made tea. We talked all night.

8. Oa was the first one of us to lose a tooth. We were eating sticky sap candy in the gardens and the next thing we knew her tooth was lodged in her sweet. Celen said he'd read about that happening to girls sometimes, falling apart, and he reckoned she'd be doomed before the week was out. She immediatly went home, wrapped herself with duct tape, and spent the next six days alternatively crying and writing her will.

9. When she found out I'd lied Oa, who'd never so much as glared at a flea, punched me in the nose so hard it bled and I felt wonky for a week afterwards. It was wicked.

10. Gibbet Birds do not make good pets. Oa found this out to her detriment during the third course of the Storm Feast on Kariak.

Anyway Oa, we hope you had a wonderful day and we're sorry we can't be there in person. Yeah pet, we'd much rather be with you than here on this lump of a planet but duty calls and all of that good stuff. Have a lovely time with your father, we'll see you soon! May the Force be with you,

Mek and Celen

[Wyl Staedtler]

Undoubt

She is surprised when she wakes and finds herself in a forest, the ground littered with damp brown leaves, the trees bare and blackened with the winter cold. Fog cleaves closely to soil, slinks like a cat against thick trunks, curls around headstones, exhales softly through wilted clumps of bowing daffodils. She thinks the fog is like the air, the ground would choke and die without it, and though she has never been here she knows that there has never been a day without the gray-white blanket of natural smoke.

There is no sun. It is very bright. Oa climbs out of the moist hole she's been standing in--standing, when she doesn't remember getting up--and looks around. Her heart is in her throat. She's never been here before. She's never been lots of places before but she knows that of all the places she's never been this is the place she never been the most. This place she would never have regretted not being in. Of course she asks, at the same moment that she thinks how pointless it is to ask, "Where am I?" It is unavoidable; direction is important.

"Basin of Soul's Port." Oa spins (she is very light, her stomach feels hollow) and finds a tall man in a long woolen coat. He is leaning against a tree and the fog is darting playfully through his legs. He smiles pleasantly at her. Oa squints.

"What?"

"Not so?" The man frowns and rubs his chin thoughtfully. "How about 'Gorge of Sleepy Roads'?"

There is no sense to be found. Oa wants someone to pop out and yell scandal, to mark out a 'reason only' space with neat lines that she can step into. The man clears his throat. She shakes her head. "No, I don't think so. Where am I... or, I suppose, where are we?" The man puts his hands into the great big pockets of his coat.

"The former. You are here. I'm only visiting. Sort of a guide, I suppose, just temporarily until I can find something more permanent."

"Oh. I see." Except she doesn't. "So this is..."

"... Well I've tried to tell you, but you didn't like any of my suggestions. So I suppose for the moment we're sort of... in between." He pushes off the tree and walks over. "Don't worry, I've been ever so tempermental since I got this gig. I wanted to be a playwrite, only I wasn't depressed enough. Of course now I have the right stuff." He glances over, a question on the bridge of his nose between raised eyebrows. "I often get a good bout of unhappiness now. How about you?"

Oa shrugs. "I don't know." The man sighs and shakes his head.

"That won't do. Come on, shake out of it. We'll be here forever with answers like that. Don't you know what's happening?" His hands grasp her shoulders and he gives her a little shake. "Grounds are being broken, cities are being rebuilt, entire ways of life are coming to ends and you don't know?"

A sudden terrifying idea lances her through, and Oa pulls on the cuff of his coat. She points to the headstones and the fog that seems to be getting fluffier. "Is that to mean... are you... is this..." Her voice drops to a whisper. "Death?"

"Well," He starts in a scholarly voice, "If literature is to be believed, death is a dialogue between the spirit and the dust. Simply, a coversation between two elements, namely you, being dust, namely me, being spirit, namely us, a dialogue. So," He clapped his hands together. "If this is death, and we are literature, we should be talking. Which, seeing as we are, seems more and more likely. Did you have a family?"

Oa, thoroughly confused, thinks about it for a moment. She can't seem to remember; the fog has gone into her ears and is making her head fuzzy. The man waits patiently, once in a while glancing at his wrist where a watch would be if he were wearing one. Oa nods. "I think so. I think there was a boy."

"A son. That's lovely. And a daughter?" He prompts. Oa nods again. Yes, there was a girl. Matching girls, in blue frocks with long brown hair like hers. The man seems to be waiting for her to say something so she tells him of the little girls. "Twins!" He crows. "How delightful, how delightful! So you had a son and two daughters, parents no doubt, and..."

