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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Summary: Anakin Skywalker was a miniature sun in the Force; Obi-Wan could understand why Qui-Gon was enamored. But this? Intending to take the boy as his apprentice, while Obi-Wan was standing right next to him? The shame that burned red on his cheeks was a familiar friend. He felt it countless times growing up beside Qui-Gon, a master too good for him and the rage he carried.
(Or: Obi-Wan finally gets tired of being nothing but a burden when he has given everything he has to give. He’s setting Qui-Gon free.)
Summary: Dooku and Obi-Wan meet for the first time. Adi Gallia attends a council meeting to address the Kenobi issue, during which Yoda is painfully silent. In between preparations on Naboo, Plo poses another question to Anakin and has a realization of his own.
Hi Nerdy! I came across your ADORABLE "Beautiful Sight (Aragorn X Shy!Reader)" fanfic (and others!) the other day and wondered if you'd be able to help me, please?
I lost the below fanfic almost 2 years ago after a device deleted my backups and have been searching for a copy of it ever since. 🥲
We seem to have similar tastes in fanfics so I wondered if you might recognise it, please?
PLOT INFO:
It's a Aragorn x OFC, "Modern Girl In Middle Earth" fic, and she joins the Fellowship in their quest to destroy the Ring.
When Gandalf and Pippin go to Gondor, she goes with them and during her time in the city, she remains hidden away in a dark pub in the lower levels of Gondor to keep her safe from Denethor and to help reduce the number of deaths in the upcoming battle at Pelenor Fields. She's given the title of Seer earlier than Gondor because of her knowledge of what's going to happen, so they take her words about the upcoming battle and imminent return of the King (Aragorn) seriously.
If I remember correctly, Prince Imrahil helps and she becomes friends with his daughter. (I've read a couple of these, so I'm 50/50 on that last bit.)
After the battle, she is shown to a bath and a seamstress gifts her with new leather armour after seeing how damaged and worm her current ones are.
She also helps a healer who has come from Rohan with the ill of the city after the battle - a man who is tired and has a grey pallor - they use belladonna or a similar poisonous plant to help him and the writer makes note that it is also used as the base of heart/asthma medication, with the OC mentioning she has a background in pharmacology in this scene. (I particularly remember the bit about pharmacology being in there because it made made me start looking at degrees. Lol.)
The story ends with the OFC and Aragorn marrying after the final battle. 🥰
------
Thanks for taking the time to read this! I really appreciate it.
Rise. ❤️
Hello hello!! Did a quick search with Ao3's filters- is it perhaps The Fates Decided series by PadmaTheQ? I don't remember the pharmacology stuff, but it sounds pretty similar and I remember the first part being very very good!! The second part set in the Hobbit isn't quite done yet though- lmk if this isn't it, I hope it is though!
Summary: Once upon a time, Caleb Dume and Boba Fett were child soldiers on opposite sides of a war. They couldn’t be friends, but they tried their best anyway. Today, Kanan Jarrus sees the Slave One in the hangar and his heart drops, knowing all too well that the greatest bounty hunter in the galaxy won’t pass up a bounty as high as Ezra & Sabine’s.
Warnings: Canonical character death, canon-typical violence, references to Order 66, references to watching a parent be killed, hurt/no comfort, open/ambiguous ending
Word Count: 3,665
Author's Note: There’s a lot of yapping and not a lot of action in this one. The title is from “A Valentine,” a poem by Priscilla Jane Thompson, which is very appropriate for the timing of this one too!! Happy belated Valentine’s Day! Have some angst you little freaks. This can be read as romantic or platonic, but the romantic aspect is more of like a past puppy love crush kind of vibe if that makes sense.
*
“It’s nice to not have to worry about the Empire,” Zeb said, jinxing them.
Hera rolled her eyes all too knowingly. “Keep an eye out for bounty hunters, big guy. We can’t let ourselves get too cocky.”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
The Twi’lek captain skirted around the Lasat to get into the cockpit, where her Human co-pilot was glued to the map. He’d been there since they landed—well, since they had seen Sabine and Ezra off.
“Kanan,” she said. He didn’t even flinch. “Kanan.”
He hummed, acknowledging her but not looking up.
She put a hand on his shoulder, finally making him jolt. “Kanan,” she said again, “you should get some fresh air while we’re grounded.”
He squinted up at her, brown eyes doubtful. “I’m fine. We got plenty of air on Lothal.”
“We did. You’ve been cooped up in here for days. This planet is fairly Empire-neutral,” she reminded. “Go sit on the landing ramp or something, dear. You’re starting to look like a stormtrooper.”
“Stupid?”
“White.”
Well, he couldn’t argue with that, and that was the way Hera liked it. Kanan squeaked out five more minutes of studying hyperlane routes before he was unceremoniously kicked out of the Ghost. Instead, he crouched on the loading ramp like an absolute creature, watching strangers cross the hangar back and forth. Zeb was partially right in that they didn’t have to worry about the Empire on this planet; they didn’t have an Imperial Academy and they weren’t strictly ruled by an Imperial figurehead, but their representative was in frequent contact with one. Stormtroopers were really only stationed in their big settlements, not little backwaters like this one.
