heathenwithwifi

pagan, bisexual, and running on vibes, moonlight, and unresolved trauma. dropped out of college two semesters from the finish line—now just a dried-up potato trying to manifest a comeback. writes like she’s bleeding, runs like the forest is calling, cries to ER reruns and The Pitt like it’s sacred text. Star Wars raised her. Hozier baptized her. Taylor Swift wrote her diary. Samhain is the only holiday that makes sense—wants to get married when the veil is thinnest and the ghosts can watch. stirs her tea clockwise for luck. talks to weird plants. probably barefoot. possibly hexing you. haunted but still here. half-feral, fully feeling.

[jewelcoatfish]

interviewer: ilya rozanov, do you have any comment on the alleged homophobic comments targeting you in today’s game?

ilya: if they could just put their minds off where i put my dick and into where i put the puck, maybe they would notice that it is going into the goal

interviewer: shane hollander, do you have any comment on your husband and captain’s rather coarse language?

shane: is he wrong?

[wearewatcher]

me when someone asks about my special interests

[pervocracy]

observations from urgent care

- People who exercise a lot get knee injuries from overdoing it

- People who only exercise occasionally get knee injuries from being unprepared for the exertion

- People who don’t exercise get knee injuries from being out of shape

- Maybe knees just suck

[galecstatic]

today i offer you a complete premium main course meal girl breakfast girl lunch and girl dinner

[whereareyourightnow]

Fallout goes all in on New Vegas as season 2 barrels toward its explosive finale (x)

[gerard-madej]

Shane’s Instagram stories don’t miss

[little-kikisdream]

The little ocean girl⋆.𐙚 ̊

Dark!Neteyam x Metkayina!reader

Summary⋆.𐙚 ̊<The one where Neteyam takes an interest in the reef princess, but once she gets mate requests, Neteyam decides to make her his-but does she know that she belongs to him?>

Warnings ⋆.𐙚 ̊< face riding, face sitting, squirt drinking, cum eating, oral fem!receiving, fingering, size difference, dark!neteyam, murder themes, Possessiveness, aged up!neteyam, drugging, slight dumbification, slight degradation>

The shoreline was loud with the sound of waves meeting the sand, ilu calls, and the breeze moving through the tall reef plants behind them as Neteyam and Aonung walked up from the water, their broad shoulders wet from hours of drills.

They’d been sparring, racing, diving, arguing, laughing, the usual, and now Neteyam’s large chest was rising slow and deep as he dragged his long fingers back through his silky braids, wringing water out while he half listened to Aonung ramble about something that sounded like a complaint but could’ve also been bragging.

He was never really sure.

But once he snapped back to reality, his steps slowed before he even realized he was doing it, his body catching onto something his brain hadn’t yet, and when he brought his hand up to shield the blinding sunlight from his eyes, it was like the rest of the beach dimmed.

You were standing in the opening between the large rocks as you stepped out of the small rock pool, water sliding off your turquoise skin, one hand lifting to your long hair as you pushed it back from your face, fingers combing through as you walked down the beach, your wide hips swaying with every step you took towards the shoreline, and then you met the sea. You lowered yourself down near the waterline, your knees in the sand as you leaned forward to rinse the sand out of your hair.

The sunlight caught on the water still clinging to you, the curve of your small waist visible with the way you were bent forward, highlighting the fullness of your thighs and hips.

Neteyam straightened up and stopped walking.

Like. Fully stopped.

Aonung took two more steps before he noticed the sudden lack of giant mighty warrior strides next to him, turning halfway back with a confused look on his face as he started to walk towards Neteyam, “Bro, what are you—”

Neteyam lifted his large arm and pressed his palm out to Aonung’s chest to halt him, turning him back forward, his eyes never leaving you.

“…bro,” he slowly drawled out, his deep voice rumbling out of his chest in disbelief. “Who is that.”

Aonung followed his line of sight and the second he saw you, his whole expression changed.

“That’s my sister, you sxwang,” he snapped, slapping Neteyam’s hand away from him.

Neteyam barely reacted to the hit. He was still looking at you.

“…that’s not Tsireya.”

“No shit,” Aonung said, his eyes narrowing as he instinctively tracked the surrounding around you. “She’s our little sister.”

Neteyam’s mouth parted slightly before he caught himself, his jaw shifting as he dragged his attention back to Aonung just long enough to process that, yeah, okay, that makes a lot more sense than Tsireya suddenly turning into a whole different person in one day.

When his gaze slid back to you anyway as if he was drawn by a magnet. Aonung swore under his breath, his fingers pinching his flat nose in annoyance.

“Oh hell no,” he muttered, turning so he faces Neteyam instead of your direction. “Don’t start you shit Neteyam.”

Neteyam finally exhaled, a low sound coming out of his chest as he did so.

“C’mon, man,” Aonung went on, already heated. “You can have literally any girl here. Any. They all want you. And this—” he jabbed a webbed finger vaguely in your direction without taking his eyes off Neteyam, “—this is the one you’re gonna stare at?”

“Yeah,” he said honestly, “but every girl doesn’t look like that.”

Aonung’s finger immediately came up and poked into Neteyam’s chest, not hard, but sharp enough to be a warning.

“Watch it,” he said. “That’s my little sister you’re talking about.”

Neteyam looked down at the finger on his chest, then back at Aonung’s face, then calmly reached up and pushed Aonung’s hand down and away.

“Bro,” he said, half a laugh in his voice, “we both know I could've said something crazier than that. But I didn't. And I know you've heard worse than that. Just introduce me.”

Aonung scoffed so hard it was basically a bark.

“Absolutely not. First of all, she’s too young for you. Second of all, I have spent this entire year chasing away horny sxwangs like you from her.”

Neteyam tilted his head slightly.

“I don’t have to be horny to see that she’s beautiful.”

That landed.

Aonung stared at him for a long second, his jaw tight.

“Yeah?” he said finally. “And I don’t have to be pissed to knock you out for even suggesting it.”

Neteyam huffed a small laugh, his eyes drifting back toward you again even though he absolutely knew he shouldn’t.

“I’m just saying,” he murmured. “If I’d seen her back when we first came here, I wouldn’t have stood a chance. I was all bones and uptight. She wouldn’t have even looked at me.”

Aonung snorted despite himself. “You're still uptight.”

“Yeah,” Neteyam said, glancing at him with a sideways grin, “but now I’m not built like a praying mantis.”

Aonung rolled his eyes, then instinctively shifted his stance so he was just a little more between Neteyam and you, blocking the view without fully blocking it.

“She’s not for you,” he said. “You grew up around roughness, dominance, war and death. She doesn't know anything other than gentless.”

Neteyam didn’t answer right away.

He watched the water break around your hands.

The way you pushed your hair back again, slower this time.

Then he looked back at Aonung, expression different than before, "I'm a lot of things-but I'm not dumb. I'd never hurt her. Or make her sad. Just introduce me man"

"Nete-" Aonung started, momentarily closing his eyes but once he opened them again and before he could even finish talking, Neteyam has already sidestepped him and was making his way towards you.

"Neteyam! Get back here you-!" Aonung whisper shouted with a half growl as he finally just sighed and groaned, jogging over to reach Neteyamand placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Fine-but the second you try anything kicking you into the water. Just be chill-and fix your hair you look like a girl it's all over one shoulder"

"I knew you'd come around" Neteyam replied as he fixed his hair. "Anything on my face?"

"Other than stupidity? No"

The sound of deep male voices reached you before the shapes did.

But once you realised that you knew one of the voices all too well, you pause mid motion with your hands still in the water.

Then you saw him.

Aonung, easy to spot even at a distance, moving with that relaxed, territorial confidence he always had, and beside him was a figure the same height as him, but slightly broader and darker.

The son of Toruk Makto.

You’d seen him from afar since the Sully family returned, of course. Everyone had. It was kind of impossible not to.

But you’d never been this close.

Your face softened immediately when you recognized your brother, and before either of them were even fully in front of you, you lifted one hand and called out, your light voice, cutting through the sound of the surf.

“Aonung!”

You waved your webbed finges loosening, a bright smile pulling at your mouth.

Aonung’s head snapped up at the sound of you, and just like that, the annoyance and frustration he’d been carrying melted clean off his face.

“Hey, Hì'i tsmuke” he called back, a grin pulling at his lips as he lifted his arm and waved once, big and obvious.

You rose up from the water, brushing your hands together as you stood, the water slipping away from your skin as you turned fully toward them.

Neteyam had now become very aware of your body but he knew that if he let his eyes drop, even for a second, they were going to do exactly what Aonung did not want them to do.

So he didn’t.

He kept them on your face.

And it honestly pissed him off a little how easy that was.

Technically speaking, he should be fighting every single bone in his body to not look below your neck. But he didn’t even have to.

Your delicate face and your big eyes wide and curious. It was so captivating that he couldn't get himself to look away from it.

Aonung closed the last few steps fast and didn’t even slow down, his large arms already opening as he reached you.

You laughed softly as he pulled you into a hug, he lifted you off the ground, your feet leaving the sand for half a second like you weighed nothing.

“There you are,” he said “I was looking for you earlier.”

“You were literally training all morning,” you replied, muffled against his shoulder. “That one’s on dad.”

He snorted and set you back down, patting your head before he stepped back, one arm draping casually around your shoulders as he turned you slightly to face Neteyam.

“This is Neteyam,” Aonung said, jerking his chin toward him. “Jake Sully’s son.”

Up close Neteyam was bigger, a lot bigger than he looked from afar but you guessed that's what 8 years of fighting in a war does to you.

Neteyam dipped his head respectfully in greeting, his fingers finding his forehead before extending them towards you as he kept his eyes strained on yours.

Aonung stiffled a laugh and aggressively shook his head as a sign to Neteyam to stop. That sxwang-Aonung had told Neteyam and Lo'ak over a million times that they don't do that here.

Neteyam's eyes flickered up to Aonung and immediately dropped his hand at the reminder.

“Hey...” he said.

His voice also sounded different up close, it was lower and deeper.

Your doe eyes flicked over him curiously.

“Oh,” you said lightly, a small smile tugging back onto your lips. “You’re the good one.”

Aonung barked a laugh immediately. “Don’t let his golden boy act fool you”

Neteyam shot him a look. “I am good.”

“you act good, so that they'll let you become the big bad Olo’eyktan.” Aonung corrected.

"I am going to become Olo'eyktan"

"Well right now you're a warrior"

"A mighty warrior" Neteyam corrects, his eyes flicking over to you to watch your reaction to his titles.

You smiled a little wider at that, your gaze flickering between them, and for a second, he forgot to breathe normally when you settled you gaze on him.

“Well it's nice to finally meet you,” you said. “I’m—”

“I know,” Neteyam replied without thinking.

Then immediately blinked once, realizing how that sounded.

“I mean—I asked Aonung. You’re… hard to miss. In a good way. That came out wrong. Not wrong—just—”

Aonung made a groaning sound. “Oh my Eywa”

You laughed, the sound quick and soft, and Neteyam’s ears twitched forward at the sweet sound.

“It’s okay,” you said. “I get what you meant.”

Aonung looked between you, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“So,” he said slowly, already suspicious, “what were you doing out here alone.”

You lifted your long hair up in gesture as you spoke “Rinsing my hair... And hiding from Tsireya-she keeps talking about how much she likes your brother” You said, looking at Neteyam at the mention of Lo'ak.

“That is a valid reason,” Aonung admitted. Then, after a pause, Neteyam spoke “You done out here?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Why?”

“We were heading back toward the village. Thought you might want company.”

You looked at him again.

Actually looked.

And a small smile spread over your face.

“Yeah,” you said. “I think I would.”

Aonung exhaled through his nose, already regretting his life choices.

“Cool,” Aonung muttered. “Super cool. Let’s go before I change my mind.”

And as the three of you turned up the shore together, Neteyam found himself walking just a little slower than usual to

match your pace.

"You have an accent, is that a forest people thing?"

"Some. Not all." He replied.

"I like it, it makes you sound super mature"

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah"

And that was kind of how it started.

After that day, it got consistent.

Neteyam started to time his training so he’d pass the shallows when you usually helped the younger kids with swimming drills, you noticing which part of the reef he practiced on and somehow always ending up nearby “by accident,” Aonung pretending not to clock any of it while absolutely clocking all of it.

Then it became him sitting near you during evening meals instead of with the other warriors, close enough that your shoulders brushed when you laughed, close enough that he could hear the way your voice dropped when you were tired.

Then it became him spending hours learning the Metkayina paths because you liked the quieter ones that lead to half-hidden pools where the water glowed so you could float on your backs and talk the whole night.

He was bad at it at first.

Bad at hunting in open water, bad at reading the way the currents twisted around the reefs, bad at seeing what was obvious to you, and the first few times he came back empty-handed while Ao’nung and the others dragged in full catches, he expected the familiar disappointment to cross over your face. The same look his father gives him.

Instead, you’d just smiled and patted his arm.

“You keep trying to make the water obey you like the paths you choose to trail during hunts. You have to let it move you first. And then adapt. There will be fish anywhere there is no sudden motion. If you're fighting the tides you'll scare them away.” You told him reassuringly.

And little by little, he got better, until one day he surfaced grinning like an idiot with the largest catch anyone had brought back that week and the first thing he did wasn’t look for Aonung or Lo’ak.

He looked for you.

He brought it to you, setting it down in front of you, his figure broad with pride as his ears tilted slightly forward, watching your face instead of the fish.

“This one’s yours.”

You’d blinked at it. Then at him. Then laughed.

“Neteyam, this could feed three families.”

“Cool,” he’d said. “Start with yours.”

One day, you’d been out beyond the usual reef lines with a small group and you’d made a comment about a kind of shell you’d only ever seen once as a kid, that only grew where the reefs dipped deeper.

And two days later Neteyam came back scraped, exhausted, and holding something carefully in both hands like it mattered more than the way his shoulders ached.

When he opened his palms, the shell caught the light.

The exact kind you’d described.

“Neteyam,” you’d whispered. “You didn’t—”

“I did,” he said simply. “Don’t freak out. I didn’t go stupid-deep. Just… past the safe tides.”

Aonung had lost his mind in the background.

“You went where?”

Neteyam didn’t even look at him.

He was watching you.

You took it from him slowly, turning it in your fingers, awe written all over your face.

And Neteyam would nearly drown a hundred more times to see you that happy again.

You made it into a necklace that night.

And you never took it off.

He soon sat with you at night and showed you how to start your own songchord, you say between his thick thighs, his large hands guiding yours with careful patience, explaining what each knot meant, and then adding the day he met you into his own songchord.

Once the sea warriors had returned months later you were swarming in mate requests.

And so Neteyam got bolder.

In the way his body subtly angled toward yours even when he was talking to someone else.

In the way he'd start including himself in a conversation between you and a guy, that he hadn’t been part of before.

One time, when some guy had leaned a little too close while talking to you, Neteyam had appeared at your side out of nowhere.

“You good?” he’d asked you, not even looking at the other guy.

You’d nodded. “Yeah. We were just talking.”

“Cool,” he’d said easily, then finally glanced at the guy and then he just gently guided you away, taking you along with him.

But you went anyway.

“That’s not very ‘good one’ of you,” you’d joked.

“Should've believed your brother when he told you I’m only good in public.”

All was great but you see-being the reef princess your mother was constantly trying to set you up with Metkayina men. She would arrange time in their day for them to come see you and she would arrange dates for you to go on.

At first neteyam was okay with intimidating or threatening them away. But then it became too much and they just kept coming back.

He figured that maybe killing 1 of them would do good-but no one would tie it back to you. Killing 2 might just be seen a coincidence. Killing 3 might raise some questions. But killing 4 of your potential suitors would most definitely scare any man away from you.

And Neteyam you sweet darling friend would comfort you and reassure you that you were not cured to be mateless for life. And that maybe they just weren't the right people for you to Eywa -he took them out of your life.

Every single time another man went missing or washed up dead on the shore you would go crying to him. Getting the perfect reaction that he wanted out of the other men. But it just wasn't the reaction that he wanted from you because not once did you consider mating with the man that has been here everytime one of your potential ones die.

Thus why you're here now, in his Marui, sat on his sleeping mat platform. Wiping away your tears. Though you weren't sure what exactly you were crying about. Neteyam knew perfectly well that it was just a sideffect from the drug he had placed inside your cup.

C'mon. He didn't plan on doing it. But when he was in the forest on his hunt and he found a flower similar to the ones back home that you crush and they turn into a drug that makes your mind go hazy. Neteyam knew it was a sign from Eywa. A sign that you and him are meant to be together. You just needed a little push.

It was harmless really. And you wouldn't be out of your mind on cloud nine. You would still be here still coherent and conscious. But you would just be in your happy little head. And you would have no worries and doubts.

And that was exactly what he needed from you.

"Now, now don't cry Yawne." He cooed at you, gently guiding you to lay down flat on his soft mat. "Am I not good enough to make you happy hm?"

"No, no of course it's not you Teyam" you whisper, attempting to shake your head.

"You know-there is this thing we do at omatikaya do help us feel better if we're sad" he explained, pretending to be in deep thought before trailing his eyes back down to your wide ones that are blinking up at him. "You want to feel better don't you?"

"Yes"

"Let me help you. I promise you'll feel so, so good" he whispers, advancing to crawl over you, his eyes never leaving yours as he does so until he's hovering right above you, his large forearms braced on either side of your head, caging you in. "Don't be scared. I have something that will calm you down."

"Open your mouth for me baby" he draws out from his chest, the low sound vibrating through you. You slowly open your mouth and he brings one hand down to the side of the Metkayina style loincloth that you made for him and he pulls out some leftover dust from the flower, and sprinkling it into your mouth.

"Mawey" he whispers to you, watching you softly whimper with panic after swallowing it. You clamped your thighs shut around his hand as she tried to ease the pressure and Neteyam quickly placed a knee between your thighs, his large hand wrapping around your thigh to soread your legs open again. "None of that. It'll only make it worse for you."

I knew where I was. I knew who I was with. But what I didn't know was why everything felt so light. There wasn't a single thought in my head. But Neteyam said not to be scared so it might just be the omatikaya remedy working.

His large, calloused hand lifted and gently cradled my jaw.

His thumb brushed my lips and slowly pushed its way past them and I parted my lips in obedience allowing his thumb to rest on my tongue.

"Feeling soft in the head, hm Yawne" he muttered.

I nodded with no hesitation when in reality I didn't even hear what he said, I was too busy hoping he would just lift me up and hug me or something.

Neteyam gave the best hugs.

His thumb brushed beneath my jaw, slightly aligning my face

I blinked once and the next thing I knew, I felt his soft lips on mine.

His lips didn't crash into mine, instead he slowly devoured my mouth without a single pause as he sucked on my sweet lips- just...tasting and feeling my mouth.

“Tongue.” He said against my lips.

Sweet tsaluberry I thought-or atleast I think I thought at the motion. Whatever he was doing-it was working. I didn't feel sad anymore. And I'm sure Neteyam knows what he's doing so I'm just going to follow along.

My tongue slipped out like he requested, and he caught it between his fingers and he leaned down and kissed me right there on my wet tongue, worshipping it before sliding his own tongue out to meet mine.

I was dizzy all up in my head, all of my thoughts were fuzzy by the time he pulled back, and I barely realized his hands had slid beneath my arms.

With a firm grip, he easily lifted me.

He rose just enough to turn and lay dow on the pillows behind him, dragging me upward with him until I was straddling his broad, dark blue chest with my loincloth bunched at my waist.

What in the world is he trying to d-

His large arms locked under my thighs, yanking me higher.

Higher-

Until I hovered right above his mouth, his blown out golden eyes flicked up to mine and the faintest smirk touched his lips.

Then he pulled me down.

His grip on my thighs was commanding, spreading me wide as he settled me over his face. His mouth was hot and eager beneath me, and when his hot and wet tongue met me, I gasped, my fingers shooting down to tangle in his hair.

"F-feels weird" I gasped, trying to pull away.

He tongue licked all over my pussy, his arms anchored me down, gripping my rear like he'd die before letting me escape. And when he began to rock me forward-rock me against his mouth, using the strength in his arms to guide the movement. I couldn't think, I could only let these foreign sounds spill out of my open mouth.

He moved me wherever he wanted and however he wanted. Up, down, slow, deeper as he angled his tongue, sometimes prodding it into my leaking entrance, other times laying flat to rub against my pearl, other times coming up to lick and suck between my folds before gently biting down on the soft flesh.

But then-he stopped.

And I felt a gentle tap on the side of my thigh.

I looked down at him with my vision blurry from the heat swarming my body. His eyes were still on mine and through his gaze I could tell that the tap was a signal. And at that moment I realised that he was just showing me what he wanted me to do without the guidance of his massive hands.

My knees were starting to ache from how long I'd been straddling his face and it was partially my fault because I decided to kind of hover rather than sitting all the way down.

Eywa forbid that I didn't want to murder my bestfriend.

But Neteyam noticed.

Of course he did.

He always noticed.

A sound erupted from his chest and before I could lift myself away, he snapped his hands up, locking them around my thighs and locking me in place.

"Sit." he ordered, voice low with restraint.

My eyes fluttered shut, breath catching as he pressed me down, making sure my full weight settled over his face.

My thighs trembled, muscles tightening in shock, but he groaned like he'd been starving and I was the only thing left to feed on.

And then he truly began.

He held me right there, right where he wanted me, the pads of his thumbs digging gently into the crease of my thighs to keep me spread. His tongue swirled, then pushed in deeper, just slightly - then he'd switch, flicking hard and fast against that aching, swollen part of me until my breath came in broken sobs.

I tried to lift myself, instinctively pulling back from the overstimulation, but his grip only tightened. "You're suffocating!" I gasp, gripping his silky braids to try and pull his head away.

"Don't run," he rasped beneath me, voice muffled but firm.

And I tried. I did. I let my hips grind down again, hesitant, my body betraying me with every wave of pressure, every subtle circle of his tongue. And every time I got it right - every time my hips rolled just the way he liked - he let out a sound. A guttural moan, or a pleased groan that sent more heat shooting through me.

"That's it," he breathed. "Just like that. Use me."

He shifted slightly, angling his mouth so that his lips dragged over my folds before he latched onto that sensitive spot with a sinful suck. I choked on a moan and nearly collapsed forward again.

"You're close," he said between strokes, his voice deep and husky.

I was close to something. I couldn't stop it, and I fell forward with a sob as the pleasure finally broke, tearing through me like lightning.

He didn't stop not even as I humped and grinded down onto his face.

He held me through every shudder and cry, licking me slowly now, soothing but still greedy - as if he couldn't bear to stop even after he'd ruined me.

And when he finally eased his grip and let me collapse forward, he caught me. Pulled me down into his arms as he sat up, his back against the wall of his mauri and he pulled my back to his chest, sitting me between his thighs.

When suddenly, Neteyam’s fingers slipped between my slick thighs, immediately finding my wet, swollen heat.

His hot breath ghosted over my ear as his long finger slowly eased into me, pulling a gasp out of me as I reached my hand down to grab his wrist trying to stop him at the sudden stetch. "Pull it away. You asked me to help you Yawne." His lips leaving a kiss to my temple as he murmured those words fo me.

I let out a slow exhale. He was right. Neteyam was always right. He knows what he's doing, he would never ever hurt me, so I slowly pulled my hand away from his wrist.

He didn't move his finger at first, letting me adjust but then he slowly pumped it into me, the wet, lewd sounds of my arousal filling his mauri. It was obscene, the way his fingers plunged in and out of me, wetness coating his blue hand.

His dark eyes were locked onto mine, watching me fall apart in his hands, his expression unreadable but the intensity in his gaze unmistakable.

He didn't slow down. If anything, he sped up, easing one more finger into me. "I'm sorry Yawne. I know, I know it's tight but I have to. It's going to feel good." he said with a nod, looking into my eyes reassuringly as his fingers cured just right as he found the spot that made my entire body jerk in his grip.

And boy was he right. I have never felt this good ever.

His thumb found my swollen clit, rubbing it with merciless circles that had me seeing stars.

"You're dripping," he growled, his voice low and full of dark hunger. He flexed his fingers inside me, as he quickly pumped them in and out, causing a squelch of my arousal to pour down his hand. "So fucking filthy for me."

I let out a series of broken whimpers, my hips bucking wildly, trying to grind against his hand, desperate for more once again.

My orgasm hit like a tidal wave, crashing over me releasing a scream for me, my body convulsing against his, my legs trying to close but his other hand on my thigh just wouldn't let them.

My slick juices gushed over his hand, soaking his hand, dripping down my thighs in a messy, filthy rush.

I threw my head back, my her cries echoing in the room as Neteyam's fingers continued to fuck me through the orgasm, never letting me come down. He didn't stop, even as I screamed again, my sensitivity becoming unbearable, tears streaming down my face as he pushed me into another brutal orgasm that tore through me, leaving her a shaking, sobbing mess.

My wetness covered everything, squirting out of me and into his hand, my thighs, the floor beneath them. It was sloppy, disgusting, pure filth. And he loved every second of it.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he withdrew his fingers, but not before giving my pussy one final, punishing slap "Such a good girl. Look at the mess you've made, Yawne. Looks like you want me to go in for a second taste hm?"

I quickly shook my head no, my eyes squeezed shut causing him to chuckle, a small smile pulling at my lips proud that I made him laugh.

"Okay then, I'll have you squirt in my mouth for dinner another day" He said, mostly to himself cus I only heard the words 'okay' and 'dinner' as he lifted me once more, guiding me to lay back against the pillows, my back flat against his sleeping mat as he moved to hover over me once more.

I looked up at him through my long eyelashes once he patted my cheek and cradled my chin, tilting my head up so I would look him in the eyes.

"Hey," I said, firm but quiet, "Eyes on me.

Her head rose, hesitantly, and when I looked at her, she looked like a fucking mess, so fucking gorgeous.

I felt the familiar ache pulse low in my stomach again.

Get a fucking grip, I thought, my jaw tightening.

She looked so ruined. And I wanted to ruin her completely. I wanted to take her right there.

But I couldn't.

Not yet

Not yet.

Not.yet.

I wouldn't do that to her.

I love her too much to do that to her.

But after this she's going to beg me-her mate to seal the deal and fuck her dumb.

"You were so good for me," I said, brushing a damp strand of hair from her temple. My tone was casual, but she knew me well enough to hear the pride tucked between the steel. I bent forward and kissed the edge of her jaw, slow and lingering.

I slowly reached back, grabbing my braid with my kuru and then grabbing hers.

Our kuru slip free, the tendrils loosening, then fanning slightly they start to move on their own-drawn to each other then finally interlocking.

My head spun and my vision tunneled, my lashes lowering on instinct, my jaw unlocking on a breath that leaves me shakily.

My spine straightens hard, my shoulders rolling back, my chest expanding.

Then she’s there.

Not her body.

Her.

That calmness and gentless you would never find growing up in a war. It was here it was all here.

And now it was flowing through me.

But most of all-now she has no choice but to choose me.

"Oeyä muntxa si"

[lilacnavi]

im imagining daddy jake complaining abt his old sexy body saying his joints r getting squeaky and his tummy is getting rounder etc so f!navi!reader gotta remind him how his body has done so much, survived so long, sooo he deserves some relaxation and a boost of confidence of course ^.^ showering jake w praises and marking the place where he gets shy about like his tummy with love bites to show how much he’s loved 😵‍💫🤭 would you pretty please write ab this if you want ❤️

sucking purple flowers to your skin

pairings: jake sully x metkayina female reader

notes: jake being insecure, reader jealous, praises for toruk makto, smut, p in v sex, body worship, marking, reader parades jake the next day who wore her marks proudly, no neytiri, jake is a single dad, jake doesn’t know women ogles him (can y’all see him in the first photo??? i’m a goner), you are so in love with each other it hurts, you are one territorial woman for sure

word count: 5.2k

prompt: jake doesn’t even know what you, the metkayina princess, see in him. it almost made you frustrated that he doesn’t see the handful of metkayina women eyeing him whenever he’s walking with you. you think now is the time to hit two birds with one stone.

credits to @uzmacchiato (dividers)

The sun dipped low over the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow across the Metkayina village. The air hummed with the distant calls of ilu gliding through the lagoon and the soft rustle of palm fronds in the breeze.

You and Jake had slipped away to a secluded alcove near the edge of the reef, a hidden spot where the waves lapped gently against smooth rocks, shielded by overhanging vines heavy with bioluminescent flowers that began to flicker as twilight approached.

It was your private sanctuary, a place where the weight of the world, the clan's expectations, and the lingering shadows of past wars faded into the rhythm of the sea.

Jake sat on a woven mat, his broad shoulders slumped slightly as he stretched out his legs, the muscles in his thighs flexing under the faint scars that mapped his history like constellations. He was a towering figure even in repose, his blue skin glistening with a light sheen of salt from the day's swim. But tonight, there was a tension in his jaw, a furrow between his brows that spoke of doubts he rarely voiced.

You knelt beside him, your smaller frame curling naturally into the space near his side, your tail flicking idly against the sand as you watched him with quiet concern.

"Y'know, kid." He started, his voice a low rumble laced with a self-deprecating chuckle, rubbing a hand over his knee with a wince. "These old joints of mine are starting to sound like the creaky marui huts after a storm. Squeak, squeak, every time I move."

He shifted and you caught the subtle pop from his elbow as he flexed it. His golden eyes met yours briefly before darting away, settling on the horizon.

"And don't get me started on this." His large hand patted his midsection, where the once-chiseled abs had softened into a gentle curve, a pudgy layer that spoke of years well-lived rather than neglect. "Getting rounder by the day. Hell, I look like I've been feasting on tulkun blubber. What happened to the guy who could outrun a thanator?"

His words hung in the air, heavy with insecurity, and your heart twisted. Jake Sully, the mighty Toruk Makto, the warrior who had tamed the skies and led clans through fire, reduced to critiquing his own reflection.

You reached out, your slender fingers tracing the edge of his arm, feeling the solid warmth of his bicep beneath your touch. He was still so massive, his body a testament to resilience, broader and thicker now in ways that made your pulse quicken with adoration.

"Jake." You murmured, your voice soft but firm, infused with the affection that had bloomed between you since the day he and his children sought refuge among the Metkayina.

As Ronal and Tonowari's oldest daughter, you'd grown up under the weight of leadership but with Jake, you felt unburdened and cherished.

"Look at me." You cupped his chin gently, turning his face toward yours. His eyes, those piercing yellow orbs, held a flicker of vulnerability that made your chest ache. "This body of yours... it's carried you through more than any young warrior could dream. Battles that scarred the earth, skies that tested the gods themselves. You became Toruk Makto not because you were flawless, but because you were fearless. Unbreakable."

He exhaled slowly, his breath warm against your palm, but the doubt lingered in the set of his mouth.

"Yeah, well, that was then. Now? I'm just... old. And you're..." His gaze roamed over you, taking in your slender form, the graceful curves honed by years swimming the reefs. You were younger, vibrant, the pretty pearl and the envy of many women in the clan. "You're the daughter of chiefs, surrounded by these prime specimens of warriors with bodies like carved coral, no creaks, no extra weight. Why settle for a has-been like me?"

The question stung, not because it doubted you, but because it revealed how little he saw his own allure.

You thought of the Metkayina women, their lingering stares during communal gatherings, eyes tracing the powerful lines of his shoulders, the way his thighs strained against his loincloth as he moved. Lust and admiration burned in their gazes, and it ignited a fierce jealousy in you. A possessive fire that made you want to loose arrows at any who dared look too long.

He was yours, this massive protective force of a man who blanketed you in security with a single embrace.

You shifted closer, pressing your body against his side, your head resting on the swell of his chest where his heartbeat thrummed steadily. "Settle? Jake, you tower over me like the great tree of souls, strong and unyielding. I love how you envelop me, how your arms make the world disappear."

Your hand slid down, palm flat against the warmth of his abdomen, fingers splaying over the soft give there. It wasn't weakness, it was the mark of a life richly earned, a cushion that invited your touch.

"This? This pudgy curve? It's perfect. It's you. Real, lived-in, the body that protected your family, that fought for Eywa's balance. And those thighs..." You trailed your fingers lower, brushing the dense muscle that corded his legs, thick and unapologetic, capable of pinning you in place with effortless power. "They're like the roots of an ancient mangrove, holding everything steady."