Oa hangs on his words and misses the beat when he stops talking. She scrambles to catch up, "And a husband! An independant contractor who... who..."


"Who liked holos! And reading, but only at night and only if he had a headache!"

"Yes!" She grins and feels the uneasiness dissapear. In a moment of giddy joy she hugs the strange man and laughs loudly. The laugh soars out of her mouth and turns into little butterflies, white and green, the flit about before dissolving into mist. She stops. "No." The man frowns.

"No?"

"No. No that's not right. I never had a family. At least, I don't think," She puts a hand to her head and rubs to shake out the cobwebs. "I'm beginning to suspect... That is to say... Where are we?"

There is vague impatience in his sigh this time. "Look, we already decided that. You can't ask that." Oa bristles.

"Why not?"


"Because there's no answer at the moment."

"There has to be."

"Why?" Oa opens her mouth and stamps her foot. She does it again, the soft dirt and leaves mulching beneath her feet.

"Because," She snaps, "Because! It's logical!" The man seems genuinely interested as he takes a step back and cocks his head to one side. Oa is inexplicably mad, absolutely lived that he should be so coy and curious at a time like this... though she isn't sure what this time is.

"What's logic?"

"Logic is..." She throws her head back and roars before continuing,"Deductive! It's structured, one thing follows another in a progressive pattern until everything makes sense, until nothing but the truth remains, nothing but reason! You've got to have reason because without reason we can't understand anything! Actions have consequenses, cause has effect, ends have beginnings, questions have answers! Things don't happen for nothing, we move, we speak, we hurt, we die... but not without reason, not without logic!" She is crying and suddenly as she hiccups she has no idea what she means. Oa sniffs pitifully. "I don't know what I mean." she says sadly. A kind smile splits the man's face.

"I think," He says, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to her, "That you've meant nothing in life is easy--even without the life."

The lightness in her stomach seems to dissapear and Oa nods, blows her nose and holds out the dirty kerchief like a small child. "Yes." She nods. "Yes, that's it. I was just confused."

He clucks comfortingly and puts an arm around her. "Yes of course. It can't be helped."

"Nothing for it." Oa agrees. The man stands with her for a moment and then puts his hands back in his pockets.

"Well, I suppose this is it then." He starts to walk back towards the trees. "Best of luck to you." Oa shakes her head and opens her mouth to call to him. She coughs and a lone butterfly falls out, stiff, and lands on the dirt. There is gritty feeling in her mouth from the dust that's wiped off it's wings onto her tongue. She spits, just in time to catch the man before he dissapears into the woods.

"Wait!" He turns around and stares expectantly. Her hands fall helplessly to her side. "Which way do I go?"

The man smiles and shrugs. "I'm not sure. Like I said, I'm just a temp. But there's a lovely path down that way." He points behind her to a little dirt trail cutting through a field. It occurs to her that it's strange she never saw it before. She's about to head towards it when he mimics her. "Wait! Before you go..." She turns and sees another question, this one hiding in the corner of his eye. "Were you happy?"

Oa pauses. "Yes." It is the only answer that doesn't seem altogether wrong, but heartfelt and possible. The man smiles.

"That's something then."

[Wyl Staedtler]

Vanity

Who is this tired old lady looking back at me? My God, it's not me... is it? Surely the light is bad in the 'fresher, or the mirror is warped, or I'm dreaming. This can't be me. I'm strong, healthy, vivid, full of life. Not this sunken eyed, hollow cheeked, graying hair lady.

Is that a wrinkle? When did that happen?

I used to be smooth, lithe, long in the leg and dark in the hair. I could leap buildings in a single bound, run for hours without getting winded. Now I'm drooping and saggind and crinkling, tired after a flight of stairs. It hasn't been that long since I was young has it? I'm still young, aren't I?

It shouldn't matter. There are more important things. But it seems so sudden. I've woken up as somebody else. Maybe it is a dream. I can't have aches and pains. I can't be middle-aged already. It's happened too soon.

When did I get so old?

[Wyl Staedtler]

When We Were Young

i.

They are sixteen and immortal.

The pools in the Temple are cool against their hot skin, and it is nothing to waste a day swimming because they are young and free and when are they really going to use Galactic Cartography anyway?

Celen is standing on the edge of a waterfall, dripping water off goosebumped skin. He is tall and years of lightsabre spars and katas have made him a hard, lean line. This year he has become less of the boy he was and more of the man he will be. His face is all striking angles and broad grins which light up his eyes as he yells at his friends, do they dare him to backflip? Celen is mirth and confidence and the smell of sleeping in mixed with speeder grease. He turns silver in the air as he dives into the water to come up laughing. He thinks he could probably laugh forever.