Still, Kanan couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Maybe that was his PTSD. In his defense, it wasn’t paranoia if they were out to get you, and there were multiple standing bounties out on the members of the Ghost crew.
He let his gaze move from the passersby to the ships docked in the hangar. On this desolate rock, most of them were old models. The couple of new ones had strong security and wary eyes on them. Kanan wasn’t looking for a heist and no bounty hunter would run around in a sparklingly clean ship if they were any good, so he moved on. He saw a Flarestar, a couple light freighters that were helping the Ghost blend in, a Firespray, a Corellian corvette that desperately needed a paint job, a high-atmosphere—wait.
Kanan nearly snapped his neck looking back at the Firespray.
Stupid, he thought as he scrambled to his feet to get a better look at it. It wasn’t like Firesprays were a common class of ship; he’d only ever seen one in his lifetime. He’d read up on the model, too, and knew full well that prototype ships created for a singular prison moon didn’t tend to go far from home. And this model?
“Hera! Send a beacon to the kids, get them back here!” he shouted over his shoulder.
Zeb appeared, a furry hand on his bo-rifle. “What is it? Imperials?”
“Get the ship ready to go, now,” he snapped, tugging his pauldron on. “I’m going after Ezra and Sabine. Boba Fett is here.”
Hera slammed on the emergency beacon, which would notify Sabine and Ezra. “Tracking them on your comm! Do we have eyes on Fett?”
“Only the ship—Zeb, stay on that Firespray! I’m going after them.”
“Maybe he hasn’t seen them,” Hera suggested, voice tight.
Kanan clenched his jaw as he rushed back down the loading ramp. Sure, the chances that Fett was keeping an eye on every Imperial bounty were slim, but the payout on them and the kids was too high to think he hadn’t seen theirs. He was gone before Zeb could answer Hera, eyes glued to the blinking signal on his comm. The two youngest Spectres were instructed not to go far, just to look around the market, grab some food and fuel, and keep a low profile. Well, as low a profile as a bright purple Mandalorian and her blue-haired gremlin brother could.
Kanan wanted to kick himself. One of them should’ve gone with, he thought. How could he have missed the Firespray? Better yet, how did he miss another Mandalorian helmet?
Thankfully, he didn’t catch much attention as he sprinted through the marketplace, streets tight and enclosed. Around him, the dusty orange stone felt as though it was closing further in on him.
He turned a corner into an alleyway, a place that was a little too quiet and—there. Of course.
Sabine and Ezra were cornered, towered over by that ancient Mandalorian armor in scuffed green paint. Well, he wasn’t that much taller than them, but his jetpack and the blaster he held at Ezra’s head made him a looming presence.
Before Fett could assess the newly arrived threat, Kanan lit his saber and held it to the back of his head, right where the helmet revealed the nape of his neck.
“Hands off, Fett,” he said, willing his voice not to shake, “before I make losing your head a family tradition.”
The man in question stilled, all too familiar with the hiss and crackle of a lightsaber. Before him, barely in Kanan’s sight, Ezra and Sabine shared wide-eyed looks. Kanan motioned with his head. Understandably, they hesitated, but when Fett lowered his blaster they rushed to their guardian’s side, crowding behind him and the lightsaber he wielded like a shield.
Slowly, carefully projecting his movements, Fett turned to face them.
Boba used to be an expressive kid. He wasn’t good at hiding his emotions in the Force, much less on his face. If he thought Kanan was doing something stupid, he made it clear with the scrunch of his nose and his loudly voiced complaints.
Now, Kanan stared into the cold beskar helmet that belonged to Jango Fett and wondered if he still made the same face.
Fett tilted his head ever so slightly.
“Dume,” he said, confirming Kanan’s worst fears. His voice was unrecognizable with the vocoder. He didn’t quite sound like Grey in there, though he must have looked just like them now. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
They could duke it out here. Between Kanan’s lightsaber and Boba’s jetpack, the victor was a toss-up.
He tensed when he felt the bounty hunter’s gaze move back to the charges at his shoulder.
“Bounty’s high,” he remarked plainly. “High enough for people to tangle with Jedi, even untrained baby ones.”
Ezra bristled, but remained silent with a nudge from Kanan.
“Chopper,” Kanan said into his comm, “if we’re not back in five minutes, blow the Firespray in the hangar.”
He didn’t catch a response, if the droid gave one at all, but he had no doubt it was a delighted confirmation.
“That’s cold, cabur’ika.”
The endearment was stilted and unpracticed and sat in Kanan’s stomach like a stone. Clearly, Boba hadn’t spoken much Mando’a since the man who taught him died. Kanan barely remembered the meaning; he hadn’t spoken much either since the ones who taught him made him an orphan. Behind him, Sabine tensed.