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing, a faint flush creeping across his blue cheeks.

"You're just saying that." He muttered, but there was a hopeful lilt to his tone, his hand coming up to cover yours, holding it against his skin.

"No, Ma Jake." You whispered, using the tender nickname that always softened his edges, your voice laced with raw emotion. "I mean it. Every day, I see how the women here watch you. Their eyes hungry for what I have. It drives me mad, wanting to claim you right there in the circle. Because you're mine, and this body... it's everything I crave."

You lifted your gaze to his, locking eyes as you leaned in, your lips brushing the edge of his jaw.

"You've earned every bit of rest, every layer that speaks of peace after war. Let me show you."

The air between you thickened, charged with the slow simmer of desire and reassurance.

You guided him back gently, easing his massive frame onto the mat until he lay sprawled, his chest rising and falling with anticipation. The bioluminescent flowers overhead cast a soft ethereal light, illuminating the contours of his form, the broad expanse of his pectorals dusted with faint scars, the dip of his collarbone where sweat beaded like dew.

You straddled his hips, your smaller body a contrast to his bulk, feeling the heat radiating from him as you settled over the impressive length nestled between those powerful thighs. Even soft, it was substantial, a delicious weight that promised more, stirring a warmth low in your belly.

Starting at his neck, you pressed open-mouthed kisses along the column of his throat, tasting the salt of his skin mingled with the faint, earthy scent that was uniquely him.

"You've survived so much." You breathed against his pulse point, nipping lightly to draw a low groan from deep in his chest. "This strong neck held your head high through storms. These shoulders..."

Your hands roamed, kneading the dense muscle that capped them, thumbs digging into the knots born of endless vigilance.

"They've borne the weight of worlds."

Jake's hands found your waist, fingers spanning nearly your entire midriff, gripping with a tenderness that belied his size.

"Ngh... easy there." He rasped, his voice husky, eyes darkening as they held yours.

But he didn't pull away. Instead, he watched mesmerized as you worked your way down.

You lingered at his chest, lips ghosting over a nipple, swirling your tongue until it pebbled under your attention.

"This heart." You said, pressing your ear to it, feeling the steady thunder. "It's the rhythm of my world. Beating for me, for us."

Emotion swelled in your throat and you kissed lower, tracing the ridges of his ribs with feather-light touches that made him shiver.

When you reached his abdomen, he tensed, that hand of his twitching as if to cover the spot he loathed. But you caught it, intertwining your fingers with his larger ones, squeezing reassuringly.

"No hiding." You commanded softly, your teal eyes never leaving his. "This is where I love you most."

You lowered your head, lips parting to suckle at the soft flesh just above his navel, drawing the skin between your teeth with gentle pressure. A love bite bloomed under your mouth, a purple-red mark against the blue, claiming him as yours.

He gasped, hips bucking slightly, his free hand threading into your dark hair. "Fuck, baby..."

The word was a growl, laced with surprise and budding arousal, his gaze locked on yours. Intense and searching, seeing the truth in your devotion.

You released the flesh with a soft pop, admiring the imprint before moving to another spot, lower this time, where the pudge met the V of his hips. Sucking harder, you hollowed your cheeks, tongue laving the tender skin as you held his stare.

The act was intimate, worshipful, each pull of your mouth a testament to your desire.

"So soft, so real." You murmured between bites, your voice vibrating against him. "I love pressing against this, feeling you blanket me completely. No young warrior could ever make me feel this safe, this wanted."

Jake's breath came in ragged bursts now, his thighs tensing beneath you, the heavy length between them stirring to life, thickening against the cloth.

"You... you really mean that?" He asked, voice cracking with emotion, his thumb stroking your cheek as you marked him again, a constellation of bites forming across his belly.

You nodded, rising slightly to capture his lips in a deep lingering kiss, pouring all your reassurance into it. Tongues tangling slowly, savoring the taste of sea and shared breath.

Pulling back just enough, foreheads touching, you whispered. "More than anything. You're my protector, my everything. Let me love every inch."

He groaned into your mouth, flipping you beneath him in one fluid motion despite his earlier complaints, his body caging yours protectively. The pudge of his tummy pressed warmly against your abdomen, a comforting weight that made you arch into him.

"Alright, baby." He murmured, eyes shining with renewed fire, nuzzling your neck. "Show me more."

Jake's body loomed over yours, a protective canopy that blocked out the first stars peeking through the vines. His weight settled between your thighs, not crushing but enveloping, the soft press of his belly against your navel a reminder of the life etched into him. The battles won, the family safeguarded, the years that had only deepened his appeal.

You could feel the heat of him everywhere, his skin feverish under the glowing light of the flowers, and it stirred a fierce hunger in you, one born not just of lust but of profound unwavering love.

Your hands roamed up his sides, fingers digging into the solid ridges of his obliques before smoothing over that curve he so often dismissed.

"Jake." You breathed, your voice thick with emotion, teal eyes searching his face. Those sharp cheekbones, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes that crinkled when he smiled. "This body... it's what draws me to you every time. Not some polished ideal but you, all of you. The way it fills my hands, the way it makes me feel so small and cherished."

You pulled him closer, your legs wrapping around his hips, urging him down until his clothed cock nudged insistently against your pussy, thick and unyielding even through the scant fabric separating you.

He paused, his breath hitching, golden eyes darkening with a mix of desire and lingering doubt.

"You say that like it's easy." He murmured, his voice a gravelly whisper, forehead resting against yours. One massive hand cupped your face, thumb tracing your lower lip with a gentleness that belied the power in his frame. "But seeing you like this... young, beautiful, the Olo’eyktan's daughter... sometimes I wonder if I'm holding you back."

The confession slipped out raw, vulnerable, his free hand flexing against the mat as if bracing for rejection.

Your heart clenched and you surged up to capture his mouth, kissing him with a slow deliberate passion that poured every ounce of your truth into it. Tongues met in a languid dance, tasting the salt of the sea on him, the faint sweetness of the fruit you'd shared earlier. You broke away just enough to speak, lips brushing his.

"Holding me back? Ma Jake, you lift me up. This strength, this warmth, it's what I crave. Feel how my body responds to you?" You arched into him, grinding subtly against the rigid bulge straining his loincloth, a soft moan escaping as the friction sent sparks through your veins.

His groan vibrated through his chest, rumbling against your breasts as he lowered his head to nuzzle the curve of your neck.

"Eywa, you're gonna be the end of me." He rasped, nipping at your pulse point with restrained hunger, his hips rocking forward in response.

But he didn't rush, instead, he savored, his lips trailing fire down your collarbone, pausing to lave at the hollow of your throat. His hands, those callused palms that had gripped banshees and woven bonds with Eywa, explored you with reverence, sliding under your top to cup your soft breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they tightened into peaks.

You gasped, fingers threading into his queue, the sensitive tendrils there making him shudder.

"I love how you touch me." You whispered, voice laced with adoration. "Like I'm the most precious thing in the world. And you are to me, this body of yours that I can lose myself against."

You pushed at his shoulders gently, urging him to sit back, and he complied with a quizzical tilt of his head, his hard cock tenting the fabric obscenely, a bead of precum darkening the weave.

Kneeling before him now, you took in the sight of his body fully and unashamedly. The way his thighs spread wide, corded muscle flexing under azure skin marked by old scars. Between them, his cock throbbed, freed as you tugged the loincloth aside, heavy and veined, the head flushed a deeper blue, curving slightly toward his belly. It was imposing, matching the rest of him, and the thought of it filling you made your mouth water.

But first, you wanted to worship him, to erase any shadow of insecurity of his with your devotion.

Starting at his knees, you kissed the inner curve of each thigh, lips soft and lingering, tongue darting out to taste the salty tang of his skin.

"These legs." You murmured, looking up at him through your lashes. "They've carried you across battlefields, through rivers of fire. Now they cradle me, hold me steady when the world spins."

Your hands followed, massaging the dense flesh, feeling it tense and release under your touch. He watched, breath shallow, his hand coming to rest on your head. Not pushing, just anchoring as if you were his lifeline.

Higher you went, nuzzling the crease where his thigh met groin, inhaling his musky scent that always made your head swim.

"And this." You said, voice husky, one hand wrapping around his massive cock. Your fingers barely meeting around the girth as you stroked upward slowly, thumb swiping over the slit to spread the slickness. "So thick, so perfect. I dream about it, Jake. How it stretches me, claims me completely."

He bucked into your grip, a low curse escaping his lips, but you held his gaze, pouring your attraction into every word and every caress.

"That's it." He encouraged, voice strained with restraint, his free hand clenching the mat. "Show me, baby. Show me you want this old man."

There was a teasing edge but beneath it, the plea for affirmation, and you answered by leaning in, your tongue flattening against the underside of his shaft, tracing a vein from root to tip. He tasted of him, earthy and primal, making you hum in appreciation, the vibration drawing a guttural moan from deep in his throat.

You took him into your mouth then, inch by deliberate inch, lips stretching around his thickness lewdly. It was a challenge, one you relished, hollowing your cheeks as you sank lower, your hand working what you couldn't yet take.

His hips jerked but he held still, golden eyes locked on you, filled with awe and heat.

"Fuck... look at you." He breathed, fingers tightening in your hair. "So beautiful, taking me like that. You love it, don't you? This body that's seen too much."

You pulled back with a wet pop, nodding fervently, saliva glistening on your lips. "Love it? I'm obsessed. Every scar, every curve, it's what makes you mine."

To prove it, you dove back in, sucking with renewed fervor, your other hand cupping his sac, rolling the heavy weight gently. He panted above you, praises tumbling out in a mix of English and Na'vi, fueling your rhythm until his thighs quivered and he tugged you up with a desperate growl.

"Enough." He said, voice rough, pulling you into his lap so you straddled him once more.

His hands gripped your hips, guiding you to rub against his slick cock, the friction exquisite as it slid between your folds. You were soaked and aching but he took his time, rocking you slowly over his hardness, letting the anticipation build like a gathering storm.

"Feel that?" He murmured, nipping your earlobe. "How hard you make me? This is all you, baby. Your words, your touch... it's got me aching for you every damn time."

You whimpered, grinding down harder, your clit catching on his ridge with each pass. "Jake, please... I need you inside. Need to feel all of you, that thickness of your cock filling me up."

Your hands clutched his shoulders, nails digging into the unyielding muscle, and he finally relented, lifting you with ease. His strength undiminished by age, if anything it was amplified by experience. Positioning himself at your entrance, he paused, eyes meeting yours in a moment of profound connection.

"You sure?" He asked softly, though his body trembled with the effort of holding back. "I don't wanna hurt you."

"You could never." You assured him, cupping his face, thumbs stroking his jaw. "I want it all. Your power, your love. Show me how much you trust this body too."

With that, you sank down, the head breaching you slowly, stretching your walls with a burn that bordered on bliss. He was massive, every inch a delicious invasion and you took him deep, inch by inch until your hips met his, fully seated on that impressive cock.

Both of you stilled, breaths mingling, foreheads pressed together as you adjusted to the fullness. He filled you utterly, the slight curve hitting spots that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

"So tight." He groaned, hands roaming your back, pulling you closer so your breasts crushed against his chest. "You feel like home, every damn time."

You began to move then, a slow undulation of rising and falling with deliberate grace. Each descent drew him deeper, your inner muscles clenching around him, milking his length.

"This is what I love." You gasped, voice breaking on a moan as pleasure coiled low in your belly. "You, so deep inside me. That belly pressing against mine, warm and real. It makes me feel owned, protected."

Your words spurred him and he thrust up gently, matching your pace, his hips rolling with a controlled power that spoke of years honing his body for more than just war.

The rhythm built gradually, like waves cresting the reef. Lazy at first then gaining force. His hands gripped the soft plush of your ass, spreading you wider, angling you so he hit that sweet spot inside you with every plunge. Sweat slicked your skin, mingling with the humid air, and the sounds filled the alcove. The wet slap of flesh, your shared gasps, the distant crash of surf.

"You're incredible." He panted, lips finding your neck, sucking a mark there to mirror the ones you'd left on him. "This fire in you... it's because of me? Because you want this?"

His voice cracked, insecurity flickering even now but you banished it with a fierce kiss.

"Yes." You cried, pace quickening as ecstasy built, your nails raking down his back. "Only you. Your thighs gripping me, that cock owning me, your belly flush against me whenever you fuck it back in me, it's everything."

You leaned back slightly, hands on his knees for leverage, giving him a view of where you joined, his aching cock disappearing into you.

His eyes devoured the sight, a growl rumbling from his chest as he took over, thrusting up harder, the pudge of his abdomen rippling with each movement. He flipped you then, without withdrawing, laying you on your back with his body blanketing yours as a secure heated shield.

The change in angle drove him deeper, and you keened, legs locking around his waist. "Jake... oh, Eywa..."

He moved with purpose now, long, languid strokes that dragged against your walls, building the tension unbearably. One hand braced beside your head, the other intertwined with yours pinning it above you, a tender dominance that made your heart race.

"Tell me more." He urged, voice strained, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest. "What you love... keep going."

You did, words spilling between moans.

"Your arms around me, so strong... that chest I can cling to... and here." You gasped as he ground against your clit. "This curve of you, pressing just right. You're my everything, Jake. Don't ever doubt it."

Emotion surged with the pleasure, tears pricking your eyes. Not from pain but from the depth of your bond.

He kissed them away, thrusts slowing to a torturous grind, drawing out your shared bliss. The coil tightened, your body arching, and he sensed it, angling to push you over.

"Come for me, baby." He whispered, voice breaking with his own impending release. "Let me feel you shatter around me."

With a final deep thrust, you broke, waves of ecstasy crashing through you, walls fluttering around his massive cock in rhythmic pulses. You cried his name, body convulsing, and he followed moments later, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you, hot and claiming, a groan muffled against your shoulder.

You clung to each other through the aftershocks, breaths syncing as the world reformed around you. He stayed seated within, softening slowly, his weight a comforting anchor.

"I see it now." He murmured finally, nuzzling your temple, voice sated and sure. "Through your eyes... thank you, kid. For loving me like this."

You smiled, fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back, the night wrapping you in its embrace.

As the echoes of your shared release faded into the soft hum of the night, you shifted beneath Jake's comforting weight, your bodies still joined in the most intimate of ways. The bioluminescent glow cast ethereal patterns across his skin, highlighting the sheen of sweat and the faint tremors still rippling through his muscles.

But you weren't done, not yet. There was one more layer to this connection, a deeper weave that would etch your love into his very essence.

Your queues, those sensitive tendrils at the base of your necks, brushed against each other like whispers of fate. With a gentle tilt of your head, you guided yours toward his, the pink neural endings seeking, finding, and latching with a soft electric click.

Tsaheylu formed in an instant, a rush of warmth flooding your senses as his emotions poured into you. Raw vulnerability mingled with burgeoning confidence, the steady thrum of his heart syncing with yours. It was like stepping into his soul, feeling the weight of his insecurities dissolve under the tide of your adoration.

You captured his lips then, not in haste, but with a slow savoring kiss that spoke volumes through the bond. Your mouth moved against his, soft and insistent, tongue tracing the seam of his lips until he parted them with a sigh.

The taste of him, salty, wild, and uniquely Jake mingled with the shared pulse of your connection, amplifying every sensation.

Through tsaheylu, he felt it all. The fierce protectiveness that surged in your chest when you thought of him, the way your body hummed with satisfaction from his touch, the unyielding love that saw his every scar and curve as a testament to his strength and feeling so attracted to him like a girl to her crush.

"Feel me." You murmured against his mouth, your voice a velvet caress in the quiet alcove. "All of this... it's for you. Every beat, every breath."

He groaned into the kiss, his large hands cradling the back of your head, holding you close as if afraid the bond might slip away. Waves of his own affection crashed back. Gratitude, desire, and a profound sense of belonging that made your eyes sting with happy tears.

The kiss deepened, languid and exploratory, your lips molding to his, breaths intertwining until the world narrowed to just the two of you. His tongue swept against yours in lazy circles, drawing out the moment, letting the emotional current build until it hummed between you like a living thing. When you finally parted, foreheads resting together, the bond thrummed with shared contentment, his doubts silenced by the undeniable truth of your devotion.

Sleep came easily after that, wrapped in his arms, the reef's gentle waves lulling you both. His body spooned yours, that soft belly pressing warmly against your back, a secure barrier against the night. Through the lingering echoes of tsaheylu, even in dreams, you felt his peace settling like dawn light.

The next morning dawned with the first rays filtering through the woven canopy, painting the space in soft golds and aquamarines.

You stirred first, blinking against the light, a lazy smile curving your lips as you took in Jake beside you. Sprawled on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, chest rising and falling in deep, even breaths. His queue lay across the mat and you resisted the urge to reach for it again, content for now with the memory of last night's intimacy.

Slipping from the cot with quiet grace, you dressed in your simple top and skirt, the fabric whispering against your skin.

Jake roused moments later, stretching with a low grunt, his joints popping faintly. A sound that no longer carried shame, but rather the quiet assurance of a body well-lived. He caught your gaze, golden eyes warm and unguarded, and pulled you back for a quick morning-soft kiss before rising himself.

"Morning, baby." He murmured, voice rough with sleep as he fastened his loincloth, the motion drawing your eyes to the canvas of his torso.

There, across the gentle swell of his abdomen, bloomed a constellation of purple bruises. Marks from your lips and teeth, sucked into his skin with possessive fervor the night before. They stood out vividly against his azure hue, they were badges of your claim and a smug satisfaction bloomed in your chest.

He was yours, every inch, and soon the clan would see it too.

Hand in hand, you stepped out into the bustling village, the air alive with the calls of ilu and the chatter of your people. Jake's frame towered over you, a solid, reassuring presence that made you feel both tiny and invincible. His broad shoulders blocked the breeze, his thick thighs flexing with each step, and that belly, softened by time and marked by your love jutted just enough to brush against your side as you walked.

You couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips, possessive and proud, especially as you noticed the sidelong glances from the Metkayina women.

They were there, as always. Gathering shells by the lagoon, weaving nets under the palms, their eyes lingering on Jake with that familiar mix of admiration and hunger. His history as Toruk Makto and his warrior's build, it drew them like moths to flame.

But today, their gazes faltered, flicking to those telltale bruises peeking from beneath the edge of his loincloth and on his belly, the deep violet imprints that screamed of nights spent in passion. One woman, a weaver with intricate tattoos, paused mid-conversation, her cheeks flushing as she quickly averted her eyes. Another whispered to her companion, a hand rising to cover a knowing smile.

Your smile widened, smug and unapologetic, a quiet thrill racing through you at their retreat. He was yours. Claimed, adored, and untouchable. The jealousy that sometimes simmered now felt like victory, a warm glow that made your steps lighter.

Jake noticed, of course. He always did.

His large hand squeezed yours, thumb stroking the back in lazy circles, and a deep chuckle rumbled from his chest, vibrating through your joined fingers.

"Got that look again." He teased softly, leaning down so his breath ghosted your ear, his voice laced with amusement and something deeper, affection that’s pure and unfiltered. "Like someone gave you the world. They see it, huh? Your handiwork."

He glanced down at his torso, fingers brushing one of the bruises lightly, not wincing but tracing it with a newfound tenderness. The touch sent a spark through you, a reminder of how you'd worshipped that very spot, sucking the flesh until it yielded under your mouth, marking him as irrevocably yours.

You tilted your head up, meeting his gaze with teal eyes sparkling mischief and love.

"They do. And they know better than to stare now." Your free hand slipped to his side, palm pressing flat against the warmth of his skin just above the bruises, feeling the subtle give of his belly under your touch. It was intimate, even in the open air, a subtle claim that made his breath hitch. "I love seeing them there. Proof that you're mine, that this body, every part of it, belongs with me."

He stopped walking then, in a quieter stretch near the tide pools, turning to face you fully. His height loomed, protective and enveloping, casting a shadow that felt like shelter.

Cupping your cheek with one massive hand, he searched your face, the lines around his eyes crinkling with a soft laugh.

"You make me feel like the luckiest skxawng alive, you know that?" His voice dropped, sincere and rough-edged, golden eyes holding yours with an intensity that stole your breath. "Waking up marked like this... walking with you, feeling your pride through every glance. It's like you've rewritten how I see myself. Loved. Wanted. All of me."

The words wrapped around your heart, pulling you closer until your bodies aligned, his warmth seeping through your clothes. You rose on tiptoes, pressing a lingering kiss to his jaw, lips brushing the faint stubble there.

"Because you are." You whispered, voice thick with emotion. "Every day, every mark, every step beside you, it's all to show you that."

Around you, the village hummed on but in that moment, it was just the two of you, his chuckle fading into a contented hum as he pulled you along, the purple flowers you sucked to his skin a silent testament to the love that bound you tighter than any bond Eywa could weave.

Eywa, he’s so in love with you it hurts.

[thecupidwitch]

Herb's Properties

Basil:  money, luck, prosperity, happiness

Bay Leaf: energy, cleansing, can be charged with almost any intention

Camomile: Caring, kindness, luck, growth, self-love growth, confidence, avoiding negativity, happiness

Cinnamon: passion, quick success, fire magick

Chia seeds: Growth, health, kindness, Property

Chilli flakes:  Pride, confidence, power, strength, Passion

Cumin: Courage, bravery, protection, loyalty

Dandelion: wishes, charisma, success, good luck

Dill: sexual love, luck, protection

Eucalyptus: cleansing, healing, purifying, relaxing, comfort

Fennel:  hate, anger

Flax seeds: Prosperity, growth, new beginnings

Ginger: fiery passion, success, and personal power

Jasmine: love, dreams, sensuality, luxury and kindness

Lavender: love and attraction, purification, relaxation, restful sleep

Nutmeg: luck, Health, Fidelity, Love, Prosperity, comfort, loyalty

Oregano:  comfort, love, warmth

Paprika:  Pride, confidence, power, strength

Parsley: Cleansing. purification

Peppermint: healing, purification, love and energy, cleansing, prosperity

Poppy seeds: protection, intuition, self-assurance, hexing and cursing

Rose: love, beauty, harmony, romance, attraction

Rosemary: cleansing, purification, wisdom, protection

Sesame seeds: Prosperity, growth, health, nurturing

Spearmint: love, cleansing, renewal, blessing

Sunflower seeds: happiness, growth, joy

Thyme: beauty, strength, courage

Turmeric: confidence, creativity, energy

Vanilla: love and sexuality

tip jar

[witchboxco]

2025 Witches' Calendar

January 13 ● Full Moon in Cancer (Wolf Moon) January 29 ● New Moon in Aquarius February 2 ● Imbolc February 12 ● Full Moon in Leo (Snow Moon) February 27 ● New Moon in Pisces March 14 ● Full Moon in Virgo (Worm Moon) March 15-April 7 ● Mercury Retrograde March 20 ● Ostara March 29 ● New Moon in Aries April 12 ● Full Moon in Libra (Pink Moon) April 27 ● New Moon in Taurus May 1 ● Beltane May 12 ● Full Moon in Scorpio (Flower Moon) May 26 ● New Moon in Gemini June 11 ● Full Moon in Sagittarius (Strawberry Moon) June 20 ● Litha June 25 ● New Moon in Cancer July 10 ● Full Moon in Capricorn (Buck Moon) July 18-August 11 ● Mercury Retrograde July 24 ● New Moon in Leo August 1 ● Lammas August 9 ● Full Moon in Aquarius (Corn Moon) August 23 ● New Moon in Leo September 7 ● Full Moon in Pisces (Harvest Moon) September 21 ● New Moon in Virgo September 22 ● Mabon October 6 ● Full Moon in Aries (Hunter's Moon) October 21 ● New Moon in Libra October 31 ● Samhain November 5 ● Full Moon in Taurus (Beaver Moon) November 9-November 29 ● Mercury in Retrograde November 20 ● New Moon in Scorpio December 4 ● Full Moon in Gemini (Cold Moon) December 19 ● New Moon in Sagittarius December 21 ● Yule

[empress-of-dragons]

[heathenwithwifi]

Dusk of Prophecy

Becoming Wild

Part 1- Age 10

Set one year after Qui-Gon Jinn's death on Naboo, this is the official beginning of Alina Lyra Skywalker's hidden path--ten year's old, newly scarred by Maul's blade, and too powerful for the walls that try to contain her. Becoming Wild follows Alina's quiet rebellion against the Jedi Temple's careful shaping, and her retreat into Dagobah's living silence under sir Yoda's watch. This is the first chapter of her secret training--and this series will follow everything she learns in the shadows between The Phantom Menace and Attack of the Clones.

She also becomes absolutely feral throughout this series.

After Naboo, Alina Lyra Skywalker--Anakin's quiet twin--cannot be shaped by the Temple's cold marble and calm discipline. Haunted by too much power and visions she can't silence, she follows Yoda into the swamps of Dagobah. There, stripped of constant ritual and noise, she unravels and rebuilds--trading polished halls for mud, silence for song, restraint for becoming. This is the part of the story where the force no longer screams at her--it breathes with her. Alina stops drowning who the Jedi want her to be, and grows into the wild thing the force knows she is.

Trigger Warnings: Canon-typical mentions of violence, mild trauma, grief, introspection, emotional vulnerability, swamps in general, child training under harsh conditions. THERE IS NO EXPLICIT CONTENT IN THIS SERIES UNTIL ATTACK OF THE CLONES!

Tags:#star wars fanfiction #oc: alina lyra skywalker #anakin skywalker’s twin #jedi temple #dagobah #yoda #force sensitive oc #force mysticism #found family #emotional healing #character study #soft angst #slow burn self discovery #star wars oc #star wars writing #my writing #force and nature #spiritual journey

Author’s Note: I have been possessed--absolutely feral--over the idea of what if a Skywalker just learned to BREATHE for five seconds instead of spontaneously combusting in a blaze of daddy issues and bad decisions? So here’s Alina Lyra Skywalker: the twin who does not scream I hate sand at the galaxy--she just lets the swamp eat her alive until she’s so feral the Force itself asks her permission to vibe.

This is my soggy, moss-scented love letter to quiet power, to broken kids who hate being told what to do, to ancient frogs giving cryptic therapy in a swamp where your boots WILL rot off your feet. If you made it through this forest of words--thank you for sitting in the dark with Alina’s weird silence.

But don’t get comfortable. She’s about to go full wild cryptid in Part 2. She will talk to ghosts. She will bend the elements. She just might accidentally make a tree explode. She might even smile about it. She’s not done becoming--she’s just stopped asking for permission.

Anyway, thanks for reading--see you in the next unhinged chapter where Alina Lyra Skywalker politely tells destiny to go fuck itself with a vine.

Word Count:4,802

The Jedi Temple gleams like a holy monument against the artificial dusk of Coruscant—an ivory spire of silence and purpose, built from stone and order and centuries of conviction. Within its walls, life moves like clockwork: clean, measured, serene. Lightsabers slice through air with precision. Robes whisper across polished floors. Voices echo from the training halls in calm, rehearsed cadence—speaking wisdom older than the towers that surround them.

It is a place of discipline.

A place for students to become something greater. To let go of fear. To serve the Force. To be shaped.

But Alina Lyra Skywalker resists being shaped.

Not outwardly. No, her hands are always folded. Her posture perfect. Her tone soft and compliant. But beneath the practiced bows and silent nods is a girl like iron beneath silk--untouched by the ritual polish the Temple tries to apply. She follows. She listens. She learns. But she does not belong.

It’s been a year since Naboo. Since Qui-Gon’s blood hit the palace floor. Since Alina felt Darth Maul’s blade kiss her shoulder. Since the Force tore through her like a scream she never let out. She bears that scar now—a half-moon of shiny skin hidden beneath the collar of her tunic. She touches it sometimes in the dark, not out of fear… but to remember that she survived.

The Council sees her as a paradox. A question they can’t answer. She is powerful--too powerful. And quiet--too quiet.

In the sparring ring, she moves like a shadow--elegant, economical. She dodges more than she strikes. Her blade never trembles, but it rarely attacks. “She’s too cautious,” one instructor mutters after a training session. “No,” says another. “She’s watching.”

And it’s true.

She doesn’t look at her opponents.

She studies them.

Every twitch. Every breath. Every tremble in the air between them. Like the Force is a thread only she can feel. And she’s just trying not to snap it.

When she meditates, it’s worse.

The younglings sit in even circles on their mats, eyes closed, palms upward. Breathing in, breathing out. Centered. And Alina--Alina is a still point in the room, spine straight, hands resting on her knees like everyone else. But beneath her skin, the Force does not quiet. It curls. It claws.

It moves around her in chaotic ripples, impossible to track. Like a storm beneath glass. Like she is holding the galaxy’s pulse in her chest and trying not to let it bleed.

Sometimes, the light dims when she enters a room. Sometimes plants lean toward her without reason. Sometimes glass hums softly under her touch.

And once--just once--another Padawan tried to link with her mind in guided meditation.

He screamed. Collapsed backward. Trembled for hours and couldn’t remember what he saw.

Alina hadn’t even moved.

They talk about her when they think she isn’t listening.

She always is.

“Emotionally guarded,” one healer says. “Spiritually fractured,” another whispers. “She’s not dangerous. But she’s… unknown.”

“She’s grieving,” Obi-Wan says simply.

Sixteen now. Taller, sharper around the edges, but gentler in the presence of the twins. He watches Alina from afar more often than he approaches. He knows what she’s like when people try to fix her. She shrinks. She retreats. But when someone simply sits beside her, says nothing, breathes the same air without expectation… she stays.

“She hasn’t spoken more than a sentence to anyone since we returned,” Windu says.

“She sees too much,” Shaak Ti replies. “That kind of vision in a child… it leaves cracks in the foundation.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t argue.

Because he’s seen the cracks too. Not in Alina’s strength--but in her restraint.

He remembers the vision she had on the ship. The way she’d clung to him like a drowning girl to driftwood. The way her eyes had looked past the stars, as if she were seeing fire not yet born.

And he remembers the one thing she whispered when her voice finally came back.

“Will they separate us?”

Yoda says nothing for a long time.

But he watches her.

That evening, he finds her in the garden again--bare knees in the dirt, shoulders hunched under her oversized tunic, hands gently tracing the cracked bark of an old tree that no one else ever visits.

She does not startle when he arrives.

She does not bow.

She just speaks, soft and even:

“I don’t want to be what they’re trying to make me.”

The words don’t carry rebellion.

They carry something heavier.

Knowledge.Resignation.Fear.

Yoda moves closer, slowly, and sits beside her in the grass, folding his tiny hands into his sleeves. They say nothing for a long time. And in that silence, the air around them grows heavy--not oppressive, but concentrated.

The Force swells.

Like it recognizes them both.

“Then become, you must,” Yoda finally says, “what the Force already knows.”

Alina doesn’t reply.

But her fingers, still dirt-streaked, uncurl from the tree’s bark. And for the first time in days, her shoulders lower. Not in defeat.

In relief.

That night, the Council meets again.

Yoda’s cane taps the floor. His voice is steady.

“Train her, I will.”

There’s silence.

Then unrest.

“She disrupts the others.”

“She destabilizes the room.”

“She could become--”

Yoda raises one clawed finger.

“Not because Jedi she must be,” he says. “But because Jedi must learn what she already is.”

Across the Temple, in her quarters, Alina kneels in the dark. She’s wrapped in the same blanket she wore on the ship from Naboo—a thin, tattered thing, patched by Obi-Wan’s careful hand. Her hands rest over her chest, where the scar from Maul’s saber has long since healed.

The Force stirs around her again. Not like a storm this time. But like wind in the leaves.

And for the first time since she arrived at the Temple-- she doesn’t feel like she’s drowning in silence.

She doesn’t feel safe. Not yet.

But she feels seen.

And that, for now, is enough.

---

The Council gathered the next morning under gray Coruscant skies.

Rain misted over the wide windows, blurring the skyline like watercolor fading beneath too much water. Twelve chairs, twelve presences. Holograms flickered to life in the room’s quiet heart, and the circle of wisdom was complete.

Yoda stood in the center of it.

“I am taking Alina Lyra Skywalker,” he said without preamble. “Away from the Temple.”

Eyebrows rose. Robes rustled. The silence wasn't a surprise--it was a calculation.