Mekgan is at home in the water and normally would find Celen's enthusiasm vaguely tiring but can't be bothered today because really it is very warm and she isn't even thinking about skipping class. When Celen comes up she pushes him under in the way that best friends do, the way that says you big idiot and I hope you never change. Beore he can rise back up and retaliate she swims off with deft rhythm. She is quiet and reflective, quite probably having been born with patient seriousness. Mekgan is the voice of reason, except today she doesn't feel reasonable. As she looks back at her two best mates she can't explain the full feeling in her chest so instead she shouts something ridiculous and splashes water in all directions.

Oa has gotten tan from spending her days outside with the youngest in the creche and though she is not as dark as Celen she is darker than Mek so takes up her usual place as the interconnector. This year she began to change shap and now her once ruler-straight body is a gentle sloping terrain. She is not entirely sure if she likes it but because Jedi don't pay attention to that (or if they do she cannot tell) she is afforded a little dignity. Oa is everything soft and sweet like fizzyglug or just-back-from-the-laundry sheets. Sometimes she wonders how she fits in, not being like everyone else in the Temple, but then she skips class with her dearest friends (probably soulmates if she believed in that) and everything is good again. The water is nice today and though she isn't brave enough to jump off the overhangs or solitary enough to swim away for a momentary respite, she is the best underwater wrestler because she has strong legs that wrap around a body and never let go.

They are sixteen now and it is the summer of their lives.

ii.

They are twenty-one and beginning to consider, deep down in secret places, the possibility that one day they too might be vanquished.

Maybe.

Celen is on his way back home after a taxing treaty negotiation with his Master. He is very tired only he can't sleep because this awful bed is too hard and he can't seem to quiet his mind; he knows she should be able to by now and the fact that he can't and cannot stop thinking about not being able to only makes him moreagitate. He goes and makes some caf. After he drinks it he feels a little better, maybe because it is familiar. He tries to sleep again and finally settles for just lying there thoughtfully. It's been months since he's been home and the thought of the slightly cluttered, lived-in feel of his room makes him anxious to arrive. he has to bodily hold himself from getting up and asking the pilot how much longer? It's only when he turns off the light in his small quarters that he remembers Mekgan will be gone when he gest back but that there is always Oa, and her consistency is a comfort. Somehow he is able to fall asleep.

Mekgan is trying to stay awake because she still has so much to prepare before they leave in the morning. She has only read about half of the datapads her Master gave her this afternoon and though she is packed there is a feeling of forgetting something that won't go away. The chrono is telling her that it's eons past when she should have gone to bed but Mekgan sighs and pries her eyes open to finish this one last paragraph. When she is done she collapses into bed and it is so lovely she might just explode right then and there, only she gets the feeling that would hurt so she just mumbles happy words. As she is drifting away she recalls that Celen is on his way back, which is nice, and she feels a little sad that she won't seem him. It's the way of the world though adn Mekgan accepts it with her usual cool understanding. Besides, she is satisfied and fulfilled and asleep now.

It is morning and Mekgan has left, Celen won't be back for two days, and ther is no work for her in the creche so Oa is still in bed. Her father is gone and the quiet of the quarters (oh but doesn't it seem like the hwole Temple is empty?) makes her feel lonely in new places like the crease of her knee and the curls of her hair and the cavern of her navel. Everone else seems to be somewhere; not here or else here but doing something elsewhere. She can't help but be reminded again that even though this is her home she is not one of them and can't stay forever. It seems fitting then that the WeatherNet has been programed for an overcast day. Oa wants to hide under the covers but should probably get up only then what would she do? She is tempted to put on the robe that Mek forgot in her room when she came to say goodbye last night, but that would be stupid and make her feel worse. She is almost and very probably ready to roll over and most definetly not cry when the com unit beeps. She thinks it is probably for her dad so when Celen's voice rings out she is so shocked that she bursts into hystericle laughter and Celen groans, says that she should keep her crazy to herself and maybe he should turn the ship around now and save himself, yeah?

They are twenty-one and autumn passes slowly.

iii.

They are twenty-six and Death has come.

Celen tries to fight but they come so quickly and there are so many that he doesn't really stand a chance. It is strange but as he leaps and twists and blocks and lunges he thinks of cool water on a hot day very long ago. This wasn't how he expected The End to happen but he is ready and being ready makes it less real. When he finally does fall there is a smile on his face and the sensation of twisting cleanly into a perfect swan dive.