“You must’ve been glad,” Boba continued, “that I killed Ponds before he could break old Windu’s ice-cold heart.”
It took everything in him to remain still. He wanted to take this man, this stranger, by the shoulders and shake him. Better yet, he wanted to scream and cry and drag answers out of him.
Did you know? Kanan thought. Did you know what they were going to do to me?
“Kanan,” Sabine whispered, “four minutes.”
“Go. I’ll be right behind you.”
Ezra hissed like the feral lothcat he was. “Kanan!”
“Go,” he ordered.
They scrambled away, Sabine dragging her brother back through the marketplace. They would make it in time to tell Chopper not to blow up the Firespray, but if they didn’t see Kanan safely in the hangar, he doubted they would. Maybe it would be cruel to take out the ship, the only thing Boba had left of his father other than his armor and his face. Maybe he didn’t care.
Did Boba see his father when he looked in the mirror? Or did he see the brothers he didn’t claim? Had he even thought about Ponds before now, before using him to taunt Kanan?
Absently, he wondered if he’d kept growing his hair out, if there was still a mop of untamed curls under that helmet.
Boba still didn’t move; Kanan almost wished he would.
No matter his memories of a still-growing boy, Kanan knew that Boba had followed his dream and his father’s footsteps. He was just like Jango in every way. How many Jedi had he killed with the hands he’d steadied Caleb with? Had he beaten his father’s record? When he heard of his brothers’ slaughter, did he smile? Did he celebrate the slaughter of his enemies? Did he grieve for the loss of life, too great to gloat over? Or maybe he’d only grieved Caleb, his friend. Had they been friends?
With a woomf, Kanan shut off his blade and hung it back on his belt.
Like most of his childhood, the memories he had of the boy Boba had once been didn’t matter anymore. He was staring at a bounty hunter, an enemy, a threat to his people, and this time there was no room for mercy, no pity for a grieving orphan. Kanan wasn’t just a Jedi anymore. He was a survivor. And more importantly, he was a guardian.
“You point a blaster at them again, you’re dead,” he promised. “I don’t care what’s under that helmet.”
He didn’t give the other man a chance to respond. Maybe it was out of fear or maybe it was his survival instincts finally kicking in.
And maybe Boba’s lack of reaction was one of those, too.
Kanan made it, unhindered, to the Ghost with a minute left on the timer. The kids were all shouting, Zeb on the guns and Hera in the pilot’s chair. Skirting them all, he threw himself down in the co-pilot seat and slammed his hand on the navicom.
“Get us out of here, Hera,” he rasped.
“Kanan!” cried Zeb. “Am I taking out the Firespray?”
He didn’t answer, his tongue lead in his mouth. His hands shook now that the adrenaline high was in full force.
Beside him, Hera’s gaze was wide and searching. “Kanan?”
Vaguely nauseous, he shook his head. Of course, she didn’t need any other indication and put the pedal to the metal. “Hold your fire, Zeb! I’m getting us off this dustball!”
Kanan stared at his hands, calloused and scarred and so different from 10 years ago.
Why had he hesitated? Why had Boba given up his opportunity to strike?
He’d held a blaster to Ezra’s head.
Why did he hesitate?
~
Easy money.
That’s what Boba figured when he spotted neon beskar’gam and blue hair. He could name the 50 highest Imperial bounties off the top of his head and the rebel cell coming out of Lothal made up a good handful of them. What they were doing all the way out here wasn’t his business—just his good luck. Better yet, the young Mandalorian and the baby Jedi were by themselves. A perfect opportunity for him to set a trap for the rest.
The teenagers weren’t paying attention to anything around them, arguing over something petty. When the Mandalorian turned her back on her companion, Boba swept in and tapped his blaster against the kid’s head, keeping him from moving.
The Mandalorian whirled around, having seen his movement out of the corner of her eye, but she was too late.
“Don’t move. Or the kid gets it,” Boba hissed.
She froze. “Ezra?”
“I’m good,” Ezra said. “I mean, other than the blaster. Totally good.”
Boba took stock of all the weapons they carried, especially the monstrosity that the baby Jedi had on his belt. He would have written it off as a blaster if he didn’t know better. The ugly cross between a saber and a blaster would have his father rolling over in his grave if he had one.
“Oh shit,” the Mandalorian breathed out, her spine straightening.
“What? What’s worse than a blaster at my head, Sabine?”
Sabine, apparently, didn’t look away from him. “Boba Fett.”
“Boba Fett?” he squeaked.
He couldn’t help smiling a little under his helmet. It always brought a warmth to his chest to be recognized by reputation alone. How many bounty hunters were well known enough to summon such fear? Such hesitation? Especially in a born and bred Mandalorian. If only Jango could see him now, he thought, and the legacy he’d wrought.