“Temporarily?” Master Depa Billaba asked first, her voice neutral.

Yoda leaned on his cane. “For as long as needed.”

Mace Windu’s brow furrowed. “Where?”

“Dagobah.”

A small wave of unease passed through the room like a shared exhale.

“That place is strong with the Dark Side,” Ki-Adi-Mundi said. “Why take her there?”

“Strong with the Force, it is,” Yoda corrected. “Dark and light. Pure, it remains. Unshaped. There, listen, she must. Hear herself.”

“You believe she’s ready for that?” Windu asked, leaning forward, voice low. “She’s ten, Master Yoda. And she hasn’t spoken a full sentence since Naboo.”

“She does not speak,” Yoda said, “because the Force is louder than words. It overwhelms her. Burns behind her eyes. Tangles in her breath. Her silence is not absence--it is armor.”

“She is not like Anakin,” Obi-Wan added, his voice a soft echo in the room. “Not loud, not curious, not pushing forward. She’s holding back. Something’s keeping her frozen.”

Yoda nodded, eyes heavy.

“Yes. And here, thaw she will not. Not in these stone halls. Not beneath these towers.”

“Why Dagobah?” Shaak Ti asked, tilting her head. “Of all places?”

“Because there, the Force will speak to her without noise. No walls. No expectations. Just breathe. Just earth. Just the truth.”

“You’re isolating her,” Windu said carefully. “Separating her from the other younglings. From Anakin.”

“Bonded, they are,” Yoda replied. “Too closely, perhaps. One shines, the other shadows. Need space. To find her own light.”

He looked around at the circle slowly, letting the silence settle.

“If she does, lost she will be. Sink into herself until nothing remains but fear and vision. And if that happens—worse it will be. For her. For us.”

“And if she doesn’t return?” Plo Koon asked quietly.

Yoda’s ears flicked down.

“Then perhaps,” he murmured, “the Temple was never her home to begin with.”

No one spoke after that.

Because deep down, none of them could deny it:

Alina Lyra Skywalker was not like the others.

And if she was ever going to find peace--

It would not be in the heart of Coruscant.

It would be in the silence of the swamp.

---

The garden was folded in shadow when he found her.

Light trickled down through the canopy above like distant stars trapped in glass leaves. The moss beneath her knees was damp from mist, and the small, still pool in front of her reflected nothing but soft movement. It was the hour between night and dawn—when the Temple exhaled.

Alina Lyra Skywalker sat curled beneath the bioluminescent tree, knees hugged to her chest, robe tugged too tightly around her small frame. She hadn’t moved in hours. Barely breathed. The hem of her tunic was stained from dirt, her braid unraveling down her back.

She heard him before he spoke.

Not his feet--no. Yoda didn’t walk like others. He moved like the Force itself had shaped a place for him to pass through. But his presence stirred the air, gentle and ancient.

He stood beside her for a long moment before lowering himself onto the stone. His cane rested across his lap. The air smelled faintly of rain and jasmine.

“Late the hour is,” Yoda said quietly, not looking at her. “Rest, you should.”

Alina didn’t respond.

He tilted his head.

“Much you carry. Heavy, it is. Hard to sleep with such weight.”

She blinked. Her voice came slow, like she had to coax it out of her throat.

“It’s quieter here.”

Yoda hummed. “Mmm. Quieter, yes. But still, the Force is not.”

He waited. She said nothing.

“Too loud, the Temple is,” he said at last. “Too many voices. Too many eyes.”

Alina glanced at him, then away. “They all think I’m broken.”

A soft exhale escaped him. Not a sigh. Something older.

“Broken, you are not,” he said. “Different, yes. Wounded, yes. But cracked glass still shines, hmm?”

“I’m not like Anakin,” she said. “He belongs here.”

Yoda tapped a claw lightly against his cane. “Belongs where he believes he does. As do you.”

“I don’t know where that is.”

Yoda looked out over the pool. The water rippled faintly, though there was no wind.

“A place, there is. Far. Swamp world. Alive, it is. With mud, and root, and silence. Strong in the Force.” He paused. “Dagobah.”

Alina turned to him. “Why?”

“To listen,” he said simply. “To learn not with ears, but with breath. With stillness. With truth.”

“I thought Jedi learned in the Temple.”

“Many do. But all paths, the same they are not.” His ears flicked. “One shape, the Jedi does not fit.”

She curled deeper into herself. “I don’t think I’m strong enough.”

He looked at her sharply, and the words that followed were quiet--but iron.

“Stronger than you know, you are.”

Alina’s throat tightened. “And if I leave… will I come back?”

Yoda turned to her fully now.

“Choice, it will be. Yours.”

She bit her lip, then whispered:

“Will I see Anakin again?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes. See him again, you will. But now, grow apart, you must.”

She swallowed. “And Obi-Wan?”

Yoda’s voice softened--not with pity, but with memory.

“Him too.”

Tears threatened, but she blinked them away. She hadn’t cried in weeks. Not when she woke from visions. Not when she saw Anakin laughing with the other Padawans and felt like a stranger in her own skin.

Yoda stood slowly, his cane steady in his hand.

“Before dawn, we leave. Sleep, if you can.”

She didn’t answer. But she watched him walk away, his small form disappearing into shadow, swallowed by the Temple’s curve.

When she looked back at the water, she no longer saw only her reflection.

She saw something else.

A beginning.

---

Dagobah did not welcome her.

Not at first.

It devoured her.

The moment Alina Lyra Skywalker stepped off the weathered shuttle and into the lungs of the swamp, it felt as though the planet exhaled just to remind her that she did not belong.

It wrapped around her like breath made solid--thick, wet, alive. The air clung to her skin like syrup, and everything--everything--buzzed. Leaves whispered even when there was no wind. The water rippled even when nothing moved. And the smell--stars above, the smell--was a rancid perfume of rot, ancient bark, wet moss, and something older than bones. Something that had waited here long before anyone gave the Force a name.

Her robes, still sharp-creased from the Temple, sagged and clung to her legs. Her boots, polished and tight, squelched with each step until blisters bloomed across her heels. The braid she’d kept carefully tied unraveled in the humidity within hours. Sweat pooled at the base of her spine. Dirt nested beneath her fingernails.

She said nothing.

Not out of resistance.

Out of necessity.

Yoda said little, too. But not because he wasn’t watching.

He walked ahead, small and steady, his gimer stick tapping against gnarled roots with the rhythm of someone who’d long ago stopped needing to look where he was going. The swamp parted for him. Or maybe it remembered him.

“Alive, this world is,” he said on the second day, as they paused near a tree so wide it blotted out half the sky. “But gentle, it is not. No greetings, it offers. No comfort.”

Alina said nothing.

Her foot was stuck in mud up to her calf, and she was too tired to pull it free without falling again.

“Test you, it will. Eat you, it might,” Yoda went on, as if discussing the weather. “But listen… listen, it does. When quiet, you become.”

He turned to her, squinting with that piercing serenity of his.

“Quiet, are you?”

She didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. Her silence wasn’t defiance anymore. It was the silence of someone bracing for the next moment to break them.

Yoda simply blinked once and turned forward again.

“Good,” he said softly. “Beginning, that is.”

---

The world moved slowly on Dagobah.

Not in hours or rotations, but in weight. In rhythm. In a language older than sound.

At first, Alina hated it. Hated how the swamp wrapped around her. How the wet crept into her bones, how the vines tugged at her sleeves like fingers. How every surface was slick or crawling or both. She hated how Yoda never explained anything. How he left her questions unanswered. How he said things like “Patience, the mind must grow before truth can fit” when all she wanted was direction.

But still, he never left her behind.

When she slipped into mud up to her waist, he waited.

When she fell on her face into a slick patch of moss and sobbed in frustration, he crouched beside her--not to comfort, but to share the space.

“Fall, even the tall trees do,” he murmured then, watching a water beetle crawl over her boot. “But rise again, they do. From seed, not from shame.”

The days blurred like fog over still water.

And slowly--slowly--the swamp stopped trying to drown her.

And began to teach her.

Not in words. Not in drills.

In touch. In breath. In presence.

It started with flickers.

A hum behind her ears when the wind shifted. The feeling of something watching--only to turn and find nothing there. The moment her foot paused just before stepping on a root she hadn’t seen.

She was beginning to feel the world before she saw it.

“Not with eyes,” Yoda said one morning as they knelt beside a pool thick with fog. “With skin. With spirit. With silence, see you must.”

Alina closed her eyes.

She didn’t move.

The water beside her rippled.

“Creature, beneath,” Yoda whispered. “Sleeping. Angry, it is not. Hungry, it is not. Still, it is.”

Alina opened her eyes and looked. The water stilled again. Nothing broke the surface.

But she could feel it now.

Waiting. Watching. Breathing.

And the Force—it didn’t feel like fire anymore. It felt like depth. Like something that had no need to roar. It just was.

---

By the end of the third week, she walked without stumbling.

By the fifth, she knew which trees dropped venom and which held fruit with seeds that sang when split open.

She knew where the fog thickened before a storm.

She knew when to speak and when the world asked her to be quiet.

Yoda began to guide her into training without calling it such.

He handed her a blindfold one morning and led her into a grove tangled with roots.

“See, you must. With more than eyes.”

Then he tossed a pebble into the air. It hit her shoulder.

The next one, her elbow.

She didn’t catch any of them.

For six days.

But she didn’t complain.

On the seventh day, she caught the pebble before it made a sound.

Yoda didn’t praise her.

He simply handed her another.

“Again.”

---

Dagobah changed her.

She grew into the rhythm of it--not as an outsider, but as something it had begun to accept.

Her voice returned, first in whispers, then in full sentences, spoken to frogs, to trees, to the wind. Not always to Yoda--but he heard them.

And when she began to hum again--old lullabies from Tatooine she barely remembered--he listened without turning.

One evening, just after a rainstorm left the moss glowing silver with dampness, she stood barefoot near the edge of a pond. Her hair, once knotted and strict, now flowed freely--half pulled into a braid, the rest curling down her back. She wore a tunic she had stitched herself, sleeves torn off, layered over pants wrapped tight at the ankles with vine-fiber cord. Her belt held stones, feathers, even a carved bit of bone that hummed in her palm during meditation.

She no longer looked like a Temple Initiate.

She looked like the swamp had grown her.

And when Yoda approached from behind, his cane tapping the wet stone, she turned and met his eyes with a steady calm.

“I felt it,” she said before he could speak. “The shift. The silence breaking.”

He nodded once. “You listen well now.”

“It doesn't scream anymore,” she said. “The Force. It used to hurt.”

Yoda blinked. “Because you fought it. Feared it. Now… you breathe with it.”

She sat beside him, rainwater beading on her arms, her voice barely above the croak of frogs in the distance.

“I didn’t think I would ever feel like… me again.”

He said nothing.

Just rested his clawed hand briefly atop hers.

And for the first time, she didn’t flinch.

---

It began with flickers.

Not visions. Not lightning flashes of prophecy or pain. Just moments. Small ones.

A warmth blooming in her chest when she was still. A shift in the air that made her turn her head a heartbeat before something moved through the trees. The quiet pull of her feet toward a path she hadn’t seen, but somehow knew was there.

The Force didn’t shout at her anymore. It didn’t twist in her bones or roar in her blood. It no longer tore at her thoughts like it had on Coruscant--loud and bright and too much all at once.

Here, it was different.

Here, it sang.

She felt it in the wind that passed just before rainfall, in the pause between frog croaks at dusk, in the soft drip of water collecting on a leaf’s edge. It pulsed beneath her skin in the same way breath did—steady, wordless, and alive.

Most days, she rose with the swamp’s rhythm. She gathered roots, climbed trees barefoot, bathed in the stream when the fog hung low and silver. Meditation didn’t come as a task anymore. She didn’t need a bell to remind her. It was a choice now. A need. A tether.

Yoda watched from the edge of her days. Sometimes with words. Often without.

---

That morning, they were by the stream.

Mist clung to the water’s surface in pale ribbons, turning everything soft and hushed. Alina sat cross-legged on a flat stone, damp sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her fingers rested on her knees, and her eyes were closed--but not in the way they once were, tight with tension.

They were just closed. Like breathing.

Yoda stood nearby, half-camouflaged by hanging moss, his ears still, his cane planted in the mud.

He spoke without preamble.

“Not always a push, the Force is.”

Alina didn’t open her eyes. “I know.”

His cane tapped once. “You do?”

She nodded, slow. “It used to feel like it was dragging me. Pulling me toward something I didn’t understand. Now… it just walks with me.”

“Hm.” He stepped closer, peering at her. “No fear?”

“No,” she said. Then amended softly, “Less.”

That answer pleased him more.

“Good,” Yoda said. “Loud, the Force can be. Demanding. But when listen you do…” He tapped her chest with a clawed finger. “Quiet, it becomes. Clear.”

She smiled faintly. Eyes still shut.

The mist curled between them like breath.

But slowly, something in her expression shifted. Her brow creased. Her fingers twitched.

Yoda noticed. He always did.

Her voice came quieter this time.

“Do you ever feel it? Someone else?”

Yoda didn’t answer right away.

“I mean through the Force,” she continued. “Someone far away. Someone you… care about.”

She opened her eyes.

They were darker than when she’d arrived. Not in color--still that soft green flecked with gold--but in depth. Like they had grown old and new all at once.

She hesitated. Then asked:

“Have you felt Anakin?”

The name settled between them like a leaf on still water.

Yoda was quiet for a long moment.

“Yes,” he said at last. “Strong, his presence remains. Bright. Wild. Still learning. Still growing.”

Alina’s throat tightened. “And Obi-Wan?”

Yoda’s gaze softened.

“Watches over him, he does. Guides. Worries. Misses…”

He trailed off, letting the word hang.

Alina looked down at her hands.

“Me,” she finished.

There was no pain in her voice. Not exactly. Just ache. The kind that lives in the hollow spaces love leaves behind.

“I miss them,” she admitted. “Even now. Even here. I didn’t think I would--not this much. I thought it would fade.”

Yoda’s response was quiet.

“Love fades not. Shifts, it does. Becomes quieter. But gone, never.”

“I know I’m not supposed to think about them,” she said, picking absently at a thread on her sleeve. “Attachment, clinging… all that.”

“Hm,” Yoda grunted. “Not forbidden, your feelings are. Not weakness, they are. Danger, only when grasped too tightly. When blind, we become.”

She looked up at him.

“You knew I was still holding onto them.”

He met her gaze steadily. “From the beginning.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because training, it did not break,” Yoda said. “Your spirit, it did not twist. Stronger, you became. Because love, you carry. Not in chains--but in choice.”

Alina blinked hard. She hadn’t realized there were tears behind her eyes until the breeze cooled her cheeks.

“I want to see them again someday.”

“You will.”

“When?”

Yoda tapped the stone beneath her.

“When ready, you are.”

---

Training, Alina decided, was nothing like it had been at the Temple.

There were no saber drills. No meditation bells. No lectures echoing off cold marble. There was just the swamp--the hiss of insects, the weight of fog, the splash of bare feet through puddles.

And Yoda.

Yoda, who never barked orders, never raised his voice. Yoda, who gave her riddles instead of rules and told her to catch stones blindfolded in the middle of a thunderstorm.

“I think you’re just making this harder to watch me fall over,” she grumbled one morning, linen blindfold tied over her eyes, hands outstretched in the clearing.

“Hm,” Yoda said, voice dry. “Amusing, it is. But instructive, also.”

She laughed--loud and unrestrained--and just barely missed the next rock, which bounced off her hip.

“Nice throw,” she muttered.

“Better catch,” Yoda replied with a twitch of his ears.

By the second week, she was catching them mid-air before they made a sound. By the third, she didn’t need the blindfold anymore--she moved by feel. Not calculation. Not instruction.

Just the Force.

---

Her body changed with the swamp.

She’d grown—not just taller, though she now stood at 5’1”, all wiry muscle and mud-streaked limbs—but stronger. The softness she’d once had in her arms and legs had given way to definition earned through climbing trees, swimming through creeks, and hauling herself across slick roots. She no longer flinched when she fell. She simply got up.

Her old Temple robes hadn’t lasted a week.

Dagobah had shredded them--mud-stained, waterlogged, and too rigid for the life she lived now. Yoda never said "I told you so." But he definitely looked it.

Together, they had stitched her new clothes from scavenged cloth, repurposed scraps, and the odd off-world item pulled from Yoda’s tiny storage chest. She now wore wide-legged linen pants tied at the calf with leather strips and a sleeveless tunic of breathable brown mesh layered beneath a greenish-gray moss-wrapped shawl. Her belt--repurposed from an old satchel--carried a handmade pouch, a bone-handled knife, and two river stones that hummed with soft energy in her palm.

Her favorite piece was her cloak.

It was long and sun-bleached, torn at the edges, always damp and smelling faintly of moss and smoke. She called it her swampskin. She liked how it trailed behind her like a shadow. Like something earned.

---

Her hair had transformed too.

The neat Padawan braid was long gone. At first, she’d tried to keep it—out of respect, out of routine—but the humidity had other plans. Her hair had grown wild, curling in loose waves that hung down her back. Some days she tied it up with sinew in a high ponytail, others she looped it into messy knots and held it in place with a wooden hairpin Yoda carved for her.

“Could’ve made me a saber,” she told him once, tucking the pin into place. “But sure--let’s go with hair accessories.”

“Dangerous, a lightsaber is,” he replied. “Tangled hair? Deadlier.”

She nearly spit out her tea laughing.

---

She sang now, too.

Not the hymns from the Temple. Her voice had never fit in those.

But she sang old songs--half-remembered lullabies from Tatooine, melodies her mother had hummed in the dark. She sang while foraging, while cooking, while washing her clothes in the stream.

Yoda never commented.

But she caught him humming once. Very off-key.

“You’ve been corrupted,” she teased, elbowing him lightly. “Next thing you know you’ll start whistling.”

He blinked up at her, perfectly deadpan.

“Whistle, I will. If asked politely.”

That made her laugh so hard she nearly fell into the firepit.

---

She didn’t look in mirrors anymore.

Not that there were any.

But she didn’t need one.

She knew the freckles that had bloomed on her nose. The scar on her shoulder from a thorn-root. The way her arms no longer trembled when she climbed the vines outside the sleeping tree.

She knew herself by the way her bare feet hit the earth.

By the way the Force curled around her like breath.

By the way she laughed and didn’t apologize.

She was no longer trying to be what others needed her to be.

She was simply becoming.

And for the first time in her life--

That was enough.

[heathenwithwifi]

Curtain Three: County's Worst Kept Secret (Part One)

Summary: Mateo Lopez's broken femur wasn't supposed to break Cesia's carefully hidden secret wide fucking open---but one snapped bone, one cocky baby med student, and one kinda cheap trauma curtain later, County General suddenly has a rumor (is it a rumor if its true? Hmmmm???) no stethoscope can contain. Cesia Ora Lopez:shy genius with an eidetic memory, future emergency medicine intern, and absolutely not the girl you should fuck behind a curtain when Dr Benton is two trauma rooms away---and John Carter? Well...he's about to learn what happens when your worst mistake might just be the best thing you never planned for.

Trigger Warnings: Explicit content (18+), semi-public sex in a medical setting, consensual but unprotected sex, mild language, adult humor, power imbalance hinted, canon-level medical drama references (blood, trauma, broken bones, etc.)

Tags:#ER Fanfiction #John Carter #Cesia Ora Lopez #OC x Canon #Curtain Three #Season 1 ER #hospital smut #semi-public sex #unplanned pregnancy #oral sex #fluff and smut #awkward smut #inappropriate workplace romance #John Carter is a literal mess #Benton is so done #County General Chaos #Mark Greene foreshadowing #youngdoctors #secret relationship #future angst #1990s ER vibes #Eidetic Memory OC #medical drama fanfic #fanfiction series

Author notes: This is probably going to suck booty cheeks and ass, but my friend and I came up with this idea and the idea was to originally just make this porn with like the tiniest bit of plot but now this has become the first part of what i'm going to make an ongoing series. This is based in season one so expect floppy-haired, golden retriever energy of John Carter and Cesia Lopez's shy,black cat, giggly energy!!!

Word Count: 3,855

Mateo Lopez always thought he was invincible. One hill, one board, one dumb push too fast down a cracked alley behind the old grocery store, and his femur snapped so clean it looked fake when Cesia saw it, bone angled wrong under his torn jeans.

She didn’t scream. Cesia Ora Lopez never screamed. She just pressed her shaking hands to her brother’s shoulder, told him Don’t you fucking pass out, Téo, I swear to God---and dragged him to her rust-bucket Corolla while he cursed at the sky.

Now, under the hum of County’s flickering ER lights, Mateo’s moaning through gritted teeth while Cesia perches half-on the edge of the gurney, her boots squeaking on the linoleum every time she shifts. The smell of antiseptic, old coffee, and stale sweat coils in her lungs like smoke she can’t cough out.

Her palms are clammy where they press to Mateo’s chest. She should be calm. She’s a doctor now, on paper at least. Just graduated top of her class at twenty-two because her brain wouldn’t let her do anything else---an eidetic steel trap with a soft, shy mouth and moon-round eyes that saw too much.

Summer break was supposed to be her one chance to breathe---three months to exist before she steps through these same double doors again as Dr. Lopez, Mark Greene’s quiet, sharp-edged new intern. But here she is instead: sweat sticking her shirt to her spine, pretending she’s just a sister tonight, not the freak genius who reads trauma journals for fun when she can’t sleep.

Mateo cracks a grin through the pain. “Stop making that face, Luna. You’re gonna scare the baby docs worse than my bone sticking out.”

She snorts---soft, sharp---brushing sweaty hair off his forehead. Her fingers come away damp. Luna. He’s the only one who calls her that. Her big brown eyes, round and soft in a face too fierce to match, were always the color of secrets. When they were kids, he’d peek under her blanket and find her reading by flashlight, wide-eyed like the moon she’d whisper about. So: Luna. Always.

Before she can answer, the curtain rips back with a metal clatter that makes her flinch. A young man stands there---lab coat half buttoned, sleeves shoved up like he’s trying to show forearms he’s not old enough to own. Floppy hair falling into eyes too soft for this place.

John Carter. He looks twelve. He looks like he’s about to apologize for existing.

“Uh---hi. I’m---Carter. John Carter. Med student. I’m working under Dr. Benton tonight. Let’s, uh, see what we’ve got…”

His voice cracks halfway through. Cesia’s eyes flick up, catching his--wide, brown, darting from Mateo’s crooked leg to the way her hip curves against the bed rail. She ducks her head so fast her hair falls in a curtain between them.

Mateo’s grin is wicked through a hiss of pain. “Be nice, Luna. He looks like he’s gonna faint.”

Carter’s mouth opens, then shuts again. His hands hover over Mateo’s shin, careful, fingers steady but his eyes flicking to Cesia every other breath. When his knuckles brush her thigh by accident, he jolts like he’s been shocked. She doesn’t move--doesn’t even breathe.

“Leg’s definitely broken,” Carter mumbles, scribbling basically nothing on the chart. He clears his throat twice. “Clean break’s good. We’ll X-ray, get Ortho. Maybe a pin, maybe screws.”

“Hell yeah,” Mateo rasps, turning his grin on her. “I told you, Luna. Bionic leg, bitch. Start saving your summer paycheck.”

Carter blinks. “Luna?”

She pushes her hair behind her ear with shaky fingers, avoiding Carter’s eyes. “Nickname,” she whispers. “He’s the only one.”

Mateo winks at Carter through gritted teeth. “She hates her real name. Don’t ask. She’ll hex you.”

Carter tries to laugh. It comes out a squeak. Cesia’s lips twitch before she can swallow it---a tiny shy flicker that makes him stare at her mouth too long. She ducks her head again, chewing her bottom lip raw.

When the nurse comes to wheel Mateo to X-ray, Carter tells her she can wait outside. She should. She knows she should. But her legs don’t move. Her hands stay on the rail.

Carter turns to tell her again--to do the right thing--but the words catch in his throat when she lifts her head. Big brown eyes flick up at him from under thick lashes, her teeth worrying her lip. She looks like she’s about to confess a crime.

He clears his throat. “You---uh…you can wait outside---if you want. I mean---you probably---you probably should---”

She shakes her head, hair falling back around her shoulders. Soft waves brush her jaw where it tapers to that stubborn little chin. Her voice is so quiet he has to lean in.

“I don’t---want to.”

It hits him right in the chest. The hush between them sharpens---bright, hot, wrong. His eyes flick to the curtain, half-expecting Benton’s broad-shouldered silhouette to come ripping through, yelling at him for wasting time, for looking at a girl like this when people are dying three bays over.

But she’s not just a girl. She’s this---big dark,brown eyes, shy mouth, pulse fluttering under skin so soft he wants to memorize it with his tongue. His fingers twitch like they want to touch her wrist, trace the tiny veins there.

“Tell me your name,” he blurts.

She flinches---not away from him, but in on herself, shoulders rounding like she’s hugging a secret. “No.”

“Please---” he tries, voice thin as paper.

She lifts her head just enough to catch his eyes. That tiny smile again---shy and wicked all at once. She shakes her head. No. Then she steps closer---so close he feels her breath when she whispers:

“You don’t get it yet.”

Her fingers brush his chest---just a ghost touch, but it sparks heat under his skin. He swears he stops breathing. When she leans in, her mouth brushes his jaw first---shy, testing. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. Then she shifts---catches the corner of his mouth with hers. A soft, trembling kiss that lands like a spark on dry paper.

His chart slips from his hand, paper fluttering to the floor. He catches her waist without thinking---thumbs pressing into warm skin where her shirt rides up. Her gasp is so soft he almost misses it over the buzz of the flickering light above them.

When he kisses her back, it’s clumsy, sweet---their teeth knock, her tiny laugh breaks it, but she catches his mouth again, deeper this time. Her hands slide up his chest, fingernails scraping just enough to make him shiver.

He pulls back first, breathless, forehead pressed to hers. Her lashes brush his cheek when she closes her eyes.

“Luna---” he whispers, testing it like it might break him open.

She just laughs, so soft, so shy, mouth brushing his when she says, “Not yours yet.”

But her hands tug him closer---hips brushing his, warm and trembling. His hands slip under her shirt, fingertips skating up the soft dip of her spine. Her breath catches---a tiny stutter---but she doesn’t stop him.

Outside the curtain, a gurney squeaks by. Someone yells for a crash cart. Cesia’s pulse hammers under his palm like she’s drowning in it. He wants to kiss every piece of her until he knows the shape of the inside of her throat.

Her knees knock together when he sinks to the floor---the click of his stethoscope hitting the linoleum snapping her back for half a second. The hush behind the curtain feels dangerous now, so thin it might split if she moans too loud. But Carter’s hands are on her hips---warm, big, trembling---thumbs brushing just under the waistband of her jeans like he’s never touched bare skin before. Maybe he hasn’t.

“Luna,” he breathes it against her stomach---his mouth brushing the soft skin just above her waistband. The word feels like a promise and a plea all at once. She’s about to answer but the sound dies in her throat when he undoes her jeans---slow, clumsy, careful like he’s unwrapping something he shouldn’t be touching at all.

Her hands fly to his shoulders, small fists bunching in his scrubs when he tugs her jeans down just enough to bare the soft swell of her thighs. She tries to press her knees shut on reflex---shyness curling up her spine---but his thumbs slip between, gentle but firm, pushing her open again.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers, mouth brushing the crease where her hip meets the soft cotton of her underwear. His nose nudges her there, breath so hot it makes her thighs twitch. “You okay?”

She nods---a sharp little tremor of her chin, lashes fluttering down to hide her eyes. She can’t look at him like this---can’t watch him looking at her like this.

“I’m okay,” she whispers. “Don’t stop---please, John---”

He hums low in his throat. He wants to tell her call me Carter---wants to ask her name again---but instead he slips his fingers under the elastic and pulls her panties aside. The air hits her wet and warm and she shivers, knuckles white where she grips the rail behind her.

The first drag of his tongue is almost too soft---just a testing, shy lick that makes her hips jerk forward so fast she almost knocks him off balance. He laughs---soft, breathless---mouth brushing her inner thigh as he murmurs, “Easy…” before he does it again, slower this time, tongue flattening to taste her deeper.

“Fuck---!” Her breath breaks into a gasp so sharp she slaps her palm over her mouth. He moans at the sound---the vibration makes her knees buckle. He hooks his hands under her thighs, strong enough to keep her standing when her legs want to give out.

“Sweet,” he mumbles into her---voice muffled by the slick heat of her, lips teasing, tongue flicking lazy circles that make her eyes roll back. He sucks her clit soft at first, then harder when she gasps, the sound caught under her hand.

She tries to be quiet---tries so hard---but he’s too good for someone who looks so young and new. He hums again, nose pressed against the top of her mound as his tongue slips lower, teasing her open. The edge of his teeth catches just enough to make her hips jerk forward again---desperate little rolls that smear her slick on his chin.

She shouldn’t love it this much. She shouldn’t love how messy he is about it---the soft grunt when she tugs his hair, the way his fingers dig into the back of her thighs to keep her right where he wants her. Every drag of his tongue makes her wetter, so wet it drips down the back of her thigh.

“Please---please---oh God---” She bites the inside of her wrist when he flattens his tongue again, broad and hot, lapping her like he’s starved. He pulls back just enough to flick the tip of his tongue right where she needs it, fast, messy, relentless until she squeaks---a soft, broken sob muffled in her skin.

“Good?” he murmurs, voice thick, half-cocky, half-wrecked. She tries to nod but her brain’s gone fuzzy around the edges.

“Don’t stop---don’t stop---oh fuck---John---”

His hum turns into a low groan when he slips one finger inside her---careful, slow, so gentle it makes her hips jerk again. She clamps down so hard around him he moans, hips rolling into empty air like he’s desperate for friction of his own.

“Shit---you’re so tight---” His voice is almost a laugh, warm and amazed. “So good, Luna ---you taste so fucking good---”

She’s close---so close she’s shaking apart in his hands, thighs quivering where he holds her open for his mouth. He slides his finger deeper, crooks it just right, tongue flicking faster now. Her vision goes white around the edges when the coil snaps---all that heat flooding through her in a silent scream she can’t hide. Her palm slips from her mouth when she cries out, ragged and breathless.

He keeps licking her through it---soft now, tender little licks that make her whimper and twitch until she’s pushing at his head, too sensitive to stand it. He lets her close her thighs around his shoulders for a second, kissing the inside like a soft apology.

When he stands, he’s flushed pink to the roots of his hair, chin wet with her. She should be mortified. Instead she kisses him---deep, sloppy, tasting herself on his tongue while she fumbles with his belt with trembling hands.

“Wait---you don’t---” he tries to say, breath hitching when her fingers wrap around him, hot and thick and hard in her palm. She shushes him, forehead pressed to his.

“Want you,” she whispers. “Please. Please, Carter.”

The way she says Carter---soft, shy, desperate---snaps whatever’s left of his good sense. He hoists her up by the hips, sitting her on the edge of the bed. Her boots squeak against the rail as she kicks them off, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer.

He lines himself up, teasing the head through her slick folds. Her nails dig into his shoulders when he notches at her entrance, just the tip sliding in---so hot and tight he curses under his breath.

“Look at me,” he rasps, brushing her hair from her face. She tries---her big eyes flicker up through her lashes, mouth parted around a tiny gasp when he pushes deeper.

“Fuck---!” Her head tips back, hair sticking to her sweaty throat. He catches her jaw in one hand, forcing her to meet his eyes again.

“Keep looking,” he says---soft but firm. He pushes in slow, inch by inch, until he’s buried so deep they both shudder at the stretch. She clamps her hand over her mouth again to keep the sound in---but it’s useless when he pulls out halfway and thrusts back in, harder, slow and deep.

“Carter---Carter---” Her breath hitches on every roll of his hips. He fucks her slow---sweet, careful, but deep enough to make her thighs tremble where they lock around him. His hand slips between them, thumb brushing her clit just to hear her break apart again.

The bed creaks under them---squeals every time he rocks into her, drowning out the soft filthy slap of skin on skin. His mouth is on hers again, swallowing every gasp, every shy curse when she clenches so tight he almost loses it.