Mekgan doesn't see it coming. It is the one time when she feels, briefly, unsure and the oddness of that alone is enough to start her running. She hears rather than feels the blast and as Oa screams she thinks, ah this is it then, and falls over. She remembers this feeling of swimming away for just a moment and then not wanting to be alone. It really isn't tragic though because she isn't able to think on it for much more than a second--or maybe it is, but it doesn't matter because it's over anyways.

Oa is screaming and running, running, running but her mind is only going uh, which should be frustrating and would be if she could feel. Uh as she turns the corner and runs up stairs. Uh as she pushes into a new garden and runs, runs, runs along the top of rocks. Uh as she jumpps off the top of a small waterfall and into a cold pool below. It is appropriate then that the only time she has been brave enough to do this is now when she really isn't brave at all.

They are twenty-six and winter settles darkly.

[Wyl Staedtler]

X

At five the letter x had carried with it such promises of greatness. X marked the spot, the hidden mystery where all good intentions lay, and all treasures could be found. They spent hours, hunched together, shoulder meeting shoulder in clandestine secrecy, spilling their secrets in whispered hushes to fall upon pages of paper; they were cartographers, mapping the stones and blades of grass within the Temple walls, branding their deepest-held favorites with the revered intersecting slants.

As they weaved through years, maps outgrew them. But they still left X’s. They marked their lives with them, leaving paths to guide them back to the memory of the first time Celen won a spar, of Mek’s exhausted expression as she ignited her just-completed lightsabre for the first time, of Oa returning from her first off-world trip, dizzy and stumbling with the vastness of the universe.

And when it all changed, when it all ended, there could be no X. Some would say that the crumbled ruins of the temple were sign enough but Oa, throat burning from tears and thirst, had to turn away from the sight, lame--there could be no memorial left. No tribute, nor any map leading back to the memory of what once was.

When she arrived on Ansion, the farthest she’d ever been from home, she found solace in the fierce winds. They seemed to suggest the possibility of change, of the coming of something new and wholly unexpected. Oa did not flinch when one day a grizzled but kind-faced old woman appeared on the doorstep of her sound little hut. And when, in a voice which held the once-known experience of mapmaking within it’s cadence, she said, “We need to build a pyre.”, the old woman merely nodded as if she too held the whispered confidence of the gales.

It was slow, rhythmic work. The felling of trees took some time, though they were all of the small and wiry variety. Jolia, the old woman, had weathered, skilled hands that quickly stripped limb and bark from the trunks that Oa dragged back to her. And though neither had ever constructed such a memoir, it slowly took shape. This branch here, for the little ones. And this one for the older. A whippy pole that meant all the laughter they had shared, a straight unyielding one for the somber moments. With each passing day Oa weaved all the old maps into one great atlas of markers.

On the day they lit it, the winds blew so strongly that it took three times to start the fire going. It danced, licking the spits gently, until they grew blackened and it finally took hold. Instead of the thick, black smoke she had been expecting, a pale white trail rose and was carried away by the rushing breeze; and this was of course, how it would be. There were no bodies here, no crumbled walls, or oil-soaked cloaks to send a dark cloud sailing. And though again her throart burned from tears and thirst, Oa did not put her back to the sight; for it was clear, in the pale smoke’s curling rise, that once again an X marked the spot.

[Wyl Staedtler]

Yet There Be Memories

"It's going to be good to be home." Kardo Staedtler sighed and let his exausted, hollow frame fall onto the thin-mattressed bed in the double-quarters. One rough palm fell across his face, hiding his closed eyes from the meagre light that shone from a rusting wall panel by the door. There was near silence in the room, the only sound being the steady hum of the ship as it traversed space and brought them ever closer to the Temple.

Tucked comfortably in a welcoming chair in the corner, knees resting over one great arm and neck on the other, a young girl lay reading a datapad. At the sound of Kardo's sigh, she looked up, a gentle smile splitting her face beneath the torrents of uncombed brown hair. "Would you like the lights off, Dad?" Oa asked her father as she flipped the datapad off. Kardo gave a soft hum.

"No, love, it's fine. What are you reading?"

"Nothing interesting. Some short stories, an old spacer wrote them. They're sad." The girl crossed the room and lay down on the bed, curling up in the space against Kardo's ribs. In turn the Knight shuffled over a few inches, putting an arm around his daughter and pulling her in close, idly pulling at an end of her hair. "Thanks for letting me come, Dad."