“You’ve got a pretty price on your heads, but I hear it’s a package deal,” he drawled. “Where’s your master, Jetii?”
Snap-hiss
As the hairs on the back of his neck rose, they were met with the sweltering heat of plasma.
That sound.
Fuck.
He’d never forget that sound.
“Hands off, Fett, before I make losing your head a family tradition.”
Boba saw red. Even as he lowered the blaster, letting the kids rush to their rescuer, a vicious, clawing thing rose in his chest. Rage, rage, rage, he realized as it pushed against the back of his throat, willing him to scream and fling himself at the Jedi bastard. He was better now, though, better than that feral child that had thrown himself into revenge without a plan or even a thought. His thoughts were carefully shielded behind beskar and his own mental shields, built after years of cooperation with Vader, of all people. To the average Force-sensitive, he’d made certain his presence would be as cold and unyielding as his father’s helm. Silent.
Slowly, projecting his movements so the Jedi wouldn’t do something rash, Boba turned. He’d always been too curious for his own good.
He had to admit, the blurry images that came with the Spectre bounties had been tantalizing in their mystery. Dark hair and a bright blue lightsaber. Lanky limbs and an ugly as shit bird symbol that looked a little too close to Death Watch’s shriekhawk for Boba to be comfortable with it. He’d been curious. Never curious enough to go on a hunt, but definitely to keep an eye out.
Now, setting his gaze on the Jedi in question’s face, he wishes he’d never looked.
Those eyes.
Fuck.
He’d never forget those eyes.
“Dume.” It slipped out before he could stop it, but at least he didn’t do something dumber like call him by his first name. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
I thought you were dead, he wanted to scream. I thought your pet clones slaughtered you in your sleep and I felt guilty about it. And yet there he was. Bastard.
Caleb was unrecognizable now. His skin was darker, his build slimmer—probably from malnourishment. The grip he had on his saber was unnatural, unfamiliar. Sith hells, the only thing even slightly similar to the boy Boba had known was the way he stood in front of his charges like a human shield. They didn’t cower behind him, far from it, but he sought to cover every inch of them with his fragile body like they mattered more than he did. Like they were his troopers.
Boba’s gaze slid back to the teenagers he protected. To the baby Jedi. He couldn’t have been old enough to be a real Jedi.
What had possessed Dume to pass on a legacy of death and despair? Right under the eyes of the Empire?
(He didn’t let himself linger on the weight of his beskar’gam, the names built into its data like ancient carvings. “We’re a dying breed, ad’ika,” his father had said. Jaster’s legacy. Boba had never gotten the chance to be a True Mandalorian, but then neither had Jango, not really. They were all dead, but he’d still recited the tenants to Boba like they’d meant something. Like he’d do something with them one day, something other than carry its corpse.)
“Bounty’s high,” he said, voice as plain as he could manage. “High enough for people to tangle with Jedi, even untrained baby ones.”
High enough for me, he left unsaid. And he had experience with trained Jedi.
They could fight here. Boba knew he would win, too, even if he took a beating. Jedi didn’t kill, wouldn’t maim, especially not Caleb Dume. All he had to do was feint target the kids before getting his hands around their guardian’s throat.
It was a little funny, some hysterical part of him considered, that Jango’s bane would come to teach his own. If they got into it here. If he underestimated Dume.
Caleb lifted his comm to his lips with his free hand. “Chopper, if we’re not back in five minutes, blow the Firespray in the hangar.”
The threat itched at him. It would be a pain in the ass to rebuild the ship, but he’d done it a thousand times now. Last time, the Slave One had been nothing more than dust. He’d shoved his father’s ship back together from nothing but spare parts and spite. But he doubted that Dume knew that. Was he trying to be callous, trying to hit him where it hurt?
Boba dragged his eyes back up to Dume, searching for any tells. When they were boys, he’d never even tried to mimic the serene neutrality of his betters, Windu or Yoda. No, he’d been a storm of wild emotions and blatant expressions, his eyebrows flying up his face before he could think to control them. In the cinch of them now, he thought he could see determination. Grit. Desperation. But nothing to give away more than he should. If anyone else looked at him, they’d get the same read as Boba. Why did it hurt to think he didn’t know more than a stranger about him? He was a stranger. He’d made every effort to become one, even before…
“That’s cold, cabur’ika.”
Damn. He hadn’t meant to say it.
It didn’t look like it mattered much, though. Dume didn’t flinch. Maybe he didn’t remember what it meant anymore, even if it still fit him perfectly. Behind him, the little Mandalorian tensed.
Huh. His kids didn’t know their history.
Obviously they didn’t, he told himself. It didn’t matter. It was a lifetime ago.
Anger flared again, deep in his chest. “You must’ve been glad that I killed Ponds before he could break old Windu’s ice-cold heart,” he goaded, voice sharp and hissing. He swallowed further accusations, bitter things he didn’t realize he’d carried all these years.