“Fuck---so good---you’re so good, Luna---so sweet---shit---”

She can’t answer---her words dissolve into tiny, desperate moans as her nails scrape his neck, tugging him deeper, hips rocking to meet every slow thrust. He kisses her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth---soft filthy praise that makes her clench harder, makes him swear under his breath.

Her whole body coils around him---tight, warm, wet, her breath breaking as she comes again, soft cries muffled in the curve of his shoulder. He follows with a sharp groan, buried so deep inside her she feels the heat pulse through her core.

For a second there’s only breathing---the hush of her shaky giggle against his neck, his quiet laugh into her hair.

Then---

The curtain whips back.

“CARTER---WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS---”

There’s a split second of silence after Benton’s voice cracks the air — a single heartbeat where Cesia swears even her blood holds its breath.

Then reality slams back in. Her thighs clamp around Carter’s hips so fast he yelps---not a manly grunt, not a shocked gasp---a squeak so high it might only be audible to dogs. The back of his head clangs off the cold bed rail so hard it rattles the chart hook loose. The chart flutters to the floor like it’s fleeing the scene of a crime.

Cesia’s giggle bubbles up before she can kill it. She tries. God, she tries. She clamps her hand over her mouth---wide eyes peeking over her knuckles at Benton’s outline in the gap of the half-drawn curtain.

Benton doesn’t yell. Benton never needs to yell. The soft, flat “Carter.” that slides from his throat is so calm it makes Cesia’s stomach swoop right into her boots.

Carter tries to say something. Big mistake. “I---I---we---it---” It comes out like he’s choking on a mouthful of soap. Cesia bites down harder on her knuckles so she doesn’t full-on cackle when Carter gestures at her like she’s his exhibit A.

Benton’s eyes flick to Cesia---a surgical glance that slices her open in half a second: flushed cheeks, wide brown eyes, her soft messy hair sticking to the sweat at her throat, shirt half-rumpled, the top button popped open where Carter’s stupid nervous hands tugged it loose. 

And Benton sees it all. His nostrils flare so wide Cesia wonders if he might actually inhale Carter’s soul.

“You think this is a goddamn cheap hourly, Carter?” Benton’s voice is so soft it’s nuclear. “You think you’re clocking in for a quickie between patients?”

Carter squeaks. Again. Louder this time. Cesia’s shoulders hitch with another barely-muffled giggle. She’s vibrating like a fucking decrepid chihuahua.

“Dr. Benton, sir---” Carter tries. Bad idea. “It’s---it’s not---I mean we---it wasn’t---we didn’t---” He gestures at Cesia again, eyes huge, pleading, help me. Cesia’s entire ribcage squeezes around another tiny laugh.

Benton’s eyebrow arches so high Cesia’s half convinced it’s about to hit the ceiling tiles. “Oh, do enlighten me. You were what, Carter? Taking her vitals with your dick? Practicing a prostate exam on yourself while she supervises?”

Carter’s entire face does something horrifying---nose scrunches, mouth hangs open. His hands flap uselessly at his belt, which is still undone and hanging sideways off his hip. He looks like he wants to crawl into the biohazard bin behind the bed and never come out.

Cesia loses it. A snort explodes out behind her hand. She immediately claps the other hand over her mouth too, eyes watering, shoulders shaking so hard the entire gurney squeaks under her.

Benton’s death glare swings back to her. His lips thin to a line so sharp it might as well be a scalpel. “You.” He says it like a sentence. “You.” He tilts his head---just enough to send that silent I know you down her spine. She goes dead still, eyes huge, still hidden behind her palms.

“Jesus Christ,” he sighs---more to himself than either of them. “I knew your name would come back to haunt me one day. Of course it’s you.”

Carter whips his head around so fast his floppy hair nearly takes out his eye. “Wait--- what? Wait---you know her? Wait---do you know her?” He points at Cesia so wildly he almost pokes her in the cheek. Cesia squeaks behind her fingers, batting his hand away with a soft, muffled giggle.

Benton ignores him. He pinches the bridge of his nose like he can physically hold in his migraine with just his thumb and forefinger. “Carter, I expect better mistakes from you. At least pick a supply closet next time---not a trauma bed with a pileup rolling in.”

Carter tries to stand up straighter---which is impossible because Cesia’s thighs are still clamped around his hips. Her boots squeak on the bed rail when she tries to peel herself off him, which only makes Carter squeak again.

“I---we---we were gonna---I mean we weren’t gonna---it just happened---” Carter babbles. “I didn’t even---I mean I did---but---she---” He gestures at her belly, then immediately regrets it when Cesia’s eyes snap wide and her hand slaps his arm with a soft thwap.

Benton’s eyebrow arches higher. His eyes flick to Cesia’s soft stomach---a half-second flicker, so subtle Carter misses it. But she feels it. Her own palm ghosts there too---a quick, shy brush, smoothing her shirt back down like she’s pressing a secret back inside where it won’t cause trouble. Not yet.

She giggles again---tiny, breathless, mortified---and mumbles behind her hand, “Not your business, Bambi.” But so quiet it’s swallowed by Carter’s next squeak.

“Sir---Dr. Benton---is she---are you her dad?” Benton’s exhale is so sharp it cuts the air. Cesia snorts. She snorts. She tries to hide it but her whole face scrunches up and the noise slips out between her palms.

Benton’s jaw works like he’s physically chewing up every swear word he’s ever learned. “No, Carter. I am not her father. Though God knows I might wish I was by the time Greene finds out this circus came through my curtain.”

Carter flails harder. “Wait---Greene? Why is Greene involved? Who is she? Who are you? Who am I?” He looks so lost Cesia’s giggle bubbles up again---softer this time, sweet under the chaos. She slips her hand from her mouth to tug his scrubs back into place with a shy little pat to his chest.

Benton cuts the moment like a blade. “Zip. Your. Pants.” He points at Carter’s open fly with a single finger. No yelling. Just nuclear judgment.

Carter fumbles with his belt so fast he nearly snaps the buckle. Cesia’s giggle slips through again---like a little hiccup, warm and hopeless. She can’t stop it if she tries.

Benton shifts his stare back to Cesia. For a heartbeat, it’s almost soft---tired, heavy, edged with a Don’t you dare ruin this.Then it’s gone — buried under that flinty Benton Burn. “You.” He points at her now. “Don’t let him ruin what you’ve got coming in three months. Or I swear you’ll wish I was your father.”

Carter’s face does a double take. “Wait---three months? What’s in three months?! Luna---” He snaps back to Cesia---wide eyes, floppy hair all askew. “What’s in three months?! Are you---are you engaged to Benton? Are you my boss? Are you married to Greene?”

Cesia snorts so hard she hiccups---hic!--- hand flying to her mouth again. She’s so red now her ears might melt. She squeaks into her palm: “Oh my god, Carter---”

Benton has heard enough. He pivots so fast the curtain jerks on its rings. He storms out---his voice trailing behind him like thunder: “CARTER. Trauma One. Now. Before I start an IV in your forehead myself.”

The curtain slaps shut. Silence. Cesia giggles---full, soft, breathless---dissolving into Carter’s chest as he stands there, belt half-fastened, scrubs a mess, eyes spinning like a kicked puppy.

He tries. He really does. “Okay---Luna. Please. Who are you? What did he mean? Are you---are you a secret CIA? Are you gonna assassinate me?” He flaps his hands at her belly again, then freezes like he might faint. “Are you---are you gonna---are you---did we---oh my god.”

She squeaks a soft laugh, wraps her fingers around his wrist, tugs his palm to her mouth. “Shhh, Doctor Baby.” She kisses his knuckles. Her other hand ghosts over her belly---just for a heartbeat, just enough to hush the tiny maybe spark flickering there that maybe might stick around.

She giggles again---pulls her hair down to hide her cheeks. “Don’t worry about it yet.” She kisses him once---soft, sweet, a hush instead of a promise---then slips out from behind the curtain before he can catch her.Carter’s left standing there---pants barely buttoned, hair a wreck, brain melted into the floor with the chart she dropped when she squeaked. And somewhere under the flickering lights of County General, a cheap curtain flaps once behind her---the only witness to a secret neither of them really knows they made yet.

[heathenwithwifi]

Twilight of Destiny (The Phantom Menace Era)

Part 4

Part 4

Summary: 9-year-old Alina Skywalker, twin sister to Anakin, arrives on Coruscant burdened by visions of fire, death, and a scream that haunts her dreams—Obi-Wan’s. As the Jedi Council debates whether to train her and her brother, Alina’s silence becomes her rebellion. When the mission to Naboo turns deadly, and Darth Maul unleashes chaos, Alina is wounded in a way that feels like destiny—leaving behind more than a scar. It’s a prophecy. And she’s the only one listening. This is the turning point. The storm has begun.

Tags: #star wars fanfiction #alina skywalker #oc x canon #anakin skywalker #obi wan kenobi #darth maul #phantom menace rewrite #force sensitive oc #jedi council #force visions #hurt comfort #tw: violence #tw: injury #tw: child trauma #my writing #the beginning of the end #prophetic pain #obi wan grief#star wars oc #twin au #maul left a mark #she saw it all #this is not peace #force storm

Trigger warnings: Graphic violence, Blood and injury, burn trauma/cauterization, Grief, character death, child endangerment, PTSD, trauma responses, screaming, sensory intensity, force visions, psychological distress

Word Count:11,498

Part 4

"I don’t belong here. Not in this towering city of glass and steel, not under the eyes of men who think they know the Force better than the Force knows itself. They're going to ask questions. They're going to look at me like I’m broken—or dangerous. And maybe I am. Because I saw something they didn’t. Because I feel too much. Because I know what’s coming, even if I can’t say it aloud. Anakin has hope in his voice and stars in his eyes. I envy him. I mourn for him. And I stand beside him in silence, a ghost with a heartbeat, waiting to be weighed by those who call themselves wise. But the Force doesn’t whisper to them the way it screams inside me. And I’m afraid—so afraid—that if I speak, they’ll hear it too.” -Alina Skywalker

The air on Coruscant was thinner than Tatooine’s--cooler, sharper and filled with a hum that Alina could feel more than hear. The city wasn’t alive in the way Tatooine was, but it buzzed. With voices. With metal. With power.

And with expectation.

She walked just behind her brother, a step beside Obi-Wan,saying nothing as she had for the past three days.

Padmé cast a glance back at her. The Queen, in full regalia now, swept ahead with the Naboo delegation toward the Senate chambers, her face unreadable under white make up and scarlet trim. Jar Jar followed with wide eyes and louder footsteps.

Alina didn’t move toward them. Didn’t speak. Padmé assumed she couldn’t--or wouldn’t.

And she wasn’t entirely wrong.

Anakin had been the loud one from the beginning. He always had been from the moment they were born. His joy, his defiance, his wonder--all lit up his face and filled every space they entered. He grinned up at the towers, at the Jedi Temple in the distance. “Do you think they’ll let us both in?” he asked suddenly, looking over his shoulder. “I mean, we’re twins, right? That should count for something.”

She didn’t answer.

She only tilted her head--just slightly--and kept walking.

The moment lingered too long.

“She’s still not talking,huh,” he muttered to himself.

Not to herself. Alina had spoken once. Whispered Obi-Wan’s name during the duel outside of the ship. It was barely audible above the noise of clashing lightsabers. It was just a thread of a word. And once more--to Qui-Gon. Quiet and careful, before they disembarked.

Now, she walked in silence between two Jedi and her brother, her copper-brown hair half braided, half undone. Her robe was too large--still one of the hand-me-downs from Padmé’s wardrobe--but she liked it. It made her feel less seen. Or atleast, less interpreted.

They reached the outer spires of the Jedi Temple. Statues of ancient Masters lined the causeways, carved into stone so old it had lost its color. They walked past columns taller than ships,beneath wide skylights where the clouds looked like they were watching. 

Obi-Wan stayed close to her side. He hadn’t asked her to speak. Not once. But had always noticed.

She felt him watching now, through the corner of his eye. Not with pressure. Just quiet awareness. She appreciated that. 

The Council chamber loomed ahead—massive, rounded, wrapped in wide windows that held the sky like a cage. Alina’s fingers curled in her sleeves. She wasn’t afraid of the Council. She was concerned by what they might not see.

Anakin, on the other hand, stood straighter. He was nervous, but the kind of nervous that felt like trying to make yourself bigger.

Qui-Gon paused at the threshold.

“These are the Skywalker twins,” he said. “From Tatooine. Both of them strong in the Force.”

Anakin stepped forward quickly, eager. “Hi—I’m Anakin.”

Alina didn’t move.

“Your name?” Mace Windu asked, eyes already narrowing.

“She doesn’t speak,” Padmé had told them before. “Not since Tatooine.”

But Obi-Wan cleared his throat slightly. “She has,” he said, low. “Only twice. Briefly. In private.”

Yoda’s ears lifted. “To whom?”

Obi-Wan’s voice was steady. “To me. And Master Qui-Gon.”

Yoda’s large eyes turned toward her, studying. “And what was said, hmm?”

Silence.

Anakin turned to look at her too, confused. “You talked? When?”

Alina’s gaze didn’t shift. Her arms were still tucked into the sleeves of her robe. Her face was calm, but not passive. Her eyes were seeing everything.

“Speak, young one,” Ki-Adi-Mundi said, softer than expected. “You are safe here.”

Obi-Wan watched her carefully. He didn’t expect her to speak now. But he felt the current beneath her silence—something steady. Deep. Maybe even deeper than Anakin’s brightness.

Still, Alina said nothing.

Yoda’s voice broke the stillness.

“Strange, this one is. Quiet, but loud in the Force. As if… something inside her is holding the current still.”

“She sees more than she lets on,” Qui-Gon said. “Perhaps more than even we do.”

Anakin blinked. “Why didn’t you say something?” he whispered under his breath.

She didn’t answer.

Because they weren’t ready to hear it.

---

The golden light of Coruscant bled through the tall windows of the Council chamber, painting the curved floor in warm arcs of sun. The Jedi Temple, high above the clouds, felt like a world apart--so far from the desert that raised them, so far from the shackles they had only just begun to escape.

Anakin stood in the center of the chamber, small against the sweep of marble and shadow. The circle of Masters before him radiated calm, power, and scrutiny. Twelve pairs of eyes--some kind,others unreadable--studied him with a stillness that made the air feel thick.

Alina sat near Obi-Wan, her robe still too big on her small frame, the ends of her copper-brown hair catching in the sunlight. She had not moved. Had not spoken. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers lightly touching the frayed stitching on the sleeve. 

Anakin stood tall. Not still—he shifted his weight from foot to foot, his arms twitching slightly at his sides—but he was trying. Trying to be worthy. Trying to be enough.

Mace Windu's voice rang out, smooth and edged like obsidian.

"We will begin the test."

Anakin nodded, swallowing once.

Yoda’s ears twitched, his gaze unblinking. “Relax. Be calm. Your mind must be clear.”

“I’ll try,” Anakin said, voice high with nervous energy.

Windu gestured. “Tell me now… what is in my mind.”

Anakin blinked, surprised. “What? Just like that?”

Mace didn’t repeat himself. His gaze didn’t waver.

Anakin closed his eyes and inhaled. Alina leaned forward a little, watching the tight line of his brow, the way his hands curled, then uncurled. He reached.

“…A ship. You’re piloting it. A Naboo starfighter. Sleek. Silver. It’s fast.”

Mace gave a small nod.

“Correct.”

Anakin cracked a grin. “Okay. Okay—I can do this.”

“Now me,” said Plo Koon, his voice filtered through his mask, gentle but firm.

Anakin turned again, blinking. He studied the Kel Dor Master. Closed his eyes.

“…A crystal. Yellow. It’s floating. In a cave… in the dark.”

“Well done,” Plo said.

Anakin stood a little straighter. “See? I told you I could do it.”

Yoda’s voice was softer. More penetrating.

“What feel you?”

Anakin opened his eyes, slightly confused. “Cold?”

Yoda’s head tilted. “In yourself, what feel you?”

He hesitated.

“I… I feel nervous. A little scared. But excited too.”

Alina shifted for the first time—just slightly. Not out of discomfort. Out of recognition.

Fear. Anakin had always carried it, though he never admitted it. He felt things too fast, too deep. He burned with it.

Yoda’s gaze deepened. “Fear, you feel.”

“I’m not afraid,” Anakin said quickly, too quickly.

Obi-Wan glanced at Alina, as if to confirm what he already sensed—that wasn’t true.

Yoda’s ears twitched. “A great deal of fear in you, I sense.”

Anakin’s smile faded.

“Fear leads to anger,” Mace said.

“Anger leads to hate,” Ki-Adi-Mundi added.

“Hate leads to suffering,” Yoda finished. His voice dropped into something weighty. “Much fear in you, young Skywalker. Dangerous, this path is.”

Anakin bristled. “I’m not angry.”

“But you could be,” Windu replied.

Alina’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

She could feel it: the knot tightening in her brother’s chest. The quiet flash of frustration behind his ribs. He didn’t understand why they were treating him like a danger—not after he had risked everything to help people he barely knew.

“They don’t get it,” she thought, not bitterly—but with that strange clarity she’d always had. The one that told her how the future might taste before it arrived.

Yoda leaned forward slightly.

“Your mother. Miss her, do you?”

“Yes,” Anakin said, quieter now. “I dream about her.”

“And your sister?” Yoda asked.

“She’s right here,” Anakin said, confused by the question.

Yoda didn’t let him go. “Still… lost, she feels.”

Anakin turned—finally turned—to look at Alina.

And for the first time since they’d left Tatooine, he really saw her.

She hadn’t spoken to him. I hadn't explained why. Hadn’t held his hand since the sandstorm. She’d been watching, listening, and waiting. Always waiting.

And he realized, in that moment, that she was still holding something back.

The dream she’d had. The one that made her eyes go glassy. The one she hadn’t shared.

“Alina?” he said.

She didn’t answer.

She didn’t even blink.

But her fingers twitched once against her robe. A silent response he didn’t know how to read.

“Your thoughts dwell on your mother,” Mace Windu said to Anakin again, drawing him back.

Anakin looked flustered now, wounded. “I didn’t want to leave her. But I had to. I didn’t have a choice.”

“No Jedi has a choice when it comes to attachments,” Ki-Adi-Mundi said.

“But—” he began, then cut himself off. His voice was breaking.

“Fear of losing her, you still have,” Yoda said.

Anakin shook his head. “I said I’m not afraid.”

Yoda’s tone was firmer now. “But you are.”

The Council chamber fell quiet. The silence wasn’t comforting. It was heavy. Alina felt her chest tighten. She could feel Anakin’s shame—like a current under her skin.

“The test is done,” Yoda said at last.

Qui-Gon stepped forward, not bothering to hide the steel in his voice. “He is the Chosen One.”

Windu raised a brow. “That remains to be seen.”

Yoda turned his gaze back to Alina.

Silent. Watching.

“And her?” he asked.

Qui-Gon was quiet for a moment. Then said, “She holds herself apart. But she’s not void of the Force. Quite the opposite. Her connection is... tidal.”

Mace Windu looked at her again. “She has the potential. But she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t participate.”

“Maybe she sees more than we do,” Obi-Wan murmured.

“She does,” Qui-Gon confirmed. “But she doesn’t share it.”

“Dangerous, that can be,” Yoda said, tapping his cane once.

“She isn’t dangerous,” Obi-Wan said softly. “She’s withholding because she doesn’t trust you yet.”

Alina looked up.

That was true.

And for the first time, Obi-Wan met her gaze—without asking anything of her.

And her hand… slowly, silently, reached out beside her. Not toward the Council.

But toward Anakin.

He didn’t hesitate. He stepped back and took it.

It wasn’t defiance.

It was unity.

---

The Council chamber had never felt more silent.

The air, still and high, hummed with a quiet tension as Alina Lyra Skywalker rose to her feet.

She was small. Barely nine, like her brother. But where Anakin had stormed into the room with energy buzzing at his fingertips, Alina moved like mist—slow, fluid, as if every step was measured not in confidence but in restraint. The oversized cloak she wore—still borrowed from one of Padmé’s attendants—hung off her shoulders like it didn’t quite belong to her. Deep green fabric pooled around her feet, the sleeves a little too long. Her hands remained hidden, tucked together in front of her.

Her copper-brown hair had come mostly undone during their travels, soft strands falling out of the braid Padmé had helped her with on the ship. Long waves framed a heart-shaped face, fair and sun-kissed, with wide sage-green eyes flecked with faint gold—eyes that didn’t sparkle, didn’t flicker with mischief or light, but watched. Always watched.

And now the entire Council watched her in return.

“Alina Skywalker,” Mace Windu said again, more slowly. “Step forward.”

She did.

Her feet made no sound as she crossed to the center of the chamber, where a shaft of warm Coruscant light bathed the floor in amber. She stopped directly in its path, as if standing inside a spotlight—and yet, she didn't flinch.

She looked too small to be a threat. Too delicate.

And yet the Force around her shuddered.

Yoda tilted his head, frowning in that ancient, unreadable way.

“Test her, we must,” he said. “But gently. The waters here… run deep.”

Plo Koon nodded once, and from a pouch at his side, produced three small items, placing them into Obi-Wan’s hand: a stone, a metal token, and a silver ring.

Obi-Wan stepped forward. “Close your eyes.”

She didn’t.

He tried again, gentler this time. “Please. Just for a moment.”

She obeyed, lids closing softly. Her breathing was steady. Shallow.

Obi-Wan held one object behind his back and looked to the Council. “Alina. Tell me what I’m holding.”

A pause.

Then, in a voice that could barely be called speaking—more breath than sound:

“…The ring. It belonged to your mother.”

Obi-Wan stilled.

The chamber tensed.

He hadn’t told anyone that. He hadn’t even thought of it as that ring. But it had been his mother’s, once. Long ago.

Mace raised a brow. “Object reading?”

“No,” Obi-Wan murmured. “That was emotion. Memory. She pulled it from me.”

Alina opened her eyes.

They didn’t look triumphant. They looked tired.

Another object. The Council grew quieter.

“What is this one?” Ki-Adi-Mundi asked.

She didn’t blink.

“…A stone. You held it when you asked the Council to train you. They said no.”

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly, lowering his hand.

The Council shifted.

“She’s reading through us,” he said. “Not just the object. Through the Force itself.”

Alina stepped back half a pace. She was starting to shake, but just barely—like a glass starting to crack.

Yoda’s tone softened.

“Enough of objects. A question, I ask now. What is it that you fear, child?”

Her fingers twitched inside the sleeves.

But she didn’t answer right away.

Yoda waited.

She looked down, lashes dark against her cheeks.

And then, so faintly it almost disappeared:

“…Myself.”

A long pause.

“Why?” Yoda asked.

Her answer came like wind through broken glass.

“Because if I follow the visions… I won’t come back.”

Obi-Wan turned toward her sharply, but she wasn’t looking at him.

“She’s seen something,” Windu said.

“I have,” she whispered.

“Speak it.”

She did. Slowly. Painfully.

“I see a world burning. A man with gold eyes, screaming. I feel ash on my skin, but I’m not afraid of the fire. I’m afraid… because I’m the one who didn’t stop it.”

Her voice broke slightly on that last word.

Anakin was silent, his face pale. He looked at her like he didn’t recognize her.

Yoda’s ears twitched again. “A burden, she carries.”

“She’s not just having visions,” Qui-Gon said. “She’s feeling the future. The weight of it.”

“And she does not speak it openly,” Ki-Adi-Mundi added. “Why not?”

Alina finally looked up.

Her eyes shimmered—not with tears, but clarity.

“…Because you won’t listen.”

Her voice wasn’t angry.

It wasn’t accusing.

It was simply a fact.

The room seemed to hold its breath.

Even the light from the windows felt thinner.

“You listen for what you expect,” she said. “Not what’s really there.”

The Masters exchanged glances, but no one interrupted her now.

“People burn right in front of you,” she whispered. “And you say it’s the will of the Force.”

Obi-Wan stepped forward—but she wasn’t looking at him either.

She was looking at Yoda.

And Yoda… lowered his gaze.

The old Master finally said, quietly:

“Powerful… she is. But not loud. A stillness, she holds. And a storm beneath.”

Mace Windu leaned forward, clasping his hands.

“She’s too young to carry this.”

“She already is,” Obi-Wan said.

“She will need guidance,” Plo Koon added.

“She’ll need protection,” Qui-Gon said.

But Alina, once again, spoke softly—cutting through all of it.

“…I don’t want to be protected. I want to be heard.”

And with that, she turned. Her braid slid over her shoulder, her steps quiet as ever, and she returned to her place beside Obi-Wan—who, for once, had nothing to say.

Anakin looked at her, stunned.

But Alina didn’t look back.

She had already said more than she meant to.

And she was already afraid they hadn’t really listened.

---

The doors shut behind Obi-Wan with a soft hiss.

The twins were gone—escorted by attendants to a quiet part of the Temple where they could rest. Their presence left the chamber thick with echo: Anakin’s eagerness, bright and hot; Alina’s silence, like a pressure that hadn’t dissipated.

Outside, the Coruscant skyline was beginning to darken, city-lights flickering to life like stars trapped behind glass.

Inside, the Council was quiet.

Mace Windu stood slowly, folding his hands behind his back, the movement deliberate, controlled.

“The boy is reckless. But trainable.”

He said it like a verdict.

“No one questions his strength,” Ki-Adi-Mundi replied, rubbing his thumb across his chin. “Or his passion. But his path is already steeped in fear.”

“Fear can be guided,” Depa Billaba said. “He’s still young.”

“He’s already dreaming of the people he’s lost,” Mace said. “He misses his mother. He clings to his sister. He projects attachment onto everything around him. That’s not just emotion. That’s foundation.”

“He’s willing to let go,” Obi-Wan said quietly, stepping forward. “He just doesn’t know how yet.”

Yoda tapped his cane once, soft against the polished floor.

“Like fire, the boy burns. Bright. Fast. But light alone, not always good. Dangerous, too, fire can be.”

There was a low murmur of agreement around the room.

Adi Gallia leaned forward, hands clasped.

“But he can be taught. Slowly. Deliberately.”

“That much, we agree on,” Windu said. “He should remain here. Begin training under supervision.”

Yoda’s silence made Mace pause.

“You agree, Master Yoda?”

The old Jedi’s ears twitched, and his head turned—just slightly—to the now-empty center of the chamber.

“…Yes. Begin, the boy must. Or lose him, we will.”

But even as he said it, his mind wasn’t on Anakin.

It was on Alina.

Yoda’s gaze was distant, fixed on a place no one else could see.

“Speak freely, Master,” Plo Koon said gently.

And Yoda did.

“Her silence is not emptiness. It is weight.”

Ki-Adi-Mundi raised a brow. “You believe she’s stronger?”

“No,” Yoda said. “I believe… she is something else.”

The room stilled.

“She does not reach outward. She draws inward. Her Force signature folds. It spirals. It listens. Like the eye of a storm that does not wish to become one.”

“She’s not loud like the boy,” Depa said slowly. “But her presence… filled the room.”

Obi-Wan nodded. “She knew what I held behind my back without sensing the object. She read me. She pulled from memory, emotion—things I didn’t realize I was still carrying.”

“She pulled a memory from you?” Ki-Adi-Mundi said sharply.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan replied. “Something I hadn’t touched in years. My mother’s ring.”

Plo Koon’s eyes narrowed behind his mask. “She reached through you to the Force.”

“No,” Yoda said softly. “The Force reached through her.”

Mace Windu turned away from the window.

“She knew too much. Her visions were vivid, apocalyptic. She sees herself failing to stop it—and believes it would be her fault.”

“Because it might be,” Ki-Adi-Mundi said grimly. “A child that powerful who doesn’t speak, who doesn’t follow—how can we trust that?”

“She didn’t ask to be followed,” Shaak Ti replied. “She asked to be heard.”

“She challenged us,” Mace said. “And we listened.”

“Because she was right,” Obi-Wan said.

His voice didn’t rise—but the chamber shifted around it.

“None of us have been listening. We watch for signs that match what we already know. We test for light, for heat. But she moves in stillness. She doesn’t glow. She pulls. Like gravity.”

“She is not what we’re trained to see,” Shaak Ti said.

“Which is exactly why we must be cautious,” Ki-Adi-Mundi snapped. “She sees futures we haven’t. She feels them. That level of sensitivity? It’s not just a gift. It’s a fracture waiting to happen.”

“She didn’t ask for that vision,” Depa said quietly. “She’s trying to carry it.”

“And what happens when it becomes too much?” Mace asked. “What happens when she decides that we are the ones who won’t listen?”

The silence thickened.

Obi-Wan’s jaw was tight.

“She’s already afraid of that,” he said. “And she still chose to speak.”

“She said she was afraid of herself,” Plo murmured.

Yoda looked up now—his voice the calm at the center of the storm.

“That is why she must stay.”

“Stay,” Mace repeated, “or be trained?”

Yoda’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Not trained like others. Not yet. Not pushed into structure. Let her walk. Let her learn. Let the Force show its path.”

“You mean let her drift?” Ki-Adi-Mundi asked. “That’s negligence.”

“No,” Yoda said. “It is trust.”

“She’s dangerous,” Windu said. “Not malicious. Not dark. But dangerous. Because she could become anything.”

“And if we turn her away?” Obi-Wan asked. “What becomes of her then?”

Shaak Ti nodded slowly. “She is already holding the storm back. Alone.”

“Then let her not be alone,” Yoda said.

All eyes turned to him again.

“I would not place her under pressure. Not yet. But guide her, we must. Not as a Padawan. Not as an outsider. A… witness. A walker between.”

“And who would do that?” Mace asked. “No Master has time to—”

Yoda’s eyes slid to Obi-Wan.

“She trusts you.”

Obi-Wan blinked. “I… I’m already to train Anakin.”

“Both, you cannot train,” Yoda agreed. “But guide, you can. Walk beside. Teach her to speak. Not to command the Force—but to live beside it.”

Obi-Wan hesitated. Then bowed his head. “If she’ll let me, I’ll try.”

Yoda closed his eyes.

“It is not she who must let you. It is the Force.”

The room remained quiet for a long moment.

Finally, Mace Windu exhaled, crossing his arms tightly.

“Then it is decided. The boy will be trained. The girl… will remain. Observed. Guided. Not yet assigned. Not yet tested. But never ignored.”

No one disagreed.

And yet, none of them looked certain.

Only Yoda, still staring at the now-empty circle where Alina had stood, seemed to understand what they had all just agreed to.

---

After Dusk

The gardens were supposed to be a place of peace.

Soft light flickered through lanterns built into the stone. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and soil, cool after the sun had set. The fountains were meant to soothe. The wind was meant to be gentle.

But Alina Skywalker wasn’t gentle.

Not anymore.

She stood near the edge of the path, her back to her twin, fists clenched into her oversized robe. Her braid had fully come undone. Strands of copper-brown hair clung to her cheeks and fluttered in the wind. Her eyes stared into the distance like she was waiting for something to rise from the darkness.

Anakin stood a few steps behind her, his own hands balled at his sides, face scrunched in frustration and hurt.

“You told them,” he said, voice tense. “You told the Council. You told Obi-Wan. But not me. Not your twin.”

She didn’t move.

Anakin took a step closer. “You’ve barely looked at me since we left Tatooine. You keep going quiet and curling up like I did something wrong—like I’m already gone.”

He sounded angry.

But under it, he sounded scared.

And that broke something in her.

She turned, slowly.

Her voice was razor-thin. Cracked glass.

“You want to know why I didn’t tell you?”

Anakin froze. She hadn’t spoken to him like that in days. Not fully. Not in the way that meant she was finally going to say what she couldn’t take back.

She stepped closer.

“Because you look at this place like it’s heaven. Like it’s going to save you. Like you finally belong somewhere. And I didn’t want to take that away from you.”

Anakin blinked. “Alina—”

“Because I had a vision, Anakin.”

The words came like thunder after a silent sky.

Her voice grew stronger, and with it, the wind.

“I saw a planet torn open by lava. Ash falling like snow. Red sky. No stars. And someone—someone—screaming like their heart had just been ripped out.”

She took another step.

“It was Obi-Wan.”

The Force stirred. Not around her. Through her.

Anakin stepped back, eyes wide.

Alina kept going.

“He was screaming—‘You were my brother!’ And I didn’t see who he was talking to. I just… knew.”