Warm eyes looked fondly at the crown of her head, fingers moving from her hair to pat her soft cheek. "Well, it wasn't much of a trip. We'll have to come again, for fun next time, and then I'll be able to show you around a little."

"I had fun." Oa said quickly. It had been a short mission, her father escorting a diplomat home, but any moment spent with him was precious to the teenager. As she grew older and more aware of the difference between herself and the Jedi, Oa had come to understand that the time was nearing when she would have to leave the Temple--and her father--to forge her own way. The thought terrified her.

Kardo must have seen something in the lines of her creased forhead, for he pressed a kiss to her head. "You look so like your mother when you make that face. She was a worrier."

This was rare territory. Though the subject of her moether was by no means off-limits, Oa and Kardo never spoke of the woman. There had never been anything lacking in her childhood and so Oa had never developed even a natural curiousity about the woman. For his part, her father seemed content to leave it up to her to decide when and what she wanted to discuss. Now, listening to the deep breaths of her tired patriarch, Oa found herself coming to the obvious and yet startling realization that this wasn't just her father but a man.

The girl blanched and turned over, studying her father's close-eyed face carefully. He had travelled to places she'd never heard of, long before she was born, met people and done things she couldn't imagine. There were thoughts and feelings and memories inside of him that belonged soley to the Jedi. Oa wondered what he saw when he closed his eyes.

"Dad," She waited for him to crack an eyelid. "What was she like? Mum?"

Kardo was silent for a long moment, shifting ever so slightly as Oa's weight numbed his arm. It had been so long ago...

"The first time I met your mother, she asked me if I'd brought the moon and stars..."

*

"Jy is 'n vreemd man. Doen u bring vsa maan en sterre, vreemdeling?"

If there was any justice in the galaxy to be had, it would have ensured that after the morning that had just passed, Kardo Staedtler would be allowed the simple luxury of a bath and a very large mug of something strong and alcoholic. Each muscle ached, he had scratches across every exposed surface of skin, there were brambles lodged in places brambles had no business being, and his cloak was torn, badly. If he had not been a Jedi Knight, and used to such discomfort, Kardo would have turned tail and left the backwater world that very second. Instead, he turned to face the trailing crowd of grinning villagers, seeking out the source of the jesting voice.

"jammer, kan jy sê dat stadiger?" He felt the neccesary language leave his tongue like hard-won comfort. Even now, six weeks later, and he still had to ask them to slow down. It was one of the more frustrating aspects of staying in the little village, just shy of the border where a nasty civil war was in progress.

What Kardo longed for was duracrete, steel, the sharp stinging taste of metal and fumes on his tongue and the cool calm of the Temple corridors. Not this humid, thatched village, a thousand years grounded in the middle of the jungle with it's heat and constant thirst that were as alien to him as he was to the locals. Even the Force was different here, somehow heavier, and it left him drained at the end of each day. The last thing he wanted was to stumble his way through a conversation which focused on his obvious lack skill in the sport of spear-hunting.

"wat het u gebring vsa,groot Jedi jagter?" What have you brought us, great Jedi hunter?". Amusing. Kardo eyed the woman in front of him. Everything about her was tiny, from her narrow-jawed face down to her reed-wispy ankles. Her dark hair hair was wild and tangled, hung down her back in long curls, and her eyes were the same dark hue of the rest of the natives. A cheeky grin was on her lips, goading him gently. Kardo spread his hands, emphasizing their emptiness. A twitter of laughter scattered amongst the crownd. The woman before him smiled broader.

"I am no competition for your chief. He is bekwaam leier, very good." There were a few nods, though it was clear that they had understood exactly two words that he'd said. Kardo's attention was focused on the petite girl still; she was a fine hunter, if skinned knees and dirty elbows could speak of skill. Stepping forward, he offered his hand. "Kardo."

The woman eyed his outstretched limb, then turned a curious look to his face. It was his turn to grin. "Wat is jou naam? What is your name?"

A delighted expression crossed the girls sun-weathered face. "My naam is Ao."

"Ao?" He let his tongue practice grapple the sound. Ao nodded. "Ao, that's very pretty. Daardie is mooi." Another young woman, standing beside Ao, giggled and nudged her. Kardo chuckled softly as Ao giggled back at her companion. He did not speak the language, it was true, but he could guess what the source of their girlish secrets was.