Had Caleb even thought about Ponds since that day? Had Commander Dume stared at the casualty list for the mission and wondered which trooper CC-6454 had been?
All the while, Ponds haunted Boba’s dreams, the very image of the brothers that had never (always) been his. That face, so familiar and strange and twisted in pity, maybe care. It was a blessing and a curse. His father’s face was across the galaxy a million times over, but he’d never truly see it again. All he saw when he looked into the mirror was a pitiful echo of the man Jango Fett was, the man Boba could have been.
“Kanan,” the little Mandalorian whispered.
Kanan. That’s who he was now, this stranger that held Boba’s life in his hands. Caleb Dume had died with the Jedi—and good riddance! They were a stain on the galaxy, every one of them, and he was doing it a favor taking their bounties.
The kids left. Boba didn’t watch them leave, his vision fuzzing out at the edges. All he could see was the liar, the stranger, the bastard. The man who stared through him like he was nothing when once he’d looked at him like he hung the stars in the sky.
Kanan flicked off his lightsaber. Boba didn’t flinch at the noise—he couldn’t remember hearing one shut off before. He did move towards his blaster, but not before the saber was back on the other man’s belt.
He was either stupid or overconfident. Or both.
Boba bared his teeth. His pity. That was the worst part of him and his stupid Jedi habits, even back then. He didn’t want pity, especially from the people who’d taken everything from him. This disgusting mockery of a Jedi even looked like Windu when he peered down his nose at Boba, seeing only an image of his father, a reflection of a poor orphan. A victim of circumstance instead of the bloody hands of the Senate’s attack dogs.
He’d won. He didn’t need pity.
“You point a blaster at them again, you’re dead,” Kanan said. “I don’t care what’s under that helmet.”
It hit him like a bolt to the chest. Was this pity for the clones? For the face he shared with people Kanan once loved? He’d sworn once that Jedi cared more for the soul past their skin, that him being a clone never mattered. It wasn’t supposed to. Not to Jango, not to Caleb.
I should move now, Boba thought. I should take him. Easy money.
He didn’t. He didn’t even follow Kanan around the corner, and didn't watch him leave. Later, he’d tell himself it was shock. Or maybe even knowing he was out-gunned.
Even later, though, he’d decide that he was paying a debt.
(“Commander Dume made a very convincing case for you, you know. Wrote a statement and everything. He and General Windu are probably the only reason you got such a short sentence. Consider yourself lucky, vod’ika.”
“Don’t call me that!”)
That’s all it was. He was paying a debt—and it was just a head start.
Back in the cockpit of the Slave One, Boba stared down at the navicomputer. He watched the blinking red dot leave the system like a space bat out of Sith hell.
Just a head start, he promised himself. They wouldn’t get far.
*
Mando'a Translations: cabur'ika - little guardian/protector, vod'ika - little brother
AN: No, I don’t have plans or ideas for a part two rn but also the hamster in my brain is unpredictable so who knows?
In my brain this AU started with the Clone Wars episode where Boba tries really hard to kill Mace. I'd say in this universe, Caleb got apprenticed to Depa sooner and was with her when she briefly fell to the dark side instead of meeting her while she was in recovery. Mace took over his training while she was healing, so he was with him when that whole episode happened and kind of accidentally befriended Boba, who was undercover. Anyway, that's all I got, hope y'all enjoyed!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Summary: Anakin Skywalker was a miniature sun in the Force; Obi-Wan could understand why Qui-Gon was enamored. But this? Intending to take the boy as his apprentice, while Obi-Wan was standing right next to him? The shame that burned red on his cheeks was a familiar friend. He felt it countless times growing up beside Qui-Gon, a master too good for him and the rage he carried.
(Or: Obi-Wan finally gets tired of being nothing but a burden when he has given everything he has to give. He’s setting Qui-Gon free.)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Summary: Anakin Skywalker was a miniature sun in the Force; Obi-Wan could understand why Qui-Gon was enamored. But this? Intending to take the boy as his apprentice, while Obi-Wan was standing right next to him? The shame that burned red on his cheeks was a familiar friend. He felt it countless times growing up beside Qui-Gon, a master too good for him and the rage he carried.
(Or: Obi-Wan finally gets tired of being nothing but a burden when he has given everything he has to give. He’s setting Qui-Gon free.)
Summary: Master Koon bonds with his new charges on the way to Naboo, very subtly teaching Anakin the ways of the Jedi. Dooku calls Nico, resulting in much bitching. Feemor and Obi-Wan bond in the depths of the archives, and the former is quickly discovering how well they get along.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Summary: Anakin Skywalker was a miniature sun in the Force; Obi-Wan could understand why Qui-Gon was enamored. But this? Intending to take the boy as his apprentice, while Obi-Wan was standing right next to him? The shame that burned red on his cheeks was a familiar friend. He felt it countless times growing up beside Qui-Gon, a master too good for him and the rage he carried.