She raised a trembling hand to her chest.

“I felt it. The moment he said it, I broke. Something inside me snapped, and I haven’t been able to breathe right since.”

The garden wind picked up like a gasp. The fountain’s water shivered in its basin.

Anakin’s lips parted. “You think… I die?”

She nodded, slowly.

“I think something takes you. I think something burns you down to nothing. And when I look at you now, when I see you smile—” Her voice cracked. “—all I can think is how long do I have left?”

Anakin’s voice was barely a whisper. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because the second I say it,” she cried, “it becomes real.”

The Force trembled.

And then Alina broke.

“Because every time I try to speak, everyone looks at me like I’m too quiet or too strange or too much. Because when I told the Council, they blinked. Because when I cry in my sleep, no one comes. Because I didn’t want you to look at me the way they did!”

Her voice rose in pitch and power.

“Because you’re the only person who makes me feel like I exist. Like I’m not just some sad-eyed girl with a ghost in her chest and prophecy dripping from her hands!”

Anakin backed away, stunned.

“Because I’m scared, Anakin!” she screamed. “I’m scared that no matter what I do, no matter how quiet or good or obedient I try to be, the Force is going to take you anyway! That I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone, and Obi-Wan will be screaming and I won’t be able to fix it!”

A boom cracked behind her.

One of the stone lanterns shattered.

The water in the fountain burst upward in a spiraling spray.

And then—

the doors opened.

Four figures stood at the threshold.

Yoda. Mace Windu. Qui-Gon Jinn. Obi-Wan Kenobi.

The Jedi didn’t speak at first. They watched.

They had come to speak with the twins.

Instead, they found Alina in the middle of a Force storm, her robe snapping around her legs, her eyes wide and shining, her hands trembling with power that no one had taught her to wield.

She turned, startled, chest heaving.

Her hair was a mess. Her face streaked with tears. But her voice—her voice rang like a bell made of grief.

“Now you show up.”

None of them spoke.

She stalked a few steps toward them, eyes blazing.

“You all wanted me quiet. You told Obi-Wan to ‘guide’ me. You made me walk behind my brother like a shadow. And when I finally speak—when I scream—you act surprised?”

Obi-Wan’s face was pale. His lips were slightly parted.

Mace opened his mouth to speak, but Alina raised her hand.

“Don’t you dare ask me to calm down.”

The Force responded—not violently, but loudly. Wind churned, spiraling inwards. Energy cracked through the grass like static.

Yoda finally stepped forward.

“Speak, child. Say all.”

Alina’s mouth quivered.

And then she spoke again—not yelling this time, but deeply, like it was carved from her bones.

“You don’t listen until I scream. You don’t see me until I break. You say you feel the Force, but you don’t feel me.”

Obi-Wan stepped forward then. Quietly. Slowly.

His voice was barely above the wind.

“You heard my voice in the vision?”

Alina nodded, fast.

“You were screaming like your heart was being ripped in half. I didn’t even see who you were talking to, but your voice—your pain—it felt like the whole galaxy had just ended.”

Her breath stuttered.

“I hear it every night.”

And then—finally—her legs gave out. She dropped to her knees, robe billowing around her, breath hiccuping in her chest.

Obi-Wan dropped beside her.

He didn’t touch her.

But he knelt close enough for her to feel him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t want to be the one who sees it.”

Yoda approached, slowly. His small frame is somehow heavier than the others.

He looked at her with deep, ancient eyes.

“The Force chose you to see. But carry it alone, you should not.”

She looked up, eyes red and raw.

“…Then help me.”

And for the first time—since she was dragged from the sands of Tatooine to the tower of the Jedi Temple—someone finally knelt with her in the garden and said:

“We will.”

---

Morning came like a whisper after the storm. The light outside the Jedi Temple was soft, almost hesitant—streaking through the long windows in pale golden ribbons, as if afraid to touch what had happened the night before.

In the temporary quarters where the Skywalker twins had been placed, the silence was thick. Alina sat curled by the window, knees to her chest, a cup of cooling tea untouched beside her. She hadn’t spoken again. Not since the gardens. But the silence was no longer fear or withholding. It was weight. Waiting.

Anakin watched her from across the room, sitting cross-legged on his cot. His tunic was wrinkled from a restless night. His eyes were rimmed red.

She hadn’t said goodnight.

But she hadn’t said goodbye, either.

A soft chime at the door broke the quiet.

Obi-Wan stepped in, his robes neatly folded, but his face lined with something unspoken. His gaze swept the room and landed gently on Alina.

“The Council received another message from Naboo.”

She turned her head slightly, but not fully.

“It was brief,” he continued. “And then it was jammed again. The blockade is tightening. Civilians are starving. Queen Amidala has decided to return.”

Anakin stood quickly, all eleven years of him suddenly bursting with defiance. “She can’t go alone. She’s just one queen.”

“She’s more than that,” Obi-Wan said gently. “And she won’t be alone. We’re going with her.”

Alina turned then—slowly, deliberately—and her eyes met Obi-Wan’s.

“We?”

“You, too,” he said. “If you're willing.”

She didn’t answer, not with words. But she stood, and that was enough.

The Temple’s atmosphere had shifted by the time they reached the grand hangar. What had once been quiet confidence now buzzed with an undercurrent of dread. Jedi Masters stood in tense clusters, speaking in hushed tones. Temple guards flanked exits. Mechanic droids rushed across the floor, prepping ships for battle, not diplomacy.

Queen Amidala stood at the foot of the silver Nubian cruiser, her handmaidens flanking her like sentinels of silk and strategy. Her face was painted—white and solemn, a line of red across her lower lip—but her eyes flickered with stormlight.

Qui-Gon Jinn was already speaking with her, head bent, voice low and sure.

Jar Jar Binks stumbled in behind them, robes dragging, muttering under his breath, “Dis gonna be bad… muy muy bad…”

Anakin tightened the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. “We can help. We have to help.”

Alina’s hands were trembling as she adjusted her sleeves. The white Jedi tunic she wore had been lent to her hastily, a size too big, the hem brushing her boots. She hadn't completed any formal training. She wasn’t a Padawan. But she had seen more than most Jedi dared to imagine.

As she reached the base of the ship’s ramp, she paused. The hangar lights gleamed off the Nubian cruiser’s polished hull, casting long reflections on the floor. The ship almost looked like a blade, poised to strike.

She turned her head and looked back—at the Temple’s towering spires disappearing behind her. At the safety of the city. At what she was leaving behind.

“You don’t have to be ready,” Obi-Wan said softly, coming up beside her. “You just have to be willing.”

Her gaze flicked up to him, guarded. Searching.

“I’m willing,” she whispered. “Even if I’m scared.”

“That’s when it matters most.”

The ship’s interior hummed softly, cool and metallic, with long corridors of polished chrome and faint blue lighting. Alina sat near a viewport, watching the stars blur past as they slipped into hyperspace.

Across from her, Anakin leaned back against the curved wall, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“We should’ve never left,” he mumbled.

She looked at him.

“Tatooine?” she asked quietly.

He nodded. “At least there, I knew what to expect. Here? They want us to be quiet and smart and controlled. I’m not good at any of that.”

Alina gave a soft, almost-sad smile. “They don’t want us to be anything. They want us to become something.”

“Same thing,” he muttered. “Feels like losing.”

Her fingers toyed with the hem of her sleeve. “Do you think we’ll ever get to go back?”

“To Mom?” he asked.

“To the way things were.”

Anakin was quiet a moment. “I don’t know.”

Before either of them could say more, the ship lurched slightly as it exited hyperspace.

The cockpit lights turned red. A voice crackled overhead.

“Approaching Naboo. Prepare for descent.”

What awaited them was nothing like the serene, lush world Alina had seen through the Queen’s old holos.

Smoke rose from the treetops. The lake palaces shimmered, distant and untouched, but the outer settlements had been ravaged—blockades set up at every major trade point. Droids patrolled in dense, precise formation.

The ship landed in a clearing just outside of Theed, shielded by foliage and cloaked with stealth tech. A second transport would drop off Republic relief in the next cycle, but this was a stealth return.

As the ramp hissed open, warm humid air poured in—thick with ash and the scent of scorched soil.

Amidala walked forward with the poise of a queen and the fury of a commander.

Qui-Gon followed, lightsaber clipped but visible. Obi-Wan moved just behind him, hand on Alina’s shoulder. Anakin stuck close, his feet soundless in the dirt, eyes wide.

Jar Jar trailed the rear, muttering every curse he knew in Gungan.

As they stepped into the jungle edge, Alina felt it again—the ripple in the Force.

Not warning. Not dread.

Something else.

Something waiting.

She looked up, her braid whipping in the sudden breeze.

“We’re not alone.”

Obi-Wan tensed. Qui-Gon stopped walking.

And from the shadows of the tree line, battle droids emerged—silent, arms raised, blocking the path forward.

Qui-Gon’s hand went to his lightsaber, but Alina stepped forward.

The wind shifted.

And the Force began to stir.

---

The Nubian cruiser broke through Naboo’s atmosphere with the grace of a falling star. Smoke curled over the once-lush fields. Cities looked quiet—too quiet. No transports. No civilians. Only Trade Federation ships hovering in eerie silence above the capital.

Inside the cockpit, tension coiled like a spring.

Anakin stood behind the pilots, gripping the edge of the console. Beside him, Alina kept her eyes fixed on the viewport. She didn’t speak, but her pulse hammered. Something about the land below felt wrong.

As the ship touched down in the forest clearing east of Theed, the Queen moved quickly, leading her guard down the ramp. Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan flanked her. Jar Jar stumbled after, tripping over his own feet and earning a glance from Alina, who for the first time in days, gave the faintest flicker of a smirk.

“You okay?” Anakin asked under his breath.

Alina nodded—but barely.

---

They made their way through the mist-draped jungle, branches snapping beneath their boots. Alina kept her hand near her belt—not for a weapon, but for grounding. The closer they got to Theed, the tighter her chest became.

Padmé suddenly turned to Jar Jar.

“I need you to take us to the Gungans.”

Jar Jar blinked. “Da Bosses no like outsiders. Dey tink da Naboo tink dey better.”

She held her gaze. “But we need their help.”

Obi-Wan glanced at Qui-Gon. “If we don’t unite them, Naboo falls.”

Jar Jar exhaled dramatically. “Okey-day. Mesa take you to sacred place.”

Alina frowned. “What sacred place?”

“The Gungan city was abandoned,” Obi-Wan explained, “but Jar Jar believes they’ve relocated to a hidden ground sanctuary—deep in the swamps.”

“Then let’s go,” Padmé said, already stepping forward.

Alina hesitated for just a beat, sensing… something watching. But it vanished like mist in sunlight.

---

The Gungan army encampment was massive, hidden by thick fog and foliage. Giant creatures stood in shallow lakes, pulling wagons laden with shields and orbs. Gungan soldiers gathered in ranks, silent and proud.

Boss Nass stood at the center, massive and still, his heavy jowls twitching as the Queen stepped forward.

Padmé dropped to her knees before him.

“I come before you in peace. We need your help.”

The air went still.

Even the swamp seemed to hush.

Boss Nass looked at her. Then at Jar Jar. Then at the Jedi. Then finally… at Alina.

He blinked, his voice like deep thunder. “Yousa da girl with da storm heart.”

Alina’s brows drew together. “Excuse me?”

“Meesa felt da Force in you,” he rumbled. “Lika crackin’ sky. Da sacred trees whispered. Warned us. Yousa not Jedi... but somethin’ else.”

Alina looked at Obi-Wan in alarm. He didn’t move.

Padmé rose to her feet. “Please. Help us. We can reclaim the city, but not without you.”

Boss Nass studied them one more moment—then raised his thick hand.

“Wesa warriors. Wesa ready to do our part.”

A beat.

Then—

“Wesa got a grand army.”

---

Inside a portable command tent, maps flickered with projections of Theed.

Queen Amidala pointed to the palace. “We’ll infiltrate through the side gardens, enter the main hallway, and recapture the throne room.”

“The Gungan army will lead the distraction in the plains,” said Captain Panaka. “Draw the droids away from the city.”

“Meanwhile,” Qui-Gon added, “Anakin stays on the ship. It’s too dangerous.”

Anakin scowled but didn’t argue—not out loud.

Alina didn’t say anything.

Obi-Wan looked to her. “And you?”

“I’m going with you.”

“You’re not a Padawan.”

She met his eyes. “I’ve already seen the end. I’m not staying behind just to watch it happen.”

The silence that followed was heavy—but not unkind.

Obi-Wan nodded.

---

At dawn, the Gungan army stood tall in the open fields beyond Theed. Alina watched from the ridge as the Trade Federation’s forces advanced—thousands of droids marching in formation.

Blue plasma shields shimmered in the morning sun.

The Gungans raised their staffs.

And then—blaster fire.

The battle exploded.

Meanwhile, under cover of the forest, Queen Amidala led a small unit of guards, Jedi, and handmaidens through the hidden garden paths into the heart of Theed.

Anakin was tucked inside the royal starfighter hangar, told to “stay in the cockpit and keep your head down.”

He did not.

Back with the Queen’s unit, Alina crouched behind a statue as the palace’s outer defenses exploded. Droids closed in.

“We’re running out of time,” Padmé said through gritted teeth.

“Then we make a path,” Qui-Gon answered, and ignited his saber.

Obi-Wan followed.

Alina stood too, hands outstretched—not wielding a saber, but something stronger.

She closed her eyes and let the Force move.

A ripple surged forward—small but sharp—and one of the battle droids jerked to the side, smashing into another.

“I still don’t know what I’m doing,” she muttered to Obi-Wan.

“Good,” he replied over the hum of his blade. “Neither did I when I started.”

They ran.

---

Theed was no longer a city.

It was a wound.

From the rooftops, smoke coiled into the sky like mourning veils. Statues of ancient monarchs lay cracked and broken in the streets. Fountains ran dry. And the air—normally so sweet with blossoms and fountains—tasted like ash and metal.

Alina Skywalker walked beside Queen Amidala, her steps silent on the marble floor, heart beating a second too fast, mind spiraling too far ahead. The further they pressed into the palace, the heavier the Force became. Not loud anymore—no longer screaming like it had on Coruscant. Now it was low and oppressive, like storm clouds waiting to split.

She could feel something pacing just ahead of them.

Watching.

Waiting.

The Force didn’t lie.

---

In the Hangar

The Queen’s infiltration squad had entered without incident, but the calm shattered as a fresh squad of droids opened fire from the rafters.

“Down!” Panaka yelled.

Blaster bolts cut across the hangar in wild zigzags. A pilot went down with a sharp cry.

“Get to cover!” Amidala shouted.

Alina moved on instinct. Her hand snapped out midair and a bolt that had been headed for her skull froze—then veered off harmlessly into the wall. She didn’t have a saber, but she had something else—raw, unchecked Force that surged forward when she stopped trying to suppress it.

Obi-Wan glanced back at her.

“You meant to do that?” he called, a little impressed, a little alarmed.

“Nope!”

Behind them, Anakin scrambled up into the nearest fighter for cover—then flailed at the unfamiliar controls.

“I just need somewhere to hide—!” he yelped as the cockpit closed over him automatically.

“Oh no.”

“Anakin!” Padmé barked. “Get out of there!”

“I’m trying, I swear!”

The engines began to hum. Lights blinked green.

Alina whipped her head toward the fighter. “Anakin, don’t touch—”

The starfighter launched forward in a blaze of yellow and smoke.

“…anything.”

---

Inside the Palace

They moved through the corridors quickly now, the Queen in the lead with Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon flanking her sides. Alina remained just behind them, walking in step with the handmaidens, her eyes scanning every corner.

The deeper they got, the colder it became.

Marble turned to metal. The palace’s ornate design gave way to the generator sector’s industrial design—shiny black walls, red lighting strips, pulsing energy cores humming somewhere deep beneath the floors.

They paused before the last set of security doors.

Padmé turned to her group. “The throne room is just beyond the hall. We split up from here. Panaka, take your team through the garden wing. Obi-Wan, Master Jinn, you’ll come with me.”

The doors hissed open.

Alina’s stomach dropped.

The hallway ahead was empty—but not quiet. Not to her.

She stepped back, one pace, as if something had slapped her in the chest.

Her breathing hitched.

It was here.

She knew it.

Not in that logical way Jedi liked to talk about knowing. Not with reason. Not with certainty.

But with bone.

With instinct.

With fear.

Obi-Wan noticed. “Alina?”

She didn’t answer. Her eyes were wide. Unblinking.

She was listening.

Listening to a future only she could hear.

---

Memory/vision flashback

Fire. Screaming. Lava hissing like a thousand serpents. Obi-Wan’s voice breaking as he cried out into a pit of flame.

You were my brother!

A blade flashing red in the dark.

Someone falling.

Someone burning.

---

“No,” she whispered.

The Force snapped inside her like a taut wire.

Obi-Wan stepped toward her. “What is it? What do you see?”

Her hands shook. “He’s here.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know his name. I just… I know. He’s the one who starts it.”

The air changed.

Suddenly.

Palpably.

The others felt it too.

The lights dimmed.

The sound of footsteps echoed—slow, deliberate.

And then—

The blast doors at the far end hissed open with a slow, mechanical groan.

And a figure emerged.

Clad in black robes. Horned. Tattoos slashed across red skin like a war mask. And in his hands, something sleek and silver.

He didn’t speak.

But the silence roared.

Alina’s chest tightened.

Obi-Wan stepped forward instinctively, placing himself between her and the figure.

Qui-Gon’s face hardened. His hand slid to his belt.

The figure raised the hilt of his saber.

And pressed the ignition.

With a violent hiss, a crimson blade burst from one side.

Then—snap—another blade ignited from the other.

A double-bladed lightsaber.

Alina’s breath left her in a sharp, panicked rush.

Her knees locked. Her eyes filled.

“That’s him,” she said. “That’s the one from my vision. I saw him before I ever knew his name.”

Obi-Wan turned his head toward her.

“And what happens?”

Her voice cracked.

“Someone dies.”

---

Qui-Gon stepped forward, already igniting his green blade.

Obi-Wan mirrored him with blue.

They moved in front of her in perfect synchronicity.

Maul did not move.

He only waited.

Still. Poised.

Like the darkness that waits after the last star dies.

---

The corridor held its breath.

A hush, thick and unnatural, settled like dust on the air. Alina stood just behind Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon, her bare palms trembling at her sides. The stillness wasn't peace—it was the kind that comes before something breaks. Before the first scream. Before death chooses a direction.

The silence was broken by the hiss of hydraulics as the doors parted with a reluctant groan.

From the shadows, he stepped forward.

A phantom cloaked in black, gliding like smoke, like a curse made flesh.

His skin was the color of blood spilled on obsidian—crimson slashed through with jagged black tattoos, each line etched like a war cry. His eyes blazed with an unnatural yellow, twin suns drowning in a storm. They locked onto the Jedi like a predator surveying prey. But then… they flicked to Alina.

Her knees nearly gave out.

Something in the Force recoiled, like it had recognized him. Or remembered him.

He stopped at the edge of the threshold. Perfectly still. Perfectly silent.

Then, with a quiet, almost ceremonial grace, he unhooked a silver hilt from his belt.

It hissed—once.

A single red blade tore through the air like a scream.

Then another.

The second blade snapped to life from the other end, forming a double-edged weapon that burned like fury incarnate. The red light bathed the corridor in warpaint. And with it came the dread—twice as deep, twice as sharp.

Alina gasped and stumbled back, her eyes wide, throat tight, lungs forgetting how to breathe.

Her voice was barely more than a whisper. “That’s him.”

Obi-Wan turned his head slightly. “Who?”

She stared, pale and stricken. “The one from my vision. The fire… the scream… something in my chest broke. He was there.”

Her fingers twisted into the fabric of her robe, digging in until her knuckles turned white, trying to brace herself against the storm rising inside her.

Qui-Gon said nothing. But he stepped forward without hesitation.

His green blade ignited in a burst of light, humming like a vow.

Obi-Wan followed, his own blue saber flaring to life with a sharp, defiant hiss.

Two colors. Two flames of resistance.

Darth Maul tilted his head slightly—like he was listening to music no one else could hear. Like he was savoring the moment before the kill.

Then, without a word, he lunged.

Like lightning given form. Like the shadow of war made flesh.

And the hallway erupted into chaos.

---

The Force detonated around them like a thunderclap.

Maul’s saber spun, a red cyclone of death, slamming into Qui-Gon’s green blade with such brute force that sparks flew like shrapnel. The air rang with the metallic clash of energy on energy, and the floor beneath them groaned, trembling beneath the weight of the battle.

Obi-Wan dove in from the left, blue saber carving a clean arc—but Maul twisted his body mid-motion, cloak snapping like a banner in a storm. He parried both strikes in a single fluid motion, countering with a brutal backhand swing that nearly caught Obi-Wan across the throat. Only a desperate pivot saved him.

Maul didn’t move like a man. He moved like a plague. Fast. Unrelenting. Beautiful and terrible.

There was no wasted motion. No hesitation. Just raw precision powered by something colder than hatred and deeper than rage. The Force bled off him in waves, oppressive and feral.

He was made to kill Jedi.

And he was winning.

The steel beneath their boots sparked from every strike. Lights overhead flickered. Heat scorched off the blades as they whirled through the air like lightning. The noise—the unholy scream of lightsabers colliding—echoed through the corridor like thunder trapped in a cage.

Alina staggered back, caught in the aftershock of their fury. The Force pushed her like a gale. It lifted her off her feet and slammed her back into a thick durasteel column. Her head snapped against it, stars flaring in her vision. She gasped, heart thundering in her chest, hands splayed against cold metal.

She couldn’t breathe.

Not because of fear. Because the Force was alive. Ripping through her. Speaking through her bones.

Her vision blurred as the fight moved past her, toward the generator’s core. She stumbled after them—hands shaking, breath ragged—her instincts screaming at her to do something. To run. To fight. To speak.

But her voice was gone.

Her courage curled into a corner of her soul and wept.

Maul spun mid-air and launched himself onto a narrow catwalk above the reactor shaft, soaring like a shadow across the void. The drop beneath was infinite—choked with steam, red light, and the hum of ancient machines.

Qui-Gon followed, blade at the ready, landing hard and fast. Obi-Wan chased seconds behind.

Alina reached the edge of the walkway—and stopped. She felt the echo before it happened. A tremor in the Force. A warning too late.

The ray shields dropped into place.

CRACK—a wall of red light flared up in front of her.

Another—BOOM—cut behind her.

She was trapped.

Obi-Wan hit the barrier too late, nearly slamming into it. His palms struck it with a dull, desperate thud. The shield vibrated, a searing wall of heat, humming with unholy energy.

“Master!” he shouted. His voice echoed through the chamber.

Alina turned—slowly.

She was locked between them. Two chambers. Two warriors. And her.

Useless.

Her hands pressed flat against the red wall in front of her. She leaned in, until her forehead touched it. Her breath fogged the surface. Her skin prickled from the heat. But she didn’t move.

She couldn’t.

She saw Qui-Gon drop to his knees, lightsaber steady in front of him, drawing on calm—on peace. But there was no peace here. Not anymore.

Maul stalked from the far side.

 Not rushing.

 Not attacking.

 Enjoying it.

Each step was deliberate, the red of his saber casting wicked shadows against the walls. His eyes burned brighter now—alive with violence, with bloodlust. A beast let off its chain.

Alina’s heart slammed against her ribs. Her fingers curled into fists against the shield.

“Please…” she whispered. Her voice cracked. “Please, don’t let this be real.”

But it was.

She had dreamed this—lived this in sleepless nights. Again and again. The same red hallway. The same burn in her lungs. The same scream—

She knew what came next.

And she knew she couldn’t stop it.

The ray shields flickered.

A high-pitched whine filled the air. Then—

SHHHHHHHHHKT.

The shields dropped.

And time shattered.

---

Maul struck like a thunderbolt.

Qui-Gon surged up to meet him, green saber in hand, calm but powerful, his movements honed through decades of training. But Maul was faster—unnatural—driven by something deeper than rage. Something ancient. Something born in shadows.

Their sabers clashed with a blinding spark of green and red, the sound echoing like metal splitting sky. Qui-Gon held his ground, meeting Maul strike for strike, blade for blade.

But Maul didn’t fight fair.

He feinted—once, twice—then suddenly snapped his head forward and slammed the blunt hilt of his saber into Qui-Gon’s face with a crack that echoed like a shattering bone. Blood sprayed from the Jedi Master’s nose as he reeled backward, dazed.

Before he could recover, Maul spun on his heel, cloak flaring wide—

—and drove his crimson blade straight into Qui-Gon’s chest.

Time froze.

The blade hissed as it tore through fabric, flesh, and bone—punching through muscle and spine, right to the other side. The heat of it vaporized blood on impact, releasing a scorched-metal stench that clung to the air like smoke after lightning.

Qui-Gon’s eyes widened. His mouth fell open in a silent breath. His legs buckled.

His saber flickered—just once—then collapsed into silence.

Then he fell.

First to his knees. Then forward, crumpling like a marionette with its strings cut.

“No…”

The word tore from Alina’s throat like something broken. It cracked against her teeth, too soft to change anything. Too late.

Across the shielded chamber, Obi-Wan screamed.

“MASTER!”

But it was done.

Maul yanked the saber free with a brutal twist, dragging molten blood behind it, then kicked Qui-Gon’s body with enough force to send it sliding across the platform, limbs limp and lifeless.

He turned.

And he saw her.

Target--Now Alina.

He didn’t hesitate.

The shield was still flickering, phasing between life and failure—and Maul launched himself through it just as it dimmed, timing it perfectly.

He moved like death given form—black cloak snapping around him, saber spinning beside him in a vortex of red light.

Alina’s hands flew up, instincts overriding terror. The Force burst from her like a scream. It wasn’t controlled. It wasn’t trained.

It was raw.

A ring of kinetic power exploded outward, cracking the air like thunder. Lights blew out overhead. The floor vibrated beneath her feet. Maul hit the barrier and was flung back, tumbling through the air—

—but he landed. Gracefully. Purposefully.

He rose slowly. Not angry.

Smiling.

He didn’t come to kill.

He came to leave a scar.

Alina turned to run.

Too late.

With inhuman speed, Maul surged forward and swung.

The saber arced, a perfect, precise crescent of crimson, and bit deep into the back of her left shoulder.

The sound was sickening—a searing hiss-crack as the blade cut into flesh and burned it shut in the same breath. There was no blood. Only smoke.

And then—pain.

Pain like she had never known.

White-hot agony tore through her nerves, detonating behind her ribs. Her knees gave out instantly. Her body dropped like dead weight, skidding across the floor. Her mouth opened in a scream that was almost inhuman—shrill, shuddering, and echoed through the Force like a sonic shockwave.

The floor beneath her was slick with tears and ash.

Her vision swam, flickering in and out—blinding white pain blotting out everything.

She could smell her own burning flesh. She could feel skin melt. She could feel her muscles seize. She could feel her soul shatter.

She clawed at the floor, fingernails catching in the metal grates, but her limbs wouldn’t respond. Her breath came in short, panicked gasps. She sobbed as the pain pulsed in waves, worse than any flame. Her robe was scorched, ripped open, fused to the raw skin of her back.

And she couldn’t stop screaming.

Obi-Wan’s voice ripped across the chamber.

“NO—!”

The shield dropped in a blaze of sparks.

And then he ran.

Faster than he’d ever moved. Past the heat. Past the body of his Master. Past the horror.

Straight toward the demon.

Straight toward her.

The blue saber ignited in his hand with a howl.

And the fight wasn’t just about justice anymore.

It was personal.

---

Obi-Wan exploded onto the platform like a hurricane given form.

His blue saber ignited mid-leap, and he brought it down in a devastating arc that Maul barely blocked. The impact sent a shockwave through the floor—metal groaning, sparks flaring like lightning across the dark.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t hesitate. He attacked.

Grief was in every strike. Rage in every breath. Desperation in every swing.

Obi-Wan drove forward, faster than he’d ever moved, blade flashing in brutal, merciless bursts. It was no longer the technique of a refined Jedi. It was something raw, frenzied. A fury that had nothing left to lose.

Maul only grinned.

He welcomed it.

They clashed again—blue and red colliding in showers of sparks. The air cracked with each impact, the hum of their sabers growing louder, wilder. Obi-Wan spun, slashed high—Maul ducked. He struck low—Maul twisted, deflecting it with a hiss of red plasma.

The whole platform shook beneath their feet, the catwalk rattling over the endless pit below.

Maul laughed.

Not out of joy.

But hunger.

He could taste Obi-Wan’s rage. Could feel the cracks in his control widening.

And he pushed harder.

They fought like twin storms—every motion a scream, every strike a death sentence deferred by inches.

Obi-Wan leapt forward, aiming a blinding downward strike—but Maul caught it with both blades, twisted, and slammed his forehead into Obi-Wan’s with a brutal crack. The Jedi reeled, stunned, blood spilling from a fresh gash at his brow.

Maul followed with a vicious knee to Obi-Wan’s ribs. Bone crunched.

Obi-Wan staggered back.

And Maul kicked.

A bone-shattering, full-body strike to the chest that lifted Obi-Wan off his feet.

Across the platform, Alina crawled.

Her body was failing. Her arm hung useless, skin torn, robe soaked with blood that dripped steadily from her shoulder. Her face was slick with sweat and tears. Her hair clung to her skin in dark, tangled ropes. Each movement sent lightning bolts of pain up her spine.

But she didn’t stop.

She dragged herself forward inch by inch, fingers slipping on the metal. Her legs refused to respond. Her lips moved, whispering something silent to the Force, to Obi-Wan, to fate.

She watched.

She saw.

And she knew what was coming.

Obi-Wan’s body slammed into the edge of the platform with a metallic clang—then slipped.

His saber tumbled from his hand, falling, lost to the depths below.

He clung to the edge, fingers grasping the lip of the narrow catwalk, legs dangling above the reactor pit. Every muscle in his body screamed. His ribs ached with every breath.

Above him, Maul stalked forward slowly, savoring the moment.

He twirled his saber once. Twice.

And raised it.

Ready to end him.

Alina reached out with one shaking, bloodied hand.

“No…” she breathed.

Her voice was too small.

But the Force heard her.

---

Obi-Wan hung—one hand grasping the lip of the reactor shaft, the other slick with sweat and blood, dangling helplessly over a bottomless void. His saber was gone, lost to the darkness below. Every breath was a knife in his chest. His ribs screamed. His muscles burned.

Above him, Maul stalked forward in slow, measured steps. His boots thudded against the metal floor like a war drum. His blade spun lazily at his side—no longer in a rush. Just savoring the inevitable.

He’d won.

Obi-Wan's fingers began to slip.

Across the platform, Alina moved.

Barely.

Her body screamed with every inch.

She clawed her way forward, one arm hanging useless at her side, her robes soaked with blood and sweat and plasma burns. Her legs dragged behind her. She could barely breathe. Her shoulder was searing agony, torn apart by Maul’s saber.

But she didn’t stop.

She reached out—fingers trembling, smeared with red.

And called.

The Force cracked in the air around her. A high-pitched whine filled the chamber. Something ancient stirred in the energy between them—a whisper of destiny. Of bond. Of fire not yet burned out.

Obi-Wan’s eyes snapped open.

He felt it.

A rush of strength not his own.

He surged upward—body coiling like a spring—leaping from the edge with a roar of defiance.

And as he rose—

Qui-Gon’s saber tore from the floor, sliced through the air like a comet, and landed in his hand mid-flight with a snap-hiss of green light.

Maul turned—too slow.

Too late.

And Obi-Wan struck.

The blade sang.

A brilliant, vengeful arc of green fire cut through Maul’s waist—clean, final, fatal.

For a half-second, Maul froze—eyes wide, mouth slack, body trying to comprehend the impossible.

Then he came apart.

Two halves fell away from each other like mirror images torn in two, spinning into the chasm below. No scream. No rage.

Only silence.

Gone.

The hum of sabers faded. The red lights dimmed. The energy in the air finally stilled.

Obi-Wan dropped to the floor with a hard thud, landing beside Qui-Gon’s motionless body. His face twisted as he reached out, shaking hands ghosting over the wound that had taken his Master.