"Ao, I have no made no kill. Geen vermoor." He repeated. "But I didn't really come here to hunt. I came here to keep peace. Vrede." The little crowd had slowly disbanded, for there were suppers to prepare and chores to be done. There was only Ao and three or four other young woman, obviously friends, left with him. Kardo waited, unsure if he'd said the wrong word, but then Ao nodded and gave him a smile with her deep, warm eyes.

"Ja."

He nodded kindly and turned, ready at last to go and rest in his little shack at the edge of the village. As he reached the crest of the hill, Kardo heard his name called in heavily-accented speech. The tall, broad-chested Knight turned, lifting a hand to cast a shield against the setting sun, to look at Oa, her wild hair catching the light and creating a halo around her face. She laughed merrily, walking backwards as she yelled in her sing-song voice,

"Ek sou gehou het van sterre!"

*

"...I would have liked stars." Kardo chuckled and wrapped a length of Oa's hair around his thick index finger. "That was just before I left."

"And when you went back, was it different between you?" Oa was scarcely breathing, for fear of ruining her father's trance-like expression. Kardo shook his head sadly, and turned his infinate blue gaze down at the fifteen-year-old.

"She had died by the time I went back. I only returned to retrieve you, love."

"But--" Oa sat up and stared at her father, who's face was a study in patient sorrow. "I always though that... well, I thought that you two--"

Kardo placed a warm hand on her arm. "You thought it was a great affair, yes? That I defied the Council, left the Order for love, and then returned broken after her death?" Oa blushed, then nodded. The man shook his head softly. "No, love. No, she teased me once and helped me to learn the language. She was kind, and funny, and beautiful, and I loved her. But it couldn't work, for either of us. We both knew that."

A sort of wheedling in the pit of her stomach made Oa turn away, a sense of being on the edge of something that she almost-but-not-quite understood. Her father pressed a hand to the small of her back and she found that it was possible to feel words in the pressure of skin against skin. "Dad?"

"Mm?"

Oa lay back down and curled against the sloping curve of his ribcage. The safe clasp of his arms encircled her, and she pressed a cheek against his shoulder, the cleft of the bone a welcome pressure. "Nothing."

They lay in silence then, breathing in the quiet mist of stories told, the knowledge that there were sentiments left unsaid (and that things were better for it) heavy between them, as the hum of the ship gently carried them home.

[Wyl Staedtler]

Zeitgeist

Loss has a taste, she discovers - tinny and repellent at the back of her tongue. She curls the fingers of one hand around the slick-smooth railing of the pedwalk, steadying herself against the bustle and pitch of noon crowds. Even the walkway seems almost irritable, as if there's an animate force beneath the pounding of footsteps, disgusted to find itself complicit in carrying a gaggle of pedestrians towards the finishing of Most Important Errands.

Children have already begun to whisper stories about the wreckage - created myths and legends about the ruins that smolder and litter the ground like weeping, grasping bones. Oa hears the whispers as they pass the site, marked now for Imperial development - Ghosts and spirits there, the souls of the dead. Dare you to get closer. They scatter when they notice her observance, fearful that she is some authority come to deal them a similar fate. Or worse: that she too is a ghost.

Left alone, she finds herself begrudgingly grateful that even the young recognize lost greatness and nobility, even if they do not grasp the meaning of the Force. There is comfort in their superstitious deference – they will walk kilometers out of their way to avoid the fallen temple, lest some lingering power seek atonement from their souls. She is the only figure to stand amongst the ash-ground stone and splintered glass.

The silence presses into the gloom of half-past evening and Oa grimaces at the shamble of a once-known home, at the inconvenience—unfairness—of submitting to this ridiculous means of conveyance. She shifts her feet, unearthing a cred-sized shred of familiar brown cloth, seized by a piercing hatred for the impotence of her bruised conviction, for the disdain that's the best she can muster in the midst of such extinction. She searches for the fury that consumed her in the first years after the deaths, when she'd roared with the vastness of it all and heard the anguished whispers of those cut down beneath every waking breath. But what anger she felt has dissipated into disquiet. The Jedi are dead, their name unspoken, and all in the whisper of a blink.

Oa glances at a smudged shard of metal to catch a glimpse of herself, hoping to find some answer in the creases of her screwed eyes. But beneath the twilight’s canopy of silvered clouds the steel reflects nothing but slate-grey sky. She looks to the horizon, blackened by speeder silhouettes, and welcomes the repulsive taste of electric-burnt dust underneath her tongue.

Things have, she realizes with sickening resignation, come unmoored.