(Or: Obi-Wan finally gets tired of being nothing but a burden when he has given everything he has to give. He’s setting Qui-Gon free.)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Summary: Anakin Skywalker was a miniature sun in the Force; Obi-Wan could understand why Qui-Gon was enamored. But this? Intending to take the boy as his apprentice, while Obi-Wan was standing right next to him? The shame that burned red on his cheeks was a familiar friend. He felt it countless times growing up beside Qui-Gon, a master too good for him and the rage he carried.
(Or: Obi-Wan finally gets tired of being nothing but a burden when he has given everything he has to give. He’s setting Qui-Gon free.)
And pray our embrace is not a history repeating itself
AO3
Summary: Thanks to Prauf, Cal is able to escape Bracca sooner than he’d expected. Better yet, he’s able to connect with an undercover Imperial by the name of Tala, who offers to smuggle him to yet another stranger who will bring him to a sanctuary for Force-sensitives. Funnily enough, the teenager recognises this stranger.
Warnings: mentions of Knightfall, implied past character death (canonical), grief, loss of a parental figure, loss of a child/apprentice, persecution, canon-typical violence, minor Kenobi spoilers! (a featured character, planet, and some worldbuilding but nothing really plot-wise)
Author’s Note: I am back on my bullshit! This is entirely the fault of Kenobi and also Wolf who is enabling me as much as I am enabling them. Sob. Anyway, come join me in my Aayla being Cal’s Master agenda. The title is from ‘When Puffy says, and we won’t stop, ‘cause we can’t stop’ by Rasheed Copeland.
*
Admittedly, Mapuzo wasn’t much of an improvement from Bracca. Sure, there weren’t collapsing shipwrecks practically drowning the planet’s surface, but it was practically a desert planet considering what the Empire had done to it. And Cal Kestis? He couldn’t stand desert planets.
His heat tolerance was next to none and his skin was paler than an albino bantha, so it sunburnt like no Jawa’s business. Naturally, desert planets didn’t agree with him.
Mapuzo was temporary, though, as he frequently reminded himself. Everywhere was temporary for a Jedi nowadays. Even Bracca.
“You deserve more than this junkpile, Cal!”
Sitting in a rotting transport vehicle, much like the one he and Prauf took every day back on the scavenger planet, Cal couldn’t help but think of his friend. He wondered how he was doing.
Prauf had insisted on sharing his meagre earnings with Cal from the first day they met, when Cal was even more babyfaced and freshly traumatised by the slaughter of his people. After he found out who he was a few months ago, though? There was no arguing with him after that, no slipping credits back into his jacket pockets. Prauf practically shoved him into the transport off Bracca, begging him to follow this safe, underground path for fugitive Force-sensitives.
He would never admit it, but it was nice to be cared for again.
This fic was so good!!! I had to look up some characters but the whole concept that Cal leaves Bracca earlier is intriguing. Do you maybe plan on expanding this story? If yes, can you tag me please? And if not, I’m just happy that I found this story ✨
And pray our embrace is not a history repeating itself
AO3
Summary: Thanks to Prauf, Cal is able to escape Bracca sooner than he’d expected. Better yet, he’s able to connect with an undercover Imperial by the name of Tala, who offers to smuggle him to yet another stranger who will bring him to a sanctuary for Force-sensitives. Funnily enough, the teenager recognises this stranger.
Warnings: mentions of Knightfall, implied past character death (canonical), grief, loss of a parental figure, loss of a child/apprentice, persecution, canon-typical violence, minor Kenobi spoilers! (a featured character, planet, and some worldbuilding but nothing really plot-wise)
Author’s Note: I am back on my bullshit! This is entirely the fault of Kenobi and also Wolf who is enabling me as much as I am enabling them. Sob. Anyway, come join me in my Aayla being Cal’s Master agenda. The title is from ‘When Puffy says, and we won’t stop, ‘cause we can’t stop’ by Rasheed Copeland.
*
Admittedly, Mapuzo wasn’t much of an improvement from Bracca. Sure, there weren’t collapsing shipwrecks practically drowning the planet’s surface, but it was practically a desert planet considering what the Empire had done to it. And Cal Kestis? He couldn’t stand desert planets.
His heat tolerance was next to none and his skin was paler than an albino bantha, so it sunburnt like no Jawa’s business. Naturally, desert planets didn’t agree with him.
Mapuzo was temporary, though, as he frequently reminded himself. Everywhere was temporary for a Jedi nowadays. Even Bracca.
“You deserve more than this junkpile, Cal!”
Sitting in a rotting transport vehicle, much like the one he and Prauf took every day back on the scavenger planet, Cal couldn’t help but think of his friend. He wondered how he was doing.
Prauf had insisted on sharing his meagre earnings with Cal from the first day they met, when Cal was even more babyfaced and freshly traumatised by the slaughter of his people. After he found out who he was a few months ago, though? There was no arguing with him after that, no slipping credits back into his jacket pockets. Prauf practically shoved him into the transport off Bracca, begging him to follow this safe, underground path for fugitive Force-sensitives.