“Master—” he breathed. His voice broke.

Too late.

Qui-Gon didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His expression was peaceful, even in death—like he’d known this ending all along.

Obi-Wan bowed his head, his whole body trembling as grief crushed the breath from his chest.

Alina crawled closer, dragging herself over the scorched floor, her body wrecked, her shoulder a horror of cauterized flesh and torn robes. She reached the edge of the platform and collapsed forward, barely able to lift her head.

Her voice came out as a whisper—shaky, cracked, broken at the edges.

“He’s gone.”

Obi-Wan didn’t respond at first.

He couldn’t.

His eyes stared down at his Master, wide and empty and filled with everything he would never say.

Alina looked down at her hands—covered in blood, dirt, and something darker. Her fingers curled inward, as if to hide the truth written on them.

“I couldn’t stop it,” she choked. “I—I saw it coming. I saw it in my visions and I still… couldn’t…”

Obi-Wan turned his head then. His face was streaked with sweat and tears and ash, and his eyes—still wet—met hers with something fragile.

“You tried,” he said softly.

It was all he had left.

Alina nodded once.

Then her body gave out.

She collapsed into his side, breathing in short, shallow gasps. Her face pressed against his arm as her trembling stopped—not from relief, but from exhaustion. Her consciousness slipped toward darkness, her body finally claiming the stillness she’d denied it.

---

The Temple was quiet, but it was not still.

Even after the flames had consumed Qui-Gon’s body, the air inside the Jedi Temple pulsed with something deeper than silence. It was grief—but not only grief. It was a movement. Shift. The slow tectonic turning of fate.

Alina Skywalker stood before the Jedi Council, shoulder wrapped tightly beneath the ceremonial robe they’d given her, though nothing about her felt ceremonial. Her body ached. Her vision still swam in moments. And standing in the center of the chamber, surrounded by twelve Masters whose power filled the air like pressure—she felt the heaviness of every breath.

Beside her, Anakin was quiet. Too quiet. His eyes darted, not with fear, but with calculation. With questions.

Behind them stood Obi-Wan. Straight-backed. Steady. But still not whole.

“Anakin Skywalker,” Mace Windu began, fingers steepled before him, “has been brought before the Council at the request of the late Master Jinn, and with support from Knight Kenobi.”

Yoda’s eyes lingered not on Anakin—but on Alina.

Both twins stood silent. Waiting.

“Young,” Ki-Adi-Mundi said. “Both of them. Too old for Temple training.”

“And yet,” Obi-Wan said, his voice calm, “both of them are stronger in the Force than we’ve seen in generations.”

The room didn’t shift, but the energy did.

Alina felt it.

She was stronger. And they all knew it.

Mace glanced at her. “The girl—Alina—was not brought before us with permission to be trained.”

“She’s no stranger to the Force,” Obi-Wan said. “What she did on Naboo—how she held Maul back—what she felt—you all saw it.”

“Too powerful, she may be,” Yoda said softly.

Alina stepped forward—not boldly, but steadily. “Then teach me how to not be dangerous.”

That silenced them.

She looked directly at Yoda. “I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to be a weapon. But I will not walk away from the Force again. Not after what I saw. After what I couldn’t stop.”

Anakin looked up at her, then quickly went back to the floor.

“And the boy?” Shaak Ti asked gently.

Obi-Wan finally took a step forward.

“I promised Qui-Gon,” he said. “I will train him.”

There was a long silence. Yoda stared at Obi-Wan for several seconds. Not with challenge—but with memory. Loss. Understanding.

Then Yoda turned to Alina.

“You, I will train.”

The air shifted.

Alina’s lips parted, but she didn’t speak.

Yoda leaned on his cane, stepping down from his chair with slow grace.

“Felt it, I have. In you. A tremor not of darkness… but of change. The Force flows through you like river and fire. Hard to teach, you will be. But much you have to give.”

He turned to the Council. “The girl’s path, not that of a typical Padawan. But with me, she will walk. Closely.”

Alina bowed her head, slow. Silent. The burn in her shoulder flared as if in agreement.

“I accept.”

Yoda looked to Anakin, who was staring wide-eyed now.

“And the boy,” Yoda said, turning back to the Council. “To Obi-Wan, his path now belongs.”

The Council murmured but did not argue.

“Knighted, Obi-Wan shall be. A Master he will become.”

Obi-Wan bowed, though the weight of it showed in his face.

It was done.

---

Later that night, the sun dipped behind Coruscant’s skyline, casting golden beams across the Temple’s marble halls.

Alina sat alone in the garden atrium, knees drawn up to her chest. The wind rustled the flowering vines around her, but she barely noticed. Her mind was still back on the ship, in the corridor, in the fire.

“You don’t look like someone who just got accepted into the Jedi Order,” Obi-Wan said, appearing behind her.

She didn’t turn around. “Because I didn’t.”

He stepped beside her, then sat. “Yoda doesn’t take just anyone.”

“I’m not just anyone.”

“No,” he agreed. “You’re not.”

Alina looked down at her hand. The one that still trembled when she tried to grip anything with too much Force. The nerves were still recovering.

“I think I scared them,” she whispered.

“You did.”

She glanced sideways. “You’re not going to deny it?”

“No,” Obi-Wan said quietly. “But I think you’re supposed to. The Force doesn’t always give us light. Sometimes it gives us truth. Even if it terrifies the people who serve it.”

They sat together in the warm hush.

In the distance, she could hear Anakin laughing with a group of younglings already showing him around. He hadn’t smiled in days.

“I’m glad you’re training him,” she said.

“I’m glad you’re training with Yoda,” Obi-Wan replied.

She breathed in. “He sees things, doesn’t he?”

“More than most,” Obi-Wan said. “Maybe even more than you.”

She didn’t answer.

Because she had seen things, too.

Fire. Sand. Ash.

Anakin—older, screaming. Obi-Wan’s voice crying out: “You were my brother—”And something far, far worse looming behind it all.

The scar on her shoulder pulsed beneath the bandage. A reminder. A prophecy. A mark.

This wasn’t peace.

This was the beginning.

Even if the war didn’t come for twenty-five more years.

Even if the skies were still clear.

She felt it.

And she would be ready.

----

They said it missed the bone by centimeters.

That I was lucky.

As if luck is what saves you when the Force rips through your chest and leaves a scream where your breath should be.

They cleaned the wound. Wrapped it in bacta. Told me I’d be okay.

But no one looked me in the eyes when they said it.

Because the truth is, the pain wasn’t just physical. It went deeper—under skin, beneath muscle, into something sacred. Something the blade found anyway.

There’s a star burned into my shoulder now—ugly, ridged, angry. Split straight down the middle like a fracture in time. Like the Force itself tore open and marked me with what I failed to stop.

I still see Qui-Gon’s face. Not when he died—before. Calm. Steady. Already knowing. As if he’d accepted the role he was about to play in something larger than himself.

I hear Obi-Wan’s scream. Feel his grief crush into me like gravity.

I remember the moment he landed beside Qui-Gon’s body, trembling hands reaching for a life already gone.

I remember the smell of burning skin. Mine. The taste of blood in my mouth. The way the Force snapped like a frayed wire when Maul marked me—not to kill. To warn.

Because that’s what it was. Not a fight. Not a victory.

A warning.

And I was the one who heard it.

This wasn’t the end of anything.

This was the beginning.

Even if the galaxy doesn't split tomorrow. Even if the Senate keeps pretending. Even if the Council closes their eyes and calls it balance.

I know better.

Even if it takes twenty-five years for it all to fall apart, for Anakin to scream in fire, for the sky to burn—I know.

The unraveling has already started.

I felt it the moment Maul fell. In the silence that followed. In the way Obi-Wan’s hands shook as he held his Master's body and didn’t cry.

The galaxy doesn't end all at once.

It cracks. Quietly. In moments like this.

The scar on my shoulder is more than a reminder. It’s a countdown. And I wear it like a prophecy.

Because I was there when it began.

And I know what’s coming.-Alina Skywalker

[heathenwithwifi]

Twilight of Destiny (The Phantom Menace Era)

Part 3

Part 3

After the Boonta Eve race, the Nubian cruiser slips into hyperspace—but peace does not follow. Alina is plagued by a vision too devastating to hold. Over three silent days, she spirals through panic, insomnia, and detachment, tethering herself to Obi-Wan in instinct alone. But slowly, through quiet presence and unexpected warmth, something begins to shift. A new vision arrives—not of fire and fear, but of a future she doesn’t understand. And when they land on Coruscant at last, Alina finally finds the courage to speak.

Word Count:6,000

Trigger warning:trauma response,silent panic attack,prophetic vision,implied child grief,insomnia,dissociation, depersonalization,emotional distress,child protagonist,force-sensitive trauma,quiet breakdown,non-verbal coping

#star wars fanfiction #alina skywalker #anakin skywalker #obi wan kenobi #obiwan x oc #alina x obi wan #prequel era #padawan obi wan #young anakin #emotional hurt/comfort #force visions #jedi temple #slow burn #healing #silent breakdowns #found family #original character #force bond #trauma recovery #grief in the force #child oc #soft obi wan #alina skywalker saga #oc centric #young oc #star wars oc #jedi oc #hyperspace #dreamscape

“Maybe the stars were never silent. Maybe they’ve always been screaming—just in a language only the broken can hear.”

— Alina Skywalker

The hum of the ship filled the air like a lullaby—soft, steady, pulsing through the walls like a heartbeat too slow to be alive. The Nubian cruiser floated through hyperspace, sleek and silent, its regal halls dimmed to twilight for sleep. Outside the viewport, stars streamed in ribbons of gold and silver. A quiet storm. Distant. Unfeeling.

It was only the first night.

And Alina Skywalker was already breaking apart.

She woke as if yanked from another world—one with teeth and fire. Her body snapped upright in bed with a force that left her gasping, a dry, shuddering sound clawing out of her throat. Her vision swam. Her heart pounded so hard it felt like it was trying to flee her chest. Her skin was soaked in sweat, despite the icy cold that clung to the room.

No breath.

No sound.

Just panic.

She wrapped her arms tightly around her middle, folding in on herself like she could keep something inside from spilling out. But it was too late. The vision was already bleeding into the room—into her bones, into the Force. She’d seen it. Felt it. It wasn’t a dream.

It was a prophecy.

Fire. Screaming. A face that was Anakin’s—but not. Scarred. Twisted. Eyes like molten gold, blazing with pain so deep it had curdled into rage. He was fighting—furiously, violently—on a world that bled lava and screamed with every breath.

And the voice.

So clear it might as well have come from her own mouth.

“You were my brother—”

Then silence. Like the galaxy itself had snapped in two.

Alina doubled over, hands pressed to her mouth, trying to stop the sobs that shook her. But there was no controlling it. The grief came anyway. In waves. Crashing. Crushing. She bit down on her knuckles until she tasted blood, desperate to stay quiet. Anakin was still asleep in the other bed, curled into the blankets with Fray tucked against his chest. He didn’t stir.

But she couldn’t stop.

Her shoulders shook uncontrollably, breath catching and snapping, legs drawn up to her chest like she could physically cage herself in.

The Force around her twisted, frayed—like a web unraveling thread by thread.

And across the ship, Obi-Wan Kenobi felt it.

His eyes flew open mid-meditation, his breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t a tremor.

It was a rupture.

Panic. Horror. Pain so sharp it cut through hyperspace and across the bond that linked him to her—still fragile, still new, but undeniable. Her emotions roared into his chest like a hurricane, flooding every quiet part of his mind.

He stood without a word, the silence around him brittle with tension. He didn’t bother alerting Qui-Gon. This wasn’t something to explain.

He was already moving.

The hallways were dark, the lights low, but he didn’t need them. The Force pulled him forward, step by step, each one faster than the last.

By the time he reached her door, the energy spilling from the room was suffocating. Not violent. Not hostile. But desperate. The kind of pain that was trying to be hidden—tamped down like ash over fire—but was only smoldering harder for it.

He didn’t knock.

He didn’t hesitate.

He placed his palm against the panel and the door slid open with a faint hiss.

Inside, Alina didn’t move.

She was crumpled at the edge of her bed, back to the door, her body shaking with each ragged, shallow breath. She didn’t look up. Didn’t speak. Her hands were pressed to her mouth so tightly it looked like she was trying to crush the sound out of her own body.

Obi-Wan stepped inside, slowly, like he was approaching a wounded animal.

Because he was.

“Alina,” he said softly.

She flinched.

Not from the sound.

From him.

He took another step.

Her head jerked the slightest bit in his direction. Her eyes were wild—glassy with tears, pupils blown wide with fear, like she didn’t know who he was or where she was or if she was even still real.

“Hey,” he said again, gentler now, crouching a few feet away. “You’re alright. You’re safe. Whatever it was, it’s over. You’re here.”

A choked sound rattled out of her throat. Not a word. Not even a breath.

It was a warning.

He reached out slowly, his hand open, nonthreatening, trying to offer her a grounding point. A tether.

But the moment his fingers neared her—she pulled back like he’d burned her.

Her whole body recoiled, flinching violently as she turned away, collapsing further into herself. Her nails dug into her arms, her jaw clenched so tight it trembled.

And then—the Force lashed out.

Not aggressively. But in instinct.

A wave of No.

Not a word.

But he heard it like a shout. Like a slammed door in his mind.

“Don’t.”

Obi-Wan froze, the air between them pulsing with raw emotion.

It wasn’t fear of him.

It was fear of being touched. Of being seen. Of being felt when everything inside her was so loud she could barely breathe. She wasn’t ready to let it out. She wasn’t ready to share the storm she was barely surviving.

So she shut him out.

Completely.

And the door between them wasn’t metal—it was will.

He stayed kneeling for a moment, trying to steady the pulse of the Force between them. Trying to send calm. Quiet. Understanding.

But she was shaking too hard to feel it.

He couldn’t fix this.

Not tonight.

So slowly, without speaking, Obi-Wan stood. He looked at her one last time—folded in on herself, her entire body trembling, trying to disappear.

Then he stepped back.

“I’ll be nearby,” he said quietly. “If you need anything. Anything at all.”

She didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t acknowledge him.

So he left.

The door hissed shut behind him.

And Alina?

She stayed like that until her body simply gave up—until the tears ran dry and her muscles stopped working. She lay down without thinking, curled tightly, still shivering.

Still silent.

It was only the first night.

And she had already glimpsed the end of everything.

---

The artificial morning had no warmth.

The Nubian cruiser glided silently through hyperspace, its smooth hallways glowing with the soft light of simulated dawn. The air was crisp and still, the kind of stillness that made every sound feel too loud, every breath too real. But even in the quiet, Alina moved like a ghost--barefoot, blanketed, eyes distant.

She hadn’t spoken a single word since the vision, she hadn’t spoken since the fight either. 

Not even to herself.

Not even in her mind. 

The ache in her chest hadn’t dulled overnight--it had spread, like frost under her skin. A numbness that wasn’t calm. Just…emptiness, a numbing, quiet emptiness where the light just can’t reach. She hadn’t cried again. Her body didn’t have strength. But the tension still trembled through her limbs with every step, invisible but constant.

She left the room like it might poison her if she stayed another minute. Anakin still slept peacefully in the opposite bed, the little creature tucked under his chin breathing in tandem with him. He looked younger in sleep. Smaller. Unburdened. And the sight only made her stomach twist harder.

She couldn’t look at him. 

Not after what she saw.

Not when his eyes--those eyes--had haunted her all night. Gold. Burning. Lost. Wrong. 

She didn’t even stop to think. Her body just moved.

The blanket clung to her shoulders, knotted in one fist, trailing behind her like a quiet flag of surrender. Her other hand brushed against the walls as she passed through the ship’s corridors, fingertips dragging along cold durasteel, needing something--anything--to anchor her to the present.

The ship was still waking. No voices yet. No noise. Just the hum of life support and the dull flickers of status lights pulsing like distant heartbeats. 

She didn’t want noise.

She didn’t words.

She just didn’t want to be alone.

Her pace slowed near a junction--sensing something, someone. A whisper in the Force, not strong but familiar. And then--

Obi-Wan. 

He turned a corner just ahead, tugging at the fastening on his belt. Hair still slightly mussed from sleep, tunic wrinkled, expression soft and unguarded. He hadn’t noticed her at first.

But the moment he did, he stopped.

Their eyes met--for just a second.

And in that second, something passed between them. Not a thought. Not a message. Just the mutual weight of shared silence.

Alina froze, just a few steps away.

Her hands tightened around the blanket at her chest. Her hair hung loose around her face, strands sticking to her cheek from the night’s sweat. She didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stood there, her chest rising and falling in a shallow, uneasy rhythm.

Obi-Wan straightened, his brow furrowing slightly. “You’re up,” he said gently, in a low voice. “Are you…?”

He trailed off.

There was no answer coming.

Her lips didn’t even part. She didn’t make a single sound. Just stood there, trembling slightly under the surface, like a glass holding back the weight of a flood.

But she took one step closer.

Not toward him--just in his direction. A movement not of need,exactly, but of instinct. Of gravitational pull. She didn’t want conversation. She didn’t even want comfort.

She just needed to not to be alone anymore. 

Obi-Wan watched her carefully. The Force around her was quieter now, but still fractured--like the tremor after an earthquake, the air still thick with tension that hadn’t found release. Her presence was dimmed, drawn inward, but still unmistakably there. Raw. Trembling. And shut off so tightly that he felt like even breathing wrong might scare her back into the dark.

So he didn’t move.

He didn’t approach.

He just stepped silently to the side--opening the space between them, offering her that small, silent permission to come closer if she so chose to.

She did.

Only by a few steps. Just enough that she could stand beside him. Her shoulder just a few inches from his arm. Her head tilted down. Her blanket drawn tighter.

Still no words.

Still no sound.

But she was there.

And she wasn’t leaving.

Obi-Wan glanced down at her--not pressing, not speaking again. Just quietly observing her posture, the stiffness in her spine, the way her fingers kept clenching and unclenching in the fabric. 

He thought of saying something comforting.

Then didn’t.

There was a certain grace in the silence, and she needed that more than she needed questions or platitudes.

So he simply turned and began to walk down the corridor.

And after a long, brittle pause--she followed. 

Their footsteps were nearly inaudible on the polished floor. Her bare soles, his soft tread. Nothing about it was dramatic. Nothing about it was loud.

They walked the length of the cruiser twice without saying a single word.

No one else crossed their path. The halls were still hushed with the early morning, distant footsteps were bare;y echoing in other chambers, droids whirring far away. It was early enough that no one questioned where they were or why they walked like shadows, side by side, always keeping just enough space between them to avoid brushing sleeves.

Alina never looked at him.

But she never drifted more than a few steps away.

Obi-Wan kept his pace slow,steady. No sudden moves. No curious glances. Just presence. Just there. A quiet sentinel walking through the still air. Letting her breathe around him however she needed.

The only sound was the soft whisper of her blanket dragging the floor behind her and the gentle flutter of her breath--still too shallow. Still not right.

She didn’t know where they were going.

And she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Because the moment she stopped walking, the vision might return. The silence of sleep would rise again, and this time it might just swallow her whole.

So she walked.

And Obi-Wan let her.

Eventually, they reached one of the observation alcoves--a semicircle of cushions and viewports, built for contemplation or quiet study. A place to look out at the stars and forget gravity for a while. The viewport curved wide and clear, hyperspace blazing beyond it like rivers of gold-threaded wind.

Alina stopped.

Obi-Wan paused beside her, waiting.

She stared forward--not into hyperspace exactly, but into something only she could see. Her arms tightened around her middle, pulling the blanket in closer, her jaw trembling again like something in her was cracking and she couldn’t hold it together much longer.

Obi-Wan turned his head slightly, watching her--not intruding, not probing the Force. Just witnessing.

He could feel it. The way something in her had been shattered. And now she was just…surviving it. Moment by moment. Like she didn’t know how to put herself back together and wasn’t sure she wanted to.

And still--she didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t cry.

But her breath hitched. Once. Twice.

Her hand reached for the edge of the viewport’s frame, her little fingers curling around the cool metal like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. The tremble moved through her again--not a full-body quake like the night before, but a quiet, constant shiver that wouldn’t stop.

She was unraveling all over again.

She hated it.

It was quiet.

Internal.

But it was so visible to him.

Obi-Wan took a slow breath.

Then he did something very small.

He sat down.

Cross-legged, a few feet away. Still silent. Still respectful. His back to the wall, hands resting calmly in his lap, like he belonged there--like he had nowhere else to be. No questions to ask. No answers to give. Just time.

And she stood there for a long moment, unmoving.

Then--without looking at him--Alina sank there as well.

Not beside him.

Not close.

But near enough.

Near enough that their silences could touch.

She drew her knees to her chest, rested her chin atop them, and stared into hyperspace again.

Obi-Wan didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

---

Three days.

That’s how long it had been since Alina Skywalker last spoke.

And she hadn’t slept in two.

Not really. Not even in snatches. Not even out of exhaustion.

She simply couldn’t close her eyes without the fire rushing back in.

The moment she did--when her lashes so much as fluttered shut--there it was:the world aflame, Anakin’s face twisted by something not-him, molten gold eyes screaming through a voice that didn’t sound human anymore. The Force around her had changed. The air, her heartbeat--everything had shifted the night she saw it.

And she hadn’t spoken since the moment she whispered--

“...Obi-Wan…”

--barel audible, during the fight on Tatooine outside the ship. His name had been the last thing she trusted her voice to carry.

Since then? Nothing.

Not a syllable. Not a hum. Not even a breath too loud.

Only silence.

Thick. Cold. Swallowing.

The kind of silence you wrap around yourself when words hurt too much to say. 

She hadn’t eaten more than a few forced bites. Hadn’t left Obi-Wan’s general orbit. Hadn’t looked anyone in the eyes.

And hadn’t slept.

She kept moving instead--quiet,dragging, glass-eyed, but moving. Sitting, pacing, crouching by viewports, hovering near the meditation chamber, always within line of sight of Obi-Wan. Never speaking. Never resting.

Anakin had stopped asking questions by the end of the first day. The way her gaze passed through him unsettled him too much. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t mean. She just wasn’t…present. 

--

That evening, Obi-Wan found Qui-Gon again—same place as always, the curved starboard viewport glowing faintly blue with the sheen of hyperspace. The hum of the ship filled the silence between them, but the Force between Master and Padawan rippled with quiet tension.

Obi-Wan stood there a moment, silent.

Then: “She’s not sleeping.”

Qui-Gon looked at him over his shoulder, one brow raised.

Obi-Wan stepped closer. “Two full nights, Master. I’ve checked. She doesn’t even close her eyes for more than a blink. No rest. No dreams. Just… stillness. Like she’s keeping watch over something none of us can see.”

“And still no words,” Qui-Gon murmured.

“Not one,” Obi-Wan confirmed, jaw tight. “She hasn't spoken since she said my name at the shipyard. That was three days ago.”

He exhaled sharply. “I thought she might say something to Anakin. Or to you. But she doesn’t even look at him. Only follows me. Even then, it’s not really following—it’s like she’s… orbiting. Like I’m the only fixed point in her universe right now.”

Qui-Gon turned more fully toward him, folding his hands behind his back. “Has she acknowledged you in the Force?”

“Only in instinct,” Obi-Wan said. “She doesn’t reach out. But when I meditate, she sits near me. When I move, she moves. When I stop walking, she stops too. She breathes with me. It’s like—” He hesitated, brow furrowed. “—like I’m the tether she’s using to keep from drifting off into something else.”

Qui-Gon studied him. “And how does that feel?”

Obi-Wan blinked. “I don’t know.”

“Uncomfortable?”

“Not exactly,” he admitted. “It’s not her. It’s what I feel around her. The Force bends differently. Not dark—not dangerous—but so tightly drawn in on itself it’s like she’s collapsing inward. And I don’t know how much longer she can hold herself together.”

He paused, then added in a quieter voice, “And I don’t know if I should try to stop her.”

Qui-Gon regarded him with something just short of concern.

“You care,” he said simply.

Obi-Wan’s brows drew in. “Of course I care.”

“No,” Qui-Gon said, gently. “You care more than you’re prepared to admit.”

Obi-Wan said nothing.

He didn’t need to.

The air between them said enough.

Finally, Obi-Wan spoke again, low and earnest. “I want to help. I want her to talk. To sleep. To feel safe enough to breathe again. But I can’t force that. I can only… be nearby.”

Qui-Gon gave a quiet nod of approval. “You’re doing what many Jedi forget. You are holding space. Not fixing. Not explaining. Just… being.”

“It doesn’t feel like enough,” Obi-Wan whispered.

“It isn’t meant to,” Qui-Gon said. “But it is. You may be the only thing keeping her from disappearing entirely.”

Obi-Wan’s throat tightened. “Then what do I do if she does?”

Qui-Gon didn’t answer for a long moment. Then—

“You go after her.”

Obi-Wan stayed seated across from her for a long while.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just let the silence stretch—easy, quiet, not suffocating.

Alina didn’t look at him.

But her breathing changed.

Subtly. In sync with his.

And he took it as a small victory.

He wasn’t sure if she even knew where they were headed. If she remembered what came next. What awaited them on Coruscant.

But he did.

The Council.

The fate of the Chosen One—Anakin Skywalker—would be placed under intense scrutiny. And with him, so would Alina.

Her origin. Her bond with the Force. Her silence. Her strange sensitivity. Her refusal to speak. Her attachment to Obi-Wan, sudden and unsettling. Her pain.

It would all be questioned.

And if she wasn’t able to even speak for herself…

Obi-Wan’s gut twisted.

Later that night, he met Qui-Gon again in the cockpit—this time at Obi-Wan’s request. The forward viewpanels had dimmed for the cycle’s rest period, casting the interior in soft indigo light. The stars still streaked endlessly, but their pull felt heavier now.

Obi-Wan stood with his arms crossed, jaw tight.

“We’re less than thirty-six hours from Coruscant,” he said quietly. “She’s not ready.”

Qui-Gon nodded once, but didn’t speak.

“If the Council sees her like this,” Obi-Wan continued, “they’ll assume trauma. Instability. Too much attachment to me, not enough clarity of thought. Some of them already see Anakin as dangerous—they’ll double that fear with her. Two children from Tatooine with massive midichlorian counts, no training, and unexplained Force disturbances between them? They won’t tolerate it.”

“They’ll want control,” Qui-Gon agreed.

“They’ll want to split them up,” Obi-Wan said. “Or worse—refuse them both.”

“And you believe that would break her,” Qui-Gon said, softly.

Obi-Wan looked down. “She hasn’t let go of me since the vision. She’s barely touched sleep. If they separate us, if they interrogate her while she’s in this state—she might not speak. She might shut down entirely.”

There was a long pause between them.

Then Qui-Gon asked, “So what do you propose?”

Obi-Wan looked up, eyes sharp despite the tiredness in them. “I want to bring her back to herself. Enough for her to stand in front of the Council and be seen as she is—not as broken, but as… silent by choice. Steady. Strong.”

“You believe she can do that?”

“I believe she wants to,” Obi-Wan said. “But she’s trapped in whatever she saw. She’s trying to hold it alone.”

Qui-Gon studied him. “And you believe you’re the key.”

“I don’t know what I am to her,” Obi-Wan said. “But I know that right now, I’m the only thing she trusts. And if I can guide her out—remind her that the Force didn’t show her that vision to crush her—maybe she can find her voice again.”

Qui-Gon finally nodded. “Then we do it together.”

Obi-Wan blinked. “You’ll help?”

“She does not need answers, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said. “She needs permission to feel the weight of what she’s seen—and not be cast out for it.”

Obi-Wan’s brow furrowed. “The Council may not be so understanding.”

Qui-Gon gave a small, grim smile. “Then it is our job to prepare her to meet them with the fire she carries—not the fear they expect.”

Obi-Wan exhaled, relieved.

Then asked, “How do we begin?

---

The next morning, the ship’s light cycle flicked back on—soft golden rays spilling into the corridor like a new sunrise.

Alina was still awake.

Still seated near the wall.

She blinked slowly as light touched her face. Her body was tight with fatigue, her shoulders hunched under the weight of too many sleepless hours.

She didn’t register Obi-Wan’s approach until his shadow crossed the floor beside her.

He crouched again—quiet, patient—and this time he spoke.

“Alina.”

Her name was soft. Kind.

She didn’t look at him. Not at first.

But her chin lifted a little. A flicker of awareness moved through her features.

“We’re going to Coruscant,” he said gently. “The Council will want to meet you. They’ll want to ask questions.”

Her eyes didn’t change. Her face didn’t shift.

But something subtle tightened in her posture.

“I know you’re not ready,” he continued. “But we want to help you get there. Not just for them—for you. So you can speak when you want to. So you can stand in that room and know your voice still matters.”

No response.

But her eyes moved—slowly—to meet his.

And Obi-Wan felt it.

A flicker.

A pulse.

Like something behind her silence had shifted.

Still buried.

But not unreachable.

He didn’t press further. He just held her gaze for a moment longer, then offered his hand.

Alina stared at it.

Didn’t take it.

But she didn’t pull away, either.

She let it stay between them.

An offering.

And for the first time in three days— Her lips parted.

She didn’t speak. Not yet.

But her mouth formed a word.

And he saw it clear as day.

“Okay.”

A whisper of a future, still fragile.

 But no longer gone.

---

The corridor was dim and still, bathed in the cool glow of the ship’s artificial lights. A muted pale-gold panel flickered overhead, mimicking day-cycle for the sake of circadian rhythm—but it was sterile, emotionless light. Functional. Constant. The kind of light that didn't warm, only reminded.

The Nubian cruiser hummed quietly beneath them, a gentle mechanical pulse rising through the walls and floor. It had become background noise days ago—like a second heartbeat for the ship, one steady enough to be ignored, but impossible to forget.

Alina hadn’t slept in two days.

Not a single minute.

She’d sat. Paced. Curled in corners. But never rested.

Now, though—now she was still.

For the first time.

She sat next to Obi-Wan on the floor of a narrow corridor near the rear observation chamber—far from the cockpit, and even farther from the pressure of Anakin’s wide-eyed questions or the shadow of the Jedi Council looming in their near future.

She hadn’t spoken in three days.

But she’d mouthed okay that morning. And that small act—soundless, breathless—had felt like movement. Like something shifting inside her, if only by degrees.

Now, she sat just close enough that their shoulders might have brushed, had she leaned a little more.

Obi-Wan sat beside her, quiet as ever. Legs stretched in front of him, spine straight despite his fatigue, hands loosely clasped in his lap. He hadn’t spoken either. Not for several minutes. He simply waited—offering presence, not pressure.

Then, slowly—

Alina’s shoulder sagged toward his.

It started as a drift. Not intentional. Not conscious. Her head dipped forward once, then lifted with a jolt—like she was catching herself. A small tremor ran through her shoulders, and she pulled the blanket tighter around her.

But she was losing the fight.

Her body leaned again.

And this time, when her head tipped to the side, it didn’t stop.

Her temple came to rest against his upper arm—barely there at first, like she wasn’t fully aware of what she was doing. Her breathing stayed tight for a few seconds, like part of her still thought she might need to flee at any moment.

Then— A long, slow exhale.

Her shoulders dropped.

Her grip on the blanket loosened, and her fingers curled gently inward against the fabric in her lap. Her face turned slightly into the sleeve of his tunic, not in search of comfort—just gravity, finally allowed to win.

Obi-Wan tensed for half a second.

Not in discomfort.

In startled stillness.

This was the first time she’d touched him without fear in three days. The first time her silence had felt less like suffocation and more like surrender.

And then he felt it—

Her breath evened out.

In. Out.

Not perfect. Not deep.

But steady.

She was asleep.

At last.

He turned his head slightly, glancing down at the top of her head. Her hair was a mess—half-plaited still from the race, a few strands stuck to her temple. There were smudges of exhaustion under her eyes. Her lips were parted just slightly, her expression soft with fatigue, not pain.

She looked young again.

She looked 9 years old again.

Like she was supposed to.

And breakable.

And human.

Obi-Wan didn’t move. Not even an inch. His shoulder ached already, but he didn’t shift to make himself more comfortable. He didn’t dare. The ship continued to hum beneath them—hyperspace outside the walls stretching silent and endless—but here in this hallway, the moment held.