He would never admit it, but it was nice to be cared for again.
Master Aayla would have liked him, Cal thought.
“We’re here.”
The boy was snapped from his thoughts by the gentle voice. Coming back into focus, he realised all the other passengers were beginning to stand and exit the transport. As he moved to join them, the woman beside him held out his bag.
“Stay close to me,” Tala warned.
With a sharp nod, he took his belongings and followed her off the transport.
He hadn’t travelled since before the Fall, and it showed. Every step he took was one of uncertainty. His eyes never stayed in one place, flying to and fro in an effort to spot everything that moved. He looked tenser than a tooka stuck in a tree, ready to pounce at anyone who got too close. Tala had told him to try and ease up on Bracca, but he couldn’t.
The last time he eased up, his Master died.
The last time he relaxed, Bly tried to kill him.
“This way,” Tala murmured as they split from the crowd of travellers. “Keep your head down.”
As if she had to say so. His robe, one of the few things he kept alongside his and his Master’s lightsabers, was already tugged up over his head. The shock of red hair on his head wasn’t exactly subtle. He was used to hiding it, as it was too easily recognizable.
Tala brought him to a safehouse. It looked like a typical building, but Cal knew better. He could recognise safehouses and underground outposts like the back of his hand. That was, unfortunately, something he got from the war, not from Bracca. There weren’t any sanctuaries on Bracca, except the one in Prauf’s apartment.
Inside the safehouse, a loader droid closed the door behind them.
“Hello,” Cal greeted.
The loader droid waved, at which point Tala cleared her throat. “NED-B isn’t capable of vocalising, but he’s been very helpful here. The contact should have arrived already. NED?”
NED nodded, then pointed towards the back of the safehouse.
Despite the certainty with which he’d left Prauf and Bracca behind, Cal felt something lodge in his throat. Tala was fine. She was nice, even. But now he was to be handed off to someone who specifically “handled Force-sensitives,” as he’d been told. Specifically younglings. He was not a youngling. 15 standard was practically an adult.
Before Tala could take a step towards the backroom, Cal grabbed her sleeve. Thankfully, she paused, eyeing him curiously.
“Do you trust them?” he asked quietly.
Tala frowned. “I do. But I think you would trust him more than I do. Most of the other Jedi that have come through here did.”
Force, everytime she said that Cal felt a surge of hope. The other Jedi.
For years, he was convinced he was the only one left. Without being able to touch the Force, he couldn’t check his own bonds, so the only indication he had as to other survivors was Imperial propaganda, which obviously wasn’t in his favour. He wanted so desperately to believe Tala when she said there were others like him, others that escaped. But at the same time, he didn’t want it to be true. He didn’t want the Jedi to have to hide away like rats, living half-lives in desperate attempts to survive like he had on Bracca. This wasn’t what they were meant for.
“Okay,” he whispered, releasing her sleeve.
The other Jedi trusted him. So Cal could, too. Right?
He followed Tala to the backroom. The walls were bathed in yellow light and drowned in writing on the walls, even drawings. Cal didn’t focus on it, though, as his attention was drawn to the person inside.
Dark hair, a yellow line across his face, yellow-tinted brown eyes—he was running before he could even breathe again.
Cal collided with the Jedi Master with a bone-rattling cry.
Of course, the man hesitated, entirely unaware of why this young teenager was hugging him. To be fair, he’d had former Jedi hug him simply for being the first familiar Force signature they’d felt in years, even younglings hugging him as thanks for rescue or just for understanding, for being Force-sensitive. But this was different.
“Master Vos!” Cal wailed, abandoning all sense of decorum as he grasped the man’s ratty outfit like they would be ripped apart again.
Beneath him, Quinlan Vos lost his breath. Before his brain caught up, he was curling his arms around the teenager and tugging him close. His hood had fallen off in the rush, revealing dirty ginger hair and a pale, scarred face.
“Cal,” he breathed. Tears filled his eyes as he realised who he was holding. “Cal—”
For the first time in years, Cal let someone else shield him from the rest of the galaxy. All that mattered was burying his face in Master Vos’ chest and crying it all out. All that mattered was that his grandmaster was alive.
“Shh, sh, it’s okay, I’m here,” Quinlan whispered into his hair. “I’m here, you’re okay. I’ve got you now.”
He howled as if wounded, but in truth his scars were being ripped open. Here, he couldn’t deny his solitude or the reason for it. In Master Vos’ arms, he had to accept the fact that his master was dead, and all that was left of her was the blade on his belt, the gap in his heart, and his slowly fading memories. Here, his broken heart was laid bare. Yet still, Master Quinlan tugged him closer and whispered reassurances, sounding tearful himself as they collapsed to the ground together.