Because for the first time in two days, Alina Skywalker had stopped fighting sleep.

And she had chosen him to lean on.

Not the Council.

Not Anakin.

Not the Force.

Him.

He closed his eyes—just for a second—and let his head rest lightly against the wall behind him.

It wasn’t peace yet.Not even close.

---

She slept.

Truly, deeply—finally.

And as her body stilled, the Force began to thread itself through her again. Not like before—not like the brutal, jagged blaze of the vision on Tatooine that had left her broken and raw.

No. This time, it came quietly.

Like a tide returning to a beach it had once abandoned. Soft and salt-kissed. Patient.

Alina didn’t resist.

She was too far under, wrapped in a silence that—for once—felt kind.

She stood barefoot in a courtyard that glowed like late afternoon.

The sky overhead was a soft wash of amber and lavender, the light catching in strands of her loosely braided hair. There was warmth in the stone beneath her feet, as if the sun had soaked into it all day and was now slowly releasing it back into the air. Petals drifted on the breeze—ivory and soft blue—and laughter echoed faintly from a garden just beyond the walls.

Everything was slow.

Everything was still.

She looked down at her hands.

They weren’t trembling.

No blood. No dirt. No ashes on her skin.

Just smooth palms, fingers slightly calloused from something practical—work, perhaps—but steady. She wore a dress she didn’t recognize, simple and weightless. It moved with her breath. A satin ribbon cinched the waist—deep blue, like the sea on Naboo at night.

And then she noticed the flowers.

Tucked into her braid.

Threaded through an archway just ahead.

Woven into the hem of her skirt.

Orange blossoms. Pale lilacs. Blue thistle. Meaning layered in scent and silk—fertility, courage, trust.

A celebration.

A joining.

She took a slow breath and stepped forward.

At the end of the courtyard, framed beneath the flower-draped archway, was a man. He stood patiently, hands folded in front of him, posture straight but not formal. His clothing was ceremonial but soft—ivory tones layered with quiet detail, like Jedi robes reimagined for a world that had never known war.

He wasn’t a stranger.

She knew him.

Even if she couldn’t see him clearly—his features blurred slightly by the Force, the way dreams often are—his presence resonated like a low chord in her chest.

Like gravity.

He looked up when she reached him, and something in his expression made her breath catch.

He looked at her like he saw her.

Not as something fragile. Not as something to fix.

But as something sacred.

The dream moved like water around her. Sound was muffled—like the world knew this moment was only for them. She saw a figure beside them—a soft-spoken officiant, robes loose and sand-colored—say a few words she couldn’t fully hear.

But she felt the meaning.

The energy. The weight.

This was not a vision of chaos.

This was a vow.

The man took her hands.

His touch was warm, calloused. Familiar.

And when he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of it, her heart did not panic.

It settled.

A calm, rooted feeling moved through her—like the sun finally rising after a long winter. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t name him. Couldn’t see his face.

What mattered was the stillness inside her.

The rightness.

He leaned close, forehead resting gently against hers.

And whispered something.

She couldn’t make out the words.

But they wrapped around her like home.

Alina stirred.

She blinked awake slowly, confusion clouding her features for a moment as the soft dream slipped away. The hum of the ship returned to her ears—the faint thrum of hyperspace beyond the walls, the quiet breath of life support, the far-off mechanical whisper of the nav systems adjusting.

Her cheek was warm.

Pressed against something solid.

She shifted slightly, blinking again—and realized…

Obi-Wan.

Her head was still on his shoulder.

Her entire body had curled toward him sometime in her sleep. Her hand rested lightly on the edge of his cloak. The side of her face was pressed against his upper arm. Her knees were pulled up, one foot tucked under his stretched leg. They hadn’t moved in hours.

He hadn’t moved in hours.

Obi-Wan was still as stone—but not tense. Not uncomfortable.

Just present.

His eyes were closed, though she couldn’t tell if he was meditating or simply resting. His breathing was steady and quiet, syncing gently with hers like it had in those early hours when she couldn’t find any peace.

Alina stayed there.

Not because she was too tired to sit up.

But because the feeling in her chest—the one the dream had left behind—hadn’t faded.

She didn’t recognize the faces. She didn’t understand what it meant. She didn’t know when or if it would happen.

But the echo of it— The calm. The safety. The certainty—

It was still there.

And she wasn’t afraid of it.

For the first time in days, she didn’t want to run.

She didn’t want to be alone.

And slowly—so slowly she almost didn’t notice—her fingers curled slightly tighter into the fabric of Obi-Wan’s cloak.

She closed her eyes again.

Not to escape. But to remember.

And even though she didn’t speak— Not yet— Her body said what her voice could not:

Thank you. Stay.

And Obi-Wan did.

---

Finally, 36 hours later, the Nubian cruiser descended through the clouds of Coruscant like a blade of silver light cutting through a stormless sky.

The city-planet sprawled beneath them--endless towers and traffic lanes glowing in blue-white streaks, sunlight glinting off permaglass domes and rooftop landing pads. The senate district gleamed in the distance, its domed architecture framed by hundreds of ships in orbit and descent.

The Jedi Temple was just visible, rising like a monolith from the cityscape--quiet and still, ancient and waiting.

Inside the ship, movement had begun again. 

Droids moved efficiently through the corridors, powering down long-range systems. Ramps were being lowered. The airlock hissed and adjusted with the pressure change.

The movement had come.

Landing.

Obi-Wan stood near the exit ramp, cloak pulled over one shoulder, gaze steady. He hadn’t said much that morning. Neither had Alina--though she hasn’t said really anything in the last three days--. She’d stayed beside him through the final hours of the journey,quieter than ever--but something in her was different now.

Not broken.

Not better.

Just stronger in its stillness.

She stood beside him now, arms at her sides, fingers twitching slightly as she watched the landing ramp lower. The light spilling in from Coruscant’s midmorning sun felt too bright to her. Too exposed. But she didn’t flinch from it.

Anakin, however, was vibrating with excitement.

“Whoa--did you see that tower?! Is that all one building? That’s the Temple? Is that where were staying? How do they fly those ships without crashing them?”

Qui-Gon chuckled behind him. “You’ll have time to explore, Anakin. Slowly.”

“But it's huge!” Anakin said, pressing his hands to the glass. “I thought the podrace was cool but this--this is the best.”

Alina’s fingers twitched again.

She took a breath.

Then another.

And then--

She moved.

Just a few steps.

Forward. 

Toward Qui-Gon.

The moment was so subtle that at first, no one noticed. But Obi-Wan’s head turned slightly, sensing the shift in her presence.

Alina reached out--

And gently tugged on the edge of Qui-Gon’s robe.

He turned, surprised. “Alina?”

She didn’t drop her gaze right away. She held it.

Her voice, when it finally came, was soft. A little scratchy from disuse. Thin.

But it was unmistakably hers.

“...Will they separate us?” she asked.

Qui-Gon blinked,startled--not by the question, but by the fact that she had just spoken, after not for the last few days. The tone was quiet, but not weak. Like a candle lit in the dark,just enough to say “I’m still here.”

Alina’s little hand fell back to her side.

She didn’t look at Anakin, who was still chattering about sky lanes. Her eyes stayed on Qui-Gon.

“Me and Anakin,” she said,voice low. “Will they make us go to different places?”

Her throat worked,like the question had lived inside her too long--pressed down,unspoken, painful.

“I don’t want to be apart,” she added,even more softly.

Qui-Gon crouched slightly so he could meet her eye level. His expression gentled, the weight of his years showing in his pause.

“That is not what we want,” he said carefully. “The Council may ask difficult questions. But you’re not being taken from each other. Not today.”

Her shoulders eased--barely--but her jaw remained tight.

“They won’t like me,” she whispered.

“They’ll see you,” Qui-Gon said. “And that will be enough.”

Behind her, Obi-Wan’s posture shifted. He didn’t speak. But when Alina turned slightly,she saw him watching her.

Just watching.

Not pushing.

Not leading.

Waiting.

And there—just for a second—she allowed herself a breath that didn’t feel stolen.

Anakin came bounding over again. “Are we going in now? Will I get a lightsaber today?”

Alina didn’t answer him.

But she stepped forward.

Onto the ramp.

Into the Coruscant sunlight.

[heathenwithwifi]

Twilight of Destiny (Phantom Menace Era)

Part 2

Summary: Part 2 follows the Boonta Eve classic, and where Anakin wins the podrace with Alina unknowingly anchoring him through the Force. They may only be nine, but the Force hums between her and Anakin like breath and heartbeat. As her brother races for their future in the Boonta Eve Classic, Alina is right there with him—anchoring him, guiding him, not with training, but with instinct.

Victory is theirs. But freedom isn't. Not both of them. Just when it seems like the galaxy will split them apart, a voice over the comm—cool, unfamiliar—does something strange. Alina knows it. She says his name before anyone tells her. Obi-Wan. She keeps talking through victory, shock, and heartbreak. But when she steps onto the ship— into cold silence, and that name still echoing inside her— her voice finally disappears.

Tags:#star wars fanfiction #alina lyra skywalker #skywalker twins au #phantom menace au #obi wan kenobi x oc #obi wan and oc bond #original character #force sensitive oc #force bond #twin bond #child oc #anakin skywalker #padmé amidala #qui gon jinn #pre-jedi #slow build #hurt comfort #recognition trope #podrace scene #darth maul #emotional writing #childhood trauma #sibling love #starting the journey

Trigger warnings: Canon-typical violence (brief lightsaber duel), Child slavery/forced separation from parent, themes of grief,loss and forced independence, hints of force-bond/soul memory, pre-jedi child pov

Word Count:5,416

Part 2

“The Force does not always roar like thunder or strike like lightning. Sometimes, it is the quiet bond between two hearts, unseen but unbroken. Where one races toward destiny, the other steadies the current. And together, they move as one.”

The twin suns of Tatooine blazed like twin gods overhead, their heat pressing down on the desert in a golden haze that shimmered across the horizon. The Boonta Eve Classic was more than just a race—it was a spectacle, a blood sport, a proving ground for machines and pilots alike. The stadium roared with life, grandstands overflowing with color and noise, the air saturated with the scent of burnt fuel, spice dust, and sweat.

And on the edge of it all, Alina Lyra Skywalker stood in the shadow of her brother’s podracer, her arms folded tightly across her chest, her back tense with nerves she refused to show. Her copper-brown hair had been hastily re-braided after the storm, but now strands clung to her cheeks with sweat. Her sage-green eyes, flecked with tiny gold sparks, darted across the track, taking in every curve, every hazard. The oversized tunic she wore was cinched at the waist with a length of rough cloth, paired with dusty trousers tucked into cracked boots. The outfit had once belonged to Shmi and had clearly been altered to fit her smaller frame.

She was trying to be still—but the Force was buzzing in her blood like electricity. And she knew it wasn’t just her own.

“Breathe, Alina,” Qui-Gon Jinn said calmly, standing beside her with his hands folded behind his back, his weather-worn face unusually soft. “He needs your focus—not your fear.”

“I’m not afraid for him,” Alina replied without looking at him. “I’m afraid of what happens after.”

Qui-Gon studied her profile for a moment. Her jaw was tight, her gaze unblinking. “You already know, don’t you?”

Alina’s voice dropped. “He’s going to win.”

“And you?”

“I don’t know if I’m coming with him,” she whispered.

Before Qui-Gon could answer, Anakin appeared from under the pod, goggles resting on his forehead, face flushed with heat and excitement. He wore a sleeveless utility shirt tucked into his belt, grease smudges on his arms and a wild, eager gleam in his eyes.

“She’s tuned up and ready,” he said, giving the engine an affectionate pat. “That repulsor’s running smoother than ever. I told Watto she just needed rest and recalibration.”

Qui-Gon nodded, lips twitching faintly. “Let’s hope the same can be said for you.”

Alina stepped forward and brushed a strand of hair from her brother’s temple. “Ani,” she said gently, “remember—it’s not about going the fastest. It’s about feeling the track. Every twist. Every dip. Let the pod speak to you.”

“I will,” he said with a grin. “But don’t worry. I’ll win.”

“Of course you will,” she replied with a faint, half-sad smile. “Because you always do when I’m watching.”

He looked at her a little more seriously then. “You’ll be there when it’s over, right?”

Alina hesitated just a fraction. “Always.”

The race announcer’s booming voice echoed through the canyon, calling all pilots to their pods.

Anakin adjusted his gloves, pulled down his goggles, and nodded to them both. “Here we go.”

As he climbed into the cockpit, Qui-Gon rested a hand lightly on Alina’s shoulder. “He’s going to do more than win,” he said. “He’s going to change things.”

She didn’t look at him. “He already has.”

Then the lights above the starting gate flashed red.

Then yellow.

Alina’s breath caught in her throat.

Green.

The pods launched forward in an explosion of sound and fire, engines screaming across the desert flats as they tore out of the gate like unleashed beasts.

The roar of the crowd became a wall of noise. Dust shot up in every direction, burning light and speed blurring into a haze of metal and motion. And through it all, Alina stood completely still, her eyes fixed on the dust trail rising beyond the stadium’s edge.

“He’s boxed in,” she murmured, barely audible. “Third position. Engines are surging too early. He needs to slow the output by two clicks or it’s going to stall out in the canyon pass.”

Qui-Gon turned to her. “You see that from here?”

She didn’t answer. Her pupils were dilated. Her chest rose and fell quickly, but evenly. She was with him—in the Force.

Far ahead, Anakin veered around a fallen scrap pile from a crashed pod, his hands moving instinctively. A whisper. A sensation. A presence just behind his shoulder. Not touching. Just guiding.

Alina.

Qui-Gon watched her with something close to awe. He had seen Jedi Masters fall into deep meditative linkages during battle, but this girl—this untrained girl—was synchronized with her brother without effort. Without trying.

“She’s anchoring him,” he said aloud, almost to himself.

Alina’s lips moved silently. “Right turn, Ani. Don’t let him cut you off.”

Down on the track, Sebulba swerved hard, his engine flaring as he bumped Anakin’s pod, trying to push him toward a rock outcropping. Anakin dipped low, narrowly missing the jagged stone by inches. The crowd screamed.

Alina didn’t blink.

Her hands tightened into fists at her sides. Sweat beaded at her brow. “He’s okay,” she breathed.

Qui-Gon watched her, brow furrowed. “He’s pulling ahead.”

“No—he’s pacing Sebulba. Waiting for the engine lock to disengage.”

A few seconds later, Sebulba’s left repulsor sputtered—and Anakin surged forward.

The crowd exploded in cheers.

The final lap.

The air buzzed with tension. All around them, spectators leaned forward in their seats, breaths held. But Alina never moved.

The Force around her throbbed—not loud or wild, but steady, rhythmic. Like a heartbeat synced to her brother’s. She was racing too.

Ahead, the final stretch of canyon narrowed, and Anakin leaned forward, coaxing every last ounce of speed from the pod. Sebulba lunged at him one last time, desperate to regain ground.

Alina stepped forward unconsciously, breath catching.

“Now, Ani. Now.”

Anakin twisted the controls sharply—Sebulba clipped his own steering vane in the maneuver, sending sparks shooting into the air—and Anakin shot forward with a final burst of speed.

The finish line blurred—

—and Anakin crossed it first.

The roar from the stands was deafening.

Alina stood frozen, eyes wide, heart hammering in her chest. For a single moment, she felt nothing.

Then—

The Force snapped back into her like a cord released. The tension evaporated. Her knees buckled slightly, and Qui-Gon caught her by the elbow.

“He did it,” he said, smiling for the first time all day. “He won.”

Alina exhaled a shaky breath.

A“He did it,” Qui-Gon said, smiling for the first time all day. “He won.”

Alina exhaled a shaky breath.

And smiled.

For a moment, that was all—just the heat, the roar of the crowd, and the quiet, stunned joy on her face. But then—

“Alina!”

A high, breathless voice carried across the crowd. She barely had time to react before Anakin came barreling through the dust, helmet under one arm, grinning from ear to ear. His face was red from wind and sun, smeared with grease and sweat, but his eyes were wild with joy.

“You saw me, right?” he gasped, grabbing her hand. “You felt it, right?”

She laughed—a real, full laugh—and nodded. “I was there, Ani. Every second. I don’t know how, but... I knew everything you were about to do.”

He beamed. “I felt you. It was like you were in the cockpit with me, whispering in my ear.”

“Kind of was,” she said softly, squeezing his fingers. “That last stretch? You almost lost it.”

“Yeah,” he said with a little breathless chuckle. “But I didn’t.”

“You didn’t,” she agreed.

They both looked up as Qui-Gon approached, his cloak stirring around his boots, his expression calmer now—but still carrying that quiet intensity that never really left him.

“You were remarkable, Anakin,” he said, placing a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You listened to the Force.”

Anakin grinned. “I listened to Alina.”

Qui-Gon looked between the two of them, his gaze lingering on Alina, thoughtful. “Perhaps… that’s one and the same.”

Before she could respond, they were interrupted by Watto, who came buzzing toward them in a flurry of indignant flaps, his wings kicking up sand. He was ranting in Huttese, gesturing wildly, a betting slip crumpled in one hand.

“No! No, no, no—impossible! He’s a slave! He shouldn’t have even finished! You tricked me, Jedi!”

Qui-Gon stepped forward, utterly composed. “The boy won. The bet was clear. I came for the parts—and for his freedom.”

Watto sputtered. “I’ll give you the parts, fine—but I never agreed to the girl!”

Alina stiffened.

Anakin’s grin dropped.

“Wait,” he said, turning to Qui-Gon. “He’s only letting me go?”

Qui-Gon glanced at Alina, whose face had gone blank—too blank.

“We’ll discuss this,” the Jedi said carefully.

Watto scoffed. “You can discuss it all you want, but she stays. You gambled for the boy, and the boy’s all you get. You should’ve made a better deal.”

Then he turned and flew off, still shouting in Huttese.

The silence left behind felt like a slap.

Anakin turned back to Alina, his brow furrowed, face suddenly pale. “You’re still a slave?”

She didn’t answer at first. Her arms had folded across her chest again, her body tight.

“I was always still a slave,” she said quietly. “That never changed.”

“No,” Anakin said. “No. We’re going together. We won.”

Qui-Gon placed a hand on his shoulder. “Anakin—”

“No!” the boy snapped, louder now. “We won because of her. I couldn’t have done it without her. I felt her, Master Qui-Gon! She was with me the whole time! You felt it too!”

“I know,” Qui-Gon said gently. “And I’m not leaving her behind.”

Alina’s eyes flicked toward him, searching his face. “You said you couldn’t wager for both.”

“I couldn’t,” he admitted. “But there may still be a way.”

Her voice was smaller now. “And if there isn’t?”

Qui-Gon looked her straight in the eyes. “Then I’ll make one.”

Anakin grabbed her hand again, this time tighter. “We’re a team,” he said fiercely. “We always have been.”

She didn’t smile—but her eyes softened, the gold in them catching the sun.

“I know.”

Qui-Gon turned away, his voice lower now as he muttered, “I need to contact Obi-Wan. And… perhaps the Queen.”

Anakin watched him go, then turned back to Alina, quiet for a moment. The crowd still buzzed in the background, but for them, it was like standing in a bubble of stillness.

“Did you really know I’d win?” he asked.

She gave a small, tired smile. “No.”

“But you said—”

“I didn’t know for sure. I just… believed in you.”

He looked at her for a long second. “Then I’m gonna believe in you now.”

She blinked. “Ani—”

“No. If he can’t get you out of this, I will.”

She didn’t argue.

Not because she believed him—but because, somehow, she wanted to.

Alina's relief and joy were overwhelming as she ran to greet her brother, their embrace full of laughter and shared triumph.

"Thanks, Alina," Anakin said, his voice full of genuine gratitude. "I don’t know how, but I felt like you were with me the whole time."

She smiled back, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "I was, Ani. I always am."

---

"It’s unorthodox, Master," Obi-Wan voiced his concern quietly as they watched the racers line up. "Training the two…it could change everything."

As they prepared for their journey to Coruscant, the twins stood together, looking out at the stars.

"Things are going to change," Obi-Wan said, joining them. "Are you ready for what comes next?"

"As long as we’re together, I think we can face anything," Alina replied, her voice steady with newfound resolve.

The victory celebrations were fading into the sun-drenched haze of the late afternoon, but the tension had only grown in the Skywalkers' corner of the track. Alina stood with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, watching the bustle of droids and dispersing crowds, while Anakin paced in front of her like a wild tooka in a cage.

“We have to go back and make him let her go,” Anakin said, voice too loud, too hot. “Or—or threaten him! Or do Jedi mind tricks!”

“I already tried,” Qui-Gon said as he approached, voice calm but strained. “Watto’s not easily influenced. He’s strong-willed, greedy, and furious that he lost.”

“So what now?” Anakin challenged. “You promised!”

Alina didn’t speak. She just looked at Qui-Gon with quiet, guarded eyes—sage green, flecked with gold, lit softly by the last rays of the suns. She wasn’t demanding answers. She wasn’t panicking. But she was waiting.

Qui-Gon reached into his robe and withdrew a compact transceiver. He turned it in his palm once, then handed it to Anakin.

“I’ve contacted my apprentice at the ship. He’s negotiating with Watto now.”

Anakin blinked. “You have an apprentice?”

“You didn’t say anything about another Jedi,” Alina said, her voice low.

“He’s not involved unless I need him,” Qui-Gon replied. “Until now.”

Anakin frowned. “What’s his name?”

Qui-Gon smiled faintly. “You’ll meet him soon.”

Alina didn’t answer, but her fingers brushed the hem of her sleeve with an almost nervous rhythm.

“I thought you said the Council wouldn’t allow both of us,” she said finally.

“They won’t,” Qui-Gon said. “They’ll barely agree to one of you—if they agree at all. But they’re not here.”

“What did you tell him?” she asked.

“I told him the truth,” Qui-Gon said. “That I’ve found two children stronger in the Force than any I’ve seen. That separating you could unmake more than just your bond. That the Force didn’t create one of you.”

He looked between them.

“It created both.”

Alina’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And your apprentice just went along with that?”

“No,” Qui-Gon said. “He argued. He always argues. But I didn’t ask for agreement. I asked for action.”

Just then, the transceiver chirped—sharp and clear.

Qui-Gon knelt and pressed the side, adjusting the frequency. The signal buzzed, then a voice came through—cool, clipped, and precise:

“Transmission received. Trade concluded.”

The voice didn’t raise itself, didn’t indulge in gloating or drama. It was calm. Steady. Centered.

But Alina froze.

Her eyes flicked to the transceiver, her breath catching without warning. The voice wasn’t familiar, not in any real-world sense. And yet—

“The girl is free. Watto accepted the stabilizers and parts. Recommend immediate departure before he reconsiders the arrangement.”

Alina took a small step forward.

Anakin lit up like a flare. “Wait—what? She’s free?!”

Qui-Gon smiled. “Yes. You both are.”

“If this was part of your plan from the start,” the voice continued with faint sarcasm, “I should’ve asked more questions before I agreed to land on this planet.”

Alina leaned in slightly, her eyes narrowing—not with suspicion, but with something gentler. Something thoughtful.

She didn’t know that voice.

And yet something in it—the undercurrent of restraint, the subtle weight behind each word—felt like something she’d heard before. Not with her ears, but somewhere deeper. In dreams maybe. In instincts.

A wind stirred, brushing her copper-brown hair across her face.

“I assume we’re bringing them both back with us, then?”

“You assume correctly,” Qui-Gon replied. “You’ve done well. Thank you.”

“Just get back to the ship. I don’t want to answer questions if the Queen comes looking.”

The transmission cut out.

Silence.

Anakin turned, practically bouncing. “Alina! You’re free! We’re free!”

He threw his arms around her in a tackle-hug that knocked the breath out of her. For a second, she didn’t move. Then slowly—like a branch thawing under sunlight—she returned it, arms wrapping around his back, fingers gripping tighter than she meant them to.

“I didn’t think it would happen,” she whispered.

“I knew it would,” he said fiercely.

Qui-Gon straightened, slipping the transceiver back into his belt. “We’ll leave at first light.”

Alina pulled back slightly, blinking at Qui-Gon. “That voice,” she said softly. “Your apprentice.”

“Yes?”

“…I’ve never heard him before,” she said slowly. “But I feel like I have.”

Qui-Gon tilted his head. “The Force works in strange ways.”

“Didn’t feel like the Force,” she murmured. “Felt like something I forgot I was supposed to remember.”

Qui-Gon didn’t press.

“You’ll meet him soon,” he said again, gentler this time.

Alina nodded faintly, still turned halfway toward the empty air where the voice had crackled through.

Not afraid. Not suspicious.

Just..pulled.

---

The sun had shifted low on the horizon, staining the walls of the Skywalker home in a deep amber glow. It cast long shadows across the stone floor, softening the edges of a life about to be left behind. In the stillness that followed the roar of the podrace, the rooms felt quieter than ever before. Like they were holding their breath.

Alina sat on the edge of her cot, a threadbare blanket pooled around her legs and a canvas satchel open at her feet. Her fingers moved slowly, folding the same tunic three times before finally placing it inside. The air was thick—not with heat this time, but with everything unsaid. The weight of change hung heavy.

Across the room, Anakin was stuffing tools into a worn satchel, barely taking time to wrap the sharper ones. "I’m bringing the droid controller," he muttered more to himself than her. "Even if we can’t take Threepio, I’ll finish him one day. Maybe I can ask the Queen if we can come back for him."

Alina didn’t answer. Her eyes had landed on the small, battered object on her shelf—a faded cloth bantha with one ear half-torn. Its stuffing peeked through the seam near its hind leg. Anakin had sewn it for her when they were five, using a piece of an old tunic and thread from Watto’s storeroom. He'd named it "Blip," claiming it was short for "Bantha Like It’s Precious."

She picked it up now, cradling it like it might fall apart, and slowly pressed it to her chest. "I’m taking Blip," she said simply.

Anakin turned, his smile faint but real. "You still have that thing?"

"Of course I do."

He didn’t say anything else, just zipped his bag and looked around like he might forget something crucial. A datapad, a coil of wire, a pair of old leather gloves. His fingers hovered over a broken model podracer they'd carved together from scrap wood. He didn’t take it.

Alina laid Blip carefully into the bottom of her satchel, placing her spare tunic on top like a blanket. Then she unhooked the tiny silver charm from the cord around her neck—a repurposed engine bolt shaped like a crescent. She'd found it years ago while scavenging in the junk fields. She looped it gently onto one of Blip’s ears, like armor.

"You’re not packing much," Anakin said.

"I don’t have much," she replied.

He nodded, glancing around their shared room—the low ceilings, the sand-stained corners, the wall where faint scratches marked each birthday. It was strange to look at it now. Strange to think this place had once been the whole galaxy.

"Do you think it’ll be cold?" Alina asked suddenly.

"What?"

"Space," she said. "It has to be cold, right? Nothing to hold warmth."

He blinked, caught off guard. "I dunno. Never thought about it."

"Me either. Until now." Her eyes stayed fixed on the window. The sky outside was turning lavender.

"I hope the ship’s warm," he said.

Alina smiled a little. "I don’t think it will be."

They stood in silence for a while. The kind that settles in your bones and makes you wonder if you’re doing the right thing. If freedom still counts when it means losing everything familiar.

Anakin slung his satchel over his shoulder, fingers fidgeting with the strap. "You ready?"

"No," she said, standing slowly and drawing the satchel shut. "But I’m going anyway."

Together, they stepped out into the hallway. Alina glanced back once, just once, at the small cot and the worn wall, the scrap parts and dusty light.

The light inside the Skywalker home had changed. It wasn’t just the suns slipping below the horizon—it was the way everything looked when you knew it would be the last time. The shadows stretched longer, the walls felt thinner, the silence more personal.

Shmi stood in the doorway of the small living room, hands folded tightly in front of her, as Anakin finished adjusting the strap on his satchel for the third time. He’d already checked the contents twice: tools, parts, datapads—his whole world in one bag. And still, he checked again.

Alina stood to the side, arms wrapped around her satchel like it might float away if she let go. Blip, her old stuffed bantha, was tucked inside, peeking out from beneath the flap. Her copper-brown braid had loosened with the day’s heat, a few strands clinging to her temple. She didn’t speak. She hadn’t for the past ten minutes.

"You have food on the ship," Shmi said, voice careful, soft. "And the Queen’s crew will look after you. I’m sure of it."

Anakin nodded quickly, avoiding her eyes. "I’ll help in the hangar. Maybe I can fix something."

Shmi gave him a tight smile. "Of course you will."

He stared down at his boots, suddenly still. "I’m coming back. I promise."

"I know."

"I’ll get you out too."

Shmi moved forward and knelt in front of him. "Anakin," she said gently, placing her hands on his shoulders, "what you’re about to do… the life ahead of you… it’s bigger than here. It’s bigger than all of us. You mustn't carry me with you like a burden."

"You’re not—"

She pressed her forehead to his. "You’ve always been brave. Let that be enough for now."

His voice cracked. "But I don’t want to leave you behind."

Alina turned her head away.

Shmi stood, brushing Anakin’s hair back like she had when he was small. "You’re not leaving me behind. You’re just going where I can’t follow."

Then her eyes shifted to Alina.

The girl was still by the wall, still quiet, still unreadable. But her shoulders were tighter now, jaw set too hard for someone her age. Her gaze wasn’t on Shmi—it was on the doorway behind her. Already halfway out, even if her feet hadn’t moved.

Shmi stepped forward, slowly. "Alina."

Alina looked at her.

There was no protest in her eyes. No resistance. Just a kind of solemn calm. She didn’t reach for her mother. She didn’t run into her arms. She didn’t even blink.

"I know," Shmi said softly. "You’re not one for goodbyes."

Alina said nothing.

She only nodded once. A small, barely-there movement, but it held a thousand unspoken things. Fear. Love. Guilt. And something deeper—gratitude tucked beneath grief.

She shifted the strap of her satchel higher on her shoulder and turned toward the door.

Anakin hugged his mother again, fierce and quick, and then followed.

Shmi stood in the threshold, watching them both.

Anakin looked back. "I’ll come back. I swear."

She smiled. "Then I’ll be waiting."

Alina didn’t look over her shoulder. She didn’t speak. Her hand brushed the doorframe briefly as she passed, just once, like it was the only gesture she’d allow herself.

And then she stepped outside into the cooling night.

The desert wind had shifted. Cooler now, brushing across the ridges and stirring the sand at their feet as the four of them made their way toward the silver Nubian cruiser resting quietly on the outskirts of Mos Espa.

Alina walked slightly ahead, arms folded tightly across her chest, jaw set like stone. Behind her, Anakin tried to keep pace, clutching Fray in one arm and dragging a small bag of his things with the other.

Padmé followed at his side, her cloak fluttering behind her. She kept glancing toward the boy with quiet concern, occasionally casting a look toward Alina, though the girl didn’t return it.

At the rear, Qui-Gon strode with purpose, every step calm and heavy with presence. His gaze swept the darkening horizon like a man who never fully relaxed—not even in the moments between danger.

“I still think we should’ve said goodbye,” Anakin muttered. “To everyone. To the droids. To—Mom.”

Alina didn’t turn around. “We said enough.”

“It didn’t feel like enough.”

Padmé placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “Sometimes... leaving doesn’t come with the words we want.”

Alina exhaled sharply through her nose, but said nothing.

The ship was waiting—softly lit, its ramp lowered, engines dormant. It looked like salvation. It felt like something else. Cold. Final.

Anakin was the first to say it: “Why is it so quiet out here?”

Qui-Gon slowed.

Padmé looked around. “There were guards when we landed. Where are they?”

Alina felt it a moment later. That ripple in the Force. That pressure. Like the world had just inhaled and was holding it.

She turned.

Then she saw him.

A figure stepped from the rocks ahead, blocking their path to the ship. He moved like a shadow sculpted from fire—long limbs, wrapped in dark robes, the face beneath painted in jagged black and crimson.

And then—snap-hiss.

Twin red blades erupted from the hilt in his hand, lighting the sand in an eerie crimson glow.

Anakin froze.

Padmé gasped, instinctively stepping in front of him.

Alina didn't move. She felt the chill pierce straight through her.

Qui-Gon’s voice cut the silence. “Get to the ship. Now.”