“Cal, you have to be quiet,” he warned, although he hated to say it. “You have to be quiet, buddy.”
Despite the fact that he hadn’t been a padawan in years, Cal obeyed in an instant. His cries lessened to hiccuping sobs that he drowned in the folds of Master Quinlan’s tunic. He still didn’t dare let go.
A few feet away, Tala watched the pair with consternation, although it seemed like a pleasant surprise.
“Vos?” she questioned lightly.
He swallowed harshly, shutting his eyes. “Aayla’s,” he croaked.
It was half an explanation, conveniently leaving out exactly how much Cal Kestis meant to him. He was Aayla’s, that much was true, but he was not only Aayla’s apprentice. He was her son, and that made him Quinlan’s family, his grandson. Cal was all that remained of his daughter.
“Oh,” Tala breathed, understanding dawning. “Oh. I’m so sorry.”
As much as this was a reunion, she knew it was also confirmation. Aayla Secura was dead on Bracca, otherwise she would be with Cal. Nothing could have taken her from him but her duty or her death.
“I’m sorry,” Cal whispered into Quinlan’s shoulder. “I couldn’t—I couldn’t stop them—”
Quinlan shook his head fiercely. “It’s not your fault. You were—you are a kid. I’m so proud of you for making it, Cal, and she would be, too, okay? You’re safe now. I have you.”
Desperate for grounding, the boy shifted his arms to rest around his grandmaster’s neck. His hands trembled and, not for the first time, he was grateful for the mouldering gloves he wore. It wouldn’t do to pick up Quinlan’s Echoes, especially not in such an emotional moment.
“Are you gonna send me away?” he asked.
“No, no, Force, never,” he hissed. “Never again. You’re staying right with me, do you understand?”
He made a noise between a whine and a hum of confirmation.
However, when the older man reached out into the Force to wrap him in a blanket of warmth and comfort, he found…nothing.
“Cal, buddy,” he said breathlessly, pained at the realisation, “you can stop shielding yourself in the Force. It’s okay; they won’t find you here. You can breathe.”
He tensed in Quinlan’s hold. For a long moment, he was afraid he’d have to comfort the boy further, reassure him that it was safe enough for him to let the Force run through his veins once more.
“Cal?”
The boy shook his head.
“Buddy, I promise you’re safe.”
He shook his head again. “I can’t,” he croaked.
Quinlan’s blood ran cold. His shaking hand gently pulled on Cal’s chin until he was looking up at him, still attempting to avoid eye-contact as tears welled in those beautiful baby blues. “You can’t?” he repeated, his voice cracking. “What do you mean you can’t?”
“Master, I can’t.”
Almost desperate for some other answer, he sought him out in the Force again, but he wasn’t there. He was Force-null, utterly blank like most life in the galaxy. There was no bright, affable light that Quinlan could recognise as his grandson without a smidge of effort. He had expected their bond to be absent after all that time, of course, but not for Cal himself to have ceased to exist in the Force. Where was his little star?
“I didn’t mean to,” he whispered, holding his small hands close to his chest. “After—when Bly got the comm, it just—it all hurt and there was screaming and then Master Aayla—”
His connection with the Force was broken. If he could touch the Force at all, he could barely do so.
“Cal…”
Quinlan pulled him back into his embrace. Cal cried into his chest, while he tried to come to terms with all of it.
Alright. So Cal needed help to reach the Force again. It would be painful and full of tears and he may not even want to do it in the first place, but that would be okay. That would be okay, Quinlan told himself. Because he didn’t think Cal would be alive to feel the Force again.
He’d take Cal’s life over the Force any day. Maybe that made him a bad Jedi, but so what?
Just recently got around to watching Crimes of Grindelwald (don't come @ me akdjdjjs I love the first movie but didn't hear anything good about the second so I never really put in the effort to watch it) and, as a result, came back and read your mermaid reader fic now that I can understand it! And i want to say 1) what a way to please my inner child at pretending to be a mermaid I did that so often as a kid, that was lovely 2) I didn't think of Theseus that way until your fic and now I'm rethinkin everything.... anyway just wanted you to know how much I loved it!!
HI PEARL I just saw this I'm so sorry but I'M REALLY GLAD YOU LIKED IT!! That was one of my favourites, honestly! I don't interact with Harry Potter stuff anymore (for good reason lol) but dear god do I love Theseus Scamander's character concept. Every day I think about how I could've done it a thousand times better than JKR. Every day.
and speaking of revivals, everybody welcome mod Wolf back to GenerallyNerdy! @thewolfprince is their main and they wrote one fic on here a long time ago, but now they have intentions to swarm your feeds with Assassin’s Creed. I would apologise but I am his enabler <3
and speaking of revivals, everybody welcome mod Wolf back to GenerallyNerdy! @thewolfprince is their main and they wrote one fic on here a long time ago, but now they have intentions to swarm your feeds with Assassin’s Creed. I would apologise but I am his enabler <3