He ignited his green lightsaber without hesitation.

Alina didn’t hesitate either—she grabbed Anakin’s hand and yanked him back toward the ship.

But the Sith was already moving.

Before theyuld reach the ramp, the attacker leapt forward—flipping through the air like a demon pulled from legend. He landed between them and the ship, double blades whirling into guard position.

“Stay behind me!” Qui-Gon shouted as he lunged.

The first strike cracked through the air like thunder—green and red colliding in a blaze of sparks.

Padmé shielded Anakin as she crouched near the slope of the landing ramp. Alina pushed in beside them, wide-eyed, heart pounding. She reached for something—anything—but she had no weapon, no saber, nothing but her instincts screaming.

A second figure burst from the top of the ship ramp.

He leapt into the fray like lightning, lightsaber igniting mid-air in a streak of blue.

The new Jedi landed beside Qui-Gon, blade lifted in perfect rhythm.

Alina’s breath caught in her throat.

She didn’t know him.

She’d never seen him before in her life.

And yet—

“Obi-Wan,” she whispered.

Padmé turned sharply. “What?”

Alina blinked, startled by her own voice. She hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

Anakin leaned toward her. “Who?”

“I—I don’t know.”

But she did.

The name had fallen from her lips like something remembered from a dream. Like it had always been there, tucked just beneath the surface of her mind.

She stared at the Jedi—young, sharp-eyed, graceful in motion as he deflected each furious blow from the red blades. His face was calm, centered, full of fierce concentration.

The fight became a blur of movement—Qui-Gon attacking high, Obi-Wan spinning low. The Sith met both with brutal strength, relentless, animal-like.

“Why did you say his name?” Padmé asked, still holding Anakin close.

“I don’t know,” Alina said again, softer. “No one told me.”

Her chest ached.

---

The Nubian cruiser was too quiet.

It wasn’t the silence of peace. It was the kind of stillness that followed something violent—aftershocks lingering beneath polished metal and humming energy cores. The air inside the ship felt wrong somehow. Too clean. Too contained. There was no wind. No smell of sand. No sunburnt heat on skin. Only the thin buzz of engines and the distant rhythmic beeping of instruments.

Alina curled tighter into the far corner of the main passenger cabin, her arms looped around her knees like a lifeline. Her cheek pressed against the cool inner wall of the ship, grounding her, anchoring her somewhere she didn’t recognize and didn’t want to be.

The ship had been in hyperspace for a few hours now. She hadn’t moved since they boarded. Not once.

Her body ached—not from injury, but from exhaustion. Her ribs hurt with every breath, like something inside her was still bracing for impact. But nothing came. Just stillness. And the memory of everything.

The past 48 hours looped in her head like a cruel, skipping holoreel.

Her mother’s arms falling away.

Her voice telling them to go—so calm. Too calm.

Anakin looking back, begging to stay.

The realization that Alina didn’t get to choose.

Then the heat of the Tatooine sun. The bite of sand in her boots. The chill of something in the Force going horribly, horribly wrong.

Red light.

Screaming energy.

Qui-Gon shouting.

And him.

The Jedi.

The boy with the blue lightsaber and the storm behind his eyes.

She didn’t know his face. Didn’t know his voice. But her body had gone still the second he arrived, like her heart recognized him before her mind could catch up.

Obi-Wan.

She’d said his name without thinking. Without knowing.

And ever since that moment, it was like the sound of it had cracked something open inside her. Something ancient. Something buried. Something loud.

Now the silence wasn’t comfort. It was suffocation.

Across from her, Anakin shifted restlessly on the bench. He’d stopped talking after his third failed attempt to get her to respond. He now sat with his back against the wall, Fray held tight to his chest, one leg swinging idly. His eyes kept flicking to her and then away, like he didn’t recognize her in this new, unreachable quiet.

Padmé sat nearby, concern creased into the corners of her face, but she didn’t press. She’d seen grief before. She recognized the shape of a child trying not to shatter.

But Obi-Wan…

He hadn’t stopped watching.

He sat off to the side now, posture straight, elbows resting lightly on his knees. At a glance, he looked like any disciplined Jedi apprentice. But every now and then, his gaze drifted.

Toward her.

Like he was trying to understand something the Force wasn’t explaining.

He’d only seen her once, truly—before the duel, when their eyes met. But that moment had left something behind. Like walking out of a dream and realizing the dream had walked out with you.

She hadn’t looked at him since.

But he could feel her.

Quiet as she was, her presence in the Force was anything but.

It thrummed. Low and sharp, like tension held in a chord just before it snapped.

It wasn’t just grief. It wasn’t just fear.

It was recognition.

But recognition of what?

The Force had given him no answers. Only the ache of something unsaid. Unformed. Like déjà vu that never passed.

Qui-Gon entered the cabin again, scanning the room.

“They’re settled,” he said quietly to Padmé. “We’ll reach Coruscant by midday standard time.”

Padmé nodded, eyes still on Alina. “She hasn’t moved.”

“She will when she’s ready.”

“She said your Padawan’s name,” she murmured. “Before anyone else could. That’s… unusual.”

Qui-Gon looked to Obi-Wan, who only nodded slightly—still unsure of what to make of it.

“I didn’t say anything,” he said. “She just… knew.”

Qui-Gon considered that for a long moment.

Then: “Some connections form whether we ask for them or not.”

Alina heard every word.

But she didn’t react.

Didn’t breathe any deeper.

Didn’t look up.

The pressure in her chest wouldn’t let her. The weight of leaving home, of her mother’s voice, of Anakin’s hand slipping from hers… it all sat behind her ribs like a stone. And now there was this—whatever it was between her and Obi-Wan.

She didn’t want it.

Didn’t want anything.

So she stayed silent.

Obi-Wan rose slowly, almost reluctantly, and crossed the cabin toward her. His steps were light, deliberate. He crouched a few feet away, careful not to invade the fragile space she had made around herself.

“I know you’re not ready to speak,” he said quietly.

Alina didn’t move.

“But if you could hear what I’m feeling,” he continued, “I think maybe… you’d know you’re not alone.”

A faint twitch in her fingers. Barely noticeable.

He didn’t push.

“My name is Obi-Wan,” he said again, softer. “But you already knew that.”

He stood again, his eyes lingering on her face one last time. And though she didn’t meet them—didn’t shift even a fraction—he felt her listening.

He turned away.

She blinked slowly once, then tucked her chin tighter against her knees.

Behind her silence, her mind was loud.

somehow—she did know him.

[heathenwithwifi]

Twilight of Destiny.

An AU where Anakin has a twin sister.

Summary: Tatooine, a world of heat, hunger, and hollow promises, becomes the stage for a ripple in destiny.

When Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn and Padmé Amidala seek repairs in the storm-blasted markets of Mos Espa, they stumble not upon one gifted slave child—but two. Twins. Alina Lyra Skywalker and Anakin Skywalker.

Where Anakin burns bright with speed and curiosity, Alina is silent fire—controlled, unreadable, and unknowingly more powerful than any Jedi ever documented.

As a sudden sandstorm forces them into the Skywalkers’ modest home, truths begin to surface. Through a dinner of stew and quiet glances, a revelation of Force-born power emerges. Qui-Gon Jinn must decide if he’ll follow the Jedi Council’s cautious path—or the will of the Force itself.

But the galaxy has never seen anything like Alina.

And Alina is not ready to be seen.

Trigger warnings: literal child slavery/mentions of slavery, subtle emotional neglect (by others, not by family), discussions of trauma,power,fear. identity anxiety/fear of ones potential, mild classism and exploitation themes, canon-typical peril (storms, threats, jedi danger--yknow your typical tuesday for a jedi), hints at religious/political rigidity (jedi order--don't even argue with me on this, the jedi order is such a cult)

Tags:#StarWarsFanfiction #SkywalkerTwinsAU #AlinaLyraSkywalker #AnakinSkywalker #JediCouncilCritique #QuiGonLivesAU #SlowBurnForceBond #FoundFamily #TatooineStorms #ChildForceUsers #ObiWanKenobi #PowerfulOC #ForceMysticism #QuietPower #StarWarsReimagined #PrequelEraAU #ProtectAlinaAtAllCosts #TheForceIsStrongWithHer #SiblingDynamics #AngstySoftQuietGirls #HiddenStrength #SheDoesNotSpeakUntilSheDoes

Word Count:4,354

Part 1

Tatooine--a sun-scorched world of sand and slavery, where dreams go to die and survival is everything. But on this day, the Force moves quietly beneath its dust-blown surface.

Their starship crippled by a blockade run over Naboo, Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn and Queen Amidala’s entourage are forced to make an unscheduled landing on Tatooine. Obi-Wan Kenobi, left behind to guard the ship, monitors their surroundings from the ship. Meanwhile, Qui-Gon and Padmé--diguised as a handmaiden--walk the streets of Mos Espa alongside Jar Jar Binks and the astromech droid R2-D2, seeking a hyperdrive part they desperately need to leave the planet.

The market is bustling with heat, voices, and barterers--shouting over clanking metal, hissing steam, and alien dialects. Qui-Gon moves with quiet purpose , his gaze sharp beneath the hood of his cloak.

“This place reeks of tension,” Padmé mutters, brushing sand from her robes.

“That’s not tension,” Qui-Gon replies, his voice low. “It’s destiny.”

Their search leads them to a dusty junk shop owned by a grumbling Toydarian named Watto, who buzzes impatiently through the air. As Qui-Gon negotiates, Padmé’s attention drifts--and she catches movement behind a low workbench:two children. One, a boy with tousled sand-blond hair and piercing blue eyes, is sorting through a pile of rusted parts. The other, a girl, crouches beside him, wiping sand from a circuit board with practiced precision.

They look about nine or ten--filthy, sun-browned,barefoot--but even so, there’s something poised and bright about them. The girl glances up first. Her sage green-gold eyes meet Padmé’s, and a strange recognition passes between them. Then the boy looks up, smiling wide.

“Are you an angel?” he asks Padmé suddenly.

Padmé blinks. “What?”

“An angel,” he repeats. “I’ve heard the deep space pilots talk about them. On the moons of lego, I think. You look like one.”

Padmé can’t help but smile. “That’s very kind of you.”

Watto flaps over, scolding. “Eh! Back to work, Skywalkers! These parts aren’t going to sort themselves out!”

Qui-Gon’s attention turns to the children. “Skywalkers?” he asks.

Watto waves a hand. “Yes,yes. My slaves. Twins. Got ‘em in a junk deal. The boy’s handy with machines, and the girl--well, she’s clever. Good with delicate work. Quiet, too. Doesn’t say much unless she has to.”

Padmé stepped closer, curiosity lighting her face. “What are their names?”

The boy looked up from his work brushing sand off his hands. “I’m Anakin,” he said proudly, blue eyes bright. “Anakin Skywalker.”

The girl glanced up as well--but where Anakin leaned forward, eager and open, she stayed crouched low, her hands still busy in the crate. Her eyes met Qui-Gon’s for only a second. Vivid sage green. Piercing. There was nothing shy in her gaze--but something held back. Wariness. Not fear, exactly. More like a calculation.

She didn’t speak.

“She doesn’t talk much,” Anakin said, glancing at her. “Especially to strangers.”

Alina gave him a small look--barely a twitch of her eyebrow--but it said everything. He shrugged.

“I do enough talking for both of us anyway.”

Padmé crouched a little closer,her voice warm. “You two work for Watto?”

“We’re his slaves,” Anakin said matter-of-factly. “We help in the shop and around the yard. I fix things. She…she fixes them better.”

“She’s your sister?” Padmé asked gently, watching the girl.

“Yeah. We’re twins,” Anakin replied with a grin. “But I'm older. By five whole minutes.”

That earned him a tiny snort from the girl. She didn’t lift her head again, but her fingers moved faster, sorting through power couplings like they were beads in a game only she knew how to play.

“She’s not trying to be rude,” Anakin added quickly. “She’s just smart about people. She can tell when someone’s dangerous or fake or--y’know, a bounty hunter.”

“Noted,” Qui-Gon said, voice calm and even.

The girl’s eyes flicked toward him again.

And this time she lingered.

There was something about him--tall,composed, quiet. But not like the others who came through Mos Espa with credits in their hands and promises on their tongues. He wasn’t loud. He didn’t try to win her over.

He just watched.

And somehow, that made her trust him less.

“Alright, alright!” Watto barked from across the shop, flapping his wings as he returned to the counter. “Enough chitchat. If you’re not buying, get out of my way!”

Qui-Gon rose, his attention still partly on the girl. Padmé followed, glancing over her shoulder once more.

The children returned to their work in silence. A few moments passed.

Then the wind changed.

It started a slow push, like the air had suddenly grown heavily. The dust shifted in lazy spirals across the floor of the shop. Alina stiffened.

She turned her face slightly toward the door. She didn’t need to see it--she could feel it.

“Ani,” she whispered.

He looked up. The breeze outside had picked up, ruffling the awning. The bright light of the twin suns had begun to fade, dimmed by the haze rolling in from the dunes.

“A storm,” Anakin muttered. “A big one.”

Padmé came to the entrance of the shop and peered outside. “Looks serious.”

“It is,” Anakin said. “When the sky turns like that, you don’t want to be caught out in it.”

Watto was already locking down the shutters with a grumble. “Everyone out! No haggling in a sandstorm!”

Padmé looked to Qui-Gon. “We’ll never make it back to the ship in time.”

“We’ll find shelter,” Qui-Gon said firmly, already stepping toward the door. “Quickly.”

Anakin sprang to his feet like a spark catching flame. “You can come with us!”

Padmé blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“To our house,” he said, grabbing a cloak from a hook near the doorway. “Me and—her.” He motioned toward the girl without looking, already reaching for the latch. “It’s not far. You’ll be safe there.”

Alina’s head snapped up. Her eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger, but in something like disbelief. She stood slowly, her frame lean but sturdy, brushing sand from her patched trousers. She said nothing, but the stiff set of her shoulders spoke volumes.

“Mom won’t mind,” Anakin added, a bit of nervous energy slipping into his voice. “She always says it’s right to help people—especially in storms. That’s what she’d do.”

He pulled the door open, and the full force of the wind howled into the shop like a beast unleashed. The awning snapped and flapped violently overhead, and the dry air was thick with swirling sand and grit. The light outside had gone from gold to gray—sunlight swallowed by dust, the world beyond cloaked in chaos.

Alina looked back toward Qui-Gon and Padmé. The Jedi’s expression was unreadable, calm as stone despite the growing storm. Padmé’s brows were furrowed with concern, her hand shielding her face from the rush of hot wind.

Alina hesitated at the threshold.

Her bare feet hovered at the edge of the dusty shop floor. Her fingers brushed the doorframe—just for a second—as though grounding herself. Something about these strangers had thrown her off balance, and she didn’t like it. But Anakin had already made the choice for both of them, and somewhere deep inside, she knew the choice had been made long before the storm ever rose.

She turned to Qui-Gon first. Her gaze was guarded, but steady. Not a child’s look—not really. Something sharper. Older.

And then, finally, she spoke—her voice low, soft, but not hesitant. More like a quiet revelation.

“My name is Alina.”

The wind caught strands of her hair, tugging them loose from the braid at the base of her neck. She didn’t flinch, didn’t blink.

“Alina Lyra Skywalker.”

The name settled in the air like a spark falling into dry kindling. Something ancient shifted in the Force—Qui-Gon felt it, subtle and low, like the hum of a lightsaber before it’s drawn. He didn’t speak, but his eyes lingered on her just a moment longer than necessary.

And then she turned.

Her silhouette vanished into the storm without a word more.

Qui-Gon followed, his long cloak snapping behind him like a banner in battle.

Padmé hesitated.

She stood in the shop's doorway, her gaze still fixed on the empty space where Alina had stood. The girl's voice echoed in her mind—so quiet, but filled with something fierce and untamed. Her name—Skywalker—settled in Padmé’s chest like the first tremor before an earthquake.

The wind pushed harder now, thick with red dust. The streets outside were almost swallowed from view. R2-D2 beeped frantically as Jar Jar let out a muffled shriek behind her.

Padmé looked once more into the haze, then stepped into it, following the footprints already half-buried in the sand.

Behind her, Watto cursed in Huttese and slammed the door shut.

Ahead, the twins were already disappearing into the storm—one walking fast, the other walking quiet.Anakin led with purpose, darting through side alleys and narrow footpaths that twisted between Mos Espa’s crumbling stone homes. He knew every shortcut, every step that stayed dry during flooding, every corner that caught just enough shadow during the brightest part of the day. His cloak whipped behind him as he called over his shoulder, “This way! Not far!”

Alina moved behind him, less rushed but no less sure-footed. Her body was half-turned as she walked, glancing over her shoulder again and again—not out of fear, but out of instinct. Her braid had come loose in the wind, strands whipping around her face. She didn’t speak, not even when the coarse red sand stung her cheeks. But Padmé noticed she stayed near—never letting the group fall too far apart, quietly tracking their pace.

The storm pressed closer.

By the time the little group turned down a narrow corridor between two squat buildings, visibility had shrunk to only a few feet. The city seemed to disappear behind a thick veil of ochre dust. The howling wind swallowed every sound except for the rasp of boots on sand and the occasional beep from R2-D2, who was struggling to keep up.

Anakin stopped at a rusted metal door barely distinguishable from the wall around it. He knocked twice with the heel of his hand, then pressed his weight into it until it creaked open.

Warmth spilled out into the storm—not just from temperature, but from something more human. The soft glow of lamplight. The scent of something cooking low and slow on a heating coil. The murmur of life behind thin walls.

Alina motioned them inside. “Quick,” she said, raising her voice over the wind. “Before the hinges lock up with grit.”

Qui-Gon stepped through first, then Padmé, then R2. Jar Jar flailed his way in last, tripping over the threshold with a yelp. Alina shut the door behind them, pressing her back to it, catching her breath.

For a moment, there was only stillness.

The Skywalker home was modest—two rooms, a low ceiling, and walls the color of warm clay. Woven mats softened the floor beneath their feet. A cooling unit hummed in the corner. Small shelves lined with tools, copper wire, and faded family items gave the room the feel of somewhere both functional and fiercely personal.

And then she appeared.

Shmi Skywalker, drawn from the back room by the noise, stepped out into the light. She was barefoot, dressed in a long tunic with sleeves rolled up past her elbows. There was dust in her hair and worry already in her eyes. But she didn’t shout, didn’t scold.

Her eyes went straight to her children.

“You’re early,” she said softly. “And there’s a storm.”

Anakin grinned, brushing sand from his tunic. “We brought guests.”

Shmi’s gaze shifted. She took in the tall Jedi first—his weathered robes, his calm face, the blade hilt at his waist. Then Padmé, still cloaked, sand clinging to her eyelashes. Then Jar Jar, hunched awkwardly in the corner, and R2, who gave a polite beep.

She said nothing at first. Only blinked slowly, as if processing.

Alina moved past her mother and began brushing sand from a pile of fabric near the hearth, slipping silently into her old routine.

Shmi folded her arms.

“Anakin,” she said carefully, “who did you bring into my home?”

“They were stuck out in the storm,” he said quickly. “And they were at Watto’s—Qui-Gon, he’s a Jedi.”

At that, her brow creased.

“A Jedi?”

Qui-Gon stepped forward and bowed slightly. “Qui-Gon Jinn. This is Padmé Naberrie. We meant no intrusion, ma’am. The storm came faster than we expected.”

Shmi looked at him long and hard. “I haven’t seen a Jedi since I was a girl.”

“You remember them?”

“I remember the robes.”

There was no hostility in her tone. Only a sadness that settled in her voice like dust in the corners.

“You’re welcome to stay until it passes,” she said finally. “But don’t think I don’t notice the way you’re watching my children.”

Padmé blinked.

Qui-Gon didn’t flinch.

“I’ve seen enough off-worlders stare at them like puzzles they want to take apart,” Shmi continued. “But this is still their home.”

“You’re right to be protective,” Qui-Gon said, voice steady. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Shmi studied him for another moment, then nodded once. “Good. Then let’s get the sand off your faces and something warm in your stomachs.”

She turned toward the small kitchen space without waiting for agreement.

Anakin immediately launched into explaining their visitors to R2, while Jar Jar poked at a curious-looking thermal unit near the wall.

Padmé sat down slowly at the small table in the center of the room, brushing her cloak clean as best she could. Her eyes drifted toward Alina, who had settled beside a workbench and was quietly organizing a tray of parts. Not hiding, not exactly—just giving herself space.

“She’s… quiet,” Padmé said aloud before she could stop herself.

Shmi, from across the room, smiled softly. “Only when she’s thinking. Which is often.”

Qui-Gon sat as well, folding his hands before him. “She feels very deeply.”

“She doesn’t show it,” Shmi replied. “But yes. She always has. Even before she could speak, she’d cry when other people were in pain. Not because she was hurt—because they were.”

Alina glanced up for only a second, then returned to her work.

Anakin sat down beside her. “She doesn’t like being talked about.”

Alina didn’t look at him, but her elbow jabbed him lightly in the ribs. He grinned.

Dinner was simple—reheated root stew and dry bread, served in mismatched bowls. But it was warm, and the air inside the house felt safe, cocooned from the storm still howling beyond the walls. Padmé found herself relaxing for the first time in hours, her shoulders easing as she watched the twins eat and tease and finish each other’s sentences.

They were so clearly tethered to each other. Not just by blood—but by something deeper. Something wordless.

Qui-Gon, for his part, observed quietly.

Every time Alina touched a piece of cutlery or lifted her bowl, he noticed the subtle reaction in the air around her—just a slight warming. Every time Anakin grew excited, the light in the room seemed to shift brighter for a moment. They were not merely children. They were beacons. And they were stronger together.

He looked to Shmi. “You’ve raised them well.”

She looked tired—but proud. “I’ve done what I could.”

“Do they know what they are?”

Shmi hesitated, her spoon frozen mid-stir.

“They know they’re different,” she said softly. “They’ve always known. But they’ve never been taught what it means. I’ve never known enough myself.”

“Then perhaps it’s time someone did.”

Alina looked up then—really looked at him. No longer guarded. Just... waiting.

The storm groaned against the outer walls of the Skywalker home, wind howling like an old beast in pain. Inside, the light had softened. Dinner was finished, bowls cleared, and a quiet anticipation hung over the room like a held breath.

Qui-Gon Jinn’s hands moved with deliberate calm as he drew the small silver bioscanner from within his robes. The instrument’s gentle glow cast pale blue reflections on the table. He didn’t place it down right away. Instead, he looked first at Shmi, then at the children.

“This device measures something called midichlorians,” he explained gently. “They’re microscopic lifeforms that live within all living beings. They help us feel the Force.”

Anakin leaned forward, wide-eyed. “So... you can see how strong someone is with the Force?”

Qui-Gon nodded. “Yes. In a way. Would you like to try?”

“Yes!” Anakin offered his hand eagerly. “I’ve always known I could feel things. I just didn’t know what it meant.”

Qui-Gon pricked the boy’s fingertip with practiced ease and slipped the tiny blood sample into the scanner. It hummed softly, analyzing. The room fell completely silent.

After a few long seconds, the result flickered across the screen.

Qui-Gon’s eyes widened, though his expression stayed composed. “Over twenty thousand,” he said.

Padmé’s head snapped toward him. “That’s... more than Master Yoda, isn’t it?”

Qui-Gon nodded slowly. “By a significant margin.”

Anakin looked between them. “So... I really am meant to be a Jedi?”

Qui-Gon smiled. “I believe the Force has a plan for you.”

Anakin beamed, the excitement in his small frame practically electric. Shmi smiled, too, but her eyes remained watchful—especially as Qui-Gon turned his gaze toward the girl sitting in silence across the table.

“Alina.”

She met his gaze with a stillness that was striking. Not fearful. Not stubborn. Just... deliberate.

“I’d like to test you, too.”

Alina didn’t move. Her fingers were laced together tightly in her lap. For a moment, she didn’t even blink. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was quiet and firm.

“Why?”

“To understand,” Qui-Gon replied. “The Force surrounds you both. But with you... it’s different. It’s deeper. Quieter. But no less strong.”

“I don’t want to be a project,” she said flatly.

“You wouldn’t be,” he assured her. “You’d be a student of the Force. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

Shmi touched Alina’s arm. “It’s alright, my love.”

Alina hesitated… then slowly extended her hand.

Qui-Gon took it gently. Her skin was warm—noticeably more so than Anakin’s, as if heat lived just beneath her surface. He pricked her fingertip, drew the sample, and inserted it into the device.

The scanner began to hum.

Longer this time.

The glow pulsed brighter. The hum deepened.

Qui-Gon’s brow furrowed.

The numbers began to rise.

Twenty thousand.

Twenty-two.

Twenty-four.

The room went still.

Twenty-six.

Padmé inhaled sharply.

Twenty-eight.

Even Jar Jar leaned in, forgetting to be nervous.

Thirty-one thousand.

Then, finally, the screen froze. The number blinked.

Thirty-two thousand.

Qui-Gon’s mouth opened slightly. He looked down at the screen. Then back at her.

No Jedi had ever recorded numbers like this.

Not Yoda. Not the old Masters. Not even the Chosen One—if Anakin was that.

But then what was Alina?

Padmé whispered, “Is it broken?”

“No,” Qui-Gon said. “It’s working just fine.”

Alina slowly withdrew her hand, eyes on the Jedi.

“What does it mean?” she asked.

Qui-Gon didn’t answer right away.

He turned to Shmi. “You truly don’t know where they came from?”

“No,” Shmi said, her voice trembling now. “There was no father. Not one child—two. I just… had them. One day they were mine.”

“Are they dangerous?” Padmé asked.

“No,” Qui-Gon said. “Not dangerous. But powerful. More powerful than anyone I’ve ever encountered.”

Anakin looked between them, confused. “So... she’s stronger than me?”

“Not stronger,” Qui-Gon said gently. “Different. The Force flows through both of you in ways we’ve never documented. Anakin shines—brilliant, wild, fast. You burn bright.”

He turned to Alina.

“But you... you don’t burn. You glow. You carry the Force like a storm that hasn’t broken yet. Calm. Controlled. But vast.”

Alina blinked, her voice suddenly fragile. “Does that scare you?”

Qui-Gon looked her straight in the eye. “No. But it humbles me.”

She held his gaze for several moments.

Then she looked down, brushing her thumb over the tiny pinprick on her finger.

“I always knew there was something,” she said. “But I didn’t want to know what it meant.”

“And now?” Padmé asked softly.

Alina didn’t look up. “Now I’m not sure if I want to find out.”

Shmi placed a steady hand over hers.

“You don’t have to decide today,” Qui-Gon said. “But the Force doesn’t do things by accident. I was meant to find you both. And if the Council will not train you... I will find a way.”

Padmé looked at him sharply. “Even if it means going against the Jedi Code?”

Qui-Gon’s expression was resolute. “The Code has its place. But so does destiny. And I believe theirs is one the galaxy cannot afford to ignore.”

The wind had begun to die, but the storm inside Qui-Gon Jinn had not.

The room had quieted. Shmi had retreated to tuck the children in—Anakin had fallen asleep mid-sentence, buzzing with podrace excitement. Alina had vanished without a word, slipping down the hall like a shadow. The only light came from a small energy lamp on the floor, casting flickers along the walls.

Qui-Gon knelt before the holocommunicator he’d placed in the far corner of the Skywalker home. With a few adjustments to the power relay—generously patched together by Anakin and Alina—the emitter buzzed to life, casting a sharp blue glow.

Moments later, Obi-Wan Kenobi shimmered into view. He was seated cross-legged aboard the Queen’s royal starship, his face serious, his voice low.

“You’re late checking in.”

“The storm hit harder than expected,” Qui-Gon replied calmly. “We had to find shelter with locals.”

Obi-Wan arched a brow. “Locals?”

“A woman and her children. Slaves. The mother’s name is Shmi Skywalker.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes flicked upward at the surname, but he said nothing.

“They have two children,” Qui-Gon continued. “Twins.”

Obi-Wan leaned forward slightly. “You’re interested in one of them.”

There was a pause.

“I’m interested in both,” Qui-Gon said. “But I tested the boy first.”

A flicker of energy passed between them—Obi-Wan bracing for something unspoken.

“His name is Anakin,” Qui-Gon said. “And his midichlorian count is over twenty thousand.”

Obi-Wan stared at him. “Are you certain?”

“Positive.”

“That’s...” Obi-Wan trailed off. “That’s more than Master Yoda.”

“I know.”

Obi-Wan sat back slowly. His tone shifted. “Is he the Chosen One?”

“I thought so,” Qui-Gon said. “Until I tested the girl.”

Obi-Wan stilled. “You tested both?”

“Yes.”

Qui-Gon's voice was quieter now, not with uncertainty—but with reverence.

“Her name is Alina Lyra Skywalker. She’s his twin. And she is...”

He searched for words.

Obi-Wan waited.

“She’s not like him. She doesn’t shine like Anakin does. She burns—but it’s inward. Controlled. Hidden, even from herself. I didn’t sense her at first because she doesn’t reach outward with her power. She pulls it inward. Contains it. It’s like standing next to a star that hasn’t gone supernova yet.”

Obi-Wan raised his brows. “That’s... poetic.”

“No,” Qui-Gon said. “That’s just the truth.”

He picked up the bioscanner still sitting at his side and glanced at the numbers frozen on the screen.

“Thirty-two thousand, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan froze.

“Thirty-two?”

“Higher than any record in our archives. Higher than any Jedi. Higher than the boy.”

The silence between them turned heavy.

“She’s Force-born too?”

“She has to be,” Qui-Gon said. “Shmi insists there was no father. No conception. The children were simply... given to her.”

Obi-Wan shook his head slowly. “And you believe her.”

“I do.”

“And the Council—?”

“They won’t understand her,” Qui-Gon said simply. “They won’t want to.”

Obi-Wan frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean she’s too quiet, too composed, too... unreadable. They will see the boy and fall in love with his raw potential, his speed, his brightness. But they’ll see the girl and feel... discomfort. She feels like something old. Something the Jedi don’t have a box for. Her presence doesn’t ripple. It sinks. Deep. Steady.”

Obi-Wan looked unsettled.

Qui-Gon continued, “She has heat in her. Literal, Force-reactive warmth. When she’s upset, the air around her warms. When she’s afraid, the room stills. Her emotions affect the physical world—but not in bursts. Not like someone who loses control. She doesn’t lose control. She holds it. All the time.”

He paused, his voice heavy now.

“And she’s afraid of what it would mean to let it go.”

Obi-Wan’s voice was low. “That sounds like something the Sith might say about a candidate.”

“That’s what worries me,” Qui-Gon said. “That the Council might sense the same thing and misjudge her. But I’ve looked into her eyes. She’s not drawn to power. She doesn’t want it. She fears what it could make her. There’s no darkness in her... but there is shadow. Like a room where light hasn’t reached yet.”

“Why does she hide it?”

“Because she knows the world won’t understand.”

Obi-Wan was quiet for a long time. Then: “What are you planning to do?”

“I’ve entered Anakin into the Boonta Eve podrace. I’ve bet on him to win us the parts we need. Watto wouldn’t let me wager for both children—only one.”

“So you chose the boy.”

Qui-Gon’s face darkened slightly.

“I chose the option Watto allowed. But I will not leave Alina behind.”

Obi-Wan folded his arms. “And how do you plan to free her? Trickery? Credits we don’t have?”

“If I must.”

“You’ll go against the Jedi Council.”

“I’ve done so before.”

Obi-Wan gave a small smile, more exhale than expression. “Yes, Master. You have.”

Qui-Gon’s tone grew resolute. “You know me. I don’t believe in prophecy lightly. But I believe the Force sent me here—not just for one life, but for two. They are not meant to be separated.”

“Even if the Council forbids their training?”

“They can forbid what they like,” Qui-Gon said, standing. “But I will follow the will of the Force. Always.”

The holocom flickered as Obi-Wan’s projection wavered in and out with static.

Obi-Wan’s voice returned, softer now. “Then let’s hope Anakin wins the race.”

“He will,” Qui-Gon said.

He looked to the hallway where both twins now slept in separate corners of the same home. One dreaming of flying, the other lying awake with her eyes open in the dark, feeling every pull of the Force like a tide just beneath her skin.